The Passionate Shepherd.

Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart,
    That hand that holds the heart of every eye,
That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art,
    The sense too deep for Wisdom to descry;
That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense
Doth show my only mistress' excellence.

O eyes that pierce into the purest heart!
    O hands that hold the highest thoughts in thrall!
O wit that weighs the depth of all desert!
    O sense that shews the secret sweet of all!
The heaven of heavens with heavenly power preserve thee,
Love but thyself, and give me leave to serve thee.

To serve, to live to look upon those eyes,
    To look, to live to kiss that heavenly hand,
To sound that wit that doth amaze the mind,
    To know that sense, no sense can understand,
To understand that all the world may know,
Such wit, such sense, eyes, hands, there are no moe.

Nicholas Breton

Nicholas Breton was an English poet and novelist. He became notable in his time for his wide range of works, from pastoral poetry to satire. Over the years, Breton developed a distinctive style marked by its versatility and lyrical beauty. Some of his more famous works include 'The Pilgrimage to Paradise' and 'A Floorish Upon Fancie.' His contribution to the literary landscape of his era remains impactful.

Nicholas Breton

A Sweet Pastoral

Nicholas Breton, Simple Poetry

A Shepherd's Dream

Nicholas Breton, Simple Poetry

Aglaia: a Pastoral

Nicholas Breton, Simple Poetry

Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon

Nicholas Breton, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet LV.

I begli occhi, ond' i' fui percosso in guisa.

HE IS NEVER WEARY OF PRAISING THE EYES OF LAURA.


    The bright eyes which so struck my fenceless side
That they alone which harm'd can heal the smart
Beyond or power of herbs or magic art,
Or stone which oceans from our shores divide,
The chance of other love have so denied
That one sweet thought alone contents my heart,
From following which if ne'er my tongue depart,
Pity the guided though you blame the guide.
These are the bright eyes which, in every land
But most in its own shrine, my heart, adored,
Have spread the triumphs of my conquering lord;
These are the same bright eyes which ever stand
Burning within me, e'en as vestal fires,
In singing which my fancy never tires.

MACGREGO...

Francesco Petrarca

Eye-Service

Meseems thine eyes are two still-folded lakes
Wherein deep water reflects the guardian sky,
Searching wherein I see how Heaven is nigh
And our broad Earth at peace. So my Love takes
My soul's thin hands and, chafing them, she makes
My life's blood lusty and my life's hope high
For the strong lips and eyes of Poesy,
To hold the world well squandered for their sakes.

I looked thee full this day: thine unveiled eyes
Rayed their swift-searching magic forth; and then
I felt all strength that love can put in men
Whenas they know that loveliness is wise.
For love can be content with no less prize,
To lift us up beyond our mortal ken.

Maurice Henry Hewlett

The Faithful Lover

All beauty is but thee in echo-shapes,
No lovely thing but echoes some of thee,
Vainly some touch of thy perfection apes,
Sighing as fair as thou thyself to be;
Therefore, be not disquieted that I
On other forms turn oft my wandering gaze,
Nor deem it anywise disloyalty:
Nay! 'tis the pious fervour of my eye,
That seeks thy face in every other face.
As in the mirrored salon of a queen,
Flashes from glass to glass, as she walks by,
In sweet reiteration still - the queen!
So is the world for thee to walk in, sweet;
But to see thee is all things to have seen.
And, as the moon in every crystal lake,
Walking the heaven with little silver feet,
Sees each bright copy her reflection take,
And every dew-drop holds its little glass,
To catch her loveliness as ...

Richard Le Gallienne

The Seven Wonders Of England

I.

Near Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found,
But so confused, that neither any eye
Can count them just, nor Reason reason try,
What force brought them to so unlikely ground.

To stranger weights my mind's waste soil is bound,
Of passion-hills, reaching to Reason's sky,
From Fancy's earth, passing all number's bound,
Passing all guess, whence into me should fly
So mazed a mass; or, if in me it grows,
A simple soul should breed so mixed woes.

II.

The Bruertons have a lake, which, when the sun
Approaching warms, not else, dead logs up sends
From hideous depth; which tribute, when it ends,
Sore sign it is the lord's last thread is spun.

My lake is Sense, whose still streams never run
But when my sun her shining twins ther...

Philip Sidney

A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon

On a hill there grows a flower,
    Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower,
    Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,
    Fringèd all about with gold,
Where doth sit the fairest fair
    That did ever eye behold.

It is Phyllis, fair and bright,
    She that is the shepherds' joy,
She that Venus did despite,
    And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich,
    That the world desires to see:
This is ipsa quæ, the which
    There is none but only she.

Who would not this face admire?
    Who would not this saint adore?
Who would not this sight desire,
    Though he thought to see no more?

O, fair eyes, yet let me see,
    One good look, a...

Nicholas Breton

Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet LXXVII

Those lookes, whose beames be ioy, whose motion is delight;
That face, whose lecture shews what perfect beauty is;
That presence, which doth giue darke hearts a liuing light;
That grace, which Venus weeps that she her selfe doth misse;
That hand, which without touch holds more then Atlas might;
Those lips, which make deaths pay a meane price for a kisse;
That skin, whose passe-praise hue scornes this poor tearm of white;
Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss;
That voyce, which makes the soule plant himselfe in the ears,
That conuersation sweet, where such high comforts be,
As, consterd in true speech, the name of heaun it beares;
Makes me in my best thoughts and quietst iudgments see
That in no more but these I might be fully blest:
Yet, ah, my mayd'n Muse ...

Philip Sidney