The man of Woe
The mann whose thoughtes agaynste him do conspyre,
One whom Mishapp her storye dothe depaynt,
The mann of woe, the matter of desier,
Free of the dead, that lives in endles plaint,
His spirit am I, whiche in this deserte lye,
To rue his case, whose cause I cannot flye.
Despayre my name, whoe never findes releife,
Frended of none, but to my selfe a foe;
An idle care, mayntaynde by firme beleife
That prayse of faythe shall throughe my torments growe,
And counte those hopes, that others hartes do ease,
Butt base conceites the common sense to please.
For sure I am I never shall attayne
The happy good from whence my joys aryse;
Nor haue I powre my sorrows to refrayne
But wayle the wante, when noughte ellse maye suffyse;
Whereby my lyfe the shape of deathe muste beare,
That deathe which feeles the worst that lyfe doth feare.
But what auayles withe tragicall complaynte,
Not hopinge healpe, the Furyes to awake?
Or why shoulde I the happy mynds aquaynte
With doleful tunnes, theire settled peace to shake?
All ye that here behoulde Infortune's feare,
May judge noe woe may withe my gref compare.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Related quotes
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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The Faire Amarillis
Amarillis was full fayre:
The goodlyest mayde was she
From the east unto the west
That heaven's eye could se.
To Diana at her birthe
Her parents did her geve,
All untouchte a mayden's lyfe
Durynge her dayes to lyue:
Whose beheste she constant kepte
And whollye was enclynde
To be free to get great prayse
And win eche worthye mynde.
As there was good cause enoughe
So was she honored most.
They that had her seene abroade
At home would make their boaste.
Twoe ther were that her behelde
Who woulde have done so ever,
Happye theye (ye happye thryse)
If they had done so never
Coridon and Caramell:
Who longe with deere accorde
Ledd their lyues, and neyther wisht
Of other to be lorde:
Good and sure their freendshipp was
Tyll Amarillis fyne
Had the powre, perhapps the will
The bande for to untwyne:
All the goods that eche possest
Of bodye, goodes, or mynde
Were employde to other's use
As eche by profe did fynde:
They had no cause to enuye ought
The auncyent worlde's prayse
Of Damo and of Pytheas
And others in those dayes:
But the boye, that blynded god
In great despights complaynde:
That one earthe alone they were
That his darte quyte disdaynde:
Whereupon his strongest bowe
And sharpest arrowes hente
And in Amarillis eyes
He lyghtely pighte his tente:
Where he lay, to watche both tyme
And place for his avayll:
For the wightes that wiste not yet
What foe should them assayll:
One of his two shafts was dipte
In bitter sauce as gaulle,
The other in a pleasant wyne
And poyson myxte withall
As the smacke of dyuers sauce,
So dyuerslye they wroughte:
By despayre the one to deathe
By vague hope the other broughte.
With the first was Coridon
Throughe piercèd to the herte;
Caramell wh' in his brest
Felte of the other's smarte.
Butt with gould both headed were
And both wth lyke desyre,
Faygne they would wth'in therre brest
Hyde cloase their kyndled fyre:
But wthout it must appeere
That burnte so hot wthin:
Harde it is the flame to hyde
That it no issue win.
And in tyme strange lookes began
That spronge of Jelosye;
Full of care, eche laye in wayghte
For his felowe to descrye:
In the end all freendly lookes
Betweene these freendes decayde;
Bothe were bente to please theselues
Theire freende's case nothynge wayde.
Amarillis' love was soughte
With all they could deuyse,
Yea wth all the power of man
And prayer to the skyes:
All she sawe, and herde theire moane
As Aspis dothe the charme;
By and by she bayed them both
As guyltye of theyre harme.
Now to the one she would give eare
Now put the other of,
Allurynge him by courteseye,
And tauntynge him by scoff.
But that trust by tryalls paste
Made them theire doome suspende;
And indeed she usèd there
Where passione did offend.
He had neede of store of tyme
That would his pen prepare,
To sett forth theire agonyes
Theire dredd hope and feare.
Butt in vayne they spente theire tyme,
Theire labor all was lost:
She was farthest from theire need
Where they foreweenèd most.
Coridon waxte pall and leane
His younger heares torned hore;
Feates of armes, the horse and hauke
He left and used no more.
He had founde that Amarill
Soughte glorye more than love;
That she forcèd not his harmes
Her bewtye's power to prove.
Yet he could not leave to love
Butt yeeldynge to despayre,
Rente his hearte, his corpes fell downe
His goaste fledd to the ayre:
Caramell, thoughte women kynde,
Was apte to change and bowe;
And beleeued, to please him selfe
What fancye did allowe.
Butt beleefe ne makes the cause
Nor weauynge, workes the webb;
In the tyde his trauayll came
He tornèd in the ebb:
Att the last his vayne hope, him
No longer coulde sustayne;
In his longynge he consumde,
Lyfe coulde not him attayne.
Amaryllis herde of this
And pyttye moude wth all,
Muche to rue so harde a happ
One such faythe should befall.
To Diana strayghte she hyghes
Whome wayted one she founde,
With a trayne of all the dames
Whose chaste names Fame did sounde:
Unto her in humble wyse
She sayde she came to sue
For that these to lyuyng thynges
Myghte be transformde a newe;
In her armes the goddess mylde
Her darlynge softe did strayne:
What is that that thou (qth she)
Of me mayste not obtayne?
There withall Sr Caramel
A yellow flowre became:
Sweete of sente and muche esteemde
And Harte's ease caulde by name.
Amarillis pluckte the flowre
And ware it in her heade:
Sometymes she layde it in her lapp,
Sometymes upone her bedd.
Caramell, O happye flowre!
O most unhappy man!
In thy lyfe thou hadst thy deathe,
In thy deathe thy lyfe began.
Coridon turnde to an owlle
Fledd to the wildernes:
Never flockes, butt leades his lyfe
In solytarynes:
Nor his eyes can yet behould
The deare lyghte of the sun:
Butt aloofe he stealles his flyghte
And in the darke dothe run.
Amaryllis to the woode
Att sometyme will repayre,
And delyghte to here the laye
And tune of his despayre.
Well I wot what here is ment
And thoughe a talle yt seeme,
Shadowes haue their substance bye
And so of this, esteeme.
Ye that chaunce this for to heer
And do not prayse their speede
Give them thankes, for you by them
Are warnde to take heede.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Sonnet XXV
HOw long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,
And know no end of her owne mysery:
but wast and weare away in termes vnsure,
twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully.
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
and shew the last ensample of your pride:
then to torment me thus with cruelty,
to proue your powre, which I too wel haue tride.
But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide,
a close intent at last to shew me grace:
then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
as meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace.
And wish that more and greater they might be,
that greater meede at last may turne to mee.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet LIX
THrise happie she, that is so well assured
Vnto her selfe and setled so in hart:
that nether will for better be allured,
ne feard with worse to any chaunce to start,
But like a steddy ship doth strongly part
the raging waues and keepes her course aright:
ne ought for tempest doth from it depart,
ne ought for fayrer weathers false delight.
Such selfe assurance need not feare the spight,
of grudging foes, ne fauour seek of friends:
but in the stay of her owne stedfast might,
nether to one her selfe nor other bends.
Most happy she that most assured doth rest,
but he most happy who such one loues best.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Love-Despondency
Devyde my tymes and rate my wretched howres
From days to months, fro months to many yeers,
And than compare my sweetest to my sowres then
And see wich more in equall vewe appeares;
And judge that from my dayes and yeers of care
I have but howrs of comforte to compare.
Just and not muche it were, in thes extreams
To have a touche and torment of ye thought:
For any myghte that any ryght esteems
To yealde so small delyght so deerly bought;
But he that lyues unto his owne despyghte
Is not to fynde his fortune by his ryghte.
The lyfe that styll runs forth his weary wayes
With sowre to sawce the dayntyes of delyght,
And care to choak the pleasures of his dayes
And not regarde the many wronges to quyte;
No blame to houlde such ircksome tymes in hate,
As but to lose prolongs a wretched state.
And still I loathe eve to behoulde the lyghte
That shynes wthout all pleasure to myne eyes
Wth greedy wishe I wayte for wearye nyghte
Yet neither this I fynde that maye suffyse:
Not that I hould the daye for more delyghte
But that alyke I loathe both daye and nyghte.
The daye I se yeelds but increase of cares,
The nyght that should by nature serve for reste,
Agaynst his kynde denyes suche ease to spare
As pytty woulde afforde the soule opprest:
And broken sleeps oft tymes presents in syght
A dreaminge wishe beguylde with false delyghte.
This sleepe, or else what so for sweet appeers,
Is unto me but pleasures in despyghte.
The flower of age, the name of younger yeeres,
Do but usurpe the tytle of delyghte.
But careful thoughts, and Sorrowe sundry ways
Consumes my youthe before my agèd dayes.
The touch, the stynge, the torments of desyre,
To stryue beyond the compase of restraynte,
Kepte from the reache whereto it would aspyre
Geues cause (God knowes) too iust, to my coplainte:
Besydes the wronge wch worketh my distress
My meaninge is, with sylence to suppress.
Oft wth myselfe I enter in deuyse
To reconsylle these wearye thoughtes to peace;
I treate for truce, I flatter and entyce
My wranglynge wytts to work for theyr release;
But all in vayne I seek the means to fynde
That myght appease the discorde of my mynde.
For when I force a faynèd mirth to showe
And would forgett and so beguyll my greefe;
I cannot rydd my selfe of sorrowe so,
Althoughe I feed upon a false beleefe:
For inward touche of discontented mynde
Retournes my cares by course unto theyr kynde.
Wean'd from my will, and thus by tryall taughte
Howe farr to hould all fortune in regarde;
Though here I boaste of knowledge deerely boughte
Yet thys poore gayne I reape for my rewarde;
I knowe hereby to harde and prepare
A ready mynde for all assaults of care.
Whereto as one eve from the cradle borne
And not to look for better to ensue,
I yeald my selfe and wish these tymes outworne
That but remayne my torments to renewe:
And leaue to those these dayes of my despyghte
Whose better hap may lyue to more delyghte.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Geoff Chaucer reads Tom Eliot
A clerke there was, one Tomas Elyot hight;
‘Stearns’ wasse hys middel name; I think him so;
His gowne a cutte severe, sterne, clericale.
Hie werkéd in a banke; but lyked it not;
Preferring farre to be a publysshere.
Hie telleth of another clerke hys love
(thow sadnesse more thanne love, methinks it were..)
J. Alfred Prufrock wasse thys clerkés name;
Hie lyved in melancholie fasshyion,
Of chepesyde inns and wasteland wyndowes fogged;
Hie wasse so timide and soe fulle of feare,
Hie lyved a narrowe lyfe of caushyonne,
Hie knewe no joye, methinks; hym thoghte hymselfe
But born to serve some lorde in defferrense..
This Elyot’s tale wasse shorte; I hoped itte so;
Methogte hysse lyfe but wasted wayle and woe.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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The Shepherd's Conceit of Prometheus
Prometheus when firste frome heaven hye
He broughte downe fyre, 'ere then on earthe not seene,
Fond of Delight, a Satyre standing bye
Gaue it a kyss, as it lyke Sweete had bene.
Feelinge forthewithe the other's burninge powre,
Wood withe the smarte, with shoutes and shreakinge shrill,
He soughte his ease in river, feilde and bowre,
But for the tyme his griefe wente with him still.
So seelye I, with that unwonted syghte
In humane shape, an angell from above,
Feedinge mine eyes, th'impressione there did lyghte,
That since I reste and runn as pleaseth Love.
The difference is, the Satyre's lypps, my harte,--
He for a tyme, I evermore,--have smarte.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Sonnet LXV
THe doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre loue, is vaine
That fondly feare to loose your liberty,
when loosing one, two liberties ye gayne,
and make him bond that bondage earst dyd fly.
Sweet be the bands, the which true loue doth tye,
without constraynt or dread of any ill:
the gentle birde feeles no captiuity
within her cage, but singes and feeds her fill.
There pride dare not approch, nor discord spill
the league twixt them, that loyal loue hath bound:
but simple truth and mutuall good will,
seekes with sweet peace to salue each others wou[n]d
There fayth doth fearlesse dwell in brasen towre,
and spotlesse pleasure builds her sacred bowre.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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To My Worthy Friend Mr. Peter Lilly: On That Excellent Pict
See! what a clouded majesty, and eyes
Whose glory through their mist doth brighter rise!
See! what an humble bravery doth shine,
And griefe triumphant breaking through each line,
How it commands the face! so sweet a scorne
Never did HAPPY MISERY adorne!
So sacred a contempt, that others show
To this, (oth' height of all the wheele) below,
That mightiest monarchs by this shaded booke
May coppy out their proudest, richest looke.
Whilst the true eaglet this quick luster spies,
And by his SUN'S enlightens his owne eyes;
He cures his cares, his burthen feeles, then streight
Joyes that so lightly he can beare such weight;
Whilst either eithers passion doth borrow,
And both doe grieve the same victorious sorrow.
These, my best LILLY, with so bold a spirit
And soft a grace, as if thou didst inherit
For that time all their greatnesse, and didst draw
With those brave eyes your royal sitters saw.
Not as of old, when a rough hand did speake
A strong aspect, and a faire face, a weake;
When only a black beard cried villaine, and
By hieroglyphicks we could understand;
When chrystall typified in a white spot,
And the bright ruby was but one red blot;
Thou dost the things Orientally the same
Not only paintst its colour, but its flame:
Thou sorrow canst designe without a teare,
And with the man his very hope or feare;
So that th' amazed world shall henceforth finde
None but my LILLY ever drew a MINDE.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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To My Worthy Friend Mr. Peter Lilly: On That Excellent Picture Of His Majesty And The Duke Of York, Drawne By Him At Hampton- Court
See! what a clouded majesty, and eyes
Whose glory through their mist doth brighter rise!
See! what an humble bravery doth shine,
And griefe triumphant breaking through each line,
How it commands the face! so sweet a scorne
Never did HAPPY MISERY adorne!
So sacred a contempt, that others show
To this, (oth' height of all the wheele) below,
That mightiest monarchs by this shaded booke
May coppy out their proudest, richest looke.
Whilst the true eaglet this quick luster spies,
And by his SUN'S enlightens his owne eyes;
He cures his cares, his burthen feeles, then streight
Joyes that so lightly he can beare such weight;
Whilst either eithers passion doth borrow,
And both doe grieve the same victorious sorrow.
These, my best LILLY, with so bold a spirit
And soft a grace, as if thou didst inherit
For that time all their greatnesse, and didst draw
With those brave eyes your royal sitters saw.
Not as of old, when a rough hand did speake
A strong aspect, and a faire face, a weake;
When only a black beard cried villaine, and
By hieroglyphicks we could understand;
When chrystall typified in a white spot,
And the bright ruby was but one red blot;
Thou dost the things Orientally the same
Not only paintst its colour, but its flame:
Thou sorrow canst designe without a teare,
And with the man his very hope or feare;
So that th' amazed world shall henceforth finde
None but my LILLY ever drew a MINDE.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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Mann Toh Mann Hai
Mann to mann hai
Ek sawachand panchi
Kaun use kisi bandhan
me bandh paya hai.
Lakh talo me rah kar bhi
uuse kon bandi bana paya hai.
Dekho to uuadan uski
Chand lamho mei
Vo to kitne brahmand
Bhraman kar aaya hai.
Mann to mann hai
Ek sawachand panchi
Kaun use kisi bandhan
me bandh paya hai.
Tan ko to bandh liya
kadiyo se.
Kabhi diwaroo mein
Kabhi dooriyo mein
Mann ke aashwo ki
Doowd kaun, kaha,
rok paya hai
Mann to mann hai
Ek sawachand panchi
Kaun use kisi bandhan
me bandh paya hai.
mann doodaye
mann hasaye
mann roolaye
mann ki mahima
kya kabhi kooie jaan paya hai.
Mann to mann hai
Ek sawachand panchi
Kaun use kisi bandhan
me bandh paya hai
mann chanchal hai,
jharno sa
baadlo mein chamakti bijjliyo sa.
mann paavan hai
pooja mein chadhe puspo sa.
mann pischash hai
khoon mooh lage narbhakshi sa.
par phir,
Mann to mann hai,
Ek sawachand panchi
Kaun use kisi bandhan
me bandh paya hai
Dekho to uuadan uski
Chand lamho mei
Vo to kitne brahmand
Bhraman kar aaya hai.
poem by Anjali Kakati
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Cumnor Hall
The dews of summer nighte did falle,
The moone (sweete regente of the skye)
Silver'd the walles of Cumnor Halle,
And manye an oake that grewe therebye.
Nowe noughte was hearde beneath the skies,
(The soundes of busye lyfe were stille,)
Save an unhappie ladie's sighes,
That issued from that lonelye pile.
"Leicester," shee cried, "is thys thy love
That thou so oft has sworne to mee
To leave mee in thys lonelye grove,
Immurr'd in shameful privitie?
"No more thou com'st with lover's speede,
Thy once-beloved bryde to see;
But bee shee alive, or bee shee deade,
I feare (sterne earle's) the same to thee.
"Not so the usage I receiv'd,
When happye in my father's halle;
No faithlesse husbande then me griev'd,
No chilling feares did mee appall.
"I rose up with the chearful morne,
No lark more blith, no flow'r more gaye;
And, like the birde that hauntes the thorne,
So merrylie sung the live-long daye.
"If that my beautye is but smalle,
Among court ladies all despis'd;
Why didst thou rend it from that halle,
Where (scorneful earle) it well was priz'de?
"And when you first to mee made suite,
How fayre I was you oft would saye!
And, proude of conquest--pluck'd the fruite,
Then lefte the blossom to decaye.
"Yes, nowe neglected and despis'd,
The rose is pale--the lilly's deade--
But hee that once their charmes so priz'd,
Is sure the cause those charms are fledde.
"For knowe, when sick'ning griefe doth preye
And tender love's repay'd with scorne,
The sweetest beautye will decaye--
What flow'ret can endure the storme?
"At court I'm tolde is beauty's throne,
Where everye lady's passing rare;
That eastern flow'rs, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not soe fayre.
"Then, earle, why didst thou leave the bedds
Where roses and where lillys vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken--when those gaudes are bye?
"'Mong rural beauties I was one,
Among the fields wild flow'rs are faire;
Some countrye swayne might mee have won,
And thoughte my beautie passing rare.
"But, Leicester, (or I much am wronge)
Or tis not beautye lures thy vowes;
Rather ambition's gilded crowne
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
"Then, Leicester, why, again I pleade,
(The injur'd surelye may repyne,)
Why didst thou wed a countrye mayde,
When some fayre princesse might be thyne?
"Why didst thou praise my humble charmes,
And, oh! then leave them to decaye?
Why didst thou win me to thy armes,
Then leave me to mourne the live-long daye?
"The village maidens of the plaine
Salute me lowly as they goe;
Envious they marke my silken trayne,
Nor thinke a countesse can have woe.
"The simple nymphs! they little knowe,
How farre more happy's their estate--
To smile for joye--than sigh for woe--
To be contente--than to be greate.
"Howe farre lesse bleste am I than them?
Dailye to pyne and waste with care!
Like the poore plante, that from its stem
Divided--feeles the chilling ayre.
"Nor (cruel earl!) can I enjoye
The humble charmes of solitude;
Your minions proude my peace destroye,
By sullen frownes or pratings rude.
"Laste nyghte, as sad I chanc'd to straye,
The village deathe-bell smote my eare;
They wink'd asyde, and seem'd to saye,
Countesse, prepare--thy end is neare.
"And nowe, while happye peasantes sleepe,
Here I set lonelye and forlorne;
No one to soothe mee as I weepe,
Save phylomel on yonder thorne.
My spirits flag--my hopes decaye--
Still that dreade deathe-bell smites my eare;
And many a boding seems to saye,
Countess, prepare--thy end is neare."
Thus sore and sad that ladie griev'd,
In Cumnor Halle so lone and dreare;
And manye a heartefelte sighe shee heav'd
And let falle manye a bitter teare.
And ere the dawne of daye appear'd,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and dreare,
Full manye a piercing screame was hearde,
And manye a crye of mortal feare.
The death-belle thrice was hearde to ring,
An aërial voyce was hearde to call,
And thrice the raven flapp'd its wyng
Arounde the tow'rs of Cumnor Hall.
The mastiffe howl'd at village doore,
The oaks were shatter'd on the greene;
Woe was the houre--for never more
That haplesse countesse e'er was seene.
And in that manor now no more
Is chearful feaste and sprightly balle;
For ever since that drearye houre
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maides, with fearful glance,
Avoid the antient mossgrowne walle;
Nor ever leade the merrye dance,
Among the groves of Cumnor Halle.
Full manye a travellor oft hath sigh'd,
And pensive wepte the countess' falle,
As wand'ring onwards they've espied
The haunted tow'rs of Cumnor Halle.
poem by William Mickle
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Sonnet LXVI
TO all those happy blessings which ye haue,
with plenteous hand by heauen vpon you thrown:
this one disparagement they to you gaue,
that ye your loue lent to so meane a one.
Yee whose high worths surpassing paragon,
could not on earth haue found one fit for mate,
ne but in heauen matchable to none,
why did ye stoup vnto so lowly state.
But ye thereby much greater glory gate,
then had ye sorted with a princes pere:
for now your light doth more it selfe dilate,
and in my darknesse greater doth appeare.
Yet since your light hath once enlumind me,
with my reflex yours shall encreased be.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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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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Amyntor From Beyond The Sea To Alexis. A Dialogue
Amyntor.
Alexis! ah Alexis! can it be,
Though so much wet and drie
Doth drowne our eye,
Thou keep'st thy winged voice from me?
Alexis.
Amyntor, a profounder sea, I feare,
Hath swallow'd me, where now
My armes do row,
I floate i'th' ocean of a teare.
Lucasta weepes, lest I look back and tread
Your Watry land againe.
Amyn. I'd through the raine;
Such showrs are quickly over-spread.
Conceive how joy, after this short divorce,
Will circle her with beames,
When, like your streames,
You shall rowle back with kinder force,
And call the helping winds to vent your thought.
Alex. Amyntor! Chloris! where
Or in what sphere
Say, may that glorious fair be sought?
Amyn. She's now the center of these armes e're blest,
Whence may she never move,
Till Time and Love
Haste to their everlasting rest.
Alex. Ah subtile swaine! doth not my flame rise high
As yours, and burne as hot?
Am not I shot
With the selfe same artillery?
And can I breath without her air?--Amyn.
Why, then,
From thy tempestuous earth,
Where blood and dearth
Raigne 'stead of kings, agen
Wafte thy selfe over, and lest storms from far
Arise, bring in our sight
The seas delight,
Lucasta, that bright northerne star.
Alex. But as we cut the rugged deepe, I feare
The green god stops his fell
Chariot of shell,
And smooths the maine to ravish her.
Amyn. Oh no, the prince of waters' fires are done;
He as his empire's old,
And rivers, cold;
His queen now runs abed to th' sun;
But all his treasure he shall ope' that day:
Tritons shall sound: his fleete
In silver meete,
And to her their rich offrings pay.
Alex. We flye, Amyntor, not amaz'd how sent
By water, earth, or aire:
Or if with her
By fire: ev'n there
I move in mine owne element.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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Butt Town
The cops are well-groomed, with
Muscled physiques in butt town
Their tan uniforms are tailored in chic
In butt town
Any young black male who walks down the street
Is gonna get stopped by a car full of meat
But the girl with the hair
Flies by in her underwear-
Shes done nothing so far to deserve that car
When you live in butt town
You gotta get down
But in butt town Im learnin
In butt town Im earnin
In butt town Im turnin
Into my worst nightmare
Im tellin you, its a motley crew in butt town
Monday youre new, and friday youre through
In butt town
The producer is wily, and owns what he sells
The talent is eager to go straight to hell
Th tits are amazing, and everyones gazing
At some body part-
Thats the nature of art in butt town
All over butt town dreams have a show down
All over butt town values are thrown down
But in butt town Im learnin
In butt town Im earnin
In butt town Im turnin
Into my worst nightmare
In butt town baby
Im gonna be a star
Im gonna shake my butt far
Now here we go
Im gonna shake my butt
Shake my butt shake my butt
In butt town
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet L
LOng languishing in double malady,
of my harts wound and of my bodies greife:
there came to me a leach that would apply
fit medicines for my bodies best reliefe.
Vayne man (quod I) that hast but little priefe:
in deep discouery of the mynds disease,
is not the hart of all the body chiefe?
and rules the members as it selfe doth please.
Then with some cordialls seeke first to appease,
the inward languour of my wounded hart,
and then my body shall haue shortly ease:
but such sweet cordialls passe Physitions art.
Then my lyfes Leach doe you your skill reueale,
and with one salue both hart and body heale.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Happy Anniversary Sunny
So often I think of all
Things we did together
That made our lives bright
And gave us joys together
For life goes on and on
And for all it bring
Sorrows and joys both
Knitted tightly in a ring
In this ring that is
Known as life my dear
Where we all really need
Lots of love and care
And today I'm very happy
And thinking about you
For 365 days have passed
Since I married you.
Happy Anniversary Sunny
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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Holy Sonnet XIX: Oh, to Vex Me
Oh, to vex me, contraryes meet in one:
Inconstancy unnaturally hath begott
A constant habit; that when I would not
I change in vowes, and in devotione.
As humorous is my contritione
As my prophane Love, and as soone forgott:
As ridlingly distemper'd, cold and hott,
As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none.
I durst not view heaven yesterday; and to day
In prayers, and flattering speaches I court God:
To morrow I quake with true feare of his rod.
So my devout fitts come and go away
Like a fantistique Ague: save that here
Those are my best dayes, when I shake with feare.
poem by John Donne
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