THOMAS WYATT  (1503-1542)

The Long Love, That in My Thought Doth Harbour

The long love, that in my thought doth harbour,     And in mine heart doth keep his residence,     Into my face presseth with bold pretence,     And therein campeth, spreading his banner. She that me learneth to love and suffer,    And wills that my trust and lust's negligence    Be reined by reason, shame and reverence,   With his hardiness taketh displeasure. Wherewithal, unto the heart's forest he fleeth,    Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry;    And there him hideth, and not appeareth. What may I do when my master feareth    But in the field with him to live and die?    For good is the life, ending faithfully.

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY (1517?-1547)

Love that doth Reign and Live within my Thought1      Love that doth reign and live within my thought2      And built his seat within my captive breast,3      Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,4      Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.5      But she that taught me love and suffer pain,6      My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire7      With shamefast look to shadow and refrain,8      Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.9      And coward Love then to the heart apace10    Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and plain11    His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.12    For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pain;13    Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:14    Sweet is the death that taketh end by love.

Notes 1] Tottel's title: "Complaint of a louer rebuked." His version opens: "Loue that liueth, and reigneth in my thought." Adapted from Petrarch's 140th (109th) sonnet. Cf. Wyatt's "The longe love," a translation of the same sonnet. 6] eke: also.7] shamefast: modest.10] plain: complain.

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12] bide: endure.

SIR PHILIP SYDNEY   (1554-1586)

  From    Astrophil and Stella   (1591)

It is most true that eyes are formed to serve The inward light, and that the heavenly part Ought to be king, from whose rules who do swerve, Rebels to nature, strive for their own smart.  It is most true what we call Cupid's dart An image is which for ourselves we carve, And, fools, adore in temple of our heart Till that good god make church and churchman starve.  True, that true beauty virtue is indeed, Whereof this beauty can be but a shade, Which elements with mortal mixture breed.  True, that on earth we are but pilgrims made, And should in soul up to our country move; True, and yet true that I must Stella love.

 

The Defence of Poesie   (1595) Le edizioniHenry Olney produced a printing of An Apologie for Poetrie in the spring of 1595; this edition proved to be unauthorized, as William Ponsonby had entered the work in the Stationer's register on November 29, 1594. Olney was directed to halt sale and turn over his remaining copies to Ponsonby, who replaced the title page with his own and sold the copies along with his own printing. These combined copies, and those of Ponsonby's own edition printed by Thomas Creede, are rare, whereas Olney's exists in a number of copies. Four versions of the Defence are known: The Penshurst manuscript, De L'Isle MS. no. 1226; The Norwich manuscript found in 1966 in a commonplace book of Francis Blomefield's; An Apologie for Poetrie, Olney's printing of 1595, and Ponsonby's The Defence of Poesie of the same year. An examination of the paper used in the two manuscript versions, which was done at the request of Mary Mohl, the discoverer of the Norwich manuscript, suggested that the latter, though in some respects inferior, is the older of the two.Il testo(Poetry in England)But since I have run so long a Carrier in this matter, methinks before I give my pen a full stop, it shall be but a little more lost time to enquire why England, the Mother of excellent minds, should be grown so hard a stepmother to Poets, who certainly in wit ought to pass all others, since all only proceeds from their wit, being indeed makers of themselves, not takers of others.……………………….

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But I that before ever I durst aspire unto the dignity, am admitted into the company of the Paper-blurrers, do find the very true cause of our wanting estimation, is want of desert, taking upon us to be Poets, in despite of Pallas.Now wherein we want desert, were a thankworthy labour to express. But if I knew I should have mended myself, but as I never desired the title, so have I neglected the means to come by it, only over-mastered by some thoughts, I yielded an inky tribute unto them. Marry, they that delight in Poesy itself, should seek to know what they do, and how they do: and especially look themselves in an unflattering glass of reason, if they be inclinable unto it. For Poesy must not be drawn by the ears, it must be gently led, or rather it must lead, which was partly the cause that made the ancient-learned affirm, it was a divine gift & no human skill; since all other knowledges lie ready for any that have strength of wit: A Poet no industry can make, if his own Genius be not carried into it. And therefore it is an old Proverb, Orator fit, Poeta nascitur{147}. Yet confess I always, that as the fertilest ground must be manured{148}, so must the highest flying wit have a Daedalus{149} to guide him. That Daedalus, they say, both in this and in other, hath three wrings to bear itself up into the air of due commendation: that is Art, Imitation, and Exercise. But these, neither Artificial Rules, nor imitative patterns, we much cumber ourselves withal. Exercise indeed we do, but that very fore-backwardly; for where we should exercise to know, we exercise as having known: and so is our brain delivered of much matter, which never was begotten by knowledge. For there being two principal parts, Matter to be expressed by words, and words to express the matter: in neither, wee use Art or imitation rightly. Our matter is Quodlibet{150} indeed, though wrongly performing, Ovids Verse. Quicquid conabor dicere, Versus erit{151}: never marshalling it into any assured rank, that almost the Readers cannot tell where to find themselves. Chaucer, undoubtedly, did excellently in his Troilus and Cieseyde: of whom, truly, I know not whether to marvel more, either that he in that misty time could see so clearly, or that we in this clear age, go so stumblingly after him. Yet had he great wants, fit to be forgiven in so reverent an Antiquity. I account the Mirrour of Magistrates{152}, meetly furnished of beautiful parts. And in the Earle of Surrey’s Lyrics, many things tasting of a Noble birth, and worthy of a Noble mind{153}. The Shepherds’ Calendar, hath much Poetry in his Eclogues, indeed worthy the reading, if I be not deceived. That same framing of his style to an old rustic language, I dare not allow: since neither Theocritus in Greek, Virgil in Latin, nor Sannazzaro in Italian, did affect it{154}. Besides these, I do not remember to have seen but few (to speake boldly) printed, that have poetical sinews in them. For proof whereof, let but most of the Verses be put in prose, and then ask the meaning, and it will be found that one Verse did but beget an other, without ordering at the first, what should bee at the last, which becomes a confused masse of words, with a tingling sound of rhyme, barely accompanied with reasons.Our Tragedies and Comedies, not without cause cried out against, observing rules neither of honest civility, nor skilful Poetry. Excepting Gorboduc{155}, (again, I say, of those that I have seen) which notwithstanding as it is full of stately speeches, and well sounding phrases, climbing to the height of Seneca his style, and as full of notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach, and so obtain the very end of Poesy. Yet in truth, it is very defectious in the circumstances, which grieveth me, because it might not remain as an exact model of all Tragedies. For it is faulty both in place and time, the two necessary Companions of all corporal actions. For where the Stage should always represent but one place, and the uttermost time presupposed in it, should bee both by Aristotles{156} precept, and common reason, but one day; there is both many days and places, inartificially imagined. But if it bee so in Gorboduc, how much more in all the rest, where you shall have Asia of the one side, and Afric of the other, and so many other under Kingdoms, that the Player when he comes in, must ever begin with telling where he is, or else the tale will not be conceived. Now you shall have three Ladies walk to gather flowers, and then we must believe the stage to be a garden. By and by

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we hear news of shipwreck in the same place, then we are too blame if we accept it not for a Rock. Upon the back of that, comes out a hideous monster with fire and smoke, and then the miserable beholders are bound to take it for a Cave: while in the mean time two Armies fly in, represented with four swords & bucklers, and then what hard heart will not receive it for a pitched field? Now, of time, they are much more liberal. For ordinary it is, that two young Princes fall in love, after many traverses she is got with child, delivered of a fair boy: he is lost, groweth a man, falls in love, and is ready to get another childe, and all this is in two hours space: which how absurd it is in sense, even sense may imagine: and Art hath taught, and all ancient examples justified, and at this day the ordinary players in Italy will not err in. Yet will some bring in an example of Eunucus in Terence{157}, that containeth matter of two days, yet far short of twenty years. True it is, and so was it to be played in two days, and so fitted to the time it set forth. And though Plautus have in one place done amiss{158}, let us hit it with him, & not miss with him. But they will say: How then shall we set forth a story, which contains both many places, and many times? And do they not know that a Tragedy is tied to the laws of Poesy and not of History: not bound to follow the story, but having liberty either to feign a quite new matter, or to frame the History to the most Tragical conveniency. Again, many things may be told which cannot be showed: if they know the difference betwixt reporting and representing. As for example, I may speak though I am here, of Peru, and in speech digress from that, to the description of Calicut{159}; but in action, I cannot represent it without Pacolet’s Horse{160}. And so was the manner the Ancients took, by some Nuntius{161}, to recount things done in former time or other place. Lastly, if they will represent an History, they must not (as Horace saith) begin ab ovo{162}, but they must come to the principal point of that one action which they will represent. By example this will be best expressed{163}. I have a story of young Polidorus, delivered for safeties sake, with great riches, by his Father Priamus, to Polymnestor King of Thrace, in the Trojan war time. He after some years, hearing the overthrow of Priamus, for to make the treasure his own, murdereth the Child, the body of the Child is taken up, Hecuba; she the same day, findeth a sleight to be revenged most cruelly of the Tyrant. Where now would one of our Tragedy writers begin, but with the delivery of the Child? Then should he sail over into Thrace, and so spend I know not how many years, and travail numbers of places. But where doth Euripides? Even with the finding of the body, the rest leaving to be told by the spirit of Polidorus. This needs no further to be enlarged, the dullest wit may conceive it. But besides these gross absurdities, how all their Plays bee neither right Tragedies, nor right Comedies, mingling Kings and Clowns, not because the matter so carrieth it, but thrust in the Clown by head and shoulders to play a part in majestical matters, with neither decency nor discretion: so as neither the admiration and Commiseration, nor the right sportfulness is by their mongrel Tragicomedy obtained. I know Apuleius did somewhat so, but that is a thing recounted with space of time, not represented in one moment: and I know the Ancients have one or two examples of Tragicomedies, as Plautus hath Amphitrio. But if we mark them well, wee shall find that they never or very daintily match horn Pipes and Funerals. So falleth it out, that having indeed no right Comedy in that Comical part of our Tragedy, wee have nothing but scurrility unworthy of any chaste ears, or some extreme show of doltishness, indeed fit to lift up a loud laughter and nothing else: where the whole tract of a Comedy should bee full of delight, as the Tragedy should bee still maintained in a well raised admiration. But our Comedians think there is no delight without laughter, which is very wrong, for though laughter may come with delight, yet cometh it not of delight, as though delight should be the cause of laughter. But well may one thing breed both together. Nay rather in themselves, they have as it were a kind of contrariety. For delight wee scarcely do, but in things that have a conveniency to ourselves, or to the general nature. Laughter almost ever cometh of things most disproportioned to our selves, and nature. Delight hath a joy in it either permanent or present. Laughter hath only a scornful tickling.

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For example, we are ravished with delight to see a fair woman, and yet are far from being moved to laughter. Wee laugh at deformed creatures, wherein certainly wee cannot delight. We delight in good chances, wee laugh at mischances. We delight to hear the happiness of our friends and Country, at which he were worthy to be laughed at, that would laugh: we shall contrarily laugh sometimes to find a matter quite mistaken, and go down the hill against the bias, in the mouth of some such men as for the respect of them, one shall be heartily sorry, he cannot choose but laugh, and so is rather pained, then delighted with laughter. Yet deny I not, but that they may go well together, for as in Alexander’s picture well set out, wee delight without laughter, and in twenty mad Antiques, wee laugh without delight. So in Hercules, painted with his great beard and furious countenance, in a woman’s attire, spinning, at Omphale’s commandment{164}, it breeds both delight and laughter: for the representing of so strange a power in Love, procures delight, and the scornfulness of the action, stirreth laughter. But I speak to this purpose, that all the end of the Comical part, bee not upon such scorneful matters as stir laughter only, but mix with it, that delightful teaching which is the end of Poesy. And the great fault even in that point of laughter, and forbidden plainly by Aristotle{165}, is, that they stir laughter in sinful things, which are rather execrable then ridiculous: or in miserable, which are rather to be pitied then scorned. For what is it to make folks gape at a wretched beggar, and a beggarly Clown: or against law of hospitality, to jest at strangers, because they speak not English so well as we do? What do we learn, since it is certain, Nil habet infoelix paupertas durius in se, Quam quod ridiculos homines facit{166}. But rather a busy loving Courtier, and a heartless threatening Thraso{167}, a self-wise seeming Schoolmaster, a wry transformed Traveller: these if we saw walk in Stage names, which we play naturally, therein were delightful laughter, and teaching delightfulness; as in the other, the Tragedies of Buchanan{168} do justly bring forth a divine admiration. But I have lavished out too many words of this Play-matter; I do it, because as they are excelling parts of Poesy, so is there none so much used in England, and none can be more pitifully abused: which like an unmannerly daughter, showing a bad education, causeth her mother Poesies honestie to be called in question. Other sort of Poetry, almost have we none, but that Lyricall kind of Songs and Sonets; which Lord, if he gave us so good mindes, how well it might be employed, and with how heavenly fruites, both private and publike, in singing the praises of the immortall bewtie, the immortall goodnes of that God, who giveth us hands to write, and wits to conceive: of which we might wel want words, but never matter, of which we could turne our eyes to nothing, but we should ever have new budding occassions. But truly many of such writings as come under the banner of unresistable love, if I were a mistresse, would never perswade mee they were in love: so coldly they applie firie speeches, as men that had rather redde lovers writings, and so caught up certaine swelling Phrases, which hang togither like a man that once tolde me the winde was at Northwest and by South, because he would be sure to name winds inough, then that in truth they feele those passions, which easily as I thinke, may be bewraied by that same forciblenesse or Energia, (as the Greeks call it of the writer). But let this be a sufficient, though short note, that we misse the right use of the material point of Poesie.………………………………………………Now of versefying, there are two sorts, the one auncient, the other moderne. The auncient marked the quantitie of each sillable, and according to that, framed his verse: The moderne, observing onely number, with some regard of the accent; the chiefe life of it, standeth in that like sounding of the words, which we call Rime. Whether of these be the more excellent, wold bear many speeches, the ancient no doubt more fit for Musicke, both words and time observing quantitie, and more fit, lively to expresse divers passions by the low or loftie sound of the well-wayed sillable. The latter likewise with his rime striketh a certaine Musicke to the ear: and in fine, since it dooth delight, though by an other way, it obtaineth the same purpose, there being in either sweetnesse, and wanting in neither, majestie. Truly the English before any Vulgare language, I know is fit for both sorts: for, for the auncient, the Italian is so full of Vowels, that it must ever be combred with Elisions. The Duch so of the other side with Consonants, that they cannot yeeld the sweete slyding, fit for a Verse. The

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French in his whole language, hath not one word that hath his accent in the last sillable, saving two, called Antepenultima; and little more hath the Spanish, and therefore verie gracelessly may they use Dactiles. The English is subject to none of these defects. Now for Rime, though we doo not observe quan[ti]tie, yet we observe the Accent verie precisely, which other languages either cannot do, or will not do so absolutely. That Caesura, or breathing place in the midst of the Verse, neither Italian nor Spanish have: the French and we, never almost faile off. Lastly, even the verie Rime it selfe, the Italian cannot put it in the last sillable, by the French named the Masculine Rime; but still in the next to the last, which the French call the Female; or the next before that, which the Italian Sdrucciola: the example of the former, is Buono, Suono, of the Sdrucciola, is Femina, Semina. The French of the other side, hath both the Male as Bon, Son; and the Female, as Plaise, Taise{176}; but the Sdrucciola he hath not: where the English hath all three, as Du, Trew, Father, Rather, Motion, Potion{177}, with much more which might be sayd, but that alreadie I finde the triflings of this discourse is much too much enlarged(Conclusion)So that since the ever-praise woorthie Poesie is full of vertue breeding delightfulnesse, and voyd of no gift that ought to be in the noble name of learning, since the blames layd against it, are either false or feeble, since the cause why it is not esteemed in England, is the fault of Poet-apes, not Poets. Since lastly our tongue is most fit to honour Poesie, and to bee honoured by Poesie, I conjure you all that have had the evill luck to read this inck-wasting toy of mine, even in the name of the nine Muses, no more to scorne the sacred misteries of Poesie. No more to laugh at the name of Poets, as though they were next inheritors to fooles; no more to jest at the reverent title of a Rimer, but to beleeve with Aristotle, that they were the auncient Treasurers of the Grecians divinitie{178}; to beleeve with Bembus, that they were the first bringers in of all Civilitie; to beleeve with Scalliger that no Philosophers precepts can sooner make you an honest man, then the reading of Virgil{179}; to beleeve with Clauserus, the Translator of Cornatus, that it pleased the heavenly deitie by Hesiod and Homer, under the vaile of Fables to give us all knowledge, Logicke, Rhetoricke, Philosophie, naturall and morall, and Quid non?{180} to beleeve with me, that there are many misteries contained in Poetrie, which of purpose were written darkly, least by prophane wits it should be abused. To beleeve with Landin{181}, that they are so beloved of the Gods, that whatsoever they write, proceeds of a divine furie. Lastly, to beleeve themselves when they tell you they will make you immortal by their verses. Thus doing, your name shall florish in the Printers shops. Thus doing you shalbe of kin to many a Poeticall Preface. Thus doing, you shal be most faire, most rich, most wise, most all: you shall dwel upon Superlatives. Thus doing, though you be Libertino patre natus{182}, you shall sodeinly grow Herculea proles{183}. Si quid mea Carmina possunt{184}. Thus doing, your soule shall be placed with Dantes Beatrix, or Virgils Anchises. But if (fie of such a but) you bee borne so neare the dull-making Cataract of Nilus, that you cannot heare the Planet-like Musicke of Poetrie; if you have so earth- creeping a mind that it cannot lift it selfe up to looke to the skie of Poetrie, or rather by a certaine rusticall disdaine, wil become such a mome, as to bee a Momus of Poetrie: then though I will not wish unto you the Asses eares of Midas, nor to be driven by a Poets verses as Bubonax{185} was, to hang himselfe, nor to be rimed to death as is said to be done in Ireland, yet thus much Curse I must send you in the behalfe of all Poets, that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour, for lacking skill of a Sonet, and when you die, your memorie die from the earth for want of an Epitaphe.

{147} "Orators are made, but poets are born." {148} Manured: fertilized. This included the turning under of the soil. {149} Daedalus, mythological architect and archetype of the artist. "Wrings"="wings." Daedalus constructed wings for himself and his son in order to effect an escape. The fate of Icarus demonstrates Sidney's point that it is the use of a thing, not the thing itself, that goes awry, though he does not pursue that point here.

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{150} Quodlibet: Scholastic term for "what you will"; the floor is open to debate on any point. {151} "Anything I attempted to say, verses became." Ovid, Tristia IV.x. (Duncan-Jones 387)  {152} The Mirror of Magistrates first appeared in 1555, but was suppressed by the Lord Chancellor as a threat to Queen Mary's reign. It survived through seven more editions, however, and became immensely popular and influential. There may have been as many as seven authors in the first edition, and the number grew as the volume was expanded; hence "partes." (Hyder Rollins and Baker and Herschel Baker, The Renaissance in England: Non-Dramatic Prose and Verse of the Sixteenth Century [1954] 269)  {153} Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. Many of his poems had found their way into the popular volume of Richard Tottel's Songs and Sonnets Written by the Right Honorable Henry Haward Late Earl of Surrey and Other [1557], known to posterity as the Miscellany. In fact only some forty of the poems were Surrey's; more than ninety are attributed to Thomas Wyatt. (Rollins and Baker 194).  {154} Edmund Spenser, The Shepheardes Calendar Conteyning Twelve Aeglogves Proportionable to the Twelve Months [1579]. Theocritus, Virgil, and Sannazzaro represent the pastoral tradition which the Calendar follows. Sidney objects that none of them affects archaic language.  {155} Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton, Gorboduc [1571]. {156} Aristotle, Poetics V.i. It was commonly believed that Aristotle limited the action of drama to a single day, or what computer game designers now call "real-time." Aristotle was descibing current practice, not laying down rules.  {157} This is not Eunuchus but Heautontimouromenos (see note 127 above). Sidney, as was very common at the time and well into the seventeenth century, appears to be working from memory alone for most of his citations.  {158} Probably a reference to the Captivi of Plautus. {159} Calecut: Calicut, a port on the southwest, or Malibar, coast of India, reached by Vasco da Gama in 1498. {160} Pacolet, the magician in the medieval romance Valentine and Orson (1489), had a horse that could transport him instantaneously to his destination.  {161} Message runner. {162} ab ovo: "out of the egg." Horace, Ars poetica. {163} The story is from Euripides' Hecuba. {164} Hercules, in mythology, fell in love with Omphale, giving her the leverage to order him to yet more labours besides the famous Twelve which he had just completed.  {165} Aristotle, Poetics V.i. What Aristotle actually says is that comedy examines the ludicrous but not to the extent of finding humour in pain.  {166} "There is no greater unhappiness in poverty than it makes men appear silly." Juvenal, Satires III. {167} Thraso: a character in Terence, Eunuchus. {168} Buchanan: George Buchanan, influential Scotch humanist and poet, the tutor of James VI. {176} "plaise, taise" require two-syllable pronunciation to take his point. {177} "motion, potion" in Sidney's example of sdrucciola are three-syllable words. {178} Attributed to Aristotle by Boccaccio, De genealogia deorum XIV.vii. (Duncan-Jones 390, Duncan-Jones and Van Dorsten 208)  {179} Scaliger, Poetics III.xix. {180} Conrad Clauser, preface to 1543 translation of Lucius Annaeus Cornutus, De natura deorum gentilium. (Duncan- Jones 390) "Quid non?" is "What not?"  {181} Landin: Cristoforo Landino, preface to edition [1481] of Dante Alighieri, Divina commedia. (Duncan-Jones and Van Dorsten 209)  {182} "Of a free father born." Horace, Satires I.iv.  {183} Herculea proles: "descendants of Hercules." {184} "If these my numbers have any power." Virgil, Aeneid IX.

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{185} Plinius Secundus, Historia Naturalis XXXVI.v. The sculptor Bupalus was driven to kill himself by the recited poetry of Hipponax. (Duncan-Jones 390) 

EDMUND SPENSER  (1552-1599)

From The Shepheardes Calender  (1579)

                 To His Booke     Goe little booke: thy selfe present,As child whose parent  is unkent°:                        unknownTo him that is the president°                                   patternOf noblesse and of chevalree,And if that Envie barke at thee,As sure it will, for succoure flee   Under the shadow of his wing,And asked, who thee forth did bring,A shepheards swaine saye did thee sing,All as his straying flock he fedde:And when his honour has thee redde°,                    seenCrave pardon for my hardyhedde°.                              boldness   But if that any aske thy name,Say though wert base° begot with blame:               lowlyFor thy thereof  thou takest shame.And when thou art past jeopardee,Come tell me, what was sayd of mee:And I will send more after thee.                    IMMERITO.              

 

 

 

 

The Faerie Queene, Book III, Canto III, vv.1-236(The visit to Merlin)Merlin bewrayes° to Britomart the state of Artegall.                                                 revealsAnd shewes the famous Progeny which from them  springen shall. 1. Most sacred fire, that burnest mightily  In liuing brests, ykindled first aboue,  Emongst th'eternall spheres and lamping° sky,                            star-lit  And thence pourd into men, which men call Love;  Not that same, which doth base affections° moue                        passions  In brutish minds, and filthy lust inflame,

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  But that sweet fit, that doth true beautie love,  And choseth vertue for his dearest Dame,Whence spring all noble deeds and never dying fame:

2. Well did Antiquitie a God thee deeme,  That over mortall minds hast so great might,  To order them, as best to thee doth seeme,  And all their actions to direct aright;  The fatall° purpose of divine foresight,                                         fated         Thou doest effect in destinèd descents,°                                       dynasties  Through deepe impression of thy secret might,  And stirrèdst up th'Heroes high intents,Which the late° world admyres for wondrous monime[n]ts.          ancient

3. But thy dread darts in none doe triumph more,  Ne brauer proofe in any, of thy powre  Shew'dst thou, then in this royall Maid of yore,  Making her seeke an unknowne Paramoure,°                                lover  From the worlds end, through many a bitter stowre:°                    trial  From whose two loynes thou afterwards did rayse  Most famous fruits of matrimoniall bowre,  Which through the earth have spred their living prayse,That fame in trompe of gold eternally displayes.

4. Begin then, O my dearest sacred Dame,  Daughter of Phoebus and of Memorie,  That doest ennoble with immortall name  The warlike Worthies, from antiquitie,  In thy great volume of Eternitie:  Begin, O Clio, and recount from hence  My glorious Soveraines goodly auncestrie,  Till that by dew degrees and long protence,°                                 durationThou have it lastly brought unto her Excellence.

5. Full many wayes within her troubled mind,  Old Glauce cast,° to cure this Ladies griefe:                                 considered  Full many waies she sought, but none could find,  Nor herbes, nor charmes, nor counsell, that is chiefe  And choisest med'cine for sicke harts reliefe:  For thy great care she tooke, and greater feare,  Least that it should her turne to foule repriefe,°                           reproof  And sore reproch, when so her father deareShould of his dearest daughters hard misfortune heare.

6. At last she her avisd,° that he, which made                                recalled  That mirrhour, wherein the sicke Damosell  So straungely vewèd her straunge lovers shade,  To weet, the learned Merlin, well could tell,  Under what coast° of heaven the man did dwell,                         region  And by what meanes his love might best be wrought:°                  gained  For though beyond the Africk Ismaell,

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  Or th'Indian Peru he were, she thoughtHim forth through infinite endevour to have sought.

7. Forthwith themselves disguising both in straunge  And base attyre, that none might them bewray,°                         discover  To Maridunum, that is now by chaunge  Of name Cayr-Merdin cald, they tooke their way:  There the wise Merlin whylome wont (they say)  To make his wonne, low underneath the ground,  In a deepe delve,° farre from the vew of day,                              cave  That of no living wight he mote° be found,                                 mightWhen so he counseld with his sprights enco[m]past round.

8. And if thou ever happen that same way  To travell, goe to see that dreadfull place:  It is an hideous hollow cave (they say)  Under a rocke that lyes a little space  From the swift Barry, tombling downe apace,  Emongst the woodie hilles of Dynevowre:  But dare thou not, I charge, in any cace,  To enter into that same balefull Bowre,For fear the cruell Feends should thee unwares devowre.

9. But standing high aloft, low lay thine eare,  And there such ghastly noise of yron chaines,  And brasen Caudrons thou shalt rombling heare,  Which thousand sprights with long enduring paines  Doe tosse, that it will stonne° thy feeble braines,                        stun  And oftentimes great grones, and grievous stounds,°                  roars  When too huge toile and labour them constraines:°                    afflicts  And oftentimes loud strokes, and ringing soundsFrom under that deepe Rocke most horribly rebounds.

10. The cause some say is this: A litle while  Before that Merlin dyde, he did intend,  A brasen wall in compas to compile  About Cairmardin, and did it commend  Unto these Sprights, to bring to perfect end.  During which worke the Ladie of the Lake,  Whom long he loved, for him in hast did send,  Who thereby forst his workemen to forsake,Them bound till his returne, their labour not to slake°.                slacken

11. In the meane time through that false Ladies traine°,              treachery  He was surprisd, and buried under beare°,                                 bier  Ne ever to his worke returnd againe:  Nath'lesse those feends may not their worke forbeare,  So greatly his commaundement they feare,  But there doe toyle and travell° day and night,                          travail  Untill that brasen wall they up doe reare:

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  For Merlin had in Magicke more insight,Then ever him before or after living wight.

12. For he by words could call out of the sky  Both Sunne and Moone, and make them him obay:  The land to sea, and sea to maineland dry,  And darkesome night he eke° could turne to day:                       also  Huge hostes of men he could alone dismay°,                              defeat  And hostes of men of meanest things could frame,  When so him list° his enimies to fray°:                                       he wished/terrify  That to this day for terror of his fame,The feends do quake, when any him to them does name.

13. And sooth, men say that he was not the sonne  Of mortall Syre, or other living wight,  But wondrously begotten, and begonne  By false illusion of a guilefull Spright,  On a faire Ladie Nonne, that whilome hight  Matilda, daughter to Pubidius,  Who was the Lord of Mathrauall by right,  And coosen unto king Ambrosius:Whence he indued was with skill so maruellous.

14. They here ariving, staid a while without,  Ne durst adventure rashly in to wend°,                                               go  But of their first intent gan make new dout°                                       scruple  For dread of daunger, which it might portend:  Untill the hardie Mayd (with love to frend)  First entering, the dreadfull Mage there found  Deepe busied bout worke of wondrous end,  And writing strange characters in the ground,With which the stubborn feends he to his service bound.

15. He nought was moved° at their entrance bold:                               surprised  For of their comming well he wist° afore,                                          knew  Yet list them bid their businesse to unfold,  As if ought in this world in secret store  Were from him hidden, or unknowne of yore.  Then Glauce thus, “Let not it thee offend,  That we thus rashly through thy darkesome dore,  Unwares haue prest: for either fatall end,Or other mightie cause us two did hither send.”

16. He bad tell on; and then she thus began.  “Now have three Moones with borrowed brothers light,  Thrice shined faire, and thrice seemed dim and wan,  Sith a sore evill, which this virgin bright  Tormenteth, and doth plonge in dolefull plight,  First rooting tooke; but what thing it mote° bee,                               might  Or whence it sprong, I cannot read aright:

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  But this I read, that but if remedeeThou her afford, full shortly I her dead shall see.”

17. Therewith th'Enchaunter softly gan to smyle  At her smooth speeches, weeting° inly well,                                    knowing  That she to him dissembled womanish guyle,  And to her said, “Beldame°, by that ye tell,                                     good mother  More need of leach-craft° hath your Damozell,                               doctor’s skill  Then of my skill: who helpe may have elsewhere,  In vaine seekes wonders out of Magicke spell.”  Th'old woman wox half blanck°, those words to heare;                  bewildered   And yet was loth to let her purpose plaine appeare.

18. And to him said, “If any leaches skill,  Or other learned meanes could have redrest°                                  healed  This my deare daughters deepe engraffed ill,  Certes I should be loth thee to molest:  But this sad evill, which doth her infest,  Doth course of naturall cause farre exceed,  And housed is within her hollow brest,  That either seemes some cursed witches deed,Or evill spright, that in her doth such torment breed.”

19. The wisard could no lenger beare her bord°,                               idle talk  But brusting forth in laughter, to her sayd;  “Glauce, what needs this colourable° word,                                   deceiving  To cloke the cause, that hath it selfe bewrayd?  Ne ye faire Britomartis, thus arayd,  More hidden are, then Sunne in cloudy vele;  Whom thy good fortune, having fate obayd,  Hath hither brought, for succour to appele;The which the powres to thee are pleased to revele.”

20. The doubtfull° Mayd, seeing her selfe descryde°,          apprehensive/discovered  Was all abasht, and her pure yvory  Into a cleare Carnation suddeine dyde;  As faire Aurora rising hastily,  Doth by her blushing tell, that she did lye  All night in old Tithonus frosen bed,  Whereof she seemes ashamed inwardly.  But her old Nourse was nought dishartened,But vauntage° made of that, which Merlin had ared°.           opportunity/disclosed

21. And sayd, “Sith then thou knowest all our griefe,  (For what doest not thou know?) of grace° I pray,                      by your favour  Pitty our plaint, and yield vs meet reliefe.  With that the Prophet still awhile did stay,  And then his spirite thus gan forth display°;                                    declare  “Most noble Virgin, that by fatall lore  Hast learn'd to love, let no whit thee dismay

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  The hard begin°, that meets thee in the dore,                                  beginningAnd with sharpe fits thy tender hart oppresseth sore.

22. For so must all things excellent begin,  And eke enrooted deepe must be that Tree,  Whose big embodied braunches shall not lin°,                                cease  Till they to heavens hight forth stretched bee.  For from thy wombe a famous Progenie  Shall spring, out of the auncient Troian blood,  Which shall revive the sleeping memorie  Of those same antique Peres, the heavens brood,Which Greece and Asian rivers stained with their blood.

23. Renowmed kings, and sacred Emperours,  Thy fruitfull Ofspring, shall from thee descend;  Braue Captaines, and most mighty warriours,  That shall their conquests through all lands extend,  And their decayed kingdomes shall amend°:                                        restore  The feeble Britons, broken with long warre,  They shall upreare, and mightily defend  Against their forrein foe, that comes from farre,Till universall peace compound° all civill iarre.                                    settle

24. It was not, Britomart, thy wandring eye,  Glauncing unwares° in charmed looking glas,                                     by chance  But the streight° course of heavenly destiny,                                       strict  Led with eternall providence, that has  Guided thy glaunce, to bring his will to pas:  Ne is thy fate, ne is thy fortune ill,  To love the prowest° knight, that ever was.                                         strongest  Therefore submit thy wayes unto his will,And do by all dew meanes thy destiny fulfill.”

25. “But read° (said Glauce) thou Magitian                                         tell  What meanes shall she out seeke, or what wayes take?  How shall she know, how shall she find the man?  Or what needs her to toyle, sith fates can make  Way for themselves, their purpose to partake°?”                              fulfill  Then Merlin thus; Indeed the fates are firme,  And may not shrinck, though all the world do shake:  Yet ought mens good endevours them confirme,And guide the heavenly causes to their constant terme.

26. The man whom heavens have ordaynd to bee  The spouse of Britomart, is Arthegall:  He wonneth in the land of Fayeree,  Yet is no Fary borne, ne sib° at all                                                kin  To Elfes, but sprong of seed terrestriall,  And whilome° by false Faries stolne away,                                 formerly  Whiles yet in infant cradle he did crall;

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  Ne other to himselfe is knowne this day,But that he by an Elfe was gotten of a Fay.” 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE    (1564-1593)

                           The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

 Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest woolWhich from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair linèd slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May-morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.

 

 

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SIR WALTER RALEGH  (1552-1618)

The Nymphs Reply to the Shepherd 

If all the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd's tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to foldWhen rivers rage and rocks grow cold,And Philomel becometh dumb;The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward winter reckoning yields;A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posiesSoon break, soon wither, soon forgottenIn folly ripe, in season rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,Thy coral clasps and amber studs,All these in me no means can moveTo come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,Had joys no date nor age no need,Then these delights my mind might moveTo live with thee and be thy love.

 

 

 

 

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WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE   (1564-1616)Sonnets 18.Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimmed,And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 20.A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;A woman's gentle heart, but not acquaintedWith shifting change, as is false women's fashion:An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;A man in hue all hues in his controlling,Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.And for a woman wert thou first created;Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,And by addition me of thee defeated,By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

138.

 When my love swears that she is made of truthI do believe her, though I know she lies,That she might think me some untutor'd youth,Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best,Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.But wherefore says she not she is unjust?And wherefore say not I that I am old?O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,And age in love loves not to have years told:

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Therefore I lie with her and she with me,And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

 

JOHN DONNE  (1572-1631)

The Good-morrowI wonder by my troth, what thou, and I  Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then?  But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly?  Or snorted we in the seven sleepers den?  T'was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee.          5If ever any beauty I did see,  Which I desir'd, and got, t'was but a dreame of thee.      And now good morrow to our waking soules,  Which watch not one another out of feare;  For love, all love of other sights controules,   10And makes one little room, an every where.  Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,  Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,  Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is one.      My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,   15And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,  Where can we finde two better hemispheares  Without sharpe North, without declining West?  What ever dyes, was not mixt equally;  If our two loves be one, or, thou and I   20Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.  

                 The Sun Rising

        Busy old fool, unruly Sun,         Why dost thou thus,Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?         Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide         Late school-boys and sour prentices,     Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,     Call country ants to harvest offices;Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

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        Thy beams so reverend, and strong         Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long.         If her eyes have not blinded thine,         Look, and to-morrow late tell me,     Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine     Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

        She's all states, and all princes I;        Nothing else is; Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.         Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,         In that the world's contracted thus;     Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be     To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy centre is, these walls thy sphere.

              The Flea

Marke but this flea, and marke in this, How little that which thou deny'st me is; Me it suck'd first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee; Confesse it, this cannot be said A sinne, or shame, or losse of maidenhead,

Yet this enjoyes before it wooe, And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than wee would doe.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, When we almost, nay more than maryed are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloysterd in these living walls of Jet.

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Though use make thee apt to kill me, Let not to this, selfe murder added bee, And sacrilege, three sinnes in killing three.

Cruell and sodaine, has thou since Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence? In what could this flea guilty bee, Except in that drop which it suckt from thee? Yet thou triumph'st, and saist that thou Find'st not thyself, nor mee the weaker now;

'Tis true, then learne how false, feares bee; Just so much honor, when thou yeeld'st to mee, Will wast, as this flea's death tooke life from thee.

 

 

 

“A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning”

As virtuous men pass mildly away,      And whisper to their souls to go,  Whilst some of their sad friends do say,     "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."                     

So let us melt, and make no noise,                                       5     No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; 'Twere profanation of our joys      To tell the laity our love. 

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;     Men reckon what it did, and meant ;                              10 But trepidation of the spheres,      Though greater far, is innocent. 

Dull sublunary lovers' love      —Whose soul is sense—cannot admit  Of absence, 'cause it doth remove                                     15     The thing which elemented it. 

But we by a love so much refined,     That ourselves know not what it is, 

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Inter-assurèd of the mind,      Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.                           20

Our two souls therefore, which are one,      Though I must go, endure not yet  A breach, but an expansion,      Like gold to aery thinness beat. 

If they be two, they are two so                                          25     As stiff twin compasses are two ;  Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show      To move, but doth, if th' other do. 

And though it in the centre sit,      Yet, when the other far doth roam,                                30 It leans, and hearkens after it,      And grows erect, as that comes home. 

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,     Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; Thy firmness makes my circle just,                                    35     And makes me end where I begun.   

 

 

HOLY SONNETS. 

XIV.Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for youAs yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bendYour force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,Take me to you, imprison me, for I,Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

 

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GEORGE HERBERT   (1593-1633)

The Altar

A broken ALTAR, Lord thy servant rears,Made of a heart, and cemented with teares:

Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;No workmans tool hath touch'd the same

A HEART aloneIs such a stone,As nothing but

Thy pow'r doth cut.Wherefore each part

Of my hard heartMeets in this frame,To praise thy Name:

That if I chance to hold my peace,These stones to praise thee may not cease.

O let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine,And sanctifie this ALTAR to be thine.

 

The Collar   (from The Temple, 1633) I Struck the board, and cry’d, No more.I will abroad.What? shall I ever sigh and pine?My lines and life are free; free as the rode,Loose as the winde, as large as store.Shall I be still in suit?Have I no harvest but a thornTo let me bloud, and not restoreWhat I have lost with cordiall fruit?Sure there was wineBefore my sighs did drie it: there was cornBefore my tears did drown it.Is the yeare onely lost to me?Have I no bayes to crown it?No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?All wasted?Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,And thou hast hands.Recover all thy sigh-blown ageOn double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute

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Of what is fit, and not. Forsake thy cage,Thy rope of sands,1

Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to theeGood cable, to enforce and draw,And be thy law,While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.Away; take heed:I will abroad.Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears.He that forbearsTo suit and serve his need,Deserves his load.But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wildeAt every word,Me thoughts I heard one calling, Childe:And I reply’d, My Lord.

 

 

 

LOVE (III)

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,        Guilty of dust and sin.But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack        From my first entrance in,Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning        If I lack'd anything.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";        Love said, "You shall be he.""I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,        I cannot look on thee."Love took my hand and smiling did reply,        "Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame        Go where it doth deserve.""And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"        "My dear, then I will serve.""You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."        So I did sit and eat.

 

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ANDREW MARVELL  (1621-1678)

                         To His Coy Mistress Had we but world enough, and time,This coyness, lady, were no crime.We would sit down and think which wayTo walk, and pass our long love's day;Thou by the Indian Ganges' sideShouldst rubies find; I by the tideOf Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood;And you should, if you please, refuseTill the conversion of the Jews.My vegetable love should growVaster than empires, and more slow.An hundred years should go to praiseThine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;Two hundred to adore each breast,But thirty thousand to the rest;An age at least to every part,And the last age should show your heart.For, lady, you deserve this state,Nor would I love at lower rate.

        But at my back I always hearTime's winged chariot hurrying near;And yonder all before us lieDeserts of vast eternity.Thy beauty shall no more be found,Nor, in thy marble vault, shall soundMy echoing song; then worms shall tryThat long preserv'd virginity,And your quaint honour turn to dust,And into ashes all my lust.The grave's a fine and private place,But none I think do there embrace.        Now therefore, while the youthful hueSits on thy skin like morning dew,And while thy willing soul transpiresAt every pore with instant fires,Now let us sport us while we may;And now, like am'rous birds of prey,Rather at once our time devour,

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Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.Let us roll all our strength, and allOur sweetness, up into one ball;And tear our pleasures with rough strifeThorough the iron gates of life.Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.

JOHN MILTON  (1608-1674)

Sonnet 19

When I consider how my light is spent,Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest He returning chide,"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"I fondly ask; But patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies "God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts. Who bestBear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His stateIs kingly: thousands at His bidding speedAnd post o'er land and ocean without rest;They also serve who only stand and wait."

 

Paradise Lost

BOOK 5

THE ARGUMENT

Morning approacht, Eve relates to Adam her troublesome dream; he likes it not, yet comforts her: They come forth to thir day labours: Thir Morning Hymn at the Door of thir Bower. God to render Man inexcusable sends Raphael to admonish him of his obedience, of his free estate, of his enemy near at hand; who he is, and why his enemy, and whatever else may avail Adam to know. Raphael comes down to Paradise, his appearance describ'd, his coming discern'd by Adam afar off sitting at the door of his Bower; he goes out to meet him, brings him to his lodge, entertains him with the choycest fruits of Paradise got together by Eve; thir discourse at Table: Raphael performs his message, minds Adam of his state and of his enemy; relates at Adams request who that enemy is, and how he came to be so, beginning from his first revolt in Heaven, and the occasion thereof; how he drew his Legions after him to the parts of the North, and there incited them to rebel with him, perswading all but only Abdiel a Seraph, who in Argument diswades and opposes him, then forsakes him.

 

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Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern ClimeAdvancing, sow'd the earth with Orient Pearle,When Adam wak't, so customd, for his sleepWas Aerie light, from pure digestion bred,And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound [ 5 ]Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin SongOf Birds on every bough; so much the moreHis wonder was to find unwak'nd EveWith Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, [ 10 ]As through unquiet rest: he on his sideLeaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial LoveHung over her enamour'd, and beheldBeautie, which whether waking or asleep,Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice [ 15 ]Milde, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. AwakeMy fairest, my espous'd, my latest found,Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight,Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field [ 20 ]Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how springOur tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove,What drops the Myrrhe, and what the balmie Reed,How Nature paints her colours, how the BeeSits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. [ 25 ] Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eyeOn Adam, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose,My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I seeThy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, [ 30 ]Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd,If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee,Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe,But of offense and trouble, which my mindKnew never till this irksom night; methought [ 35 ]Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walkWith gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said,Why sleepst thou Eve? now is the pleasant time,The cool, the silent, save where silence yieldsTo the night-warbling Bird, that now awake [ 40 ]Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignesFull Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing lightShadowie sets off the face of things; in vain,If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes,

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Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, [ 45 ]In whose sight all things joy, with ravishmentAttracted by thy beauty still to gaze.I rose as at thy call, but found thee not;To find thee I directed then my walk;And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways [ 50 ]That brought me on a sudden to the TreeOf interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd,Much fairer to my Fancie then by day:And as I wondring lookt, beside it stoodOne shap'd and wing'd like one of those from Heav'n [ 55 ]By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'dAmbrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd;And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd,Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet,Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? [ 60 ]Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste?Forbid who will, none shall from me withholdLonger thy offerd good, why else set here?This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous ArmeHe pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd [ 65 ]At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold:But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine,Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt,Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fitFor God's, yet able to make Gods of Men: [ 70 ]And why not Gods of Men, since good, the moreCommunicated, more abundant growes,The Author not impair'd, but honourd more?Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic Eve,Partake thou also; happie though thou art, [ 75 ]Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be:Taste this, and be henceforth among the GodsThy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind,But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimesAscend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see [ 80 ]What life the Gods live there, and such live thou.So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held,Even to my mouth of that same fruit held partWhich he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smellSo quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, [ 85 ]Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the CloudsWith him I flew, and underneath beheldThe Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide

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And various: wondring at my flight and changeTo this high exaltation; suddenly [ 90 ]My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down,And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'dTo find this but a dream! Thus Eve her NightRelated, and thus Adam answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, [ 95 ]The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleepAffects me equally; nor can I likeThis uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear;Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none,Created pure. But know that in the Soule [ 100 ]Are many lesser Faculties that serveReason as chief; among these Fansie nextHer office holds; of all external things,Which the five watchful Senses represent,She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, [ 105 ]Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, framesAll what we affirm or what deny, and callOur knowledge or opinion; then retiresInto her private Cell when Nature rests.Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes [ 110 ]To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes,Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams,Ill matching words and deeds long past or late.Som such resemblances methinks I findOf our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, [ 115 ]But with addition strange; yet be not sad.Evil into the mind of God or ManMay come and go, so unapprov'd, and leaveNo spot or blame behind: Which gives me hopeThat what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, [ 120 ]Waking thou never wilt consent to do.Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looksThat wont to be more chearful and sereneThen when fair Morning first smiles on the World,And let us to our fresh imployments rise [ 125 ]Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the FloursThat open now thir choicest bosom'd smellsReservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard,But silently a gentle tear let fall [ 130 ]From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire;Two other precious drops that ready stood,

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Each in thir Chrystal sluce, hee ere they fellKiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorseAnd pious awe, that feard to have offended. [ 135 ]  

JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700)

A Song For St. Cecilia's Day

1 From harmony,[1] from heavenly harmony This universal frame[2] began. When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay, And could not heave her head, 5 The tuneful voice was heard from high: "Arise, ye more than dead!" Then cold and hot and moist and dry In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. 10 From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began; From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in Man.[3] 15 2 What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal[4] struck the corded shell,[5] His list'ning brethren stood around, And, wond'ring, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound, 20 Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 3 The trumpet's loud clangor 25 Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms.[6] The double double double beat

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Of the thundering drum 30 Cries, "Hark, the foes come! Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!" 4 The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers[7] The woes of hopeless lovers, 35 Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 5 Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains and height of passion, 40 For the fair disdainful dame. 6 But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, 45 Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend[8] the choirs above. 7 Orpheus[9] could lead the savage race, And trees unrooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre; 50 But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight[10] appeared-- Mistaking earth for heaven. GRAND CHORUS As from the power of sacred lays 55 The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above: So, when the last and dreadful hour[11] This crumbling pageant shall devour, 60 The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky.

NOTES.--Dryden wrote this song in 1687 for the festival of St. Cecilia,the patron saint of music. To be appreciated it must be read aloud,for it is full of musical effects, especially stanzas 3-6. St. Ceciliahas been represented by Raphael and other artists as playing upon someinstrument, surrounded by listening angels.

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[1.] From harmony, etc. Some of the ancients believed that musichelped in the creation of the heavenly bodies, and that their motionswere accompanied by a harmony known as "the music of the spheres."[2.] This universal frame, the visible universe.[3.] The diapason, etc. The diapason means here the entire compassof tones. The idea is that in man, the highest of God's creatures,are included all the virtues and powers of the lower creation.[4.] Jubal. It is said of Jubal: "He was the father of all such ashandle the harp and organ."--Genesis iv, 21.[5.] The corded shell, i.e. the lyre. The first lyre was supposed tohave been formed by drawing strings over a tortoise shell.[6.] Mortal alarms, i.e. notes that rouse men to deadly conflict.[7.] Discovers, reveals.[8.] Mend, amend, improve.[9.] Orpheus is said to have been a Thracian poet who moved rocks andtrees and tamed wild beasts by playing upon his lyre.[10.] Straight, straightway, immediately.[11.] The last and dreadful hour, the Day of Judgment.

From Annus Mirabilis

293 Methinks already from this chemic flame, I see a city of more precious mould: Rich as the town which gives the Indies name, With silver paved, and all divine with gold. 294 Already labouring with a mighty fate, She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, And seems to have renew'd her charter's date, Which Heaven will to the death of time allow. 295 More great than human now, and more august, Now deified she from her fires does rise: Her widening streets on new foundations trust, And opening into larger parts she flies. 296 Before, she like some shepherdess did show, Who sat to bathe her by a river's side; Not answering to her fame, but rude and low, Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride. 297 Now, like a maiden queen, she will behold, From her high turrets, hourly suitors come; The East with incense, and the West with gold, Will stand, like suppliants, to receive her doom! 298 The silver Thames, her own domestic flood, Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train; And often wind, as of his mistress proud, With longing eyes to meet her face again.

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299 The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine, The glory of their towns no more shall boast; And Seine, that would with Belgian rivers join, Shall find her lustre stain'd, and traffic lost. 300 The venturous merchant who design'd more far, And touches on our hospitable shore, Charm'd with the splendour of this northern star, Shall here unlade him, and depart no more. 301 Our powerful navy shall no longer meet, The wealth of France or Holland to invade; The beauty of this town without a fleet, From all the world shall vindicate her trade. 302 And while this famed emporium we prepare, The British ocean shall such triumphs boast, That those, who now disdain our trade to share, Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast. 303 Already we have conquer'd half the war, And the less dangerous part is left behind: Our trouble now is but to make them dare, And not so great to vanquish as to find. 304 Thus to the Eastern wealth through storms we go, But now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more; A constant trade-wind will securely blow, And gently lay us on the spicy shore.

OF Dramatick Poesie, AN ESSAYBy JOHN DRYDEN Esq

—— Fungar vice cotis, acutumReddere quæ ferrum valet, exors ipsa secandi.

Horat. De Arte Poet.

LONDONPrinted for Henry Herringman, at the Sign of the

Anchor, on the Lower-walk of the New-Exchange. 1668.

TO THE READER.The drift of the ensuing Discourse was chiefly to vindicate the honour of our English Writers, from the censure of those who unjustly prefer the French before them. This I intimate, least any should think me so exceeding vain, as to teach others an Art which they understand much better than my self. But if this incorrect Essay, written in the

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Country without the help of Books, or advice of Friends, shall find any acceptance in the world, I promise to my self a better success of the second part, wherein the Vertues and Faults of the English Poets, who have written either in this, the Epique, or the Lyrique way, will be more fully treated of, and their several styles impartially imitated.

I have a mortal apprehension of two Poets, whom this victory with the help of both her wings will never be able to escape; 'tis easie to guess whom you intend, said Lisideius; and without naming them, I ask you if one of them does not perpetually pay us with clenches upon words and a certain clownish kind of raillery? if now and then he does not offer at a Catecresis or Clevelandism, wresting and torturing a word into another meaning: In fine, if he be not one of those whom the French would call un mauvais buffon; one that is so much a well-willer to the Satire, that he spares no man; and though he cannot strike a blow to hurt any, yet ought to be punish'd for the malice of the action, as our Witches are justly hang'd because they think themselves so; and suffer deservedly for believing they did mischief, because they meant it. You have described him, said Crites, so exactly, that I am affraid to come after you with my other extremity of Poetry: He is one of those who having had some advantage of education and converse, knows better then the other what a Poet should be, but puts it into practice more unluckily then any man; his stile and matter are every where alike; he is the most calm, peaceable Writer you ever read: he never disquiets your passions with the least concernment, but still leaves you in as even a temper as he found you; he is a very Leveller in Poetry, he creeps along with ten little words in every line, and helps out his Numbers with For to, and Vnto, and all the pretty Expletives he can find, till he draggs them to the end of another line; while the Sense is left tir'd half way behind it; he doubly starves all his Verses, first for want of thought, and then of expression; his Poetry neither has wit in it, nor seems to have it; like him in Martiall:Pauper videri Cinna vult, & est pauper:He affects plainness, to cover his want of imagination: when he writes the serious way, the highest flight of his fancy is some miserable Antithesis, or seeming contradiction; and in the Comick he is still reaching at some thin conceit, the ghost of a Jest, and that too flies before him, never to be caught; these Swallows which we see before us on the Thames, are just resemblance of his wit: you may observe how near the water they stoop, how many proffers they make to dip, and yet how seldome they touch it: and when they do, 'tis but the surface: they skim over it but to catch a gnat, and then mount into the ayr and leave it. *************************************************...a thing well said will be wit in all Languages; and though it may lose something in the Translation, yet, to him who reads it in the Original, 'tis still the same; He has an Idea of its excellency, though it cannot pass from his mind into any other expression or words then those in which he finds it. When Phædria — in the Eunuch had a command from his Mistress to be absent two dayes; and encouraging himself to go through with it, said; Tandem ego non illa caream, si opus sit, vel totum triduum? Parmeno to mock the softness of his Master, lifting up his hands and eyes, cryes out as it were in admiration; Hui! universum triduum! the elegancy of which universum, though it cannot be rendred in our language, yet leaves an impression of the wit upon our souls: but this happens seldom in him, in Plautus oftner; who is infinitely too bold in his Metaphors and

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coyning words; out of which many times his wit is nothing, which questionless was one reason why Horace falls upon him so severely in those Verses:Sed Proavi nostri Plautinos & numeros, &Laudavere sales, nimium patienter utrumqueNe dicam stolidè.For Horace himself was cautious to obtrude a new word upon his Readers, and makes custom and common use the best measure of receiving it into our writings.Multa renascentur quæ nunc cecidere, cadentqueQuæ nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus,Quem penes, arbitrium est, & jus, & norma loquendi.The not observing this Rule is that which the world has blam'd in our Satyrist Cleveland; to express a thing hard and unnaturally, is his new way of Elocution: 'Tis true, no Poet but may sometimes use a Catachresis; Virgil does it;Mistaque ridenti Colocasia fundet Acantho.In his Eclogue of Pollio, and in his 7th Æneid.— Miratur & undæ,Miratur nemus, insuetum fulgentia longe,Scuta virum fiuvio, pictasque innare carinas.And Ovid once so modestly, that he askes leave to do it:Si verbo audacia detur Haud metuam summi dixisse Palatia coeli.Calling the Court of Jupiter by the name of Augustus his Pallace, though in another place he is more bold, where he sayes, Et longas visent Capitolia pompas. But to do this alwayes, and never be able to write a line without it, though it may be admir'd by some few Pedants, will not pass upon those who know that wit is best convey'd to us in the most easie language; and is most to be admir'd when a great thought comes drest in words so commonly receiv'd that it is understood by the meanest apprehensiions, as the best meat is the most easily digested: but we cannot read a verse of Cleveland's without making a face at it, as if every word were a Pill to swallow: he gives us many times a hard Nut to break our Teeth, without a Kernel for our pains. So that there is this difference betwixt his Satyres and Doctor Donns, That the one gives us deep thought in common language, though rough cadence; the other gives us common thoughts in abstruse words: 'tis true, in some places his wit is independent of his words, as in that of the Rebel Scot:Had Cain been Scot God would have chang'd his doom;Not forc'd him wander, but confin'd him home.Si sic, omnia dixisset! This is wit in all languages: 'tis like Mercury, never to be lost or kill'd; and so that other;For Beauty like White-powder makes no noise,And yet the silent Hypocrite destroyes.You see the last line is highly Metaphorical, but it is so soft and gentle, that it does not shock us as we read it.******************************************************To begin then with Shakespeare; he was the man who of all Modern, and perhaps Ancient Poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the Images of Nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily: when he

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describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater commendation: he was naturally learn'd; he needed not the spectacles of Books to read Nature; he look'd inwards, and found her there. I cannot say he is every where alike; were he so, I should do him injury to compare him with the greatest of Mankind. He is many times flat, insipid; his Comick wit degenerating into clenches; his serious swelling into Bombast. But he is alwayes great, when some great occasion is presented to him: no man can say he ever had a fit subject for his wit, and did not then raise himself as high above the rest of the Poets,Quantum lenta solent, inter viberna cupressi.The consideration of this made Mr. Hales of Eaton say, That there was no subject of which any Poet ever writ, but he would produce it much better treated of in Shakespeare; and however others are now generally prefer'd before him, yet the Age wherein he liv'd, which had contemporaries with him, Fletcher and Johnson never equall'd them to him in their esteem: And in the last Kings Court, when Ben's reputation was at highest, Sir John Suckling, and with him the greater part of the Courtiers, set our Shakespeare far above him............As for Johnson, to whose Character I am now arriv'd, if we look upon him while he was himself, (for his last Playes were but his dotages) I think him the most learned and judicious Writer which any Theater ever had. He was a most severe Judge of himself as well as others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit and Language, and Humour also in some measure we had before him; but something of Art was wanting to the Drama till he came. He manag'd his strength to more advantage then any who preceded him. You seldome find him making Love in any of his Scenes, or endeavouring to move the Passions; his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such an height. Humour was his proper Sphere, and in that he delighted most to represent Mechanick people. He was deeply conversant in the Ancients, both Greek and Latine, and he borrow'd boldly from them: there is scarce a Poet or Historian among the Roman Authours of those times whom he has not translated in Sejanus and Catiline. But he has done his Robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any Law. He invades Authours like a Monarch, and what would be theft in other Poets, is onely victory in him. With the spoils of these Writers he so represents old Rome to us, in its Rites, Ceremonies and Customs, that if one of their Poets had written either of his Tragedies, we had seen less of it then in him. If there was any fault in his Language, 'twas that he weav'd it too closely and laboriously in his serious Playes; perhaps too, he did a little to much Romanize our Tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latine as he found them: wherein though he learnedly followed the Idiom of their language, he did not enough comply with ours. If I would compare him with Shakespeare, I must acknowledge him the more correct Poet, but Shakespeare the greater wit. Shakespeare was the Homer, or Father of our Dramatick Poets; Johnson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing; I admire him, but I love Shakespeare. To conclude of him, as he has given us the most correct Playes, so in the precepts which he has laid down in his Discoveries, we have as many and profitable Rules for perfecting the Stage as any wherewith the French can furnish us.

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