T. R. Smith, comp. Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse. 1921–22.
Menaphon’s Eclogue
By Robert Greene (1558–1592)(From Menaphon: 1589) TOO weak the wit, too slender is the brain, | |
| That means to mark the power and worth of love; | |
| Not one that lives, except he hap to prove, | |
| Can tell the sweet, or tell the secret pain. | |
| Yet I that have been prentice to the grief, | 5 |
| Like to the cunning sea-man, from afar, | |
| By guess will take the beauty of that star | |
| Whose influence must yield me chief relief. | |
| You censors of the glory of my dear, | |
| With reverence and lowly bent of knee, | 10 |
| Attend and mark what her perfections be; | |
| For in my words my fancies shall appear. | |
| Her locks are plighted like the fleece of wool | |
| That Jason with his Grecian mates achiev’d; | |
| As pure as gold, yet not from gold deriv’d; | 15 |
| As full of sweets as sweet of sweets is full. | |
| Her brows are pretty tables of conceit, | |
| There Love his records of delight doth quote; | |
| On them her dallying locks do daily float, | |
| As Love full oft doth feed upon the bait. | 20 |
| Her eyes, fair eyes, like to the purest lights | |
| That animate the sun or cheer the day; | |
| In whom the shining sunbeams brightly play, | |
| Whiles Fancy doth on them divine delights. | |
| Her cheeks like ripen’d lilies steep’d in wine, | 25 |
| Or fair pomegranate-kernels wash’d in milk, | |
| Or snow-white threads in nets of crimson silk, | |
| Or gorgeous clouds upon the sun’s decline. | |
| Her lips are roses over-wash’d with dew, | |
| Or like the purple of Narcissus’ flower; | 30 |
| No frost their fair, no wind doth waste their power, | |
| But by her breath her beauties do renew. | |
| Her crystal chin like to the purest mould | |
| Enchas’d with dainty daisies soft and white, | |
| Where Fancy’s fair pavillion once is pight, | 35 |
| Whereas embrac’d his beauties he doth hold. | |
| Her neck like to an ivory shining tower, | |
| Where through with azure veins sweet nectar runs, | |
| Or like the down of swans where Senesse wons, | |
| Or like delight that doth itself devour. | 40 |
| Her paps are like fair apples in the prime, | |
| As round as orient pearls, as soft as down; | |
| They never veil their fair through winter’s frown, | |
| But from their sweets Love sucks his summertime. | |
| Her body Beauty’s best-esteemed bower, | 45 |
| Delicious, comely, dainty, without stain; | |
| The thought whereof (not touch) hath wrought my pain; | |
| Whose fair all fair and beauties doth devour. | |
| Her maiden mount, the dwelling-house of Pleasure; | |
| Not like, for why no like surpasseth wonder: | 50 |
| O, blest is he may bring such beauties under, | |
| Or search by suit the secrets of that treasure! | |
| Devour’d in thought, how wanders my device! | |
| What rests behind I must divine upon: | |
| Who talks the best can say but “Fairer none”; | 55 |
| Few words well-couch’d do most content the wise. | |
| All you that hear, let not my silly style | |
| Condemn my zeal; for what my tongue should say | |
| Serves to enforce my thoughts to seek the way | |
| Whereby my woes and cares I do beguile. | 60 |
| Seld speaketh Love, but sighs his secret pains; | |
| Tears are his truchmen, words do make him tremble: | |
| How sweet is Love to them that can dissemble | |
| In thoughts and looks till they have reap’d the gains! | |
| All lonely I complain, and what I say | 65 |
| I think, yet what I think tongue cannot tell: | |
| Sweet censors, take my silly worst for well; | |
| My faith is firm, though homely be my lay. | |