When Ragyng Loue With Extreme Payne
When ragyng loue with extreme payne
Most cruelly distrains my hart:
When that my teares, as floudes of rayne,
Beare witnes of my wofull smart:
When sighes haue wasted so my breath,
That I lye at the poynte of death:
I call to minde the nauye greate,
That the Grekes brought to Troye towne:
And how the boysteous windes did beate
Their shyps, and rente their sayles adowne,
Till Agamemnons daughters bloode
Appeasde the goddes, that them withstode.
And how that in those ten yeres warre,
Full many a bloudye dede was done,
And many a lord, that came full farre,
There caught his bane (alas) to sone:
And many a good knight ouerronne,
Before the Grekes had Helene wonne.
Then thinke I thus: sithe suche repayre,
So longe time warre of valiant men,
Was all to winne a ladye fayre:
Shall I not learne to suffer then,
And thinke my life well spent to be,
Seruyng a worthier wight than she?
Therfore I neuer will repent,
But paynes contented stil endure.
For like as when, rough winter spent,
The pleasant spring straight draweth in vre:
So after ragyng stormes of care
Joyful at length may be my fare.
poem by Henry Howard
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Geue Place Ye Louers, Here Before
Geue place ye louers, here before
That spent your bostes and bragges in vaine:
My Ladies beawtie passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sonne, the candle light:
Or brightest day, the darkest night.
And thereto hath a trothe as iust,
As had Penelope the fayre.
For what she saith, ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealed were.
And vertues hath she many moe,
Than I with pen haue skill to showe.
I coulde rehearse, if that I wolde,
The whole effect of natures plaint,
When she had lost the perfit mold,
The like to whom she could not paint:
With wringyng handes howe she dyd cry,
And what she said, I know it, I.
I knowe, she swore with ragyng mynd:
Her kingdom onely set apart,
There was no losse, by lawe of kind,
That could haue gone so nere her hart.
And this was chiefly all her payne:
She coulde not make the lyke agayne.
Sith nature thus gaue her the prayse,
To be the chiefest worke she wrought:
In faith, me thinke, some better waies
On your behalfe might well be sought,
Then to compare (as ye haue done)
To matche the candle with the sonne.
poem by Henry Howard
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Sonnet LVII
SWeet warriour when shall I haue peace with you?
High time it is, this warre now ended were:
which I no lenger can endure to sue,
ne your incessant battry more to beare:
So weake my powres, so sore my wounds appeare,
that wonder is how I should liue a iot,
seeing my hart through launched euery where
with thousand arrowes, which your eies haue shot:
Yet shoot ye sharpely still, and spare me not,
but glory thinke to make these cruel stoures,
ye cruell one, what glory can be got,
in slaying him that would liue gladly yours?
Make peace therefore, and graunt me timely grace.
that al my wounds will heale in little space.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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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.
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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 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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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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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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Sonnet XXXVI
TEll me when shall these wearie woes haue end,
Or shall their ruthlesse torment neuer cease:
but al my dayes in pining languor spend,
without hope of aswagement or release.
Is there no meanes for me to purchace peace,
or make agreement with her thrilling eyes:
but that their cruelty doth still increace,
and dayly more augment my miseryes.
But when ye haue shewed all extremityes,
then thinke how litle glory ye haue gayned:
by slaying him, whose lyfe though ye despyse,
mote haue your life in honour long maintayned.
But by his death which some perhaps will mone,
ye shall condemned be of many a one.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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SOnnet LXXIII
BEing my selfe captyued here in care,
My hart, whom none with seruile bands can tye:
but the fayre tresses of your golden hayre,
breaking his prison forth to you doth fly.
Lyke as a byrd that in ones hand doth spy
desired food, to it doth make his flight:
euen so my hart, that wont on your fayre eye
to feed his fill, flyes backe vnto your sight.
Doe you him take, and in your bosome bright,
gently encage, that he may be your thrall:
perhaps he there may learne with rare delight,
to sing your name and prayses ouer all.
That it hereafter may you not repent,
him lodging in your bosome to haue lent.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Tobacco
The Indian weed, withered quite,
Green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay; all flesh is hay,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
The pipe that is so lily-white,
Shows thee to be a mortal wight;
And even such, gone with a touch,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high,
Thinke thou beholdest the vanity
Of worldly stuffe, gone with a puffe,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soule defil'd with sin,
And then the fire it doth require.
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
The ashes that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind,
That unto dust return thou must.
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.
poem by George Wither
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Sonnet II
VNquiet thought, whom at the first I bred,
Of th'inward bale of my loue pined hart:
and sithens haue with sighes and sorrowes fed,
till greater then my wombe thou woxen art.
Breake forth at length out of the inner part,
in which thou lurkest lyke to vipers brood:
and seeke some succour both to ease my smart
and also to sustayne thy selfe with food.
But if in presence of that fayrest proud
thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet:
and with meeke humblesse and afflicted mood,
pardon for thee, and grace for me intreat.
Which if she graunt, then liue and my loue cherish,
if not, die soone, and I with thee will perish.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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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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Sonnet XLIII
SHall I then silent be or shall I speake?
And if I speake, her wrath renew I shall:
and if I silent be, my hart will breake,
or choked be with ouerflowing gall.
What tyranny is this both my hart to thrall,
and eke my toung with proud restraint to tie?
that nether I may speake nor thinke at all,
but like a stupid stock in silence die.
Yet I my hart with silence secretly
will teach to speak, and my iust cause to plead:
and eke mine eies with meeke humility,
loue learned letters to her eyes to read.
Which her deep wit, that true harts thought can spel,
wil soone conceiue, and learne to construe well.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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A Ioyfull medytacyon to all Englonde of the coronacyon of our moost naturall souerayne lorde kynge Henry the eyght.
The prologue
The prudent problems/& the noble werkes
Of the gentyll poetes in olde antyquyte
Unto this day hath made famous clerkes
For the poetes wrote nothynge in vanyte
But grounded them on good moralyte
Encensynge out the fayre dulcet fume
Our langage rude to exyle and consume
The ryght eloquent poete and monke of bery
Made many fayre bookes/as it is probable
From ydle derkenes/to lyght our emyspery
Whose vertuous pastyme/was moche cōmendable
Presentynge his bookes/gretely prouffytable
To your worthy predecessour the .v. kynge Henry
Whiche regystred is in the courte of memory
Amyddes the medowe of flora the quene
Of the goddes elycon/is the sprynge or well
And by it groweth/a fayre laurell grene
Of whiche the poetes do ofte wryte and tell
Besyde this olyue/I dyde neuer dwell
To tast the water whiche is aromatyke
For to cause me wryte with lusty rethoryke
Wherfore good souerayne/I beseche your hyghnes
To pardon me whiche do rudely endyte
As in this arte hauynge small intres
But for to lerne is all myn appetyte
In folowynge the monke whiche dyde nobly wryte
Besechynge your hyghnes and grace debonayre
For to accepte this rude and lytell quayre
Explicit prologus.
O God alone in heuen werynge crowne
In whose inspecte is euery regall se
Both to enhaūce & for to cast adowne
Suche is y&supere; power of th&ybar; hygh magiste
Neyther hardynes treasour nor dygnyte
May withstande thy strength whiche is ī euery place
So grete and myghty is thy dyuyne grace
Two tytles in one thou dydest well vnyfye
Whan the rede rose toke the whyte in maryage
Reygnynge togyder ryght hygh and noblye
From whose vnyd tytyls and worthy lygnage
Descended is by ryght excellent courage
Kynge Henry the .viii. for to reygne doutles
Unyuersall his fame honour and larges
Whiche hathe spousyd a fayre floure of vertue
Descended of kynges dame kwtheryn of Spayne
Descended of Kynges dame Kathelyn of Spayne
By grace and prudens the peace to attayne
Wherfore Englonde thou nedes not complayne
Syth thou hast crowned openly in syght
This kynge and quene by good true loue and ryght
What sholde I shewe by perambulacyon
All this grete tryumphe of whiche reporte
Is made aboute nowe in euery nacyon
Unto all this realme to be Ioy and comforte
Wherfore you lordes I humby you exhorte
Spyrytuall and temporall with the comyns vnyfyde
To gyue god the prayse whiche dothe grace prouyde
Englonde be gladde/the dewe of grace is spred
The dewe of Ioy/the dewe holsome and soote
Dystylled is nowe from the rose so red
And of the whyte so spryngynge from the roote
After our trouble to be refute and boote
This ryall tree was planted as I knowe
By god aboue the rancour to downe throwe
Who is the floure that dothe this grace dystyll
But onely Henry the .viii. kynge of his name
With golden droppes all Englonde to fulfyll
To shewe his larges his honour and his fame
His dedes therto exemplefye the same
Wherfore nowe Englonde with hole deuocyon
For this yonge kynge make dayly orayson
Our late souerayne his fader excellent
I knowe ryght well some holde oppynyon
That to auaryce he had entendement
Gadrynge grete rychesse of this his regyon
But they lytell knowe by theyr small reason
For what hye entente he gadered doutles
Unto his grace suche innumerable ryches
For I thinke well and god had sente him lyfe
As they haue meruaylled moche of this gadrynge
So it to them showe haue best affyrmatyfe
To haue had grete wonder of his spendynge
It may fortune he thought to haue mouynge
Of mortall warre our fayth to stablysshe
Agaynst the turkes theyr power to mynysshe
But syth that dethe by his course naturall
Hathe hym arested/and wolde not delay
Lyke wyse as he was so be we mortall
How/where/or whan I cam nothynge say
Therfore to god aboue let vs all pray
For to graunt hym mercy whiche was our kynge
Bryngynge his soule to Ioy euerlastinge
A fayre Englonde mystruste the ryght nought
Regarde ryght well/his sonnes Iustyce
Se how that they whyche inuencyons sought
Delytynge them in the synne of auaryce
To oppresse the comyns by grete preiudyce
Dothe he not punysshe them accordynge to lawe
Suche newe promocyons to dampne and withdrawe
Fy on the saturne with thy mysty fume
Replete with fraude treason and wyckednes
To shewe thy beames thou darest not presume
So cursed thou arte withouten stablenes
Deuoyde of grace fulfylled with doblenes
Thy power to Englonde was neuer amyable
But alwayes euyll vntrue and varyable
Now gentyll Iupyter the lodesterre of lyght
Thy stedfast beames so fayre and so clere
Cast now abrede that we may haue a syght
To gladde vs all whan that they do appere
Sendynge downe trouthe from thy fulgent spere
For to make our hertes mekely to enclyne
To serue our souerayne whiche doth nowe domyne
O myghty Mars o god of the warre
O flambynge honour of euery hardy herte
Sende downe thy power truely from so ferre
Us to encourage that we do not sterte
But by hardynes that we maye subuerte
Our soueraynes enemyes to hym contraryous
By bataylles fyerse ryghtfull and rygorous
And thou fayre bryght/and aureate phebus
Encreace now lyght with loue aud honoure
Amonge the lordes so gay and gloryus
With thy radyant beames so hye of fauoure
Deuoydynge all trechery debate and rancoure
And yllumyne the mynde with lyberalyte
Of our good souerayne with welth and vnyte
And lady Uenus with thy sone Cupyde
Of euery lorde do nowe the herte enspyre
With feruent loue that he do not slyde
And of the comyns set the hertes on fyre
To loue our souerayne with theyr hole desyre
Folowynge his grace with dulcet armonye
To the ryghtfull waye withouten Ieoperdye
Also thou Mercury the god of eloquence
The gentyll sterre of grace and vertue
Thy beames of ryght peace and conscyence
On our kynges counsayll downe sende and renue
The trouthe of Iustyce/that they may extue
For to do wronge by the synne of couetyce
That here before hathe done grete preiudyce
And thou watery dyane of the se the goddes
With thy broder eolus the god of the wynde
Encourage the hertes by in warde hardynes
And enmyes ryse that they be not behynde
Them for to chace and the se to scoure
By grace and fortune in many a stormy stoure
O god aboue/trononysed in heuen
In whose wyll resteth euery thynge alone
The skye/the erthe/with all the planettes seuen
Without whose grace/comforte haue we none
As thou arte thre enclusyd in one
So saue our souerayne/from all maner wo
And this his realme from mortall warre also
Holy chirche reioyse/with all your lybertees
Withouten dōmage/the kynge wyll ye encreace
And be your shelde from all aduersytees
No wronge shall be but he wyll it soone seace
Knyttynge the knotte of fayth loue and peace
Bytwene you and hym without dysturbaunce
So for to endure by longe contynuaunce
Ryght myghty prynce our good souerayne lorde
To god enclynynge be hardy and gladde
Of you and your realme he wyll se concorde
Though other nacyons be therfore full sadde
Agaynst you murmurynge with theyr werkes badde
Yet drede ye nothynge for god with his myght
Wyll be alwaye redy to defende the ryght
Ryght noble/wyse/and excellent pryncesse
Ryght benygne lady/lyberall and vertuous
Dyscended lynyally of the lyne of noblenesse
Fayre quene Katheryne so swete and precyous
To our souerayne espoused with Ioy solacyous
Almyghty god gyue grace to multyplye
From you your floures to reygne ryght ryally
And lady Mary prynces ryght beauteuous
Indued with honour/vertue/and prudence
Ryght meke/goodly/gentyll and gracyous
Syster ryght dere vnto the excellence
Of our good souerayne/surmountynge in sapyence
Ryght fayre yonge lady/the grete lorde aboue
He graunte you grace/hygh fame/fortune/and loue
And all you lordes and ladyes honourable
And you noble knyghtes so hauntynge chyualry
Unto our souerayne be meke and tendable
Whiche wyll rewarde you well and nobly
As to shewe his largesse vnyuersally
Encouragynge your hertes y&supert; courage chyualrous
In tyme of batayll for to be vyctoryous
And all ye offycers of euery degree
Beware extorcyon/for and it be knowen
No doute it is but ye shall punysshed be
Take hede of them/the whiche be ouerthrowen
Remembre well how fortune hathe blowen
The promoters downe/and castynge them full lowe
In folowynge them ye shall fall as I trowe
Englonde be true and loue well eche other
Obey your souerayne/and god omnypotent
Whiche is aboue/of all the worlde the rother
Wyll sende you welth/from whome all good is sente
He gyue vs grace to kepe his comaundement
And saue our souerayne/with his semely quene
With all theyr bloode/without trouble and tene.
Amen
poem by Stephen Hawes
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Consolatorium, Ad Parentes
Lett her parents then confesse
That they beleeve her happinesse,
Which now they question. Thinke as you
Lent her the world, Heaven lent her you:
And is it just then to complayne
When each hath but his owne againe?
Then thinke what both your glories are
In her preferment: for tis farre
Nobler to gett a Saint, and beare
A childe to Heaven than an Heyre
To a large Empire. Thinke beside
Shee dyde not yong, but livde a Bride.
Your best wishes for her good
Were but to see her well bestowde:
Was shee not so? Shee marryed to
The heyre of all things: who did owe
Her infant Soule, and bought it too.
Nor was shee barren: markt you not
Those pretty little Graces, that
Play'd round about her sicke bedde; three
Th' eldst Faith, Hope, & Charity.
Twere pretty bigge ones, and the same
That cryde so on theyr Fathers name.
The yongst is gone with Her: the two
Eldest stay to comfort you,
And little though they bee, they can
Master the biggest foes of man.
Lastly thinke that Hir abode
With you was some fewe years boarde;
After hir marriage: now shee's gone
Home, royally attended on:
And if you had Elisha's sight
To see the number of her bright
Attendants thither; or Paul's rapt sprite
To see her Welcome there; why then,
Wish if you could Her here agen.
Ime sure you could not: but all passion
Would loose itselfe in admiration,
And strong longings to be there
Where, cause shee is, you mourn for Her
poem by William Strode
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The Shepheardes Calender: August
August: Ægloga Octaua. Willye. Perigot. Cuddie.
Willye.
Ell me Perigot, what shalbe the game,
Wherefore with myne thou dare thy musick matche?
Or bene thy Bagpypes renne farre out of frame?
Or hath the Crampe thy ioynts benomd with ache?
Perigot.
Ah Willye, when the hart is ill assayde,
How can Bagpipe, or ioynts be well apayd?
Willye.
What the foule euill hath thee so bestadde?
Whilom thou was peregall to the best,
And wont to make the iolly shepeheards gladde
With pyping and dauncing, didst passe the rest.
Perigot.
Ah Willye now I haue learnd a newe daunce:
My old musick mard by a newe mischaunce.
Willye.
Mischiefe mought to that newe mischaunce befall,
That hath so raft vs of our meriment.
But reede me, what payne doth thee so appall?
Or louest thou, or bene thy younglings miswent?
Perigot.
Loue hath misled both my younglings, and mee:
I pyne for payne, and they my payne to see.
Willye.
Perdie and wellawaye: ill may they thriue:
Neuer knewe I louers sheepe in good plight.
But and if rymes with me thou dare striue,
Such fond fantsies shall soone be put to flight.
Perigot.
That shall I doe, though mochell worse I fared:
Neuer shall be sayde that Perigot was dared.
Willye.
Then loe Perigot the Pledge, which I plight:
A mazer ywrought of the Maple warre:
Wherein is enchased many a fayre sight
Of Beres and Tygres, that maken fiers warre:
And ouer them spred a goodly wild vine,
Entrailed with a wanton Yuie twine.
Thereby is a Lambe in the Wolues iawes:
But see, how fast renneth the shepheard swayne,
To saue the innocent from the beastes pawes:
And here with his shepehooke hath him slayne.
Tell me, such a cup hast thou euer sene?
Well mought it beseme any haruest Queene.
Perigot.
Thereto will I pawne yon spotted Lambe,
Of all my flocke there nis sike another:
For I brought him vp without the Dambe.
But Colin Clout rafte me of his brother,
That he purchast of me in the playne field:
Sore against my will was I forst to yield.
Willye.
Sicker make like account of his brother.
But who shall iudge the wager wonne or lost?
Perigot.
That shall yonder heardgrome, and none other,
Which ouer the pousse hetherward doth post.
Willye.
But for the Sunnebeame so sore doth vs beate,
Were not better, to shunne the scortching heate?
Perigot.
Well agreed Willy: then sitte thee downe swayne:
Sike a song neuer heardest thou, but Colin sing.
Cuddie.
Gynne, when ye lyst, ye iolly shepheards twayne:
Sike a iudge, as Cuddie, were for a king.
Perigot. T fell vpon a holly eue,
Willye. hey ho hollidaye,
Per. When holly fathers wont to shrieue:
Wil. now gynneth this roundelay.
Per. Sitting vpon a hill so hye,
Wil. hey ho the high hyll,
Per. The while my flocke did feede thereby,
Wil. the while the shepheard selfe did spill:
Per. I saw the bouncing Bellibone,
Wil. Hey ho Bonibell,
Per. Tripping ouer the dale alone,
Wil. she can trippe it very well:
Per. Well decked in a frocke of gray,
Wil. hey ho gray is greete,
Per. And in a Kirtle of greene saye,
Wil. the greene is for maydens meete:
Per. A chapelet on her head she wore,
Wil. hey ho chapelet,
Per. Of sweete Violets therein was store,
Wil. she sweeter than the Violet.
Per. My sheepe did leaue theyr wonted foode,
Wil. hey ho seely sheepe,
Per. And gazd on her, as they were wood,
Wil. woode as he, that did them keepe.
Per. As the bonilasse passed bye,
Wil. hey ho bonilasse,
Per. She roude at me with glauncing eye,
Wil. as cleare as the christall glasse:
Per. All as the Sunnye beame so bright,
Wil. hey ho the Sunne beame,
Per. Glaunceth from Phoebus face forthright,
Wil. so loue into thy hart did streame:
Per. Or as the thonder cleaues the cloudes,
Wil. hey ho the Thonder,
Per. Wherein the lightsome leuin shroudes,
Wil. so cleaues thy soule a sonder:
Per. Or as Dame Cynthias siluer raye
Wil. hey ho the Moonelight,
Per. Vpon the glittering waue doth playe:
Wil. such play is a pitteous plight.
Per. The glaunce into my heart did glide,
Wil. hey ho the glyder,
Per. Therewith my soule was sharply gryde,
Wil. uch wounds soone wexen wider.
Per. Hating to raunch the arrow out,
Wil. hey ho Perigot,
Per. I left the head in my hart roote:
Wil. it was a desperate shot.
Per. There it ranckleth ay more and more,
Wil. hey ho the arrowe,
Per. Ne can I find salue for my sore:
Wil. loue is a curelesse sorrowe.
Per. And though my bale with death I bought,
Wil. hey ho the heauie cheere,
Per. Yet should thilke lasse not from my thought:
Wil. so you may buye gold to deare.
Per. But whether in paynefull loue I pyne,
Wil. hey ho pinching payne,
Per. Or thriue in welth, she shalbe mine.
Wil. but if thou can her obteine.
Per. And if for gracelesse greefe I dye,
Wil. hey ho gracelesse griefe,
Per. Witnesse, shee slewe me with her eye:
Wil. let thy follye be the priefe.
Per. And you, that sawe it, simple shepe,
Wil. hey ho the fayre flocke,
Per. For priefe thereof, my death shall weepe,
Wil. and mone with many a mocke.
Per. So learnd I loue on a hollye eue,
Wil. hey ho hollidaye,
Per. That euer since my hart did greue.
Wil. now endeth our roundelay.
Cuddye.
Sicker sike a roundle neuer heard I none.
Little lacketh Perigot of the best.
And Willye is not greatly ouergone,
So weren his vndersongs well addrest.
Willye.
Herdgrome, I feare me, thou haue a squint eye:
Areede vprightly, who has the victorye?
Cuddie.
Fayth of my soule, I deeme ech haue gayned.
For thy let the Lambe be Willye his owne:
And for Perigot so well hath hym payned,
To him be the wroughten mazer alone.
Perigot.
Perigot is well pleased with the doome.
Ne can Willye wite the witelesse herdgroome.
Willye.
Never dempt more right of beautye I weene,
The shepheard of Ida, that iudged beauties Queene.
Cuddie.
But tell me shepheards, should it not yshend
Your roundels fresh, to heare a dolefull verse
Of Rosalend (who knowes not Rosalend?)
That Colin made, ylke can I you rehearse.
Perigot.
Now say it Cuddie, as thou art a ladde:
With mery thing its good to medle sadde.
Willy.
Fayth of my soule, thou shalt ycrouned be
In Colins stede, if thou this song areede:
For neuer thing on earth so pleaseth me,
As him to heare, or matter of his deede.
Cuddie.
Then listneth ech vnto my heauy laye,
And tune your pypes as ruthful, as ye may.
E wastefull woodes beare witnesse of my woe,
Wherein my plaints did oftentimes resound:
Ye carelesse byrds are priuie to my cryes,
Which in your songs were wont to make a part:
Thou pleasaunt spring hast luld me oft a sleepe,
Whose streames my trickling teares did ofte augment.
Resort of people doth my greefs augment,
The walled townes do worke my greater woe:
The forest wide is fitter to resound
The hollow Echo of my carefull cryes,
I hate the house, since thence my loue did part,
Whose waylefull want debarres myne eyes from sleepe.
Let stremes of teares supply the place of sleepe:
Let all that sweete is, voyd: and all that may augment
My doole, drawe neare. More meete to wayle my woe,
Bene the wild woddes my sorrowes to resound,
Then bedde, or bowre, both which I fill with cryes,
When I them see so waist, and fynd no part
Of pleasure past. Here will I dwell apart
In gastful groue therefore, till my last sleepe
Doe close mine eyes: so shall I not augment
With sight of such a chaunge my recklesse woe:
Helpe me, ye banefull byrds, whose shrieking sound
Ys signe of dreery death, my deadly cryes
Most ruthfully to tune. And as my cryes
(Which of my woe cannot bewray least part)
You heare all night, when nature craueth sleepe,
Increase, so let your yrksome yells augment.
Thus all the night in plaints, the daye in woe
I vowed haue to wayst, till safe and sound
She home returne, whose voyces siluer sound
To cheerefull songs can chaunge my cherelesse cryes.
Hence with the Nightingale will I take part,
That blessed byrd, that spends her time of sleepe
In songs and plaintiue pleas, the more taugment
The memory of hys misdeede, that bred her woe:
And you that feele no woe, | when as the sound
Of these my nightly cryes | ye heare apart,
Let breake your sounder sleepe | and pitie augment.
Perigot.
O Colin, Colin, the shepheards ioye,
How I admire ech turning of thy verse:
And Cuddie, fresh Cuddie, the liefest boye,
How dolefully his doole thou didst rehearse.
Cuddie.
Then blowe your pypes shepheards, til you be at home:
The night nigheth fast, yts time to be gone.
Perigot his Embleme.
Vincenti gloria victi.
Willyes Embleme.
Vinto non vitto.
Cuddies Embleme.
Felice chi puo.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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SOnnet XLVI
WHen my abodes prefixed time is spent,
My cruell fayre streight bids me wend my way:
but then fro[m] heauen most hideous stormes are sent
as willing me against her will to stay.
Whom then shall I or heauen or her obay,
the heauens know best what is the best for me:
but as she will, whose will my life doth sway,
my lower heauen, so it perforce must bee.
But ye high heuens, that all this sorowe see,
sith all your tempests cannot hold me backe:
aswage your stormes, or else both you and she,
will both together me too sorely wrack.
Enough it is for one man to sustaine,
the stormes, which she alone on me doth raine.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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On Six Cambridge Lasses Bathing Themselves
1 When bashfull daylight now was gone
2 And night, that hides a blush, came on.
3 Sixe Pretty Nymphes to wash away
4 The sweatinge of a Summers daye
5 In Chams fair streames did gently swim
6 And naked bathd each curious limbe.
7 O Who had this blist sight but seene
8 Would thinke they all had Cl{oe}lia=s beene.
9 A Scholer that a walke did take
10 Perchance for Meditation sake.
11 This blessed Obiect chan'cd to find
12 Straight all thinges else went out of mind
13 No Studye=s better in this life
14 For Practicke or Contemplatiue:
15 Who thought Poore soule these hee had seene,
16 Fair Dian and her Nymphes had beene.
17 And therefore thought in piteous feare
18 Act{ae}ons fortune was too neere.
19 Or that the Water=Nymphes they were
20 Together met to sport 'um there
21 And that to him such loue they bore
22 As to Iolas once before.
23 What could hee thinke but that his eye
24 Sixe Venusses at once did spie
25 Rise from the waues, or that perchaunce
26 Fresh=Water Syrens came to dance
27 Vpon our streames, with songes and lookes
28 To tempt Poore Scholers from their bookes.
29 Hee cannot thinke they Graces are
30 Vnlesse their number doubled were.
31 Nor can hee thinke they muses bee
32 Bicause alasse they wanted three.
33 I should haue rather guess'd that here
34 Another brood of Helens were
35 Begot by Ioue upon |y+e+| playnes
36 Watchd by some L{ae}da of the Swans.
37 The maydes betrayd were in a fright
38 And blush'd (but twas not seene ith night.)
39 At last all by |y+e+| banke did stand
40 And hee, good harte lent them his hand.
41 Where twas his blisse to feele all ore
42 Soft Paps, smooth thighes and somethinge more.
43 But Enuious Night masqued from his eyes
44 The place where loue and pleasure lyes.
45 Guesse Louers guesse, o you |y+t+| dare
46 What then might bee this Scholers praier
47 That hee were but a Cat to spye
48 Or had but now Tyberius eyes.
49 Yet since this hope was all in Vaine
50 Hee helpes 'um don there cloths agayne.
51 Makes Promise thye shall none bee shent
52 So with them to the Tauerne went.
53 Where how hee then might sport or play
54 Pardon mee Muse I must not say
55 Guesse you that haue a mind to knowe
56 Whither hee were a Foole of no.
poem by Thomas Randolph
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A Ballad of the Scottsysshe Kyne
Kynge Jamy, Jomy your joye is all go.
Ye summoned our kynge. Why dyde ye so?
To you no thyng it dyde accorde
To sommom our kynge your soverayne lorde.
A kynge a sommer it is wonder;
Knowe ye not salte and suger asonder?
In your somnynage ye were to malaperte,
and your harolde no thynge experte;
Ye thought ye dyde it full valyauntolye,
But not worth thre skyppes of a pye.
Syr squyer-galyarde ye were to swyfte;
Your wyll renne before your wytte.
To be so scornefull to your alye
Your conseyle was not worth a flye.
Before the Frensshe kynge, Danes and other
Ye ought to honour your lorde and brother.
Trowe ye, Syr James, his noble grace
For you and your Scottes wolde tourne his face?
Now ye proude Scottes of Gelawaye
For your kynge may synge welawaye.
Now must ye knowe our kynge for your regent,
Your soverayne lorde and presedent.
In hym is figured Melchisedeche,
And ye be desolate as Armeleche.
He is our noble champyon,
A kynge anoynted, an ye be non.
Thrugh your counseyle your fader was slayne;
Wherfore I fere ye wyll suffre payne.
And ye proude Scottes of Dunbar,
Parde ye be his homager
And suters to his paylyment.
Ye dyde not your dewty therin,
Wyerfore ye may it now repent.
Ye bere yourselfe somwhat to bolde,
Therfore ye have lost your copyholde.
Ye be bounde tenauntes to his estate;
Give up your game, ye playe chek mate;
For to the castell of Norham
I understonde to soone ye cam,
For a prysoner therenow ye be
Eyther to the devyll or the trinite.
Thanked be saynte Gorge, our ladyes knythe,
Your pryd is paste, adwe, good nycht,
Ye have determyned to make a fraye,
Our kynge than beynge out of the waye;
But by the power and myght of God
Ye were beten weth your owne rod.
By your wanton wyll, syr,at a worde,
Ye have loste spores, cote armure and sworde.
Ye had be better to have busked to Huntley Bankes,
Than in Englonde to playe ony suche prankes;
But ye had some wyld sede to sowe,
Therefore ye be layde now full lowe.
Your power coude no lenger attayne
Warre with our kynge to meyntayne.
Of the kynge of Naverne ye may take hede
How unfortunately he doth now spede;
In double walles now he dooth dreme.
That is a kynge without a realme.
At hym example ye wolde none take;
Experyence hath brought you in the same brake.
Of the out yles ye rough foted Scottes
We have well eased you of the bottes.
Ye rowe ranke Scottes and dronken Danes
Of our Englysshe bowes ye have fette your banes.
It is not syttynge in tour nor towne
A sumner to were a kynges crowne.
That noble erle, the Whyte Lyon,
Your pompe and pryde hath layde a downe.
His sone the lorde admyrall is full good,
His swerde hath bathed in the Scottes blode.
God save kynge Henry and his lordes all
And sende the Frensshe kynge suche another fall.
Amen, for saynt charyte and God save noble
Kynge Henry the viij.
poem by John Skelton
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On The Death Of Ladie Caesar
Though Death to good men be the greatest boone,
I dare not think this Lady dyde so soone.
She should have livde for others: Poor mens want
Should make her stande, though she herselfe should faynt.
What though her vertuous deeds did make her seeme
Of equall age with old Methusalem?
Shee should have livde the more, and ere she fell
Have stretcht her little Span unto an Ell.
May wee not thinke her in a sleep or sowne,
Or that shee only tries her bedde of grounde?
Besides the life of Fame, is shee all deade?
As deade as Vertue, which together fledde:
As dead as men without it: and as cold
As Charity, that long ago grewe old.
Those eyes of pearle are under marble sett,
And now the Grave is made the Cabinett.
Tenne or an hundred doe not loose by this,
But all mankinde doth an Example misse.
A little earth cast upp betweene her sight
And us eclypseth all the world with night.
What ere Disease, to flatter greedy Death,
Hath stopt the organ of such harmlesse breath,
May it bee knowne by a more hatefull name
Then now the Plague: and for to quell the same
May all Physitians have an honest will:
May Pothecaries learne the Doctors skill:
May wandring Mountebanks, and which is worse
May an old womans medicine have the force
To vanquish it, and make it often flie,
Till Destiny on's servant learne to die.
May death itselfe, and all its Armory
Bee overmatcht with one poore Recipe.
What need I curse it? for, ere Death will kill
Another such, so farre estrang'd from ill,
So fayre, so kinde, so wisely temperate,
Time will cutt off the very life of Fate.
To make a perfect Lady was espyde
No want in her of anything but Pride:
And as for wantonnesse, her modesty
Was still as coole as now her ashes bee.
Seldome hath any Daughter lesse than her
Favourde the stampe of Eve her grandmother.
Her soule was like her body; both so cleare
As that a brighter eye than mans must peere
To finde a Blott; nor can wee yet suspect
But only by her Death the least defect:
And were not that the wages due to Sinne
Wee might beleeve that spotlesse she had bin.
poem by William Strode
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Sonnet XXII
THis holy season fit to fast and pray,
Men to deuotion ought to be inclynd:
therefore, I lykewise on so holy day,
for my sweet Saynt some seruice fit will find.
Her temple fayre is built within my mind,
in which her glorious ymage placed is,
on which my thoughts doo day and night attend
lyke sacred priests that neuer thinke amisse.
There I to her as th'author of my blisse,
will builde an altar to appease her yre:
and on the same my hart will sacrifise,
burning in flames of pure and chast desyre:
The which vouchsafe O goddesse to accept,
amongst thy deerest relicks to be kept.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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