En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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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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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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L’Impur Et Fier Epoux

L'impur et fier époux que la chèvre désire
Baisse le front, se dresse et cherche le satyre.
Le satyre, averti de cette inimitié,
Affermit sur le sol la corne de son pié;
Et leurs obliques fronts, lancés tous deux ensemble,
Se choquent; l'air frémit, le bois s'agite et tremble.

poem by Andre Marie de Chenier
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A Watch-String

Tyme's picture here invites your eyes,
See with how running wheeles it flyes!

These strings can do what no man could--
The tyme they fast in prison hold.

poem by William Strode
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The Shepherd's Address To His Muse

Good Muse, rocke me aslepe
With some sweete harmony;
This wearie eye is not to kepe
Thy wary company.

Sweet Love, begon a while,
Thou seest my heaviness;
Beautie is borne but to beguyle
My harte of happines.

See how my little flocke,
That lovde to feede on highe,
Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke,
And in the valley dye.

The bushes and the trees,
That were so freshe and greene,
Doe all their deintie colors leese,
And not a leafe is seene.

The blacke birde and the thrushe,
That made the woodes to ringe,
With all the rest are now at hushe,
And not a note they singe.

Swete Philomele, the birde
That hath the heavenly throte,
Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde
Recordings of a note.

Th flowers have had a frost,
The herbs have loste their savoure,
And Phillida the faire hath lost
'For me her wonted' favour.

Thus all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That now to hope upon delights,
It is but meere deceite.

And therefore, my sweete Muse,
That knowest what helpe is best,
Doe nowe thy heavenlie conninge use
To sett my harte at rest;

And in a dreame bewraie
What fate shal be my frende;
Whether my life shall still decaye,
Or when my sorrowes ende.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Fancy

Hee that his mirth hath loste,
Whose comfort is dismaid,
Whose hope is vaine, whose faith is scorned,
Whose trust is all betraid,

If he have held them deare,
And cannot cease to moane,
Come, let him take his place by me;
He shall not rue alone.

But if the smalest sweete
Be mixt with all his sowre;
If in the day, the moneth, the yeare,
He finde one lightsome hower,

Then rest he by himself;
He is noe mate for me,
Whose hope is falen, whose succor voyde,
Whose hart his death must be.

Yet not the wishèd death,
That hathe noe plainte nor lacke,
Which, making free the better parte,
Is onely nature's sacke.

Oh me! that wer too well,
My death is of the minde,
Which alwayes yeeldès extreame paines,
Yet keepes the worst behind.

As one that lives in shewe
But inwardly doth die,
Whose knowledge is a bloody field
Wheare all hope slaine doth lie;

Whose harte the aulter is,
Whose spirit, the sacrifize
Unto the Powers whome to appease
Noe sorrowes can sufize.

Whose fancies are like thornes,
On which I goe by night,
Whose arguments are like a hoste,
That force hath put to flight.

Whose sense is passion's spye,
Whose thoughtes, like ruins old
Of Carthage, or the famous towne
That Sinon bought and sold.

Which still before my face,
My mortall foe doth lay,
Whome love and fortune once advanced
And nowe hath cast away.

O thoughtes! noe thoughtes but woundes,
Sometimes the seate of Joy
Sometimes the chaire of quiet rest
But nowe of all annoy.

I sowed the feild of peace,
My blisse was in the Springe;
And day by day I ate the fruit
That my Live's tree did bring.

To nettels nowe my corne,
My feild is turnd to flint,
Where sitting in the cipres shade,
I reade the hiacint.

The joy, the rest, the life
That I enioyed of yore
Came to my lot that by my losse,
My smarte might smarte the more.

Thus to unhappie men
The best frames to the worste;
O tyme, O places. O woordes, O lookes,
Deere then but nowe accurst!

In 'was' stood my delight,
In 'is' and 'shall' my woe;
My horrors fastned in the 'yea,'
My hope hangs in the 'noe.'

I looke for noe delight,
Releefe will come too late;
Too late I finde, I finde too well,
Too well stoode my Estate.

Behold, heere is the end,
And nothing heere is sure:
Ah nothinge ells but plaints and cares
Doth to the world enduer.

Forsaken first was I,
Then utterly foregotten;
And he that came not to my faith,
Lo! my reward hath gotten.

Nowe Love, where are thy lawes
That make thy torments sweete?
What is the cause that some through thee
Have thought their death but meet?

Thy stately chaste disdaine,
Thy secret thanckfulnes,
Thy grace reservd, thy common light
That shines in worthines.

O that it were not soe
Or that I could excuse!
O that the wrath of Jelousie
My judgement might abuse!

O fraile unconstant kind,
And safe in truste to noe man!
Noe woemen angells are, yet loe!
My mistris is a woman!

Yet hate I but the falte,
And not the faultie one;
Nor can I rid me of the bonds
Wherein I lie alone.

Alone I lie, whose like
By love was never yet;
Nor rich, nor poore, nor younge, nor old,
Nor fond, nor full of witt.

Hers still remaine must I,
By wronge, by death, by shame;
I cannot blot out of my minde
That love wrought in her name.

I cannot set at naught
That I have held soe deare,
I cannot make it seem so farre
That is indeede soe neare.

Nor that I meane, henceforth
This strange will to professe:
I never will betray such trust
And fall to ficklenesse.

Nor shall it ever faile
That my word bare in hand:
I gave my word, my worde gave me,
Both worde and gaift shall stand.

Syth then it must be thus
And this is all to ill,
I yeelde me captiue to my curse,
My harde fate to fulfill.

The solitarie woodes,
My Cittie shall become;
The darkest den shalbe my lodge
Whereto noe light shall come.

Of heban blacke my boorde;
The wormes my meate shalbe,
Wherewith my carcase shalbe fed
Till thes doe feede on me.

My wine, of Niobe,
My bed the cragie rocke,
My harmony, the serpent's hisse,
The shreikinge owle, my cocke.

Mine exercise naught ells
But raginge agonies;
My bookes, of spightfull fortune's foiles
And drerye tragedies.

My walkes the pathes of plaint,
My prospect into Hell,
With Sisiphus and all his pheres
In endles paines to dwell.

And though I seeme to use
The poet's fainèd stile,
To figure forth my wofull plight,
My fall and my exile.

Yet is my greeffe not faind,
Wherein I starve and pine,
Whoe feeleth most shall finde it least
Comparinge his with mine.

My songe,--if anie aske
Whose grievous case is such?
Dy er thou let'st his name be knowne,--
His follye showes too much.

But best, were thee to hide
And never come to light;
For in the worle can none but thee
These accents sound aright.

And soe a end: my tale is tould:
His life is but disdaind,
Whose sorrowes present paine him soe,
His pleasures are full faind.

Finis.

poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Sonnet XXX

MY loue is lyke to yse, and I to fyre;
how comes it then that this her cold so great
is not dissolu'd through my so hot desyre,
but harder growes the more I her intreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
is not delayd by her hart frosen cold:
but that I burne much more in boyling sweat,
and feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told
that fire which all things melts, should harden yse:
and yse which is congeald with sencelesse cold,
should kindle fyre by wonderfull deuyse.
Such is the powre of loue in gentle mind,
that it can alter all the course of kynd.

poem by Edmund Spenser
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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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Ye Caroette Knyghte

I have a horse - a ryghte good horse -
Ne doe Y envye those
Who scoure ye playne yn headye course
Tyll soddayne on theyre nose
They lyghte wyth unexpected force
Yt ys - a horse of clothes.

I have a saddel - "Say'st thou soe?
Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?"
I sayde not that - I answere "Noe" -
Yt lacketh such, I woote:
Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!
Parte of ye fleecye brute.

I have a bytte - a ryghte good bytte -
As shall bee seene yn tyme.
Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;
Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?
Yt ys - thys bytte of rhyme.

poem by Lewis Carroll from Phantasmagoria and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ye Carpette Knyghte

I have a horse - a ryghte good horse -
Ne doe Y envye those
Who scoure ye playne yn headye course
Tyll soddayne on theyre nose
They lyghte wyth unexpected force
Yt ys - a horse of clothes.

I have a saddel - "Say'st thou soe?
Wyth styrruppes, Knyghte, to boote?"
I sayde not that - I answere "Noe" -
Yt lacketh such, I woote:
Yt ys a mutton-saddel, loe!
Parte of ye fleecye brute.

I have a bytte - a ryghte good bytte -
As shall bee seene yn tyme.
Ye jawe of horse yt wyll not fytte;
Yts use ys more sublyme.
Fayre Syr, how deemest thou of yt?
Yt ys - thys bytte of rhyme.

poem by Lewis Carroll
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Senza Parole

Ho guardato dentro una bugia
e ho capito che una malattia
dalla quale non si pu guarire...mai!
e ho cercato di convincermi che tu non ce l'hai
Ho guardato dentro casa tua
e ho capito che era una follia
aver pensato che fossi soltanto...mia
e ho cercato di dimenticare
di non guardare
E ho guardato la televisione
e mi venuta come l'impressione
che mi stessero rubando il tempo e che tu..
che tu mi rubi l'amore
ma poi ho camminato tanto e fuori
c'era un gran rumore
che non ho pi pensato a tutte queste cose
e ho guardato dentro un'emozione
e ci ho visto dentro tanto amore
che ho capito perch non si comanda il cuore
e va bene cos...senza parole
senza parole!!!
e va bene cos...senza parole
e va bene cos...
Ma guardando la televisione
mi venuta come l'impressione
che mi stessero rubando il tempo
e che tu che tu mi rubi l'amore
ma poi ho camminato tanto e fuori
c'era un grande sole
che non ho pi pensato a tutte queste cose
e va bene cos...senza parole
e va bene cos...senza parole
e va bene cos...senza parole
e va bene cos...senza parole
senza parole
e va bene cos...senza parole
senza parole
senza parole

song performed by by Vasco Rossi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Quinti Catuli.

QUINTI CATULI.

Constiteram exorientem Auroram forte salutans,
Cum subito a laeva Roscius exoritur.
Pace mihi liceat, coelestes, dicere vestra.
Mortalis visu pulchrior esse deo.
Blanditur puero satyrus vultuque manuque;
Nolenti similis retrahit ora puer:
Quem non commoveat, quamvis de marmore? fundit
Pene preces satyrus, pene puer lachrymas.

ENGLISHED.

As once I bad good morning to the day,
O' th' sudden Roscius breaks in a bright ray:
Gods with your favour, I've presum'd to see
A mortal fairer then a deitie.
With looks and hands a satyre courts the boy,
Who draws back his unwilling cheek as coy.
Although of marble hewn, whom move not they?
The boy ev'n seems to weep, the satyre, pray.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Va Bene, Va Bene Cos

Cosa facciamo stiamo insieme stasera
di non andare via
non inventare adesso un'altra scusa
un'altra, un'altra bugia.
Cosa ne pensi di dimenticare
di lasciarci andare
ma dimmi la verit
forse stasera una sera
che ti sentivi sola
e sei venuta qua.
Non eri tu che dovevi partire
e non tornare pi
non eri tu che in fondo come salire
basta non guardar gi
Va bene, va bene, va bene
bugiarda quando ti conviene
versati pure da bere
sempre l dove sai tu...
Ti sei accorta che facciamo l'amore...s
ti sei accorta s
e non mi dire che non lo volevi
e che non lo sapevi che finiva cos...
Va bene, va bene, va bene
distratta quando ti conviene
diresti anche che mi vuoi bene
anche se non me ne vuoi pi...
Va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene cos
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene anche se non mi vuoi bene
va bene
telefonami.....telefonami!!!!
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene cos
va bene cos
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene anche se non mi vuoi bene
va bene
telefonami.....telefonami!!!!

song performed by by Vasco Rossi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Va Bene, Va Bene Cosi

Cosa facciamo stiamo insieme stasera
di non andare via
non inventare adesso un'altra scusa
un'altra, un'altra bugia.
Cosa ne pensi di dimenticare
di lasciarci andare
ma dimmi la verit
forse stasera una sera
che ti sentivi sola
e sei venuta qua.
Non eri tu che dovevi partire
e non tornare pi
non eri tu che in fondo come salire
basta non guardar gi
Va bene, va bene, va bene
bugiarda quando ti conviene
versati pure da bere
sempre l dove sai tu...
Ti sei accorta che facciamo l'amore...s
ti sei accorta s
e non mi dire che non lo volevi
e che non lo sapevi che finiva cos...
Va bene, va bene, va bene
distratta quando ti conviene
diresti anche che mi vuoi bene
anche se non me ne vuoi pi...
Va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene cos
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene anche se non mi vuoi bene
va bene
telefonami.....telefonami!!!!
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene cos
va bene cos
va bene, va bene, va bene, va bene
va bene anche se non mi vuoi bene
va bene
telefonami.....telefonami!!!!

song performed by by Vasco Rossi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Le Satyre Et La Flute

Toi, de Mopsus ami! Non loin de Bérécynthe,
Certain satyre, un jour, trouva la flûte sainte
Dont Hyagnis calmait ou rendait furieux
Le cortège énervé de la mère des dieux.
Il appelle aussitôt du Sangar au Méandre
Les nymphes de l'Asie, et leur dit de l'entendre;
Que tout l'art d'Hyagnis n'était que dans ce bui;
Qu'il a, grâce au destin, des doigts tout comme lui.
On s'assied. Le voilà qui se travaille et sue,
Souffle, agite ses doigts, tord sa lèvre touffue,
Enfle sa joue épaisse, et fait tant qu'à la fin
Le buis résonne et pousse un cri rauque et chagrin.
L'auditoire étonné se lève, non sans rire,
Les éloges railleurs fondent sur le satyre,
Qui pleure, et des chiens même, en fuyant vers le bois,
Évite comme il peut les dents et les abois.

poem by Andre Marie de Chenier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poem 10

TEll me ye merchants daughters did ye see
So fayre a creature in your towne before,
So sweet, so louely, and so mild as she,
Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store,
Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright,
Her forehead yuory white,
Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded,
Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte,
Her brest like to a bowle of creame vncrudded,
Her paps lyke lyllies budded,
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre,
And allher body like a pallace fayre,
Ascending vppe with many a stately stayre,
To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre.
Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze,
Vpon her so to gaze,
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,
To which the woods did answer and your eccho ring

poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Epitaph On Robert Canynge

THYS mornynge starre of Radcleves rysynge raie,
A true manne good of mynde and Canynge hyghte,
Benethe thys stone lies moltrynge ynto daie,
Untylle the darke tombe sheene an eterne lyghte.
Thyrde fromme hys loynes the present Canynge came;
Houton are wordes for to telle hys doe;
For aye shall lyve hys heaven-recorded name,
Ne shall yt dye whanne tyme shalle bee no moe;
Whanne Mychael's trumpe shall sounde to rise the solle,
He'll wynge to heavn wyth kynne, and happie bee hys dolle.

poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Poem 9

LOe where she comes along with portly pace,
Lyke Phoebe from her chamber of the East,
Arysing forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best.
So well it her beseemes that ye would weene
Some angell she had beene.
Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,
Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres a tweene,
Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre,
And being crowned with a girland greene,
Seeme lyke some mayden Queene,
Her modest eyes abashed to behold
So many gazers, as on her do stare,
Vpon the lowly ground affixed are.
Ne dare lift vp her countenance too bold,
But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,
So farre from being proud.
Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,
That all the woods may answer and your eccho ring.

poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As I Laye A-Dreamynge

After T. I.
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree,
And meseemed unto my syghte
Came rydynge many a knyghte
All cased in armoure bryghte
Cap-a-pie,
As I laye a-dreamynge, a goodlye companye!
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O sadlye mourned the dove, callynge long and callynge lowe,
And meseemed of alle that hoste
Notte a face but was the ghoste
Of a friend that I hadde loste
Long agoe.
As I laye a-dreamynge, oh, bysson teare to flowe!
As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
O sadlye sobbed the dove as she seemed to despayre,
And laste upon the tracke
Came one I hayled as 'Jacke!'
But he turned mee his backe
With a stare:
As I laye a-dreamynge, he lefte mee callynge there.
Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
And gentler sobbed the dove as it eased her of her payne,
And meseemed a voyce yt cry'd—
'They shall ryde, and they shall ryde
'Tyll the truce of tyme and tyde
Come agayne!
Alle for Eldorado, yette never maye attayne!'
Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge,
And scarcelye moaned the dove, as her agonye was spente:
'Shalle to-morrowe see them nygher
To a golden walle or spyre?
You have better in yr fyre,
Bee contente.'
As I laye a-dreamynge, it seem'd smalle punyshment.
But I laye a-wakynge, and loe! the dawne was breakynge
And rarely pyped a larke for the promyse of the daye:
'Uppe and sette yr lance in reste!
Uppe and followe on the queste!
Leave the issue to be guessed
At the endynge of the waye'—
As I laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say—
'Whatte and if it alle be feynynge?
There be better thynges than gaynynge,
Rycher pryzes than attaynynge.'—
And 'twas truthe she seemed to saye.
Whyles the dawne was breakynge, I rode upon my waye.

poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Newe Ballade Made Of Thomas Crumwel, Called Trolle On Away

Trolle on away, trolle on awaye,
Synge heave and howe rombelowe trolle on away.

Both man and chylde is glad to here tell
Of that false traytoure Thomas Crumwell,
Now that he is set to learn to spell.
Synge trolle on away.

When fortune lokyd the in thy face,
Thou haddyst fayre tyme, but thou lackydyst grace;
Thy cofers with golde thou fyllydst a pace.
Synge trolle on away.

Both plate and chalys came to thy fyst,
Thou lockydst them vp where no man wyst,
Tyll in the kynges treasoure suche thinges were myst.
Synge trolle on away.

Both crust and crumme came thorowe thy handes,
Thy marchaundyse sayled over the sandes,
Therfore nowe thou art layde fast in bandes.
Synge trolle on away.

Fyrste when Kynge Henry, God saue his Grace!
Perceyud myschefe kyndlyd in thy face,
Then it was tyme to purchase the a place.
Synge trolle on away.

Hys grace was euer of gentyll nature,
Mouyed with petye, and made the hys seruyture;
But thou, as a wretche, suche thinges dyd procure.
Synge trolle on away.

Thou dyd not remembre, false heretyke,
One God, one fayth, and one kynge catholyke,
For thou hast bene so long a scysmatyke.
Synge trolle on away.

Thou woldyst not learne to knowe these thre;
But euer was full of iniquite:
Wherfore all this lande hathe ben troubled with the.
Synge trolle on away.

All they, that were of the new trycke,
Agaynst the churche thou baddest them stycke;
Wherfore nowe thou hast touchyd the quycke.
Synge trolle on away.

Both sacramentes and sacrementalles
Thou woldyst not suffre within thy walles;
Nor let vs praye for all chrysten soules.
Synge trolle on away.

Of what generacyon thou were no tonge can tell,
Whyther of Chayme, or Syschemell,
Or else sent vs frome the deuyll of hell.
Synge trolle on away.

Thou woldest neuer to vertue applye,
But couetyd euer to clymme to hye,
And nowe haste thou trodden thy shoo awrye.
Synge trolle on away.

Who-so-euer dyd winne thou wolde not lose;
Wherfore all Englande doth hate the, as I suppose,
Bycause thou wast false to the redolent rose.
Synge trolle on away.

Thou myghtest have learned thy cloth to flocke
Upon thy gresy fullers stocke;
Wherfore lay downe thy heade vpon this blocke.
Synge trolle on away.

Yet saue that soule, that God hath bought,
And for thy carcas care thou nought,
Let it suffre payne, as it hath wrought.
Synge trolle on away.

God saue Kyng Henry with all his power,
And Prynce Edwarde, that goodly flower,
With al hys lordes of great honoure.
Synge trolle on away.
Hevye and how rombelowe trolle on awaye.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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