In Laudem Authoris.
Like to the weake estate of a poore friend,
To whom sweet fortune hath bene euer slow,
VVhich dayly doth that happy howre attend,
VVhen his poore state may his affection shew:
So fares my loue, not able as the rest,
To chaunt thy prayses in a lofty vayne,
Yet my poore Muse doth vow to doe her best,
And wanting wings, shee'le tread an humble strayne.
I thought at first her homely steps to rayse,
And for some blazing Epithites to looke,
But then I fear'd, that by such wondrous prayse,
Some men would grow suspicious of thy booke:
For hee that doth thy due deserts reherse,
Depriues that glory from thy worthy verse.
poem by Francis Beaumont
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Related quotes
Sonnet XI
DAyly when I do seeke and sew for peace,
And hostages doe offer for my truth:
she cruell warriour doth her selfe addresse,
to battell, and the weary war renew'th.
Ne wilbe moou'd with reason or with rewth,
to graunt small respit to my restlesse toile:
but greedily her fell intent poursewth,
Of my poore life to make vnpitteid spoile.
Yet my poore life, all sorrowes to assoyle,
I would her yield, her wrath to pacify:
but then she seekes with torment and turmoyle,
to force me liue and will not let me dy.
All paine hath end and euery war hath peace,
but mine no price nor prayer may surcease.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet XLII
THe loue which me so cruelly tormenteth,
So pleasing is in my extreamest paine:
that all the more my sorrow it augmenteth,
the more I loue and doe embrace my bane.
Ne doe I wish (for wishing were but vaine)
to be acquit fro my continuall smart:
but ioy her thrall for euer to remayne,
and yield for pledge my poore captyued hart
The which that it from her may neuer start,
let her, yf please her, bynd with adamant chayne:
and from all wandring loues which mote peruart,
his safe assurance strongly it restrayne.
Onely let her abstaine from cruelty,
and doe me not before my time to dy.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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To His Ever-Honovred Lady
Great is the worth of thy triumphing Fame,
With Faith, Hope, Loue, in thy sweet soule inshrind,
A endlesse world shall eternise thy name,
And crowne the glorious vertue of thy mind.
Thy feruent faith to Christ is so inclind,
Which makes ritch hopes vp to the Heau'ns aspire
From thence thy loue, descends in ruthfull kinde,
And helps the poore in their distress'd desire.
Long may thou liue, and long may God aboue
Increase, confirme, reward, faith, hope, and loue.
poem by Simion Grahame
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Go, Piteous Heart
GO, pytyous hart, rasyd with dedly wo,
Persyd with payn, bleding with wondes smart,
Bewayle thy fortune, with vaynys wan and blo.
O Fortune vnfrendly, Fortune vnkynde thow art,
To be so cruell and so ouerthwart,
To suffer me so carefull to endure,
That wher I loue best I dare not dyscure !
One there is, and euer one shalbe,
For whose sake my hart is sore dyseasyd ;
For whose loue, welcom dysease to me !
I am content so all partys be pleasyd :
Yet, and God wold, I wold my payne were easyd !
But Fortune enforsyth me so carefully to endure,
That where I loue best I dare not dyscure.
poem by John Skelton
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My Love in Her Attire
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew her witt,
It doth so well become her:
For eu'ry season she hath dressings fitt,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No Beautie shee doth misse,
When all her Robes are on:
But Beauties selfe shee is,
When all her Robes are gone.
My Love in Her Attire
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew her witt,
It doth so well become her:
For eu'ry season she hath dressings fitt,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No Beautie shee doth misse,
When all her Robes are on:
But Beauties selfe shee is,
When all her Robes are gone.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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My Love In Her Attire
My Loue in her Attyre doth shew her witt,
It doth so well become her:
For eu'ry season she hath dressings fitt,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No Beautie shee doth misse,
When all her Robes are on:
But Beauties selfe shee is,
When all her Robes are gone.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Sonnet LXXIIII
MOst happy letters fram'd by skilfull trade,
with which that happy name was first defynd:
the which three times thrise happy hath me made,
with guifts of body, fortune and of mind.
The first my being to me gaue by kind,
from mothers womb deriu'd by dew descent,
the second is my souereigne Queene most kind,
that honour and large richesse to me lent.
The third my loue, my liues last ornament,
by whom my spirit out of dust was raysed:
to speake her prayse and glory excellent,
of all aliue most worthy to be praysed.
Ye three Elizabeths for euer liue,
that three such graces did vnto me giue.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet IIII
NEw yeare forth looking out of Ianus gate,
Doth seeme to promise hope of new delight:
and bidding th'old Adieu, his passed date
bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish spright.
And calling forth out of sad Winters night,
fresh loue, that long hath slept in cheerlesse bower:
wils him awake, and soone about him dight
his wanton wings and darts of deadly power.
For lusty spring now in his timely howre,
is ready to come forth him to receiue:
and warnes the Earth with diuers colord flowre,
to decke hir selfe, and her faire mantle weaue.
Then you faire flowre, in who[m] fresh youth doth raine,
prepare your selfe new loue to entertaine.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet LXV
THe doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre loue, is vaine
That fondly feare to loose your liberty,
when loosing one, two liberties ye gayne,
and make him bond that bondage earst dyd fly.
Sweet be the bands, the which true loue doth tye,
without constraynt or dread of any ill:
the gentle birde feeles no captiuity
within her cage, but singes and feeds her fill.
There pride dare not approch, nor discord spill
the league twixt them, that loyal loue hath bound:
but simple truth and mutuall good will,
seekes with sweet peace to salue each others wou[n]d
There fayth doth fearlesse dwell in brasen towre,
and spotlesse pleasure builds her sacred bowre.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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A mery Iest
Sometimes in France, a woman dwelt,
Whose husband being dead:
Within a yeere, or somwhat more,
An other did her wed.
This good wife had of wealth great store,
Yet was her wit but thin:
To shew what happe to her befell,
My Muse doth now begin.
It chaunced that a scholler poore,
Attirde in course aray,
To see his friends that dwelt farre thence,
From Paris tooke his way:
The garments were all rent and torne
Wherwith this wight was clad:
And in his purse, to serue his neede,
Not one deneere he had:
Hee was constrainde to craue the almes,
Of those which oft would giue,
His needy and his poore estate
With some thing to relieue.
This scholler on a frostie morne,
By chaunce came to the doore:
Of this old silly womans house,
Of whome wee spake before.
The husband then was not at home,
Hee craueth of the dame:
Who had him in, and gaue him meate,
And askt from whence hee came.
I came (quoth hee) from Paris towne,
From Paradise (quoth she)
Men call that Paradise the place,
Where all good soules shalbe.
Cham zure my vurst goodman is dere,
Which died this other yeere:
Chould geue my friend a good gray groate,
Some newes of him to heare.
Hee saw shee did mistake his wordes,
And thought to make some glee:
And saide, your husband is in health,
I lately did him see.
Now by my troth (quoth shee) cham glad,
Good scholler doe declare:
Was not hee wroth, because I sent
Him from this world so bare?
In deede (quoth he) he was disppleasd,
And thought it farre vnmeete,
You hauing all to send him hence,
With nothing but a sheete.
(Quoth shee) good scholer, let me know,
When thou returnst agayne,
Hee answerd, Dame I will be there,
Within this weeke or twayne.
Shee sayde, my friend if that iche durst
Presume to be so bolde,
Chould pray thee carrie him some clothes,
To keepe him from the colde.
Hee saide he woulde with all poste haste,
Into the towne shee hies,
Hat, doublet, shert, coate, hose and shoes.
Shee there for husband buyes,
Shee praying him in earnest sorte,
It safely to conuey,
Did geue him money in his purse,
And so he went his way,
Not halfe of halfe an howre was past,
Ere husband hers was come,
What newes shee heard from Paradise,
Shee tolde him all and some.
And farther did to him declare,
What token shee had sent,
Whereat her husband waxed wroth,
And woondrous ill content.
He calde her sotte, and doating foole,
And after him doth ride,
The Scholler was within a Hedge,
And him a farre espide.
Hee was afrayde, and downe doeth fling
His fardell in a dike,
The man came neere, and askt him newes,
Of one whom hee did seeke.
That bare a fardell at his backe,
The scholler musde a while,
Then answearing, said, such one I saw,
Passe ouer yonder style.
With hasty speede he downe alightes,
And doth the scholler pray,
Till he the man had ouertane,
So long the horse to stay.
Untill hee passed out of sight,
Full still the scholer bides,
Who taking then his fardell on
His horse, away he rides.
When he returnd and saw himselfe,
By scholer flouted so,
Your selues may iudge what cheere he made,
If he were wroth or no.
He sware I thinke a hundred oathes,
At length per mundum toots,
For that he had no shoes to weare,
Martch homewardes in his bootes.
His wife did meete him at the doore.
Hayee cought man? (quoth shee)
No Dame (he sayde) he caught my horse:
The Diuel take him and thee.
With that shee laught, and clapt her hands,
And sayde cham glad ich sweare,
For nowe he hath a horse to ride,
He wilbe quickly there.
When that her husband well had wayde,
That remedy there was none,
He takes his fortune in good parte,
And makes no farther mone.
Now whether that this honest wife,
Did loue her first good man,
To such as shall peruse this tale,
The case I leaue to scan.
poem by Humfrey Gifford
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Alli Verifiglioli Delle Muse
Ye moderne Lawreats famousd for your writ,
VVho for your pregnance may in Delos dwelt,
On your sweete lines eternitie doth sit,
Their browes enobling with applause and lawrell.
Triumph and honor ay inuest your writ,
Ye fett your penns from wing of singing swanne,
VVhen sweetely warbling to her selfe she flotes
Adowne Meander streames, and like to Organ
Imparts into her quils melodious notes.
Ye from the father of delicious phrases,
Borrow such hymns as make your mistresse liue
VVhen time is dead, nay Hermes tunes the praises,
VVhich ye in sonnets to your mistresse giue.
Report throughout our westerne Isle doth ring,
The sweete tun'd accents of your Delian sonnetrie,
VVhich to Apollos violine ye sing,
Oh then your high straines drowne his melodie.
From forth dead sleepe of euerlasting darke,
Fame with her trumps shrill summon hath awakt
The Romayne Naso and the Tuskan Petrarch,
Your spirit-rauishing lines to wonder at.
Oh theame befitting high mus'd Astrophil,
He to your siluerie songs lent sweetest touch,
Your songs the immortall spirit of your quill,
Oh pardon, for my artlesse pen to much
Doth dimme your glories through his infant skill.
Though may J not with you the spoyles deuide
(Ye sacred of-spring of Mnemosyne)
Of endlesse praise which haue your pens atchiu'd,
(Your pens the trumps to immortallitie)
Yet be it leyfull that like maymes I bide
Like brunts and skarres in your loues warfare,
And here though in my home-spun verse of them declare.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Sonnet XXXI
Ah why hath nature to so hard a hart,
giuen so goodly giftes of beauties grace?
whose pryde depraues each other better part,
and all those pretious ornaments deface.
Sith to all other beastes of bloody race,
a dreadfull countenaunce she giuen hath:
that with theyr terrour al the rest may chace,
and warne to shun the daunger of theyr wrath.
But my proud one doth worke the greater scath,
through sweet allurement of her louely hew:
that she the better may in bloody bath,
of such poore thralls her cruell hands embrew.
But did she know how ill these two accord,
such cruelty she would haue soone abhord.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet LXXIX
MEn call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your selfe ye dayly such doe see:
but the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,
and vertuous mind is much more praysd of me.
For all the rest, how euer fayre it be,
shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew:
but onely that is permanent and free
from frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you
to be diuine and borne of heauenly seed:
deriu'd from that fayre Spirit, from whom al true
and perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fayre, and what he fayre hath made,
all other fayre lyke flowres vntymely fade.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet VI
BE nought dismayd that her vnmoued mind,
doth still persist in her rebellious pride:
such loue not lyke to lusts of baser kynd,
the harder wonne, the firmer will abide.
The durefull Oake, whose sap is not yet dride,
is long ere it conceiue the kindling fyre:
but when it once doth burne, it doth diuide
great heat, and makes his flames to heauen aspire.
So hard it is to kindle new desire,
in gentle brest that shall endure for euer:
deepe is the wound, that dints the parts entire
with chast affects, that naught but death can seuer.
Then thinke not long in taking litle paine,
to knit the knot, that euer shall remaine.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet LXVIII
MOst glorious Lord of lyfe that on this day,
Didst make thy triumph ouer death and sin:
and hauing harrowd hell didst bring away,
captiuity thence captiue vs to win.
This ioyous day, deare Lord, with ioy begin,
and grant that we for whom thou didest dye
being with thy deare blood clene washt from sin,
may liue for euer in felicity.
And that thy loue we weighing worthily,
may likewise loue thee for the same againe:
and for thy sake that all lyke deare didst buy,
with loue may one another entertayne.
So let vs loue, deare loue, lyke as we ought,
loue is the lesson which the Lord vs taught.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Va Bene, Va Bene Cosi
Cosa facciamo stiamo insieme stasera
di non andare via
non inventare adesso un'altra scusa
un'altra, un'altra bugia.
Cosa ne pensi di dimenticare
di lasciarci andare
ma dimmi la verit
forse stasera una sera
che ti sentivi sola
e sei venuta qua.
Non eri tu che dovevi partire
e non tornare pi
non eri tu che in fondo come salire
basta non guardar gi
Va bene, va bene, va bene
bugiarda quando ti conviene
versati pure da bere
sempre l dove sai tu...
Ti sei accorta che facciamo l'amore...s
ti sei accorta s
e non mi dire che non lo volevi
e che non lo sapevi che finiva cos...
Va bene, va bene, va bene
distratta quando ti conviene
diresti anche che mi vuoi bene
anche se non me ne vuoi pi...
Va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene cos
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene anche se non mi vuoi bene
va bene
telefonami.....telefonami!!!!
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene cos
va bene cos
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene anche se non mi vuoi bene
va bene
telefonami.....telefonami!!!!
song performed by by Vasco Rossi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Va Bene, Va Bene Cos
Cosa facciamo stiamo insieme stasera
di non andare via
non inventare adesso un'altra scusa
un'altra, un'altra bugia.
Cosa ne pensi di dimenticare
di lasciarci andare
ma dimmi la verit
forse stasera una sera
che ti sentivi sola
e sei venuta qua.
Non eri tu che dovevi partire
e non tornare pi
non eri tu che in fondo come salire
basta non guardar gi
Va bene, va bene, va bene
bugiarda quando ti conviene
versati pure da bere
sempre l dove sai tu...
Ti sei accorta che facciamo l'amore...s
ti sei accorta s
e non mi dire che non lo volevi
e che non lo sapevi che finiva cos...
Va bene, va bene, va bene
distratta quando ti conviene
diresti anche che mi vuoi bene
anche se non me ne vuoi pi...
Va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene cos
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene anche se non mi vuoi bene
va bene
telefonami.....telefonami!!!!
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene cos
va bene cos
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene anche se non mi vuoi bene
va bene
telefonami.....telefonami!!!!
song performed by by Vasco Rossi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poem 6
My loue is now awake out of her dreame,
and her fayre eyes like stars that dimmed were
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.
Come now ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight,
But first come ye fayre houres which were begot
In loues sweet paradice, of Day and Night,
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,
And al that euer in this world is fayre
Doe make and still repayre.
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,
The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride
And as ye her array, still throw betweene
Some graces to be seene,
And as ye vse to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer & your eccho ring
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet LXVI
TO all those happy blessings which ye haue,
with plenteous hand by heauen vpon you thrown:
this one disparagement they to you gaue,
that ye your loue lent to so meane a one.
Yee whose high worths surpassing paragon,
could not on earth haue found one fit for mate,
ne but in heauen matchable to none,
why did ye stoup vnto so lowly state.
But ye thereby much greater glory gate,
then had ye sorted with a princes pere:
for now your light doth more it selfe dilate,
and in my darknesse greater doth appeare.
Yet since your light hath once enlumind me,
with my reflex yours shall encreased be.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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