Sonnet 16
Long haue I long'd to see my Loue againe,
Still haue I wisht, but neuer could obtaine it;
Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)
Would I desire my loues sweet precious gaine.
Yet in my soule I see him euerie day,
See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,
But (ah) what is of long continuance
Where Maiestie and Beautie beares the sway?
Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,
(As loue is full of foolish fantasies)
VVeening to kisse his lips, as my loues fee's,
I feele but Aire: nothing but Aire to bee him.
Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:
Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 17
Cherry-Lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
Might not compare with his pure Ivorie white,
On whose faire front a Poets pen may write,
Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape,
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
Are rarely fram'd fintrap poore gazing eies:
His cheekes, the Lillie and Carnation dies,
With lovely tincture which Apolloes dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in Nectar wet,
His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe,
Where Muses (like Bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure Pearle in blushing Correll set.
Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring,
Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 11
Sighing, and sadly sitting by my Love,
He ask't the cause of my hearts sorrowing,
Conjuring me by heavens etemall King
To tell the cause which me so much did move.
Compell'd: (quoth I) to thee will I confesse,
Love is the cause; and only love it is
That doth deprive me of my heavenly blisse.
Love is the paine that doth my heart oppresse.
And what is she (quoth he) whom thou do'st love?
Looke in this glasse (quoth I) there shalt thou see
The perfect forme of my faelicitie.
When, thinking that it would strange Magique prove,
He open'd it: and taking of the cover,
He straight perceav'd himseife to be my Lover.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 8
Sometimes I wish that I his pillow were,
So might I steale a kisse, and yet not seene,
So might I gaze upon his sleeping eine,
Although I did it with a panting feare:
But when I well consider how vaine my wish is,
Ah foolish Bees (thinke I) that doe not sucke
His lips for hony; but poore flowers doe plucke
Which have no sweet in them: when his sole kisses,
Are able to revive a dying soule.
Kisse him, but sting him not, for if you doe,
His angry voice your flying will pursue:
But when they heare his tongue, what can controule,
Their back-returne? for then they plaine may see,
How hony-combs from his lips dropping bee.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 9
Diana (on a time) walking the wood,
To sport herselfe, of her faire traine forlorne,
Chaunc't for to pricke her foote against a thorne,
And from thence issu'd out a streame of blood.
No sooner shee was vanisht out of sight,
But loues faire Queen came there away by chance,
And hauing of this hap a glym'ring glance,
She put the blood into a christall bright,
When being now come vnto mount Rhodope,
With her faire hands she formes a shape of Snow,
And blends it with this blood; from whence doth grow
A louely creature, brighter than the Dey.
And being christned in faire Paphos shrine,
She call'd him Ganymede: as all diuine.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 15
A fairest Ganymede, disdaine me not,
Though silly Sheepeheard I, presume to loue thee,
Though my harsh songs and Sonnets cannot moue thee,
Yet to thy beauty is my loue no blot.
Apollo, Ioue, and many Gods beside,
S' daind not the name of cuntry shepheards swains,
Nor want we pleasure, though we take some pains,
We liue contentedly: a thing call'd pride,
Which so corrupts the Court and euery place,
(Each place I meane where learning is neglected,
And yet of late, euen learnings selfe's infected)
I know not what it meanes, in any case:
Wee onely (when Molorchus gins to peepe)
Learne for to folde, and to vnfold our sheepe.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 4
Two stars there are in one faire firmament,
(Of some intitled Ganymedes sweet face),
Which other stars in brightnes doe disgrace,
As much as Po in clearenes passeth Trent.
Nor are they common natur'd stars: for why,
These stars when other shine vaile their pure light,
And when all other vanish out of sight,
They adde a glory to the worlds great eie.
By these two stars my life is onely led,
In them I place my joy, in them my pleasure,
Love's piercing Darts, and Natures precious treasure
With their sweet foode my fainting soule is fed:
Then when my sunne is absent from my sight
How can it chuse (with me) but be dark night?
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 2
Beuty and Maiesty are falne at ods,
Th'one claimes his cheeke, the other claimes his chin;
Then Vertue comes, and puts her title in.
(Quoth she) I make him like th'immortall Gods.
(Quoth Maiestie) I owne his lookes, his Brow,
His lips, (quoth Loue) his eies, his faire is mine.
And yet, (quoth Maiesty) he is not thine,
I mixe Disdaine with Loues congealed Snow.
I, but (quoth Loue) his lockes are mine (by right)
His stately gate is mine (quoth Maiestie,)
And mine (quoth Vertue) is his Modestie.
Thus as they striue about this heauenly wight,
At last the other two to Vertue yeeld,
The lists of Loue, fought in faire Beauties field.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 6
Sweet Corrall lips, where Nature's treasure lies,
The balme of blisse, the soveraigne salve of sorrow,
The secret touch of loves heart-burning arrow,
Come quench my thirst or els poor Daphnis dies.
One night I dream'd (alas twas but a Dreame)
That I did feele the sweetnes of the same,
Where-with inspir'd, I young againe became,
And from my heart a spring of blood did streame,
But when I wak't, I found it nothing so,
Save that my limbs (me thought) did waxe more strong
And I more lusty far, and far more yong.
This gift on him rich Nature did bestow.
Then if in dreaming so, I so did speede,
What should I doe, if I did so indeede?
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sonnet 14
Here, hold this glove (this milk-white cheveril glove)
Not quaintly over-wrought with curious knots,
Not deckt with golden spangs, nor silver spots,
Yet wholesome for thy hand as thou shall prove.
Ah no; (sweet boy) place this glove neere thy heart,
Weare it, and lodge it still within thy brest,
So shall thou make me (most unhappy), blest.
So shalt thou rid my paine, and ease my smart:
How can that be (perhaps) thou wilt reply,
A glove is for the hand not for the heart,
Nor can it well be prov'd by common art,
Nor reasons rule. To this, thus answere I:
If thou from glove do'st take away the g,
Then glove is love: and so I send it thee.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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