Seccombe and Arber, comps. Elizabethan Sonnets. 1904.
Parthenophil and ParthenopheOde 16. Before bright Titan raised his team
Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)B
Or lovely Morn with rosy cheek,
With scarlet dyed the Eastern stream,
On P
Early, my goddess did arise,
With breath to bless the morning air.
O heavens, which made divine mine eyes!
Glancing on such a Nymph! so fair!
Whose Hair, downspread in curled tresses,
P
Much like him, when, through cypresses,
He danceth on the silver flood;
Or like the golden purlèd down,
Broached upon the palmed-flowered willows,
Which downward scattered from her crown,
Loosely dishevelled on love’s pillows.
Covering her swan-like back below
Like ivory matched with purest gold;
Like P
Her gilded shadow taketh hold.
Her Forehead was like to the rose
Before A
Or like the path to heaven which goes,
Where all the lovely Graces meet!
C
Moist pearl about the wheels was set!
Grey agate spokes, not much asunder!
The axletree of purest jet!
Her seemly Nose, the rest which graced,
For C
Th’ imperial Thrones, where L
When, of the world, he would be feared.
Where C
Her cheeks with rose and lilies decked,
Nature upon the coach did wait,
And all in order did direct.
Her Cheeks to damask roses sweet,
In scent and colour were so like;
That honey bees in swarms would meet
To suck; and, sometimes, She would strike
With dainty plume, the bees to fear!
And being beaten, they would sting!
They found such heavenly honey there;
C
When he perceived the bee did sting her
Would swell for grief, and curse that bee,
More than the bee that stinged his finger!
Yet still about her they would flee!
Then L
Of Nature, which his chariot drest!
Nature would it excuse again,
Saying, “She then shewed her skill best!”
When she drank wine, upon her face,
B
And shadow, with a blushing grace,
Her cheeks, where lovers build their bliss:
Who, when she drank, would blush for shame
That wanton B
Who, V
Her, that should such acquaintance choose!
What gloss the scarlet curtains cast
On a bedstead of ivory.
Such like, but such as much surpasst
All gloss, her cheeks did beautify.
Her roseate Lips, soft lovely swelling,
And full of pleasure as a cherry;
Her Breath of divine spices smelling,
Which, with tongue broken, would make merry
Th’ infernal souls; and, with her voice,
Set heaven gates open, hell gates shut,
Move melancholy to rejoice,
And thralled in Paradise might put.
Her Voice, not human, when she speaketh
I think some angel or goddess,
Into celestial tunes which breaketh,
Speaks like her, with such cheerfulness.
All birds and instruments may take
Their notes divine and excellent,
Melodious harmony to make,
From her sweet voices’ least accent.
This we Love’s Sanctuary call!
Whence Sacred Sentences proceed,
Rolled up in sounds angelical;
Whose place, sweet Nature hath decreed,
Just under C
Where music hath its excellence
And such sweets, with Love’s spirit mixed,
As please far more than frankincense,
Thence, issue forth Love’s Oracles
Of Happiness, and luckless Teen!
So strange be Love’s rare miracles
In her, as like have never been!
Her Neck that curious axletree,
Pure ivory like, which doth support
The Globe of my Cosmography:
Where, to my Planets I resort
To take judicial signs of skill,
When tempests to mine heart will turn?
When showers shall my fountains fill?
And extreme droughts mine heart shall burn?
There, in that Globe, shall I perceive
When I shall find clear Element;
There, gloomy mists shall I conceive,
Which shall offend the Firmament!
On this, my studies still be bent,
Where even as rivers from the seas
In branches through the land be sent,
And into crooked sinews press,
Throughout the globe such wise the veins
Clear crystalline throughout her neck
Like sinuous, in their crooked trains,
Wildly the swelling waves did check.
Thence, rise her humble seemly Shoulders.
Like two smooth polished ivory tops;
Of Love’s chief Frame, the chief upholders,
Whiter than that was of P
Thence, C
Which fivefold, the five Senses woundeth.
Whose sight the mind of lookers lanceth.
Whose force, all other force astoundeth.
Thence, to that bed, where L
In silent majesty, sweet sleepeth;
Where her soft lovely pillows been,
Where C
Pillows of V
Pillows, than V
Pillows, the more where L
More covets to lie down and ofter!
Pillows, on which two sweet Rosebuds,
Dewed with ambrosial nectar lie;
Where Love’s Milk-Way, by springs and floods,
Through violet paths, smooth slideth by.
But now, with fears and tears, proceed
L
Which such calamity doth breed
To those which there imprisoned are;
Which, once in chains, are never free!
Which still for want of succour pine!
Dry sighs, salt-wat’ry tears, which be
For dainty cakes and pleasant wine!
Immured with pure white ivory,
Fetters of adamant to draw,
Even steel itself, if it be nigh!
A bondage without right or law!
With poor A
But for a look! and with an eye
In his clear arms, L
Arrests each lover that goes by.
This is her Heart! Love’s Prison called!
Whose conquest is impregnable.
Whence, who so chance to be enthralled,
To come forth after, are unable.
Further to pass than I have seen,
Or more to shew than may be told;
Were too much impudence! I ween:
Here, therefore, take mine anchor hold!
And with the Roman Poet, deem
Parts unrevealed to be most sweet;
Which here described, might evil beseem
And for a modest Muse unmeet.
Such blessed mornings seldom be!
Such sights too rare when men go by!
Would I but once the like might see;
Then I might die, before I die!