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Front Matter |
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I. |
Happy, ye leaves! when as those lily hands |
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II. |
Unquiet thought! whom at the first I bred |
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III. |
The sovereign beauty which I do admire |
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IV. |
New year, forth looking out of Janus’ gate |
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V. |
Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart’s desire |
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VI. |
Be naught dismayed that her unmoved mind |
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VII. |
Fair eyes! the mirror of my mazed heart |
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VIII. |
More than most fair, full of the living fire |
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IX. |
Long-while I sought to what I might compare |
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X. |
Unrighteous lord of love, what law is this |
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XI. |
Daily when I do seek and sue for peace |
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XII. |
One day I sought with her heart-thrilling eyes |
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XIII. |
In that proud port, which her so goodly graceth |
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XIV. |
Return again, my forces late dismayed |
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XV. |
Ye tradeful Merchants, that, with weary toil |
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XVI. |
One day as I unwarily did gaze |
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XVII. |
The glorious portrait of that Angel’s face |
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XVIII. |
The rolling wheel that runneth often round |
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XIX. |
The merry cuckoo, messenger of spring |
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XX. |
In vain I seek and sue to her for grace |
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XXI. |
Was it the work of nature or of art |
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XXII. |
This holy season, fit to fast and pray |
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XXIII. |
Penelope, for her Ulysses’ sake |
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XXIV. |
When I behold that beauty’s wonderment |
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XXV. |
How long shall this like dying life endure |
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XXVI. |
Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a briar |
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XXVII. |
Fair Proud! now tell me, why should fair be proud |
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XXVIII. |
The laurel-leaf, which you this day do wear |
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XXIX. |
See! how the stubborn damsel doth deprave |
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XXX. |
My love is like to ice, and I to fire |
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XXXI. |
Ah! why hath nature to so hard a heart |
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XXXII. |
The painful smith, with force of fervent heat |
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XXXIII. |
Great wrong I do, I can it not deny |
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XXXIV. |
Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide |
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XXXV. |
My hungry eyes, through greedy covetise |
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XXXVI. |
Tell me, when shall these weary woes have end |
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XXXVII. |
What guile is this, that those her golden tresses |
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XXXVIII. |
Arion, when, through tempest’s cruel wrack |
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XXXIX. |
Sweet smile! the daughter of the Queen of Love |
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XL. |
Mark when she smiles with amiable cheer |
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XLI. |
Is it her nature, or is it her will |
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XLII. |
The love which me so cruelly tormenteth |
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XLIII. |
Shall I then silent be, or shall I speak? |
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XLIV. |
When those renowned noble Peers of Greece |
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XLV. |
Leave, lady! in your glass of crystal clean |
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XLVI. |
When my abode’s prefixed time is spent |
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XLVII. |
Trust not the treason of those smiling looks |
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XLVIII. |
Innocent paper; whom too cruel hand |
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XLIX. |
Fair cruel! why are ye so fierce and cruel? |
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L. |
Long languishing in double malady |
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LI. |
Do I not see that fairest images |
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LII. |
So oft as homeward I from her depart |
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LIII. |
The Panther, knowing that his spotted hide |
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LIV. |
Of this world’s theatre in which we stay |
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LV. |
So oft as I her beauty do behold |
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LVI. |
Fair ye be sure, but cruel and unkind |
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LVII. |
Sweet warrior! when shall I have peace with you |
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LVIII. |
Weak is th’ assurance that weak flesh reposeth |
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LIX. |
Thrice happy she! that is so well assured |
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LX. |
They, that in course of heavenly spheres are skilled |
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LXI. |
The glorious image of the Maker’s beauty |
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LXII. |
The weary year his race now having run |
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LXIII. |
After long storms and tempests’ sad assay |
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LXIV. |
Coming to kiss her lips (such grace I found) |
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LXV. |
The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain |
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LXVI. |
To all those happy blessings, which ye have |
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LXVII. |
Like as a huntsman after weary chase |
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LXVIII. |
Most glorious Lord of life! that, on this day |
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LXIX. |
The famous warriors of antique world |
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LXX. |
Fresh Spring, the herald of love’s mighty king |
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LXXI. |
I joy to see how, in your drawen work |
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LXXII. |
Oft, when my spirit doth spread her bolder wings |
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LXXIII. |
Being myself captivéd here in care |
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LXXIV. |
Most happy letters! fram’d by skilful trade |
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LXXV. |
One day I wrote her name upon the strand |
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LXXVI. |
Fair bosom! fraught with virtue’s richest treasure |
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LXXVII. |
Was it a dream, or did I see it plain |
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LXXVIII. |
Lacking my love, I go from place to place |
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LXXIX. |
Men call you fair, and you do credit it |
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LXXX. |
After so long a race as I have run |
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LXXXI. |
Fair is my love, when her fair golden hairs |
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LXXXII. |
Joy of my life! full oft for loving you |
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LXXXIII. |
Let not one spark of filthy lustful fire |
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LXXXIV. |
The world that cannot deem of worthy things |
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LXXXV. |
Venomous tongue tipp’d with vile adders’ sting |
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LXXXVI. |
Since I did leave the presence of my love |
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LXXXVII. |
Since I have lack’d the comfort of that light |
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LXXXVIII. |
Like as the Culver, on the bared bough |
