Where memory liveth     

it takes its state

Formed like a diafan from light on shade

Which shadow cometh of Mars and remaineth

Created, having a name sensate,

Custom of the soul,

         will from the heart;

Cometh from a seen form which being understood

Taketh locus and remaining in the intellect possible

Wherein hath he neither weight nor still-standing,

Descendeth not by quality but shineth out

Himself his own effect unendingly

Not in delight but in the being aware

Nor can he leave his true likeness otherwhere.

He is not vertu but cometh of that perfection

Which is so postulate not by the reason

But 'tis felt, I say.

Beyond salvation, holdeth his judging force

Deeming intention to be reason's peer and mate,

Poor in discernment, being thus weakness' friend

Often his power cometh on death in the end,

Be it withstayed

           and so swinging counterweight.

Not that it were natural opposite, but only

Wry'd a bit from the perfect,

Let no man say love cometh from chance

Or hath not established lordship

Holding his power even though

            Memory hath him no more.

Cometh he to be

        when the will

From overplus

Twisteth out of natural measure,

Never adorned with rest Moveth he changing colour

Either to laugh or weep

Contorting the face with fear

         resteth but a little

Yet shall ye see of him That he is most often

With folk who deserve him

And his strange quality sets sighs to move

Willing man look into that forméd trace in his mind

And with such uneasiness as rouseth the flame.

Unskilled can not form his image,

He himself moveth not, drawing all to his stillness,

Neither turneth about to seek his delight

Nor yet to seek out proving

Be it so great or so small.

He draweth likeness and hue from like nature

So making pleasure more certain in seeming

Nor can stand hid in such nearness,

Beautys be darts tho' not savage

Skilled from such fear a man follows

Deserving spirit, that pierceth.

Nor is he known from his face

But taken in the white light that is allness

Toucheth his aim

Who heareth, seeth not form

But is led by its emanation.

Being divided, set out from colour,

Disjunct in mid darkness

Grazeth the light, one moving by other,

Being divided, divided from all falsity

Worthy of trust

From him alone mercy proceedeth.


XXXVI