Oh, Fortune!
Oh, Fortune! how thy restlesse wavering state
Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt!
Witnes this present prisonn, whither fate
Could beare me, and the joys I quitt.
Thou causedest the guiltie to be losed
From bandes, wherein are innocents inclosed:
Causing the guiltles to be straite reserved,
And freeing those that death had well deserved.
But by her envie can be nothing wroughte,
So God send to my foes all they have thoughte.
signed - A. D. MDLV.
Elizabethe, Prisonner.
poem by Queen Elizabeth I
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Written on a Wall at Woodstock
Oh Fortune, thy wresting wavering state
Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit,
Whose witness this present prison late
Could bear, where once was joy's loan quit.
Thou causedst the guilty to be loosed
From bands where innocents were inclosed,
And caused the guiltless to be reserved,
And freed those that death had well deserved.
But all herein can be nothing wrought,
So God send to my foes all they have thought.
poem by Queen Elizabeth I
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The Forsaken Lover Describeth And Forsaketh Love
O LOATHSOME place ! where I
Have seen, and heard my dear ;
When in my heart her eye
Hath made her thought appear,
By glimpsing with such grace,—
As fortune it ne would
That lasten any space,
Between us longer should.
As fortune did advance
To further my desire ;
Even so hath fortune's chance
Thrown all amidst the mire.
And that I have deserved,
With true and faithful heart,
Is to his hands reserved,
That never felt a smart.
But happy is that man
That scaped hath the grief,
That love well teach him can,
By wanting his relief.
A scourge to quiet minds
It is, who taketh heed ;
A common plage that binds ;
A travail without meed.
This gift it hath also :
Whoso enjoys it most,
A thousand troubles grow,
To vex his wearied ghost.
And last it may not long ;
The truest thing of all :
And sure the greatest wrong,
That is within this thrall.
But since thou, desert place,
Canst give me no account
Of my desired grace,
That I to have was wont ;
Farewell ! thou hast me taught,
To think me not the first
That love hath set aloft,
And casten in the dust.
poem by Henry Howard
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Sonnet LX: Lo, Here the Impost
Lo, here the impost of a faith unfeigning
That love hath paid, and her disdain extorted,
Behold the message of my just complaining
That shows the world how much my grief imported.
These tributary plaints fraught with desire,
I send those eyes the cabinets of love;
The Paradise whereto my hopes aspire
From out this hell, which mine afflictions prove.
Wherein I thus do live cast down from mirth,
Pensive alone, none but despair about me;
My joys abortive, perish'd at their birth,
My cares long liv'd and will not die without me.
This is my state, and Delia's heart is such;
I say no more; I fear I said too much.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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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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From the Hymn of Empedocles
IS it so small a thing
To have enjoy'd the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;
That we must feign a bliss
Of doubtful future date,
And while we dream on this
Lose all our present state,
And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?
Not much, I know, you prize
What pleasures may be had,
Who look on life with eyes
Estranged, like mine, and sad:
And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;
Who 's loth to leave this life
Which to him little yields:
His hard-task'd sunburnt wife,
His often-labour'd fields;
The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.
But thou, because thou hear'st
Men scoff at Heaven and Fate;
Because the gods thou fear'st
Fail to make blest thy state,
Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.
I say, Fear not! life still
Leaves human effort scope.
But, since life teems with ill,
Nurse no extravagant hope.
Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.
poem by Matthew Arnold
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State Of The Nation
You can walk, or you can run
You dont have to be someone
I went on a summer cruise
Upon an ocean born to lose
My brother said that he was dead
I saw his face and shook my head
Can you see where we cant be
Were losing our blood in the sea
cause its the state of the nation
Thats holding our salvation
Yes, its the state of the nation
Thats holding our salvation
Oh, the state of the nation
Is causing deprivation
Oh, the state of the nation
Is causing deprivation
From my home I traveled far
I drove in my stolen car
When it broke down, I kissed the ground
cause I dont kiss when youre around
I dont find that I have been
The portrait of an only son
If thats the case, then who could tell
Where my story had begun?
Cause its the state of the nation
Thats holding our salvation
Yes, its the state of the nation
Thats holding our salvation
Yes, the state of the nation
Thats causing deprivation
Oh, the state of the nation
Thats causing deprivation
Even now, Im all alone
Behind a wall thats made of stone
I think about where we have been
And all the sights that could be seen
I know it all could be worthwhile
If only I could force a smile
Now we turn our backs to the sea
The shame of a nation well never be
Cause its the state of the nation
Thats holding our salvation
Yes, its the state of the nation
Thats holding our salvation
Oh, the state of the nation
Is causing deprivation
Yes, the state of the nation
Is causing deprivation
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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(V – 1988) Fighting Fate
Oh, things out of control we call real fate
For factors far unknown too decide our state!
But things there are we must not see as mere fate;
Such things if controlled can oh, alter our state!
No thunder or tyrant is ever such fate
If faced with courage and soon held to checkmate!
Oh, thou art the architect of thy own fate!
So fight well with will and thus safeguard thy state!
At times we may fall to some strange, cruel fate;
By them should never our will still abate!
With arrows of resolve and faith, fight thy fate!
Oh, give no space ever to stand or to wait!
So bow not or falter before any fate;
Oh, fear and despair will thy fate aggravate!
Grim panic and anguish will strengthen our fate;
They make us, oh, lick a time unduly late!
So well in advance to, oh, face any fate
Thou equip thyself and thus secure thy state!
Challenges of life are challenges of fate –
So meeting them well, oh, means living life great!
To Fortune
Whilst I in prison or in court look down,
Nor beg thy favour nor deserve thy frown,
In vain malicious Fortune hast thou tried
By taking from my state to quell my pride:
Insulting girl, thy present rage abate,
And wouldst thou have my humbled, make me great.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Hate and Death
Thou shalt not hate,
For Hate is Death,
And Death is a horrid thing.
So Hate and Death are partners-
In an ugly vicouse ring.
They dance and snarl,
And knash their teeth,
And wave their snake-like tongues,
To tease and hurt and bite you,
And such air from your lungs.
They giggle and spit,
And jump and skip,
'Cause they are nasty brothers;
Death causing hate-
Hate causing death
They must love one another.
poem by Katherine Tylor McCall
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Verses Wrote on Her Death-Bed at Bath, to Her Husband in London
Thou, who dost all my worldly thoughts employ,
Thou pleasing source of all my earthly joy:
Thou tend'rest husband, and thou best of friends,
To thee this first, this last adieu I send.
At length the conqu'ror death asserts his right,
And will for ever veil me from thy sight.
He wooes me to him with a chearful grace;
And not one terror clouds his meagre face.
He promises a lasting rest from pain;
And shews that all life's fleeting joys are vain.
Th' eternal scenes of heav'n he sets in view,
And tells me that no other joys are true.
But love, fond love, would yet resist his pow'r;
Would fain awhile defer the parting hour:
He brings thy mourning image to my eyes,
And would obstruct my journey to the skies.
But say, thou dearest, thou unwearied friend;
Say, should'st thou grieve to see my sorrows end?
Thou know'st a painful pilgrimage I've past ;
And should'st thou grieve that rest is come at last?
Rather rejoice to see me shake off life,
And die as I have liv'd, thy faithful wife.
poem by Mary Monck
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Perhaps
'He who knows What life and death is, is above all law.'
Chapman.
He who knows what life and death is
Walks superior to fate.
Every word that Fortune saith is
Just accordant to his state.
Unto him indifferent breath is
Nature's bitter use and wont.
He who knows what life and death is!—
Ah, perhaps you do, I don't.
poem by Gamaliel Bradford
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On Shakespear
What needs my Shakespear for his honour'd Bones,
The labour of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witnes of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a live-long Monument.
For whilst toth' shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took
Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;
And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.
poem by John Milton
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Just A Little Christmas Present
JUST A LITTLE CHRISTMAS PRESENT
I'm asking, God, a special blessing
That I'll call down from above,
Just a little Christmas present
That's filled, to brimming, with God's Love.
Just a special Christmas present,
That is sent from Me to You.
May God bless you with your 'Greatest Need'
And in that way, He'll have blessed me, too.
' Love you all. God Bless You'
Author: Carolyn Ford Witt
-Ms Caroline-
12-15-05
poem by Carolyn Ford Witt
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He that hath no ill fortune is troubled with good.
Death Right
You signed in blood…
The blood of the Devil
You signed your Death Right
Your Death Right to Hell.
I signed my Death Right,
Years ago.
In my own Blood, that the Devil
Gave to me at 24.
The Death Right can’t be burned,
Fore it is immune.
The Death Right can’t be cursed,
Fore it is already been done.
The Death Right can’t be torn.
Fore it is immortal.
Our Death Rights are forever
Even if you die.
poem by Jade DragonHeart
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Ah, Silly Pug, Wert Thou So Sore Afraid
Ah, silly Pug, wert thou so sore afraid?
Mourn not, my Wat, nor be thou so dismayed.
It passeth fickle Fortune’s power and skill
To force my heart to think thee any ill.
No Fortune base, thou sayest, shall alter thee?
And may so blind a witch so conquer me?
No, no, my Pug, though Fortune were not blind,
Assure thyself she could not rule my mind.
Fortune, I know, sometimes doth conquer kings,
And rules and reigns on earth and earthly things,
But never think Fortune can bear the sway
If virtue watch, and will her not obey.
Ne chose I thee by fickle Fortune’s rede,
Ne she shall force me alter with such speed
But if to try this mistress’ jest with thee.
Pull up thy heart, suppress thy brackish tears,
Torment thee not, but put away thy fears.
Dead to all joys and living unto woe,
Slain quite by her that ne’er gave wise men blow,
Revive again and live without all dread,
The less afraid, the better thou shalt speed.
poem by Queen Elizabeth I
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A state of depression
Speak out my dear
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Speak out my dear
I stand here waiting for thy confession
Depression is not a sign of weakness
Neither an indication of madness
I stand here not to judge you
Simply to take heed to what is true
Depression is not a crime
It only calls for love through time
Depression is a silent voice
Rooted deep inside to stop a crying noise
Speak out my dear
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Speak out my dear
I stand here waiting for thy confession
What have you lost along the way?
Retrace your steps, I say
Who have you lost?
Take heart, everything in life must rust
What is it you want?
Grant me a permit in your hunt
But first of all let me be blunt
Condemn yourself not for your mistakes
That is what it takes for you to be awake
Life is meant to be messy and greasy
The road is not meant to be easy
Speak out my dear
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Speak out my dear
I stand here as a friend
My compassionate heart is yours to lend
Merely to give you inspiration
And redeem you of your depression
Thus, speak out my dear!
Why hath thou in a state of depression?
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
www.sylviachidi.com
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Stanzas To Augusta (II.)
I.
Though the day of my destiny's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee.
II.
Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,
Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean.
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,
It is that they bear me from thee.
III.
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd
To pain - it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemn;
They may torture, but shall not subdue me
'Tis of thee that I think - not of them.
IV.
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake;
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.
V.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one;
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,
I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.
VI.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd
Thus much I at least may recall
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Songs From “Prince Lucifer” II - Mother-Song
WHITE little hands!
Pink little feet!
Dimpled all over,
Sweet, sweet, sweet!
What dost thou wail for?
The unknown? the unseen?
The ills that are coming,
The joys that have been?
Cling to me closer,
Closer and closer,
Till the pain that is purer
Hath banish’d the grosser.
Drain, drain at the stream, love,
Thy hunger is freeing,
That was born in a dream, love,
Along with thy being!
Little fingers that feel
For their home on my breast,
Little lips that appeal
For their nurture, their rest!
Why, why dost thou weep, dear?
Nay, stifle thy cries,
Till the dew of thy sleep, dear,
Lies soft on thine eyes.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Sonnet XXXIV: The Star of My Mishap
The star of my mishap impos'd this paining,
To spend the April of my years in wailing
That never found my fortune but in waning,
With still fresh cares my present woes assailing.
Yet her I blame not, though she might have blest me,
But my desire's wings, so high aspiring,
Now melted with the sun that hath possess'd me,
Down do I fall from off my high desiring,
And in my fall do cry for speedy speedy.
No pitying eye looks back upon my mourning,
No help I find when now most favor need I;
Th'ocean of my tears must drown me burning.
And this my death shall christen her anew,
And give the cruel Fair her title do.
poem by Samuel Daniel
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