She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow; Makes the desolatest place To her presence be a grace, And the blackest discontents Be her fairest ornaments. In my former days of bliss, His divine skill taught me this, That from everything I saw, I could some invention draw; And raise pleasure to her height Through the meanest object's sight: By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustling; By a daisy, whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can, In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness: The dull loneness, the black shade That these hanging vaults have made, The strange music of the waves, Beating on these hollow caves, This black den, which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss; The rude portals, that give light More to terror than delight, This my chamber of neglect, Walled about with disrespect, From all these, and this dull air, A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight. Therefore, then, best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this! Poesy, thou sweet'st content That e'er Heaven to mortals lent; Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee, Though thou be to them a scorn That to nought but earth are born; Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee! Though our wise ones call it madness, Let me never taste of gladness If I love not thy madd'st fits Above all their greatest wits! And though some, too seeming holy, Do account thy raptures folly, Thou dost teach me to contemn What makes knaves and fools of them! THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 1 Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May; If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be? 2 Shall my foolish heart be pined, 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than The turtle-dove or pelican; If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be? 3 Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or, her well-deservings known, Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest, Which may merit name of Best; If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be? 4 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would do, That without them dare to woo; And, unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be?