The Shepherd's Address To His Muse
Good Muse, rocke me aslepe
With some sweete harmony;
This wearie eye is not to kepe
Thy wary company.
Sweet Love, begon a while,
Thou seest my heaviness;
Beautie is borne but to beguyle
My harte of happines.
See how my little flocke,
That lovde to feede on highe,
Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke,
And in the valley dye.
The bushes and the trees,
That were so freshe and greene,
Doe all their deintie colors leese,
And not a leafe is seene.
The blacke birde and the thrushe,
That made the woodes to ringe,
With all the rest are now at hushe,
And not a note they singe.
Swete Philomele, the birde
That hath the heavenly throte,
Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde
Recordings of a note.
Th flowers have had a frost,
The herbs have loste their savoure,
And Phillida the faire hath lost
'For me her wonted' favour.
Thus all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That now to hope upon delights,
It is but meere deceite.
And therefore, my sweete Muse,
That knowest what helpe is best,
Doe nowe thy heavenlie conninge use
To sett my harte at rest;
And in a dreame bewraie
What fate shal be my frende;
Whether my life shall still decaye,
Or when my sorrowes ende.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Sweet Pastoral
Good Muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony:
The weary eye is not to keep
Thy wary company.
Sweet Love, begone awhile,
Thou knowest my heaviness:
Beauty is born but to beguile
My heart of happiness.
See how my little flock,
That loved to feed on high,
Do headlong tumble down the rock,
And in the valley die.
The bushes and the trees
That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty colour leese,
And not a leaf is seen.
The blackbird and the thrush,
That made the woods to ring,
With all the rest, are now at hush,
And not a note they sing.
Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now alas! not once afford
Recording of a note.
The flowers have had a frost,
Each herb hath lost her savour;
And Phyllida the fair hath lost
The comfort of her favour.
Now all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That how to hope upon delights
It is but mere deceit.
And therefore, my sweet Muse,
Thou know'st what help is best;
Do now thy heavenly cunning use
To set my heart at rest;
And in a dream bewray
What fate shall be my friend;
Whether my life shall still decay,
Or when my sorrow end.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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A Fancy
Hee that his mirth hath loste,
Whose comfort is dismaid,
Whose hope is vaine, whose faith is scorned,
Whose trust is all betraid,
If he have held them deare,
And cannot cease to moane,
Come, let him take his place by me;
He shall not rue alone.
But if the smalest sweete
Be mixt with all his sowre;
If in the day, the moneth, the yeare,
He finde one lightsome hower,
Then rest he by himself;
He is noe mate for me,
Whose hope is falen, whose succor voyde,
Whose hart his death must be.
Yet not the wishèd death,
That hathe noe plainte nor lacke,
Which, making free the better parte,
Is onely nature's sacke.
Oh me! that wer too well,
My death is of the minde,
Which alwayes yeeldès extreame paines,
Yet keepes the worst behind.
As one that lives in shewe
But inwardly doth die,
Whose knowledge is a bloody field
Wheare all hope slaine doth lie;
Whose harte the aulter is,
Whose spirit, the sacrifize
Unto the Powers whome to appease
Noe sorrowes can sufize.
Whose fancies are like thornes,
On which I goe by night,
Whose arguments are like a hoste,
That force hath put to flight.
Whose sense is passion's spye,
Whose thoughtes, like ruins old
Of Carthage, or the famous towne
That Sinon bought and sold.
Which still before my face,
My mortall foe doth lay,
Whome love and fortune once advanced
And nowe hath cast away.
O thoughtes! noe thoughtes but woundes,
Sometimes the seate of Joy
Sometimes the chaire of quiet rest
But nowe of all annoy.
I sowed the feild of peace,
My blisse was in the Springe;
And day by day I ate the fruit
That my Live's tree did bring.
To nettels nowe my corne,
My feild is turnd to flint,
Where sitting in the cipres shade,
I reade the hiacint.
The joy, the rest, the life
That I enioyed of yore
Came to my lot that by my losse,
My smarte might smarte the more.
Thus to unhappie men
The best frames to the worste;
O tyme, O places. O woordes, O lookes,
Deere then but nowe accurst!
In 'was' stood my delight,
In 'is' and 'shall' my woe;
My horrors fastned in the 'yea,'
My hope hangs in the 'noe.'
I looke for noe delight,
Releefe will come too late;
Too late I finde, I finde too well,
Too well stoode my Estate.
Behold, heere is the end,
And nothing heere is sure:
Ah nothinge ells but plaints and cares
Doth to the world enduer.
Forsaken first was I,
Then utterly foregotten;
And he that came not to my faith,
Lo! my reward hath gotten.
Nowe Love, where are thy lawes
That make thy torments sweete?
What is the cause that some through thee
Have thought their death but meet?
Thy stately chaste disdaine,
Thy secret thanckfulnes,
Thy grace reservd, thy common light
That shines in worthines.
O that it were not soe
Or that I could excuse!
O that the wrath of Jelousie
My judgement might abuse!
O fraile unconstant kind,
And safe in truste to noe man!
Noe woemen angells are, yet loe!
My mistris is a woman!
Yet hate I but the falte,
And not the faultie one;
Nor can I rid me of the bonds
Wherein I lie alone.
Alone I lie, whose like
By love was never yet;
Nor rich, nor poore, nor younge, nor old,
Nor fond, nor full of witt.
Hers still remaine must I,
By wronge, by death, by shame;
I cannot blot out of my minde
That love wrought in her name.
I cannot set at naught
That I have held soe deare,
I cannot make it seem so farre
That is indeede soe neare.
Nor that I meane, henceforth
This strange will to professe:
I never will betray such trust
And fall to ficklenesse.
Nor shall it ever faile
That my word bare in hand:
I gave my word, my worde gave me,
Both worde and gaift shall stand.
Syth then it must be thus
And this is all to ill,
I yeelde me captiue to my curse,
My harde fate to fulfill.
The solitarie woodes,
My Cittie shall become;
The darkest den shalbe my lodge
Whereto noe light shall come.
Of heban blacke my boorde;
The wormes my meate shalbe,
Wherewith my carcase shalbe fed
Till thes doe feede on me.
My wine, of Niobe,
My bed the cragie rocke,
My harmony, the serpent's hisse,
The shreikinge owle, my cocke.
Mine exercise naught ells
But raginge agonies;
My bookes, of spightfull fortune's foiles
And drerye tragedies.
My walkes the pathes of plaint,
My prospect into Hell,
With Sisiphus and all his pheres
In endles paines to dwell.
And though I seeme to use
The poet's fainèd stile,
To figure forth my wofull plight,
My fall and my exile.
Yet is my greeffe not faind,
Wherein I starve and pine,
Whoe feeleth most shall finde it least
Comparinge his with mine.
My songe,--if anie aske
Whose grievous case is such?
Dy er thou let'st his name be knowne,--
His follye showes too much.
But best, were thee to hide
And never come to light;
For in the worle can none but thee
These accents sound aright.
And soe a end: my tale is tould:
His life is but disdaind,
Whose sorrowes present paine him soe,
His pleasures are full faind.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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To Phillis the Faire Sheeperdesse
My Phillis hath the morninge Sunne,
at first to looke upon her:
And Phillis hath morne-waking birds,
her risinge still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-featherd flowres,
that smile when she treads on them:
And Phillis hath a gallant flocke,
that leapes since she dooth owne them.
But Phillis hath too hard a hart,
alas, that she should have it:
It yeelds no mercie to desert,
nor grace to those that crave it.
Sweete Sunne, when thou look'st on,
pray her regard my moane!
Sweete birds, when you sing to her,
to yeeld some pitty, woo her!
Sweet flowers that she treads on,
tell her, her beauty deads one.
And if in life her love she nill agree me,
Pray her before I die, she will come see me.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Old English Lullaby
Hush, bonnie, dinna greit;
Moder will rocke her sweete,-
Balow, my boy!
When that his toile ben done,
Daddie will come anone,-
Hush thee, my lyttel one;
Balow, my boy!
Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce
Fayries will come to daunce,-
Balow, my boy!
Oft hath thy moder seene
Moonlight and mirkland queene
Daunce on thy slumbering een,-
Balow, my boy!
Then droned a bomblebee
Saftly this songe to thee:
'Balow, my boy!'
And a wee heather bell,
Pluckt from a fayry dell,
Chimed thee this rune hersell:
'Balow, my boy!'
Soe, bonnie, dinna greit;
Moder doth rock her sweete,-
Balow, my boy!
Give mee thy lyttel hand,
Moder will hold it and
Lead thee to balow land,-
Balow, my boy!
poem by Eugene Field
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Coridon to his Phillis
Alas my hart, mine eye hath wrongèd thee,
Presumptious eye, to gaze on Phillis face:
Whose heavenly eye no mortall man may see
But he must die, or purchase Phillis grace.
Poor Coridon, the Nimph whose eye doth moove thee,
Dooth love to draw, but is not drawne to love thee.
Her beautie, Nature's pride, and sheepheards praise,
Her eye, the heavenly Planet of my life:
Her matchlesse wit and grace, her fame displaies,
As if that love had made her for his wife.
Onely, her eyes shoote fierie darts to kill,
Yet is her hart as cold as Caucase hill.
My wings too weake to flye against the Sunne,
Mine eyes unable to sustaine her light,
My hart doth yeeld that I am quite undone,
Thus hath faire Phillis slaine me with her sight.
My bud is blasted, withred is my leafe
And all my corne is rotted in the sheafe.
Phillis, the golden fetter of my minde,
My fancie's Idoll, and my vitall power:
Goddesse of Nimphs, and honour of thy kinde,
This Age's Phoenix, Beautie's richest bower.
Poore Coridon for love of thee must die:
Thy beautie's thrall and conquest of thine eye.
Leave Coridon to plough the barren field,
Thy buds of hope are blasted with disgrace:
For Phillis' lookes no harty love doo yeeld,
Nor can she love, for all her lovely face.
Die Coridon, the spoile of Phillis' eye:
She cannot love, and therefore thou must die.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Willow, Willow, Willow
A poore soule sat sighing under a sicamore tree;
O willow, willow, willow!
With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee:
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland.
He sigh'd in his singing, and after each grone,
Come willow, willow, willow!
Come willow, willow, willow!
'I am dead to all pleasure, my true-love is gone.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be may garland.
'My love she is turned; untrue she doth prove;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
She renders me nothing but hate for my love.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the grene willow, &c.
'O pitty me' (cried he), 'ye lovers each one;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Her heart's hard as marble; she rues not my mone.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.'
The cold streams ran by him, his eyes wept apace;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
The salt tears fell from him, which drowned his face.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
The mute birds sate by him, made tame by his mones;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
The salt tears fell from him, which softened the stones.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland!
'Let nobody blame me, her scornes I do prove;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
She was borne to be faire; I, to die for her love.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'O that beauty should harbour a heart that's so hard!
Sing willow, willow, willow!
Sing willow, willow, willow!
My true love rejecting without all regard.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'Let love no more boast him in palace or bower;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
For women are trothles, and flote in an houre.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'But what helps complaining? In vaine I complaine:
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
I must patiently suffer her scorne and disdaine.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'Come, all you forsaken, and sit down by me,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
He that 'plaines of his false love, mine's falser than she.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'The willow wreath weare I, since my love did fleet;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
A garland for lovers forsaken most meete.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland!'
Part the Second
'Lowe lay'd by my sorrow, begot by disdaine,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Against her too cruell, still, still I complaine.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland!
'O love too injurious, to wound my poore heart,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
To suffer the triumph, and joy in my smart!
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'O willow, willow, willow! the willow garland,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
A sign of her falsenesse before me doth stand.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland.
'As here it doth bid to despair and to dye,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
So hang it, friends, ore me in grave where I lye.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'In grave where I rest mee, hang this to the view,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Of all that doe knowe her, to blaze her untrue.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'With these words engraven, as epitaph meet,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
'Here lyes one, drank poyson for potion most sweet.'
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'Though she thus unkindly hath scorned my love,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
And carelessly smiles at the sorrowes I prove;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'I cannot against her unkindly exclaim,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Cause once well I loved her, and honoured her name.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland.
'The name of her sounded so sweete in mine eare,
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
It rays'd my heart lightly, the name of my deare;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'As then 'twas my comfort, it now is my griefe;
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
It now brings me anguish; then brought me reliefe.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow, &c.
'Farewell, faire false-hearted, plaints end with my breath!
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Thou dost loath me, I love thee, though cause of my death.
O willow, willow, willow!
O willow, willow, willow!
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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I Never Saw Youe, Madam, Laye Aparte
I never saw youe, madam, laye aparte
Your cornet black in colde nor yet in heate
Sythe first ye knew of my desire so greate
which other fances chased cleane from my harte.
Whiles to my self I did the thought reserve
That so unware did wounde my wofull brest
Pytie I saw within your hart dyd rest;
But since ye knew I did youe love and serve
Your golden treese was clad alway in blacke,
Your smilyng lokes were hid thus evermore,
All that withdrawne that I did crave so sore.
So doth this cornet goveme me alacke,
In sommere sonne, in winter breath of frost;
Of your faire eies whereby the light is lost.
------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------
Complaint that his ladie after she knew of his loue kept her face alway hidden from him
I neuer sawe my Ladye laye apart
Her cornet blacke, in colde nor yet in heate,
Sith first she knew my griefe was growen so great,
Which other fansies driueth from my hart
That to my selfe I do the thought reserue,
The which vnwares did wounde my wofull brest:
But on her face mine eyes mought neuer rest,
Yet, sins she knew I did her loue and serue
Her golden tresses cladde alway with blacke,
Her smilyng lokes that hid thus euermore,
And that restraines whiche I desire so sore.
So dothe this cornet gouerne me alacke:
In somer, sunne: in winters breath, a frost:
Wherby the light of her faire lokes I lost.
poem by Henry Howard
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Sonnet 20
But now my Muse toyled with continuall care,
Begins to faint, and slacke her former pace,
Expecting favour from that heavenly grace,
That maie (in time) her feeble strength repaire.
Till when (sweete youth) th'essence of my soule,
(Thou that dost sit and sing at my hearts griefe.
Thou that dost send thy shepheard no reliefe)
Beholde, these lines; the sonnes of Teares and Dole.
Ah had great Colin chiefe of sheepheards all,
Or gentle Rowland, my professed friend,
Had they thy beautie, or my pennance pend,
Greater had beene thy fame, and lesse my fall:
But since that everie one cannot be wittie,
Pardon I crave of them, and of thee, pitty.
poem by Richard Barnfield
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The Shepheardes Calender: Januarie
Januarie: Ægloga Prime. Colin Cloute.
A Shepeheards boye (no better doe him call)
when Winters wastful spight was almost spent,
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent.
So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now vnnethes their feete could them vphold.
All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke,
For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while,)
May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke:
Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile.
Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde,
And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde.
Ye gods of loue, that pitie louers payne,
(if any gods the paine of louers pitie):
Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine,
And bowe your eares vnto my doleful dittie.
And Pan thou shepheards God, that once didst loue,
Pitie the paines, that thou thy selfe didst proue.
Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted,
Art made a myrrhour, to behold my plight:
Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted
Thy sommer prowde with Daffadillies dight.
And now is come thy wynters stormy state,
Thy mantle mard, wherein thou mas-kedst late.
Such rage as winters, reigneth in my heart,
My life bloud friesing wtih vnkindly cold:
Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smarte,
As if my yeare were wast, and woxen old.
And yet alas, but now my spring begonne,
And yet alas, yt is already donne.
You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,
Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre:
And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost,
Instede of bloosmes, wherwith your buds did flowre:
I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine,
Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.
All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere,
My timely buds with wayling all are wasted:
The blossome, which my braunch of youth did beare,
With breathed sighes is blowne away, & blasted,
And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend,
As on your boughes the ysicles depend.
Thou feeble flocke, whose fleece is rough and rent,
Whose knees are weak through fast and evill fare:
Mayst witnesse well by thy ill gouernement,
Thy maysters mind is ouercome with care.
Thou weak, I wanne: thou leabe, I quite forlorne:
With mourning pyne I, you with pyning mourne.
A thousand sithes I curse that carefull hower,
Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see:
And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure,
Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight, as shee.
Yet all for naught: snch [such] sight hath bred my bane.
Ah God, that loue should breede both ioy and payne.
It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,
Albee my loue he seeke with dayly suit:
His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine,
His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit.
Ah foolish Hobbinol, thy gyfts bene vayne:
Colin them gives to Rosalind againe.
I loue thilke lasse, (alas why doe I loue?)
And am forlorne, (alas why am I lorne?)
Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reproue,
And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne.
Shepheards deuise she hateth as the snake,
And laughes the songes, that Colin Clout doth make.
Wherefore my pype, albee rude Pan thou please,
Yet for thou pleasest not, where most I would:
And thou vnlucky Muse, that wontst to ease
My musing mynd, yet canst not, when thou should:
Both pype and Muse, shall sore the while abye.
So broke his oaten pype, and downe dyd lye.
By that, the welked Phoebus gan availe,
His weary waine, and nowe the frosty Night
Her mantle black through heauen gan overhaile.
Which seene, the pensife boy halfe in despight
Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe,
Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case to weepe.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Cumnor Hall
The dews of summer nighte did falle,
The moone (sweete regente of the skye)
Silver'd the walles of Cumnor Halle,
And manye an oake that grewe therebye.
Nowe noughte was hearde beneath the skies,
(The soundes of busye lyfe were stille,)
Save an unhappie ladie's sighes,
That issued from that lonelye pile.
"Leicester," shee cried, "is thys thy love
That thou so oft has sworne to mee
To leave mee in thys lonelye grove,
Immurr'd in shameful privitie?
"No more thou com'st with lover's speede,
Thy once-beloved bryde to see;
But bee shee alive, or bee shee deade,
I feare (sterne earle's) the same to thee.
"Not so the usage I receiv'd,
When happye in my father's halle;
No faithlesse husbande then me griev'd,
No chilling feares did mee appall.
"I rose up with the chearful morne,
No lark more blith, no flow'r more gaye;
And, like the birde that hauntes the thorne,
So merrylie sung the live-long daye.
"If that my beautye is but smalle,
Among court ladies all despis'd;
Why didst thou rend it from that halle,
Where (scorneful earle) it well was priz'de?
"And when you first to mee made suite,
How fayre I was you oft would saye!
And, proude of conquest--pluck'd the fruite,
Then lefte the blossom to decaye.
"Yes, nowe neglected and despis'd,
The rose is pale--the lilly's deade--
But hee that once their charmes so priz'd,
Is sure the cause those charms are fledde.
"For knowe, when sick'ning griefe doth preye
And tender love's repay'd with scorne,
The sweetest beautye will decaye--
What flow'ret can endure the storme?
"At court I'm tolde is beauty's throne,
Where everye lady's passing rare;
That eastern flow'rs, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not soe fayre.
"Then, earle, why didst thou leave the bedds
Where roses and where lillys vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken--when those gaudes are bye?
"'Mong rural beauties I was one,
Among the fields wild flow'rs are faire;
Some countrye swayne might mee have won,
And thoughte my beautie passing rare.
"But, Leicester, (or I much am wronge)
Or tis not beautye lures thy vowes;
Rather ambition's gilded crowne
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
"Then, Leicester, why, again I pleade,
(The injur'd surelye may repyne,)
Why didst thou wed a countrye mayde,
When some fayre princesse might be thyne?
"Why didst thou praise my humble charmes,
And, oh! then leave them to decaye?
Why didst thou win me to thy armes,
Then leave me to mourne the live-long daye?
"The village maidens of the plaine
Salute me lowly as they goe;
Envious they marke my silken trayne,
Nor thinke a countesse can have woe.
"The simple nymphs! they little knowe,
How farre more happy's their estate--
To smile for joye--than sigh for woe--
To be contente--than to be greate.
"Howe farre lesse bleste am I than them?
Dailye to pyne and waste with care!
Like the poore plante, that from its stem
Divided--feeles the chilling ayre.
"Nor (cruel earl!) can I enjoye
The humble charmes of solitude;
Your minions proude my peace destroye,
By sullen frownes or pratings rude.
"Laste nyghte, as sad I chanc'd to straye,
The village deathe-bell smote my eare;
They wink'd asyde, and seem'd to saye,
Countesse, prepare--thy end is neare.
"And nowe, while happye peasantes sleepe,
Here I set lonelye and forlorne;
No one to soothe mee as I weepe,
Save phylomel on yonder thorne.
My spirits flag--my hopes decaye--
Still that dreade deathe-bell smites my eare;
And many a boding seems to saye,
Countess, prepare--thy end is neare."
Thus sore and sad that ladie griev'd,
In Cumnor Halle so lone and dreare;
And manye a heartefelte sighe shee heav'd
And let falle manye a bitter teare.
And ere the dawne of daye appear'd,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and dreare,
Full manye a piercing screame was hearde,
And manye a crye of mortal feare.
The death-belle thrice was hearde to ring,
An aërial voyce was hearde to call,
And thrice the raven flapp'd its wyng
Arounde the tow'rs of Cumnor Hall.
The mastiffe howl'd at village doore,
The oaks were shatter'd on the greene;
Woe was the houre--for never more
That haplesse countesse e'er was seene.
And in that manor now no more
Is chearful feaste and sprightly balle;
For ever since that drearye houre
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maides, with fearful glance,
Avoid the antient mossgrowne walle;
Nor ever leade the merrye dance,
Among the groves of Cumnor Halle.
Full manye a travellor oft hath sigh'd,
And pensive wepte the countess' falle,
As wand'ring onwards they've espied
The haunted tow'rs of Cumnor Halle.
poem by William Mickle
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The Shepherd's Conceit of Prometheus
Prometheus when firste frome heaven hye
He broughte downe fyre, 'ere then on earthe not seene,
Fond of Delight, a Satyre standing bye
Gaue it a kyss, as it lyke Sweete had bene.
Feelinge forthewithe the other's burninge powre,
Wood withe the smarte, with shoutes and shreakinge shrill,
He soughte his ease in river, feilde and bowre,
But for the tyme his griefe wente with him still.
So seelye I, with that unwonted syghte
In humane shape, an angell from above,
Feedinge mine eyes, th'impressione there did lyghte,
That since I reste and runn as pleaseth Love.
The difference is, the Satyre's lypps, my harte,--
He for a tyme, I evermore,--have smarte.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Old Robin of Portingale
Let the mayors daughter of Lin, God wott,
He chose her to his wife,
And thought with her to have lived in love,
But they fell to hate and strife.
They scarce were in their wee-bed laid,
And scarce was hee asleepe,
But upp shee rose, and forth shee goes,
To the steward, and gan to weepe.
'Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles?
Or be you not within?
Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles,
Arise and let me inn.'
'O, I am waking, sweete,' he said,
'Sweete ladye, what is your will?'
'I have unbethought me of a wile,
How my wed-lord weel spill.
'Twenty-four good knights,' shee sayes,
'That dwell about this towne,
Even twenty-four of my next cozens,
Will helpe to dinge him downe.
All that beheard his litle foote-page,
As he watered his masters steed,
And for his masters sad perille
His verry heart did bleed.
He mourned, sighed, and wept full sore;
I sweare by the holy roode,
The teares he for his master wept
Were blent water and bloude.
And that beheard his deare master
As he stood at his garden pale:
Sayes, 'Ever alacke, my litle footpage,
What causes thee to wail?
'Hath any one done to thee wronge,
Any of thy fellowes here?
Or is any of thy good friends dead,
That thou shedst manye a teare?
'Or, if it be my head bookes-man,
Aggrieved he shal bee,
For no man here within my howse,
Shall doe wrong unto thee.'
'O, it is not your head bookes-man,
Nor none of his degree,
But on to-morrow, ere it be noone,
All deemed to die are yee.
'And of that bethank your head steward,
And thank your gay ladye.'
'If this be true, my litle foot-page,
The heyre of my land thoust bee.'
'If it be not true, my dear master,
No good death let me die.'
'If it be not true, thou litle foot-page,
A dead corse shalt thou lie.
'O call now downe my faire ladye,
O call her downe to mee;
And tell my ladye gay how sicke,
And like to die I bee.'
Downe then came his ladye faire,
All clad in purple and pall,
The rings that were on her fingers
Cast light throughout the hall.
'What is your will, my owne wed-lord?
What is your will with mee?'
'O see, my ladye deere, how sicke,
And like to die I bee.'
'And thou be sicke, my owne wed-lord,
Soe sore it grieveth me,
But my five maydens and myselfe
Will 'watch thy' bedde for thee,
'And at the waking of your first sleepe,
We will a hott drinke make;
And at the waking of your 'next' sleepe
Your sorrowes we will slake.'
He put a silk cote on his backe,
And mail of many a fold;
And hee putt a steele cap on his head,
Was gilt with good red gold;
He layd a bright browne sword by his side,
And another att his feete;
'And twentye good knights he placed at hand,
To watch him in his sleepe.'
And about the middle time of the night,
Came twentye-four traitours inn:
Sir Giles he was the foremost man,
The leader of that ginn.
Old Robin with his bright browne sword
Sir Gyles head soon did winn;
And scant of all those twenty-four
Went out one quick agenn.
None save only a litle foot-page,
Crept forth at a window of stone,
And he had two armes when he came in,
And he went back with one.
Upp then came that ladye gaye
With torches burning bright;
She thought to have brought Sir Gyles a drinke,
Butt she found her owne wedd-knight.
The first thinge that she stumbled on,
It was Sir Gyles his foote:
Sayes, 'Ever alacke, and woe is mee,
Here lyes my sweete hart-roote!'
The next thinge that she stumbled on,
It was Sir Gyles his heade:
Sayes, 'Ever alacke, and woe is mee,
Heere lyes my true love deade!'
He cutt the papers beside her brest,
And didd her body spille;
He cutt the eares beside her heade,
And bade her love her fille.
He called then up his litle foot page,
And made him there his heyre;
And sayd, 'Henceforth my worldlye goodes
And countrye I forsweare.'
He shope the crosse on his right shoulder,
Of the white 'clothe' and the redde,
And went him into the Holy Land,
Wheras Christ was quicke and dead.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Wandering Jew
When as in faire Jerusalem
Our Saviour Christ did live,
And for the sins of all the worlde
His own deare life did give,
The wicked Jewes with scoffes and scornes
Did dailye him molest,
That never till he left his life,
Our Saviour could not rest.
When they had crown'd his head with thornes,
And scourg'd him to disgrace,
In scornfull sort they led him forthe
Unto his dying place,
Where thousand thousands in the streete
Beheld him passe along,
Yet not one gentle heart was there,
That pityed this his wrong.
Both old and young reviled him,
As in the streete he wente,
And nought he found but churlish tauntes,
By every ones consente:
His owne deare cross he bore himselfe,
A burthen far too great,
Which made him in the streete to fainte,
With blood and water sweat.
Being weary thus, he sought for rest,
To ease his burdened soule,
Upon a stone; the which a wretch
Did churlishly controule;
And sayd, 'Awaye, thou King of Jewes,
Thou shalt not rest thee here;
Pass on; thy execution place
Thou seest nowe draweth neare.'
And thereupon he thrust him thence;
At which our Saviour sayd,
'I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke,
And have no journey stayed.'
With that this cursed shoemaker,
For offering Christ this wrong,
Left wife and children, house and all,
And went from thence along.
Where after he had seene the bloude
Of Jesus Christ thus shed,
And to the crosse his bodye nail'd,
Away with speed he fled,
Without returning backe againe
Unto his dwelling place,
And wandred up and downe the wordle,
A runnagate most base.
No resting could he fidne at all,
No ease, nor hearts content;
No house, nor home, nor biding place;
But wandring forth he went
From towne to towne in foreigne landes,
With grieved conscience still,
Repenting for the heinous guilt
Of his fore-passed ill.
Thus after some fewe ages past
In wandring up and downe,
He much again desired to see
Jerusalems renowne.
But finding it all quite destroyd,
He wandred thence with woe,
Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke,
To verifie and showe.
'I'll rest,' sayd hee, 'but thou shalt walke;'
So doth this wandring Jew,
From place to place, but cannot rest
For seeing countries newe;
Declaring still the power of him,
Whereas he comes or goes;
And of all things done in the east,
Since Christ his death, he showes.
The world he hath still compast round
And seene those nations strange,
That hearing of the name of Christ,
Their idol gods doe change:
To whom he hath told wondrous thinges
Of time forepast and gone,
And to the princes of the worlde
Declares his cause of moane:
Desiring still to be dissolv'd,
And yield his mortal breath;
But, if the Lord hath thus decreed,
He shall not yet see death.
For neither lookes he old nor young,
But as he did those times
When Christ did suffer on the crosse
For mortall sinners crimes.
He hath past through many a foreigne place,
Arabia, Egypt, Africa,
Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace,
And throughout all Hungaria:
Where Paul and Peter preached Christ,
Those blest apostles deare,
There he hath told our Saviours wordes,
In countries far and neare.
And lately in Bohemia,
With many a German towne,
And now in Flanders, as tis thought,
He wandreth up and downe:
Where learned men with him conferre
Of those his lingering dayes,
And wonder much to heare him tell
His journeyes and his wayes.
If people give this Jew an almes,
The most that he will take
Is not above a groat a time:
Which he, for Jesus' sake,
Will kindlye give unto the poore,
And thereof make no spare,
Affirming still that Jesus Christ
Of him hath dailye care.
He ne'er was seene to laugh nor smile,
But weepe and make great moane;
Lamenting still his miseries,
And dayes forepast and gone.
If he heare any one blaspheme,
Or take God's name in vaine,
He tells them that they crucifie
Their Saviour Christe againe.
'If you had seene his death,' saith he,
'As these mine eyes have done,
Ten thousand thousand times would yee
His torments think upon,
And suffer for his sake all paine
Of torments, and all woes:'
These are his wordes, and eke his life,
Whereas he comes or goes.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Knight and Shepherd's Daughter
There was a shepherds daughter
Came tripping on the waye,
And there by chance a knighte shee mett,
Which caused her to staye.
'Good morrowe to you, beauteous maide,'
These words pronounced hee;
'O I shall dye this daye,' he sayd,
'If Ive not my wille of thee.'
'The Lord forbid,' the maide replyde,
'That you shold waxe so wode!'
But for all that shee could do or saye,
'He wold not be withstood.'
'Sith you have had your wille of mee,
And put me to open shame,
Now, if you are a courteous knighte,
Tell me what is your name?'
'Some do call mee Jacke, sweet heart,
And some do call me Jille;
But when I come to the kings fair courte,
They calle me Wilfulle Wille.'
He sett his foot into the stirrup,
And awaye then he did ride;
She tuckt her girdle about her middle,
And ranne close by his side.
But when she came to the brode water,
She sett her brest and swamme;
And when she was got out againe,
She tooke to her heels and ranne.
He never was the courteous knighte,
To saye, 'Faire maide, will ye ride?'
'And she was ever too loving a maide
To saye, 'Sir Knighte, abide.''
When she came to the kings faire courte,
She knocked at the ring:
So readye was the king himself
To let this faire maid in.
'Now Christ you save, my gracious liege,
Now Christ you save and see;
You have a knighte within your courte
This daye hath robbed mee.'
'What hath he robbed thee of, sweet heart?
Of purple or of pall?
Or hath he took thy gaye gold ring
From off thy finger small?'
'He hath not robbed mee, my liege,
Of purple nor of pall;
But he hath gotten my maiden-head,
Which grieves mee worst of all.'
'Now if he be a batchelor,
His bodye Ile give to thee;
But if he be a married man,
High hanged he shall bee.'
He called downe his merrye men all,
By one, by two, by three;
Sir William used to bee the first,
But nowe the last came hee.
He brought her downe fulle fortye pounde,
Tyed up withinne a glove:
'Faire maid, Ile give the same to thee;
Go seeke thee another love.'
'O Ile have none of your gold,' she sayde,
'Nor Ile have none of your fee;
But your faire bodye I must have,
The king hath granted mee.'
Sir William ranne and fetchd her then
Five hundred pound in golde,
Saying, 'Faire maide, take this to thee,
Thy fault will never be tolde.'
'Tis not the gold that shall mee tempt,'
These words then answered shee,
'But your own bodye I must have,
The king hath granted mee.'
'Would I had dranke the water cleare,
When I did drink the wine,
Rather than any shepherds brat
Shold bee a ladye of mine!
'Would I had drank the puddle foule,
When I did drink the ale,
Rather that ever a shepherds brat
Shold tell me such a tale!'
'A shepherds brat even as I was,
You mote have let mee bee;
I never had come to the kings faire courte,
To crave any love of thee.'
He sett her on a milk-white steede,
And himself upon a graye;
He hung a bugle about his necke,
And soe they rode awaye.
But when they came unto the place,
Where marriage-rites were done,
She proved herself a dukes daughter,
And he but a squires sonne.
'Now marrye me, or not, Sir Knight,
Your pleasure shall be free:
If you make me ladye of one good towne,
Ile make you lord of three.'
'Ah! cursed bee the gold;' he sayd,
'If thou hadst not been trewe,
I shold have forsaken my sweet love,
And have changed her for a newe.'
And now their hearts being linked fast,
They joyned hand in hande:
Thus he had both purse, and person too,
And all at his commande.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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I would and I would not
I woulde it were not as it is
Or that I cared not yea or no;
I woulde I thoughte it not amiss,
Or that amiss mighte blamles goo;
I woulde I were, yet woulde I not,
I mighte be gladd yet coulde I not.
I coulde desire to know the meane
Or that the meane desyre soughte;
I woulde I coulde my fancye weane
From suche sweet joyes as Love hathe wroughte;
Onlye my wishe is leaste of all
A badge whereby to know a thrall.
O happy man whiche doste aspire
To that whiche semeleye thou dost crave!
Thrise happy man, if thy desyre
Maye winn with hope good happ to have;
But woe to me unhappy man
Whom hope nor happ acquiet cann.
The budds of hope are starvde with feare
And still his foe presents his face;
My state, if hope the palme shoulde beare
Unto my happ woulde be disgrace.
As diamond in woode were set
Or Irus raggs in goulde I frett.
For loe my tyrèd shoulders beare
Desyre's weery beatinge winges;
And at my feet a clogg I weare
Tyde one wth selfe disdayning stringes.
My wings to mounte aloft make hast.
My clog doth sinke me downe as faste.
This is our state, loe thus we stande
They ryse to fall that climbe to hye;
The boye that fled kynge Minos lande
Maye learne the wise more love to flye.
What gaynde his poynte agaynste the sonne
He drownde in seas himself, that wonne.
Yet Icarus more happy was,
By present deathe his cares to ende
Than I, pore mann, on whom alas
Tenn thousande deathes theire paynes do sende.
Now greife, now hope, now loue, now spyghte
Longe sorrows mixte withe shorte delyghte.
The pheere and fellowe of thy smarte
Prometheus I am indeede;
Upon whose ever livinge harte
The greedy gryphes do daylye feede;
But he that lyfts his harte so hye
Muste be contente to pine and dye.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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The Shepheardes Calender: April
APRILL: Ægloga QuartaTHENOT & HOBBINOLL
Tell me good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete?
What? hath some Wolfe thy tender Lambes ytorne?
Or is thy Bagpype broke, that soundes so sweete?
Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne?
Or bene thine eyes attempred to the yeare,
Quenching the gasping furrowes thirst with rayne?
Like April shoure, so stremes the trickling teares
Adowne thy cheeke, to quenche thy thristye payne.
HOBBINOLL
Nor thys, nor that, so muche doeth make me mourne,
But for the ladde, whome long I lovd so deare,
Nowe loves a lasse, that all his love doth scorne:
He plongd in payne, his tressed locks dooth teare.
Shepheards delights he dooth them all forsweare,
Hys pleasaunt Pipe, whych made us meriment,
He wylfully hath broke, and doth forbeare
His wonted songs, wherein he all outwent.
THENOT
What is he for a Ladde, you so lament?
Ys love such pinching payne to them, that prove?
And hath he skill to make so excellent,
Yet hath so little skill to brydle love?
HOBBINOLL
Colin thou kenst, the Southerne shepheardes boye:
Him Love hath wounded with a deadly darte.
Whilome on him was all my care and joye,
Forcing with gyfts to winne his wanton heart.
But now from me hys madding mynd is starte,
And woes the Widdowes daughter of the glenne:
So nowe fayre Rosalind hath bredde hys smart,
So now his frend is chaunged for a frenne.
THENOT
But if hys ditties bene so trimly dight,
I pray thee Hobbinoll, recorde some one:
The whiles our flockes doe graze about in sight,
And we close shrowded in thys shade alone.
HOBBINOLL
Contented I: then will I singe his laye
Of fayre Elisa, Queene of shepheardes all:
Which once he made, as by a spring he laye,
And tuned it unto the Waters fall.
Ye dayntye Nymphs, that in this blessed Brooke
doe bathe your brest,
Forsake your watry bowres, and hether looke,
at my request:
And eke you Virgins, that on Parnasse dwell,
Whence floweth Helicon the learned well,
Helpe me to blaze
Her worthy praise,
Which in her sexe doth all excell.
Of fayre Eliza be your silver song,
that blessed wight:
The flowre of Virgins, may shee florish long,
In princely plight.
For shee is Syrinx daughter without spotte,
Which Pan the shepheards God of her begot:
So sprong her grace
Of heavenly race,
No mortall blemishe may her blotte.
See, where she sits upon the grassie greene,
(O seemely sight)
Yclad in Scarlot like a mayden Queene,
And Ermines white.
Upon her head a Cremosin coronet,
With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:
Bayleaves betweene,
And Primroses greene
Embellish the sweete Violet.
Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face,
Like Ph{oe}be fayre?
Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace
can you well compare?
The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere.
Her modest eye,
Her Majestie,
Where have you seene the like, but there?
I sawe Ph{oe}bus thrust out his golden hedde,
upon her to gaze:
But when he sawe, how broade her beames did spredde,
it did him amaze.
He blusht to see another Sunne belowe,
Ne durst againe his fyrye face out showe:
Let him, if he dare,
His brightnesse compare
With hers, to have the overthrowe.
Shewe thy selfe Cynthia with thy silver rayes,
and be not abasht:
When shee the beames of her beauty displayes,
O how art thou dasht?
But I will not match her with Latonaes seede,
Such follie great sorow to Niobe did breede.
Now she is a stone,
And makes dayly mone,
Warning all other to take heede.
Pan may be proud, that ever he begot
such a Bellibone,
And Syrinx rejoyse, that ever was her lot
to beare such an one.
Soone as my younglings cryen for the dam,
To her will I offer a milkwhite Lamb:
Shee is my goddesse plaine,
And I her shepherds swayne,
Albee forswonck and forswatt I am.
I see Calliope speede her to the place,
where my Goddesse shines:
And after her the other Muses trace,
with their Violines.
Bene they not Bay braunches, which they doe beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?
So sweetely they play,
And sing all the way,
That it a heaven is to heare.
Lo how finely the graces can it foote
to the Instrument:
They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,
in their meriment.
Wants not a fourth grace, to make the daunce even?
Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven:
She shalbe a grace,
To fyll the fourth place,
And reigne with the rest in heaven.
And whither rennes this bevie of Ladies bright,
raunged in a rowe?
They bene all Ladyes of the lake behight,
that unto her goe.
Chloris, that is the chiefest Nymph of al,
Of Olive braunches beares a Coronall:
Olives bene for peace,
When wars doe surcease:
Such for a Princesse bene principall.
Ye shepheards daughters, that dwell on the greene,
hye you there apace:
Let none come there, but that Virgins bene,
to adorne her grace.
And when you come, whereas shee is in place,
See, that your rudeness doe not you disgrace:
Binde your fillets faste,
And gird in your waste,
For more finesse, with a tawdrie lace.
Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,
With Gelliflowres:
Bring Coronations, and Sops in wine,
worne of Paramoures.
Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,
And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and loved Lillies:
The pretie Pawnce,
And the Chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.
Now ryse up Elisa, decked as thou art,
in royall aray:
And now ye daintie Damsells may depart
echeone her way,
I feare, I have troubled your troupes to longe:
Let dame Eliza thanke you for her song.
And if you come hether,
When Damsines I gether,
I will part them all you among.
THENOT
And was thilk same song of Colins owne making?
Ah foolish boy, that is with love yblent:
Great pittie is, he be in such taking,
For naught caren, that bene so lewdly bent.
HOBBINOLL
Sicker I hold him, for a greater fon,
That loves the thing, he cannot purchase.
But let us homeward: for night draweth on,
And twincling starres the daylight hence chase.THENOTS EMBLEME
O quam te memorem virgo?HOBBINOLLS EMBLEME
O dea certe.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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The Visions Of Petrarch
Being one day at my window all alone,
So manie strange things happened me to see,
As much it grieueth me to thinke thereon.
At my right hand a Hynde appear'd to mee,
So faire as mote the greatest God delite;
Two eager dogs did her pursue in chace,
Of which the one was blacke, the other white:
With deadly force so in their cruell race
They pincht the haunches of that gentle beast,
That at the last, and in short time I spide,
Vnder a Rocke where she alas opprest,
Fell to the ground, and there vntimely dide.
Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie,
Oft makes me wayle so hard a destinie.
After at sea a tall ship did appeare,
Made all of Heben and white Yuorie,
The sailes of golde, of silke the tackle were,
Milde was the winde, calme seem'd the sea to bee,
The skie eachwhere did show full bright and faire;
With rich treasures this gay ship fraigted was:
But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire,
And tumbled vp the sea, that she (alas)
Strake on a rock, that vnder water lay,
And perished past all recouerie.
O how great ruth and sorrowfull assay,
Doth vex my sprite with perplexitie,
Thus in a moment to see lost and drown'd,
So great riches, as like cannot be found.
Then heauenly branches did I see arise
Out of the fresh and lustie Lawrell tree,
Amidst the yong greene wood: of Paradise
Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see:
Such store of birds therein yshrowded were,
Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie,
That with their sweetnes I was rauish't nere.
While on the Lawrell fixed was mine eie,
The skie gan euerie where to ouercast,
And darkned was the welkin all about,
When sudden flash of heauens fire out brast,
And rent this royall tree quite by the roote,
Which makes me much and euer to complaine:
For no such shadow shalbe had againe.
Within this wood, out of a rocke did rise
A spring of water, mildly tumbling downe,
Whereto approched not in anie wise
The homely shepheard, nor the ruder clowne;
But manie Muses, and the Nymphes withall,
That sweetly in accord did tune their voyce
To the soft sounding of the waters fall,
That my glad hart thereat did much reioyce.
But while herein I tooke my chiefe delight,
I saw (alas) the gaping earth deuoure
The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight.
Which yet aggreeues my hart euen to this houre,
And wounds my soule with rufull memorie,
To see such pleasures gon so suddenly.
I saw a Phoenix in the wood alone,
With purple wings, and crest of golden hewe;
Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone,
That of some heauenly wight I had the vewe;
Vntill he came vnto the broken tree,
And to the spring, that late deuoured was.
What say I more? each thing at last we see
Doth passe away: the Phoenix there alas
Spying the tree destroid, the water dride,
Himself smote with his beake, as in disdaine,
And so foorthwith in great despight he dide:
That yet my heart burnes in exceeding paine,
For ruth and pitie of so haples plight.
O let mine eyes no more see such a sight.
At last so faire a Ladie did I spie,
That thinking yet on her I burne and quake;
On hearbs and flowres she walked pensiuely,
Milde, but yet loue she proudly did forsake:
White seem'd her robes, yet wouen so they were,
As snow and golde together had been wrought.
Aboue the wast a darke clowde shrouded her,
A stinging Serpent by the heele her caught;
Wherewith she languisht as the gathered floure,
And well assur'd she mounted vp to ioy.
Alas, on earth so nothing doth endure,
But bitter griefe and sorrowfull annoy:
Which make this life wretched and miserable,
Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.
When I beheld this tickle trustles state
Of vaine worlds glorie, flitting too and fro,
And mortall men tossed by troublous fate
In restles seas of wretchednes and woe,
I wish I might this wearie life forgoe,
And shortly turne vnto my happie rest,
Where my free spirite might not anie moe
Be vext with sights, that doo her peace molest.
And ye faire Ladie, in whose bounteous brest
All heauenly grace and vertue shrined is,
When ye these rythmes doo read, and vew the rest,
Loath this base world, and thinke of heauens blis:
And though ye be the fairest of Gods creatures,
Yet thinke, that death shall spoyle your goodly features.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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The Universal Shyp
Come to, Companyons: ren: tyme it is to rowe:
Our Carake fletis: the se is large and wyde
And depe Inough: a pleasaunt wynde doth blowe.
Prolonge no tyme, our Carake doth you byde,
Our felawes tary for you on every syde.
Hast hyther, I say, ye folys naturall,
Howe oft shall I you unto my Navy call?
Ye have one confort, ye shall nat be alone:
Your company almoste is infynyte;
For nowe alyve ar men but fewe or none
That of my shyp can red hym selfe out quyte.
A fole in felawes hath pleasour and delyte.
Here can none want, for our proclamacion
Extendyth farre: and to many a straunge nacyon.
Both yonge and olde, pore man, and estate:
The folysshe moder: hir doughter by hir syde,
Ren to our Navy, ferynge to come too late.
No maner of degre is in the worlde wyde,
But that for all theyr statelynes and pryde
As many as from the way of wysdome tryp
Shall have a rowme and place within my shyp.
My folysshe felawes therfore I you exort
Hast to our Navy, for tyme it is to rowe:
Nowe must we leve eche sympyll haven and porte,
And sayle to that londe where folys abound and flow;
For whether we aryve at London or Bristowe,
Or any other Haven within this our londe,
We folys ynowe shall fynde alway at honde....
Our frayle bodyes wandreth in care and payne
And lyke to botes troubled with tempest sore
From rocke to rocke cast in this se mundayne,
Before our iyen beholde we ever more
The deth of them that passed are before.
Alas mysfortune us causeth oft to rue
Whan to vayne thoughtis our bodyes we subdue.
We wander in more dout than mortall man can thynke.
And oft by our foly and wylfull neglygence
Our shyp is in great peryll for to synke.
So sore ar we overcharged with offence
We see the daunger before our owne presence
Of straytis, rockis, and bankis of sonde full hye,
Yet we procede to wylfull jeopardye.
We dyvers Monsters within the se beholde
Redy to abuse or to devour mankynde,
As Dolphyns, whallys, and wonders many folde,
And oft the Marmaydes songe dullyth our mynde
That to all goodnes we ar made dull and blynde;
The wolves of these oft do us moche care,
Yet we of them can never well beware....
About we wander in tempest and Tourment;
What place is sure, where Foles may remayne
And fyx theyr dwellynge sure and parmanent?
None certainly: The cause thereof is playne.
We wander in the se for pleasour, bydynge payne,
And though the haven of helth be in our syght
Alas we fle from it with all our myght.
poem by Sebastian Brant
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Complaint of the Absence of Her Lover being upon the Sea
O HAPPY dames! that may embrace
The fruit of your delight,
Help to bewail the woful case
And eke the heavy plight
Of me, that wonted to rejoice
The fortune of my pleasant choice:
Good ladies, help to fill my mourning voice.
In ship, freight with rememberance
Of thoughts and pleasures past,
He sails that hath in governance
My life while it will last:
With scalding sighs, for lack of gale,
Furthering his hope, that is his sail,
Toward me, the swete port of his avail.
Alas! how oft in dreams I see
Those eyes that were my food;
Which sometime so delighted me,
That yet they do me good:
Wherewith I wake with his return
Whose absent flame did make me burn:
But when I find the lack, Lord! how I mourn!
When other lovers in arms across
Rejoice their chief delight,
Drowned in tears, to mourn my loss
I stand the bitter night
In my window where I may see
Before the winds how the clouds flee:
Lo! what a mariner love hath made me!
And in green waves when the salt flood
Doth rise by rage of wind,
A thousand fancies in that mood
Assail my restless mind.
Alas! now drencheth my sweet foe,
That with the spoil of my heart did go,
And left me; but alas! why did he so?
And when the seas wax calm again
To chase fro me annoy,
My doubtful hope doth cause me plain;
So dread cuts off my joy.
Thus is my wealth mingled with woe
And of each thought a doubt doth grow;
--Now he comes! Will he come? Alas! no, no.
The Marriage of Sir Gawaine
Part the First
King Arthur lives in merry Carleile,
And seemely is to see;
And there with him Queene Guenever,
That bride soe bright of blee.
And there with him Queene Guenever,
That bride soe bright in bowre;
And all his barons about him stoode,
That were both stiffe and stowre.
This king a royale Christmasse kept,
With mirth and princelye cheare;
To him repaired many a knighte,
That came both farre and neare.
And when they were to dinner sette
And cups went freely round:
Before them came a faire damselle,
And knelt upon the ground.
'A boone, a boone, O Kinge Arthure,
I beg a boone of thee;
Avenge me of a carlish knighte,
Who hath shent my love and mee.
'At Tearne-Wadling his castle stands,
Near to that lake so fair,
And proudlye rise the battlements,
And streamers deck the air.
'Noe gentle knighte, nor ladye gay,
May pass that castle-wall,
But from that foule discourteous knighte,
Mishappe will them befalle.
'Hee's twice the size of common men,
Wi' thewes and sinewes stronge,
And on his backe he bears a clubbe,
That is both thicke and longe.
'This grimme barone 'twas our harde happe
But yester morne to see;
When to his bowre he bare my love,
And sore misused mee.
'And when I told him King Arthure
As lyttle shold him spare;
Goe tell, sayd hee, that cuckold kinge
To meete mee if he dare.'
Upp then sterted King Arthure,
And sware by hille and dale,
He ne'er wolde quitt that grimme barone,
Till he had made him quail.
'Goe fetch my sword Excalibar,
Goe saddle me my steede;
Nowe, by my faye, that grimme barone
Shall rue this ruthfulle deede.'
And when he came to Tearne-Wadlinge
Benethe the castle walle:
'Come forth, come forth, thou proude barone,
Or yield thyself my thralle.'
On magicke grounde that castle stoode,
And fenc'd with many a spell:
Noe valiant knighte could tread thereon,
But straite his courage felle.
Forth then rush'd that carlish knight,
King Arthur felte the charme:
His sturdy sinewes lost their strengthe,
Downe sunke his feeble arme.
'Nowe yield thee, yield thee, Kinge Arthure,
Now yield thee unto mee;
Or fighte with mee, or lose thy lande,
Noe better termes maye bee:
'Unlesse thou sweare upon the rood,
And promise on thy faye,
Here to returne to Tearne-Wadling,
Upon the new-yeare's day,
'And bringe me worde what thing it is
All women moste desyre:
This is thy ransome, Arthur,' he sayes,
'Ile have noe other hyre.'
King Arthur then helde up his hande,
And sware upon his faye,
Then tooke his leave of the grimme barone,
And faste hee rode awaye.
And he rode east, and he rode west,
And did of all inquyre,
What thing it is all women crave,
And what they most desyre.
Some told him riches, pompe, or state;
Some rayment fine and brighte;
Some told him mirthe; some flatterye;
And some a jollye knighte.
In letters all King Arthur wrote,
And seal'd them with his ringe:
But still his minde was helde in doubte,
Each tolde a different thinge.
As ruthfulle he rode over a more,
He saw a ladye, sette
Betweene an oke and a greene holleye,
All clad in red scarlette.
Her nose was crookt and turned outwarde,
Her chin stoode all awrye;
And where as sholde have been her mouthe,
Lo! there was set her eye:
Her haires, like serpents, clung aboute
Her cheekes of deadlye hewe:
A worse-form'd ladye than she was,
No man mote ever viewe.
To hall the king in seemelye sorte
This ladye was fulle faine:
But King Arthure, all sore amaz'd,
No aunswere made againe.
'What wight art thou,' the ladye sayd,
'That wilt not speake to mee;
Sir, I may chance to ease thy paine,
Though I bee foule to see.'
'If thou wilt ease my paine,' he sayd,
'And helpe me in my neede,
Ask what thou wilt, thou grimme ladye,
And it shall bee thy meede.'
'O sweare mee this upon the roode,
And promise on thy faye;
And here the secrette I will telle,
That shall thy ransome paye.'
King Arthur promis'd on his faye,
And sare upon the roode;
The secrette then the ladye told,
As lightlye well shee cou'de.
'Now this shall be my paye, Sir King,
And this my guerdon bee,
That some yong, fair and courtlye knight
Thou bringe to marrye mee.'
Fast then pricked King Arthure
Ore hille, and dale, and downe:
And soone he founde the barone's bowre,
And soone the grimme baroune.
He kare his clubbe upon his backe,
Hee stoode both stiffe and stronge;
And, when he had the letters reade,
Awaye the lettres flunge.
'Nowe yielde thee, Arthur, and thy lands,
All forfeit unto mee;
For this is not thy paye, Sir King,
Nor may thy ransome bee.'
'Yet hold thy hand, thou proud barone,
I pray thee hold thy hand;
And give mee leave to speake once more
In reskewe of my land.
'This morne, as I came over a more,
I saw a ladye, sette
Betwene an oke and a greene holleye,
All clad in red scarlette.
'Shee sayes, all women will have their wille,
This is their chief desyre;
Now yield, as thou art a barone true,
That I have payd mine hyre.'
'An earlye vengeaunce light on her!'
The carlish baron swore:
'Shee was my sister tolde thee this,
And shee's a mishapen whore.
'But here I will make mine avowe,
To do her as ill a turne:
For an ever I may that foule theefe gette,
In a fyre I will her burne.'
Part the Second
Homewarde pricked King Arthure,
And a wearye man was hee;
And soone he mette Queene Guenever,
That bride so bright of blee.
'What newes! what newes! thou noble king,
Howe, Arthur, hast thou sped?
Where has thou hung the carlish knighte?
And where bestow'd his head?'
'The carlish knight is safe for mee,
And free fro mortal harme:
On magicke grounde his castle stands,
And fenc'd with many a charme.
'To bow to him I was fulle faine,
And yielde mee to his hand:
And but for a lothly ladye, there
I sholde have lost my land.
'And nowe this fills my hearte with woe,
And sorrowe of my life;
I swore a yonge and courtlye knight
Shold marry her to his wife.'
Then bespake him Sir Gawaine,
That was ever a gentle knighte:
'That lothly ladye I will wed;
Therefore be merrye and lighte.'
'Now naye, nowe naye, good Sir Gawaine,
My sister's sonne yee bee;
This lothlye ladye's all too grimme,
And all too foule for yee.
'Her nose is crookt and turn'd outwarde,
Her chin stands all awrye;
A worse form'd ladye than shee is
Was never seen with eye.'
'What though her chin stand all awrye,
And shee be foule to see;
I'll marry her, unkle, for thy sake,
And I'll thy ransome bee.'
'Nowe thankes, nowe thankes, good Sir Gawaine,
And a blessing thee betyde!
To-morrow we'll have knights and squires,
And wee'll goe fetch thy bride.
'And wee'll have hawkes and wee'll have houndes
To cover our intent;
And wee'll away to the greene forest,
As wee a hunting went.'
Sir Lancelot, Sir Stephen bolde,
They rode with them that daye;
And foremoste of the companye
There rode the stewarde Kaye:
Soe did Sir Banier and Sir Bore,
And eke Sir Garratte keene;
Sir Tristram too, that gentle knight,
To the forest freshe and greene.
And when they came to the greene forrest,
Beneathe a faire holley tree,
There sate that ladye in red scarlette,
That unseemlye was to see.
Sir Kay beheld that lady's face,
And looked upon her sweere;
'Whoever kisses that ladye,' he sayes,
'Of his kisse he stands in feare.'
Sir Kay beheld that ladye againe,
And looked upon her snout;
'Whoever kisses that ladye,' he sayes,
'Of his kisse he stands in doubt.'
'Peace, brother Kay,' sayde Sir Gawaine,
'And amend thee of thy life:
For there is a knight amongst us all
Must marry her to his wife.'
'What, marry this foule queene?' quoth Kay,
'I' the devil's name anone;
Gette mee a wife wherever I maye,
In sooth shee shall be none.'
Then some tooke up their hawkes in haste,
And some took up their houndes,
And sayd they wolde not marry her
For cities, nor for townes.
Then bespake him King Arthure,
And sware there 'by this daye,
For a little foule sighte and mislikinge,
Yes shall not say her naye.'
'Peace, lordings, peace,' Sir Gawaine sayd,
'Nor make debate and strife;
This lothlye ladye I will take,
And marry her to my wife.'
'Nowe thankes, nowe thankes, good Sir Gawaine,
And a blessinge be thy meede!
For as I am thine owne ladye,
Thou never shalt rue this deede.'
Then up they took that lothly dame,
And home anone they bringe:
And there Sir Gawaine he her wed,
And married her with a ringe.
And when they were in wed-bed laid,
And all were done awaye:
'Come turne to mee, mine owne wedlord,
Come turne to mee, I praye.'
Sir Gawaine scant could lift his head,
For sorrowe and for eare;
When lo! instead of that lothelye dame,
Hee sawe a young ladye faire.
Sweet blushes stayn'd her rud-red cheeke,
Her eyen were blacke as sloe:
The ripening cherrye swellde her lippe,
And all her necke was snowe.
Sir Gawaine kiss'd that lady faire,
Lying upon the sheete,
And swore, as he was a true knighte,
The spice was never so sweete.
Sir Gawaine kiss'd that ladye brighte,
Lying there by his side:
'The fairest flower is not soe faire:
Thou never canst bee my bride.'
'I am thy bride, mine owne deare lorde;
The same whiche thou didst knowe,
That was soe lothlye, and was wont
Upon the wild more to goe.
'Nowe, gentle Gawaine, chuse,' quoth shee,
'And make thy choice with care;
Whether by night, or else by daye,
Shall I be foule or faire?'
'To have thee foule still in the night,
When I with thee should playe!
I had rather farre, my lady deare,
To have thee foule by daye.'
'What! when gaye ladyes goe with their lordes
To drinke the ale and wine;
Alas! then I must hide myself,
I must not goe with mine!'
'My faire ladye,' Sir Gawaine sayd,
'I yield me to thy skille;
Because thou art mine owne ladye,
Thou shalt have all thy wille.'
'Nowe blessed be thou, sweete Gawaine,
And the daye that I thee see;
For as thou seest mee at this time,
Soe shall I ever bee.
'My father was an aged knighte,
And yet it chanced soe,
He tooke to wife a false ladye,
Whiche broughte me to this owe.
'Shee witch'd mee, being a faire yonge maide,
In the greene forest to dwelle,
And there to abide in lothlye shape,
Most like a fiend of helle;
'Midst mores and mosses, woods and wilds,
To lead a lonesome life,
Till some yong, faire and courtlye knighte
Wolde marrye me to his wife:
'Nor fully to gaine mine owne trewe shape,
Such was her devilish skille,
Until he wolde yielde to be rul'd by mee,
And let mee have all my wille.
'She witchd my brother to a carlish boore,
And made him stiffe and stronge;
And built him a bowre on magicke grounde,
To live by rapine and wronge.
'But now the spelle is broken throughe,
And wronge is turnde to righte;
Henceforth I shall bee a faire ladye,
And hee be a gentle knighte.'
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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