Man's Civil War
MY hovering thoughts would fly to heaven
And quiet nestle in the sky,
Fain would my ship in Virtue's shore
Without remove at anchor lie.
But mounting thoughts are haled down
With heavy poise of mortal load,
And blustring storms deny my ship
In Virtue's haven secure abode.
When inward eye to heavenly sights
Doth draw my longing heart's desire,
The world with jesses of delights
Would to her perch my thoughts retire,
Fon Fancy trains to Pleasure's lure,
Though Reason stiffly do repine;
Though Wisdom woo me to the saint,
Yet Sense would win me to the shrine.
Where Reason loathes, there Fancy loves,
And overrules the captive will;
Foes senses are to Virtue's lore,
They draw the wit their wish to fill.
Need craves consent of soul to sense,
Yet divers bents breed civil fray ;
Hard hap where halves must disagree,
Or truce halves the whole betray !
O cruel fight ! where fighting friend
With love doth kill a favoring foe,
Where peace with sense is war with God,
And self-delight the seed of woe !
Dame Pleasure's drugs are steeped in sin,
Their sugared taste doth breed annoy ;
O fickle sense ! beware her gin,
Sell not thy soul to brittle joy !
poem by Robert Southwell
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Sonnet XIV: Alas, Have I Not
Alas, have I not pain enough, my friend,
Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire,
Than did on him who first stole down the fire,
While Love on me doth all his quiver spend,
But with your rhubarb words you must contend,
To grieve me worse, in saying that desire
Doth plunge my well-form'd soul even in the mire
Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end?
If that be sin which doth the manners frame,
Well stayed with truth in word and faith of deed,
Ready of wit and fearing nought but shame:
If that be sin which in fix'd hearts doth breed
A loathing of all loose unchastity,
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Love
Foolish love is only folly;
Wanton love is too unholy;
Greedy love is covetous;
Idle love is frivolous;
But the gracious love is it
That doth prove the work of it.
Beauty but deceives the eye;
Flattery leads the ear awry;
Wealth doth but enchant the wit;
Want, the overthrow of it;
While in Wisdom's worthy grace,
Virtue sees the sweetest face.
There hath Love found out his life,
Peace without all thought of strife;
Kindness in Discretion's care;
Truth, that clearly doth declare
Faith doth in true fancy prove,
Lust the excrements of Love.
Then in faith may fancy see
How my love may constru'd be;
How it grows and what it seeks;
How it lives and what it likes;
So in highest grace regard it,
Or in lowest scorn discard it.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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Sonnet 52: A Strife Is Grown
A strife is grown between Virtue and Love,
While each pretends that Stella must be his:
Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love, do this
Since they do wear his badge, most firmly prove.
But Virtue thus that title doth disprove:
That Stella (oh dear name) that Stella is
That virtuous soul, sure heir of heav'nly bliss,
Not this fair outside, which our hearts doth move;
And therefore, though her beauty and her grace
Be Love's indeed, in Stella's self he may
By no pretense claim any manner place.
Well, Love, since this demur our suit will stay,
Let Virtue have that Stella's self; yet thus
That Virtue but that body grant to us.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet XII: That Learned Father
To the Soul
That learned Father, who so firmly proves
The Soul of man immortal and divine,
And doth the several offices define:
Anima - Gives her that name, as she the Body moves;
Amor - Then is she Love, embracing charity;
Animus - Moving a Will in us, it is the Mind
Mens - Retaining knowledge, still the same in kind;
Memoria - As intellectual, it is Memory;
Ratio - In judging, Reason only is her name;
Sensus - In speedy apprehension, it is Sense;
Conscientia - In right or wrong, they call her Conscience;
Spiritus - The Spirit, when it to Godward doth inflame.
These of the Soul the several functions be,
Which my Heart, lighten'd by thy love, doth see.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Elegy XIV: To Delia
What Scenes of Bliss my raptur'd Fancy fram'd,
In some lone Spot with Peace and thee retir'd,
Tho' Reason then my sanguine Fondness blam'd,
I still believ'd what flatt'ring Love inspir'd:
But now my Wrongs have taught my humbled Mind,
To dangerous Bliss no longer to pretend,
In Books, a calm but fixt Content to find,
Safe Joys, that on our selves alone depend:
With them the gentle Moments I beguile,
In learned Ease, and elegant Delight,
Compare the Beauties of each different Stile,
Each various Ray of Wit's diffusive Light:
Now mark the Strength of Milton's sacred Lines,
Sense rais'd by Genius, Fancy rul'd by Art,
Where all the Glory of the God-head shines,
And earliest Innocence inchants the Heart.
Now fir'd by Pope and Virtue leave the Age
In low Pursuit of self-undoing Wrong,
And trace the Author thro' his moral Page,
Whose blameless Life still answers to his Song.
If Time and Books my lingring Pain can heal,
And Reason fix it's Empire o'er my Heart,
My Patriot Breast a nobler Warmth shall feel,
And glow with Love where Weakness has no part.
Thy Heart, O Lyttleton, shall be my Guide,
It's Fire shall warm me, and it's Worth improve,
Thy Heart, above all Envy, and all Pride,
Firm as Man's Sense, and soft as Woman's Love.
And you, O West, with her your Partner dear,
Whom social Mirth and useful Sense commend,
With Learning's Feast my drooping Mind shall chear,
Glad to escape from Love to such a Friend.
But why, so long my weaker Heart deceive?
Ah still I love in Pride and Reason's Spite,
No Books, alas my painful Thoughts relieve,
And while I threat, this Elegy I write.
poem by James Hammond
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In The Ocean of Sense
In the Ocean of sense
thoughts flow in its depth
has no beginning no ending
something mind and brain hail
Tries with the ladder
travels far and far
runs like a horse here to there
When finds something of interests
returns to its dwelling abode
takes a chair with cheering face
If found nothing in the Ocean
returns being tired of haze
even in sleeping keeps open its race
Soul pours sense and sense sails thoughts
thought sails mind to be with that
all are with instinct thoughts need to ride
at last in the Ocean swims pride.
poem by Braja Lal Devnath
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Love's Servile Lot
LOVE, mistress is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they serve;
They reckon least how little Love
Their service doth deserve.
The will she robbeth from the wit,
The sense from reason's lore;
She is delightful in the rind,
Corrupted in the core.
She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil,
Pretending good in ill
She offereth joy, affordeth grief,
A kiss where she doth kill.
A honey-shower rains from her lips,
Sweet lights shine in her face;
She hath the blush of virgin mind,
The mind of viper's race.
She makes thee seek, yet fear to find
To find, but not enjoy:
In many frowns some gliding smiles
She yields to more annoy.
She woos thee to come near her fire,
Yet doth she draw it from thee;
Far off she makes thy heart to fry,
And yet to freeze within thee.
She letteth fall some luring baits
For fools to gather up;
Too sweet, too sour, to every taste
She tempereth her cup.
Soft souls she binds in tender twist,
Small flies in spinner's web;
She sets afloat some luring streams,
But makes them soon to ebb.
Her watery eyes have burning force;
Her floods and flames conspire:
Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are,
And sighs do blow her fire.
May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers;
But rather April, wet by kind,
For love is full of showers.
Like tyrant, cruel wounds she gives,
Like surgeon, salve she lends;
But salve and sore have equal force,
For death is both their ends.
With soothing words enthralled souls
She chains in servile bands;
Her eye in silence hath a speech
Which eye best understands.
Her little sweet hath many sours,
Short hap immortal harms;
Her loving looks are murd'ring darts,
Her song bewitching charms.
Like winter rose and summer ice,
Her joys are still untimely;
Before her Hope, behind Remorse:
Fair first, in fine unseemly.
Moods, passions, fancy's jealous fits
Attend upon her train:
She yieldeth rest without repose,
And heaven in hellish pain.
Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit,
And slippery Hope her stairs;
Unbashful Boldness bids her guests,
And every vice repairs.
Her diet is of such delights
As please till they be past;
But then the poison kills the heart
That did entice the taste.
Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath,
Remorse rings her awake;
Death calls her up, Shame drives her out,
Despairs her upshot make.
Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,
Leave off your idle pain;
Seek other mistress for your minds,
Love's service is in vain.
poem by Robert Southwell
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A Selfish Lover
My love doth not love but love it feels
Inside my heart which is deaf and mute.
I cannot love thee but my soul peals
The song of love into sweet fruit.
Love is the virtue, I selfishly hoard
A vice to entrap mine only good.
In the miser in me, my fruit I store
And eat for myself as love should.
But my heart doth not hear
And my heart doth not speak
The rich love my soul endear
Or the love thine heart seek?
For I do love one, but only me
If thou call that love or being miserly?
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Sonnet 47: Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other,
When that mine eye is famished for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part.
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself, away, art present still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Song
Who hath his fancy pleased
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On Nature's sweetest light;
A light which doth dissever
And yet unite the eyes,
A light which, dying never,
Is cause the looker dies.
She never dies, but lasteth
In life of lover's heart;
He ever dies that wasteth
In love his chiefest part:
Thus is her life still guarded
In never-dying faith;
Thus is his death rewarded,
Since she lives in his death.
Look then, and die! The pleasure
Doth answer well the pain:
Small loss of mortal treasure,
Who may immortal gain!
Immortal be her graces,
Immortal is her mind;
They, fit for heavenly places--
This, heaven in it doth bind.
But eyes these beauties see not,
Nor sense that grace descries;
Yet eyes deprived be not
From sight of her fair eyes--
Which, as of inward glory
They are the outward seal,
So may they live still sorry,
Which die not in that weal.
But who hath fancies pleased
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On Nature's sweetest light!
poem by Philip Sidney
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Love is The Fire
Love is the fire that burns me,
The smokes are thoughts confused,
Which dim my soul, my soul,
And hath my sense abused.
Though fire to ashes turn me,
Yet doth the smoke more grieve me,
That dims my mind,
Whose light should still relieve me.
poem by Thomas Bateson
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Because Is A Pause Between Thoughts
'Because' is not a reason to give,
To remain the same.
With nothing held in the brain changed.
Because is a pause between thoughts,
And searching for sense to make.
But having none to appreciate the activity.
Thoughts,
To convince a sense is there.
And excuses a reason to think is not rare.
Because attached to a nothingness,
Provides one a purpose...
Believed to validate an inactive mind.
And a thoughtless mind in times like these,
May offend those who believe they are considerate.
And if so...
Of what? Why? And how is that shown?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Content and Rich
I dwell in Grace's court,
Enriched with Virtue's rights;
Faith guides my wit, Love leads my will,
Hope all my mind delights.
In lowly vales I mount
To pleasure's highest pitch;
My silly shroud true honour brings;
My poor estate is rich.
My conscience is my crown,
Contented thoughts my rest;
My heart is happy in itself;
My bliss is in my breast.
Enough, I reckon wealth;
That mean, the surest lot,
That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.
My wishes are but few
All easy to fulfil;
I make the limits of my power
The bounds unto my will.
I fear no care for gold;
Well-doing is my wealth;
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.
I clip high-climbing thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride;
Their fall is worst that from the heigh
Of greatest honour slide.
Since sails of largest size
The storm doth soonest tear;
I bear so low and small a sail
As freeth me from fear.
I wrestle not with rage,
While fury's flame doth burn;
It is in vain to stop the stream
Until the tide doth turn.
But when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end,
I turn a late enraged foe
Into a quiet friend.
And, taught with often proof,
A temper'd calm I find
To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.
Spare diet is my fare,
My clothes more fit than fine;
I know I feed and clothe a foe,
That pamper'd would repine.
I envy not their hap
Whom favour doth advance;
I take no pleasure in their pain
That have less happy chance.
To rise by others' fall
I deem a losing gain;
All states with others' ruin built,
To ruin run amain.
No change of fortune's calm
Can cast my comforts down;
When fortune smiles, I smile to think
How quickly she will frown.
And when, in froward mood,
She prov'd an angry foe;
Small gain I found to let her come, -
Less loss to let her go.
poem by Robert Southwell
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This Will All Make Perfect Sense Someday (Live)
this will all make perfect sense someday
i'll be ok....
this will all maker perfect sense someday
theres got to be a reason for the rain
all my bills have all gotten paid
i shaked the bet, i broke the bet
this could have been a slow song
a laundry list of all the wrongs
but at the end of the day
this is my beautiful disaster piece Ive made
and it goes, and i quote, and i never would lie:
this will all make perfect sense someday
i'll be ok....
this will all maker perfect sense someday
theres got to be a reason for the rain
i don't understand the numbers
but my faith is in the math
and the odds are all that they believe
(inaudible)
and to all the hearts i've broken
and the ones that once broke mine
i've got suspicions all will be forgive in time
all you gotta do is call them up and say:
this will all make perfect sense someday
i'll be ok....
this will all maker perfect sense someday
theres got to be a reason for the rain
and if it ever gets bad, i mean really bad
i'll move to Nova Scotia and forget the life i had
be up at nine each morning down by the shore
collecting things that fell off boats in storms
look here, so i might never but its nice to know the options there
the options there...
this will all make perfect sense someday
i'll be ok....
this will all maker perfect sense someday
theres got to be a reason for the rain
a reason for the rain, a reason for the rain
the reason for the rain, for the rain
and is it a habit i keep biting my lip in the same place
song performed by by John Mayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Corinna
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear
As any challenged echo clear.
But when she doth of mourning speak,
Even with her sighs the strings do break.
And as her lute doth live or die;
Led by her passion, so must I.
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring;
But if she doth of sorrow speak,
Even from my heart the strings do break.
poem by Thomas Campion
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When to her Lute Corinna Sings
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear,
As any challenged echo clear;
But when she doth of mourning speak,
E'en with her sighs, the strings do break,
And as her lute doth live or die,
Led by her passion, so must I:
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring,
But if she doth of sorrow speak,
E'en from my heart the strings do break
poem by Thomas Campion
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Sonnet 10: Reason
Reason, in faith thou art well serv'd, that still
Wouldst brabbling be with sense and love in me:
I rather wish'd thee climb the Muses' hill,
Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree,
Or seek heav'n's course, or heav'n's inside to see:
Why shouldst thou toil our thorny soil to till?
Leave sense, and those which sense's objects be:
Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave love to will.
But thou wouldst needs fight both with love and sense,
With sword of wit, giving wounds of dispraise,
Till downright blows did foil thy cunning fence:
For soon as they strake thee with Stella's rays,
Reason thou kneel'dst, and offeredst straight to prove
By reason good, good reason her to love.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet X: Reason
Reason, in faith thou art well serv'd, that still
Wouldst brabbling be with sense and love in me:
I rather wish'd thee climb the Muses' hill,
Or reach the fruit of Nature's choicest tree,
Or seek heav'n's course, or heav'n's inside to see:
Why shouldst thou toil our thorny soil to till?
Leave sense, and those which sense's objects be:
Deal thou with powers of thoughts, leave love to will.
But thou wouldst needs fight both with love and sense,
With sword of wit, giving wounds of dispraise,
Till downright blows did foil thy cunning fence:
For soon as they strake thee with Stella's rays,
Reason thou kneel'dst, and offeredst straight to prove
By reason good, good reason her to love.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Certainly virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant when they are incensed, or crushed for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue.
quote by Francis Bacon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There will be and can be no rest till we admit, what cannot be denied, that there is in man a third faculty, which I call simply the faculty of apprehending the Infinite, not only in religion, but in all things; a power independent of sense and reason, a power in a certain sense contradicted by sense and reason; but yet, I suppose, a very real power, if we see how it has held its own from the beginning of the world — how neither sense nor reason has been able to overcome it, while it alone is able to overcome both reason and sense.
quote by Max Muller
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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