En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Eurymine's Song

Ye sacred Fyres, and powers aboue,
Forge of desires working loue,
Cast downe your eye, cast downe your eye
Vpon a Mayde in miserie.
My sacrifice is louers blood :
And from eyes salt teares a flood :
All which I spend, all which I spend
For thee Ascanio, my deare friend :
And though this houre I must feele
The bitter sower of pricking steele,
Yet ill or well, yet ill or well
To thee Ascanio still farewell

poem by John Lyly
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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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Green Sleeves

Alas my loue, ye do me wrong,
to cast me off discurteously:
And I haue loued you so long
Delighting in your companie.

Chorus:
Greensleeues was all my ioy,
Greensleeues was my delight:
Greensleeues was my heart of gold,
And who but Ladie Greensleeues.

I haue been readie at your hand,
to grant what euer you would craue.
I haue both waged life and land,
your loue and good will for to haue.

(Chorus)

I bought three kerchers to thy head,
that were wrought fine and gallantly:
I kept thee both boord and bed,
Which cost my purse wel fauouredly.

(Chorus)

I bought thee peticotes of the best,
the cloth so fine as might be:
I gaue thee iewels for thy chest,
and all this cost I spent on thee.

(Chorus)

Thy smock of silk, both faire and white,
with gold embrodered gorgeously:
Thy peticote of Sendall right:
and thus I bought thee gladly.

(Chorus)

Thy girdle of gold so red,
with pearles bedecked sumptuously:
The like no other lasses had,
and yet thou wouldst not loue me,

(Chorus)

Thy purse and eke thy gay guilt kniues,
thy pincase gallant to the eie:
No better wore the Burgesse wiues,
and yet thou wouldst not loue me.

(Chorus)

Thy crimson stockings all of silk,
with golde all wrought aboue the knee,
Thy pumps as white as was the milk,
and yet thou wouldst not loue me.

(Chorus)

Thy gown was of the grossie green,
thy sleeues of Satten hanging by:
Which made thee be our haruest Queen,
and yet thou wouldst not loue me.

(Chorus)

Thy garters fringed with the golde,
And siluer aglets hanging by,
Which made thee blithe for to beholde,
And yet thou wouldst not loue me.

(Chorus)

My gayest gelding I thee gaue,
To ride where euer liked thee,
No Ladie euer was so braue,
And yet thou wouldst not loue me.

(Chorus)

My men were clothed all in green,
And they did euer wait on thee:
Al this was gallant to be seen,
and yet thou wouldst not loue me.

(Chorus)

They set thee vp, they took thee downe,
they serued thee with humilitie,
Thy foote might not once touch the ground,
and yet thou wouldst not loue me.

(Chorus)

For euerie morning when thou rose,
I sent thee dainties orderly:
To cheare thy stomack from all woes,
and yet thou wouldst not loue me.

(Chorus)

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing.
But stil thou hadst it readily:
Thy musicke still to play and sing,
And yet thou wouldst not loue me.

(Chorus)

And who did pay for all this geare,
that thou didst spend when pleased thee?
Euen I that am reiected here,
and thou disdainst to loue me.

(Chorus)

Wel, I wil pray to God on hie,
that thou my constancie maist see:
And that yet once before I die,
thou wilt vouchsafe to loue me.

(Chorus)

Greensleeues now farewel adue,
God I pray to prosper thee:
For I am stil thy louer true,
come once againe and loue me.

Chorus:

Greensleeues was all my ioy,
Greensleeues was my delight:
Greensleeues was my heart of gold,
And who but Ladie Greensleeues.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Poem 16

AH when will this long vveary day haue end,
and lende me leaue to come vnto my loue?
Hovv slovvly do the houres theyr numbers spend?
How slowly does sad Time his feathers moue?
Hast thee O fayrest Planet to thy home
Within the Westerne some:
Thy tyred steedes long since haue need of rest.
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright euening star with golden creast
Appeare out of the East.
Fayre childe of beauty, glorious lampe of loue
That all the host of heauen in rankes doost lead,
And guydest louers through the nights dread,
How chearefully thou lookest from aboue,
And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light
As ioying in the sight
Of these glad many which for ioy doe sing,
That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.

poem by Edmund Spenser
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Hymn

Rise, O my soul! with thy desires to heaven,
And with divinest contemplation use
Thy time, when time's eternity is given,
And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse;
But down in darkness let them lie;
So live thy better, let thy worse thoughts die.

And thou, my soul, inspired with holy flame,
View and review with most regardful eye
That holy cross whence thy salvation came,
On which thy Saviour and thy sin did die!
For in the sacred object is much pleasure,
And in that Saviour is my life treasure.

To Thee, O Jesu! I direct mine eyes,
To Thee my hands, to Thee my humble knees;
To Thee my heart shall offer sacrifice;
To Thee my thoughts, who thoughts only see;
To Thee myself, myself and all I give;
To Thee I die, to Thee I only live.

poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
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Farewell The Bowl

Farewell to the cup, we have tarried too long,
Where the juice of the grape adds its witch'ry to song.
And the thoughts that flow'd freely are sombre and dull,
Our brains become heavy, farewell to the bowl,
Farewell, farewell, farewell, farewell to the bowl.

Oh, tarry no longer where joy flies away,
The heart and the soul lose their richest array,
Where eye mocketh eye, as unmeaning they roll,
The tongue whispers folly-farewell to the bowl.

Oh, think, if the maiden, who smiles in thine eyes,
Once saw thy proud mind in this shameful disguise;
Her heart would reject thee, how sadly her soul
Would pity and leave thee-oh, flee from the bowl.

Oh think, e'er the moment of thinking is past,
And chains of the mighty upon thee are cast!
Return-ere the iron shall enter thy soul,
And the dregs of thy life-a curse on the bowl.

poem by John Pierpont
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Greensleeves

A new Courtly Sonnet, of the Ladie Greensleeves.
Alas, my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously
And I have lov-ed you so long
Delighting in your companie

(Chorus)Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my Ladie Greensleeves

I have been ready at your hand
To grant whatever you would crave,
I have both waged life and land,
Your love and good-will for to have.

(Chorus)

I bought thee kerchers to thy head,
That were wrought fine and gallantly
I kept thee both boord and bed
Which cost my purse well favouredly

(Chorus)

I bought thee petticoats of the best,
The cloth so fine as might be;
I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee.

(Chorus)

Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,
With gold embroidered gargeously;
Thy petticoat of sendal right,
And these I bought thee gladly

(Chorus)

Thy girdle of gold so red,
With pearles bedecked sumptuously;
The like no other lasses had,
And yet thou wouldst not love me

(Chorus)

Thy purse and eke thy gay gilt knives,
Thy pincase gallant to the eye;
No better wore the Burgesse wives
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

Thy crimson stockings all of silk,
With golde all wrought above the knee,
Thy pumps as white as was the milk
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

Thy gown was of the grossie green,
Thy sleeves of satten hanging by,
Why made thee be our harvest Queen.
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

Thy garters fringed with the golde,
And silver aglets hanging by,
Which made thee blithe for to beholde
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

My gayest gelding I thee gave,
To ride where ever liked thee,
No Ladie ever was so brave
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

My men were clothed all in green,
And they did ever wait on thee;
All this was gallant to be seen
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

They set thee up, they took thee downe,
They served thee with humilitie,
Thy foote might not once touch the ground
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

For everie morning when thou rose,
I sent thee dainties orderly;
To cheare thy stomack from all woes
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
But still thou hadst it readily;
Thy musicke still to play and sing
And yet thou wouldst not love me.

(Chorus)

And who did pay for all this geare,
That thou didst spend when pleased thee,
Even I that am rejected here
And thou disdainst to love me.

(Chorus)

Well I will pray to God on high,
That thou my constancy mayst see,
And that yet once before I die
Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.

(Chorus)

Greensleeves, now farewell! adieu!
God I pray to prosper thee,
For I am still thy lover true,
Come once again and love me.

(Chorus)

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Rise, Oh My Soul, With Thy Desires To Heaven

1. Rise, oh my Soul, with thy desires to Heaven,
And with Divinest contemplation, use
Thy time, where times eternity is given,
And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse:
But down in darkness let them lie,
So live thy better, let thy worse thoughts die.

2. And thou, my Soul, inspir'd with holy flame,
View and review with most regardful eye,
That holy Cross whence thy salvation came,
On which thy Saviour, and thy sin did die:
For in that Sacred object is much pleasure,
And in that Saviour is my life, my treasure.

3. To thee (O Jesu) I direct my eye,
To thee my hands, to thee my humble knees,
To thee my heart shall offer sacrifice,
To thee my thoughts, who my thoughts only sees:
To thee my self, my self and all I give;
To thee I die, to thee I only live.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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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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A Watch Sent Home To Mrs. Eliz: King, Wrapt In Theis Verses

Goe and count her better houres;
They more happie are than ours.
The day that gives her any blisse
Make it as long againe as tis:
The houre shee smiles in lett it bee
By thy art increas'd to three:
But if shee frowne on thee or mee
Know night is made by her not thee:
Bee swift in such an houre, and soon
Make it night though it bee noone:
Obey her tymes, who is the free
Fayre sun that governes thee and mee

poem by William Strode
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Sonnet 149: Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not

Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,
When I against my self with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee when I forgot
Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon my self with present moan?
What merit do I in my self respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind:
Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.

poem by William Shakespeare
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Farewell To Frances

Farewell! if ne'er I see thee more,
Though distant calls my flight impel,
I shall not less thy grace adore,
So friend, forever fare thee well.

Farewell! forever, did I say?
What, never more thy face to see?
Then take the last fond look to-day,
And still to-morrow think of me.

Farewell! alas, the tragic sound
Has many a tender bosom torn;
While desolation spread around,
Deserted friendship left to mourn.

Farewell! awakes the sleeping tear,
The dormant rill from sorrow's eye,
Express'd from one by nature dear,
Whose bosom heaves the latent sigh.

Farewell! is but departure's tale,
When fond association ends,
And fate expands her lofty sail,
To show the distant flight of friends.

Alas! and if we sure must part,
Far separated long to dwell,
I leave thee with a broken heart,
So friend, forever, fare thee well.

I leave thee, but forget thee never,
Words cannot my feeling tell,
'Fare thee well, and if forever,
Still forever fare thee well.'

poem by George Moses Horton
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The Three Ravens

There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be.

The one of them said to his mate,
'Where shall we our breakefast take?'

'Downe in yonder greene field,
There lies a knight slain under his shield.

'His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
So well they can their master keepe.

'His haukes they flie so eagerly,
There's no fowle dare come him nie.'

Downe there comes a fallow doe,
As great with yong as she might goe.

She lift up his bloudy hed,
And kist his wounds that were so red.

She got him up upon her backe,
And carried him to earthen lake.

She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.

God send every gentleman,
Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.

poem by Anonymous
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The Three Ravens

There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be.
The one of them said to his mate,
'Where shall we our breakefast take?'
' Downe in yonder greene field,
There lies a knight slain under his shield.
'His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
So well they can their master keepe.
' His haukes they flie so eagerly,
There's no fowle dare come him nie.'

Downe there comes a fallow doe,
As great with yong as she might goe.

She lift up his bloudy hed,
And kist his wounds that were so red.

She got him up upon her backe,
And carried him to earthen lake.

She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herselfe ere even-song time.

God send every gentleman,
Such haukes, such hounds, and such a leman.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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I Will Not Let Thee Go

I will not let thee go.
Ends all our month-long love in this?
Can it be summed up so,
Quit in a single kiss?
I will not let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds,
As the soft south can blow
And toss the feathered seeds,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Had not the great sun seen, I might;
Or were he reckoned slow
To bring the false to light,
Then might I let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
The stars that crowd the summer skies
Have watched us so below
With all their million eyes,
I dare not let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
Have we chid the changeful moon,
Now rising late, and now
Because she set too soon,
And shall I let thee go?

I will not let thee go.
Have not the young flowers been content,
Plucked ere their buds could blow,
To seal our sacrament?
I cannot let thee go.

I will not let thee go.
I hold thee by too many bands:
Thou sayest farewell, and lo!
I have thee by the hands,
And will not let thee go.

poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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Sonnet XIX

THe merry Cuckow, messenger of Spring,
His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded:
that warnes al louers wayt vpon their king,
who now is comming forth with girland crouned.
With noyse whereof the quyre of Byrds resounded
their anthemes sweet devized of loues prayse,
that all the woods theyr ecchoes back rebounded,
as if they knew the meaning of their layes.
But mongst them all, which did Loues honor rayse
no word was heard of her that most it ought,
but she his precept proudly disobayes,
and doth his ydle message set at nought.
Therefore O loue, vnlesse she turne to thee
ere Cuckow end, let her a rebell be.

poem by Edmund Spenser
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I Bid Thee Farewell

I bid thee farewell my sweet love
All the staggering moments we both shared
All the joy we both brought to one another's heart
All the great things we did for one another

I bid thee farewell my sweet love
All the laughter we shared together
All the memories we created together
All the pleasures we did for one another

I bid thee farewell my sweet love
It was good while it lasted
O, I do miss it, all those moments
I am only left with memories, which I shall forever cherish

I bid thee farewell my sweet love
Now that it is all over, all I can do is bid thee farewell
As I must set you free, free to be happy
I bid thee farewell - My Sweet Love

poem by Gabriel Gauci Maistre
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Offsprings Of Adam And Satan - (SATAN)

Satan's Son

O issue of Adam! Believe me,
No doubt I'm thy true friend,
No more I will deceive thee,
Let's discuss where time we spend,
But, talk me not about before Adam to bend,

Thou have brain, apply thy mind,
Fire goes up and clay falls down,
To bow Adam was not the sense of behind,
My father showed the wise of his crown,
But, none could make him out, so he did drown.

Come! The ways of pleasure I show thee,
That is based on thy own desire,
And never goes back the source of glee,
Of thy character they all'll admire,
Fulfill thy desire untill thou wrapped in white attire.

I have might to run with thy blood,
And thy heart is abode of mine,
Where I bring lust, vulgars's flood,
That bestows thee power and make thee shine,
Kill a fly on Satan's name, the world will be thine.

You know well, those who much pray,
Always seen in miserable plight,
Fear to enjoy sin, they are astray,
And claim God sees even in dark night,
If God has all, why He deprives them of delight.

poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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The Curse of Kehama

I charm thy life,
From the weapons of strife,
From stone and from wood,
From fire and from flood,
From the serpent’s tooth,
And the beast of blood.
From sickness I charm thee,
And time shall not harm thee;
But earth, which is mine,
Its fruits shall deny thee;
And water shall hear me,
And know thee and flee thee:
And the winds shall not touch thee
When they pass by thee,
And the dews shall not wet thee
When they fall nigh thee.
And thou shalt seek death,
To release thee, in vain;
Thou shalt live in thy pain,
While Kehama shall reign,
With a fire in thy heart,
And a fire in thy brain.
And sleep shall obey me,
And visit thee never,
And the curse shall be on thee
Forever and ever.

poem by Robert Southey
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Rondel

Goodbye! the tears are in my eyes;
Farewell, farewell, my prettiest;
Farewell, of women born the best;
Good-bye! the saddest of good-byes.
Farewell! with many vows and sighs
My sad heart leaves you to your rest;
Farewell! the tears are in my eyes;
Farewell! from you my miseries
Are more than now may be confessed,
And most by thee have I been blessed,
Yea, and for thee have wasted sighs;
Goodbye! the last of my goodbyes.

poem by François Villon
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No Gospel like this Feast

No Gospel like this Feast
Spread for Thy Church by Thee;
Nor prophet nor evangelist
Preach the glad news so free.

All our Redemption cost,
All our Redemption won;
All it has won for us, the lost—
All it cost Thee, the Son;--

Thine was the bitter price,
Ours is the free gift given;
Thine was the Blood of Sacrifice,
Ours is the wine of Heaven!

For Thee, the burning thirst,
The shame, the mortal strife,
The broken heart, the side transpierced;
To us, the Bread of Life!

To Thee, our curse and doom
Wrapt round Thee with our sin;
The horror of that mid-day gloom,
The deeper night within.

To us, Thy home in light,
Thy “Come, ye blessed, come!”
Thy bridal raiment pure and white,
Thy Father’s welcome home.

Here we would rest midway,
As on a sacred height,
That darkest and that brightest Day
Meeting before our sight;

From that dark depth of woes
Thy love for us hath trod,
Up to the heights of blest repose
Thy love prepares with God:

Till, from self’s chains released,
One sight alone we see—
Still at the Cross, as at the Feast,
Behold Thee, only Thee!

poem by Elizabeth Rundle Charles (1863)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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