Sonnet 44: My Words, I Know Do Well
My words I know do well set forth my mind,
My mind bemoans his sense of inward smart;
Such smart may pity claim of any heart,
Her heart, sweet heart, is of no tiger's kind:
And yet she hears, yet I no pity find;
But more I cry, less grace she doth impart,
Alas, what cause is there so overthwart,
That nobleness itself makes thus unkind?
I much do guess, yet find no truth save this:
That when the breath of my complaints doth touch
Those dainty doors unto the court of bliss,
The heav'nly nature of that place is such,
That once come there, the sobs of mine annoys
Are metamorphos'd straight to tunes of joys.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet IX: Queen Virtue's Court
Queen Virtue's court, which some call Stella's face,
Prepar'd by Nature's choicest furniture,
Hath his front built of alabaster pure;
Gold in the covering of that stately place.
The door by which sometimes comes forth her Grace
Red porphir is, which lock of pearl makes sure,
Whose porches rich (which name of cheeks endure)
Marble mix'd red and white do interlace.
The windows now through which this heav'nly guest
Looks o'er the world, and can find nothing such,
Which dare claim from those lights the name of best,
Of touch they are that without touch doth touch,
Which Cupid's self from Beauty's mine did draw:
Of touch they are, and poor I am their straw.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Sonnet 9: Queen Virtue's Court
Queen Virtue's court, which some call Stella's face,
Prepar'd by Nature's choicest furniture,
Hath his front built of alabaster pure;
Gold in the covering of that stately place.
The door by which sometimes comes forth her Grace
Red porphir is, which lock of pearl makes sure,
Whose porches rich (which name of cheeks endure)
Marble mix'd red and white do interlace.
The windows now through which this heav'nly guest
Looks o'er the world, and can find nothing such,
Which dare claim from those lights the name of best,
Of touch they are that without touch doth touch,
Which Cupid's self from Beauty's mine did draw:
Of touch they are, and poor I am their straw.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Since Ye So Please
Since so ye please to hear me plain,
And that ye do rejoice my smart,
Me list no lenger to remain
To such as be so overthwart.
But cursed be that cruel heart
Which hath procur'd a careless mind
For me and mine unfeigned smart,
And forceth me such faults to find.
More than too much I am assured
Of thine intent, whereto to trust;
A speedless proof I have endured,
And now I leave it to them that lust.
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
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Since so Ye Please
Since so ye please to hear me plain,
And that ye do rejoice my smart,
Me list no lenger to remain
To such as be so overthwart.
But cursed be that cruel heart
Which hath procur'd a careless mind
For me and mine unfeigned smart,
And forceth me such faults to find.
More than too much I am assured
Of thine intent, whereto to trust;
A speedless proof I have endured,
And now I leave it to them that lust.
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
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Since So ye Please To Hear Me Plain
Since so ye please to hear me plain,
And that ye do rejoice my smart,
Me list no lenger to remain
To such as be so overthwart.
But cursed be that cruel heart
Which hath procur'd a careless mind
For me and mine unfeigned smart,
And forceth me such faults to find.
More than too much I am assured
Of thine intent, whereto to trust;
A speedless proof I have endured,
And now I leave it to them that lust.
poem by David McKee Wright
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Upon The Skilfull Player Of An Instrument
He that can play well on an instrument,
Will take the ear, and captivate the mind
With mirth or sadness; for that it is bent
Thereto, as music in it place doth find.
But if one hears that hath therein no skill,
(As often music lights of such a chance)
Of its brave notes they soon be weary will:
And there are some can neither sing nor dance.
Comparison.
Unto him that thus skilfully doth play,
God doth compare a gospel-minister,
That rightly preacheth, and doth godly pray,
Applying truly what doth thence infer.
This man, whether of wrath or grace he preach,
So skilfully doth handle every word;
And by his saying doth the heart so reach,
That it doth joy or sigh before the Lord.
But some there be, which, as the brute, doth lie
Under the Word, without the least advance
Godward; such do despise the ministry;
They weep not at it, neither to it dance.
poem by John Bunyan
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To my charmer...
I maybe ordinary but unlike my words,
my words aren't ordinary at all, you see.
My eyes are hazel shades of other worlds,
my eyes are attraction force, back to me.
I'm short but i'm smart, so smart,
my mind can be devilish, but not to you.
I won't begin to talk about my heart,
my heart's created for the love of you.
I may seem boring but i'm interesting,
my thoughts are amazing and my love within.
I may look poor but i'm actually investing,
my love, in your heart and i'm hoping to win.
And my hands are cold and yes, they're small,
to the touch of your hand, warm, they will become.
If my hands are small, my heart is not at all,
and to your love, i've loved my self and every one.
Tell me, how is she like? you're wife,
beautiful? loving? caring? smart? kind? ?
I'm all that, so, share my life,
believe me, i try but i can't leave you behind.
I think i'm under your spell,
i can't but to gaze upon your face.
I'm going straight to hell, but look at you,
and put your self in my place! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Psalm 103 part 2
v.8-18
L. M.
God's gentle chastisement; or, His tender mercy to his people.
The Lord, how wondrous are his ways!
How firm his truth! how large his grace!
He takes his mercy for his throne,
And thence he makes his glories known.
Not half so high his power hath spread
The starry heav'ns above our head,
As his rich love exceeds our praise,
Exceeds the highest hopes we raise.
Not half so far hath nature placed
The rising morning from the west,
As his forgiving grace removes
The daily guilt of those he loves.
How slowly doth his wrath arise!
On swifter wings salvation flies;
And if he lets his anger burn,
How soon his frowns to pity turn
Amidst his wrath compassion shines;
His strokes are lighter than our sins
And while his rod corrects his saints,
His ear indulges their complaints.
So fathers their young sons chastise
With gentle hand and melting eyes;
The children weep beneath the smart,
And move the pity of their heart.
PAUSE.
The mighty God, the wise and just,
Knows that our frame is feeble dust;
And will no heavy loads impose
Beyond the strength that he bestows.
He knows how soon our nature dies,
Blasted by every wind that flies;
Like grass we spring, and die as soon,
Or morning flowers that fade at noon.
But his eternal love is sure
To all the saints, and shall endure;
From age to age his truth shall reign,
Nor children's children hope in vain.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Licia Sonnets 37
I speak, fair Licia, what my torments be,
But then my speech too partial do I find;
For hardly words can with those thoughts agree,
Those thoughts that swarm in such a troubled mind.
Then do I vow my tongue shall never speak
Nor tell my grief that in my heart doth lie;
But cannon-like, I then surcharged do break,
And so my silence worse than speech I try.
Thus speech or none, they both do breed my care;
I live dismayed, and kill my heart with grief;
In all respects my case alike doth fare
To him that wants, and dare not ask relief.
Then you, fair Licia, sovereign of my heart,
Read to yourself my anguish and my smart.
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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To Cesario
CESARIO, thy Lyre's dulcet measure,
So sweetly, so tenderly flows;
That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,
Thy music would soften its woes.
But ah, gentle soother, where anguish
Takes root in the grief-stricken heart;
'Tis the triumph of sorrow to languish,
'Tis rapture to cherish the smart.
The mind where pale Mis'ry sits brooding,
Repels the soft touch of repose;
Shrinks back when blest Reason intruding,
The balm of mild comfort bestows.
There is luxury oft in declining,
What pity's kind motives impart;
And to bear hapless fate, unrepining,
Is the proudest delight of the heart.
Still, still shall thy Lyre's gentle measure,
In strains of pure melody flow;
While each heart beats with exquisite pleasure,
SAVE MINEthe doom'd VICTIM OF WOE.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Sonnet XI: In Truth, Oh Love
In truth, oh Love, with what a boyish kind
Thou doest proceed in thy most serious ways:
That when the heav'n to thee his best displays,
Yet of that best thou leav'st the best behind.
For like a child that some fair book doth find,
With gilded leaves or colored vellum plays,
Or at the most on some find picture stays,
But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind:
So when thou saw'st in Nature's cabinet
Stella, thou straight lookst babies in her eyes,
In her cheek's pit thou didst thy pitfall set:
And in her breast bopeep or couching lies,
Playing and shining in each outward part:
But, fool, seekst not to get into her heart.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Doctor B. Of Tears
Who would have thought, there could have bin
Such joy in tears, wept for our sin?
Mine eyes have seen, my heart hath prov'd
The most and best of earthly joyes:
The sweets of love, and being lov'd,
Masks, Feasts, and Playes, and such like toyes.
Yet, this one tear, which now doth fall,
In true delight exceeds them all.
2. Indeed, mine eyes at first let in
Those guests that did these woes begin,
Therefore mine eyes in tears, and grief,
Are justly drown'd: but, that those tears
Should comfort bring, is past belief:
Oh God! in this thy grace appears,
Thou that mak'st light from darkness spring,
Mak'st joyes to weep, and sorrows sing.
3. Oh where am I? what may I think?
Help, help, alas my heart doth sink;
Thus lost in seas of woe,
Thus laden with my sin,
Waves of despair dash in,
And threat my overthrow.
What heart opprest with such a weight
Can chuse but break, and perish quite?
4. Yet, as at Sea in storms, men use
The Ship to save, the goods to lose;
So, in this fearfull storm,
This danger to prevent,
Before all hope be spent,
I'le chuse the lesser harm:
My tears to seas will convert,
And drown my eyes to save my heart.
5. Oh God my God, what shall I give
To thee in thanks? I am and live
In thee, and thou didst safe preserve
My health, my fame, my goods, my rent,
Thou mak'st me eat while others sterve;
Such unto me thy Blessings are,
As if I were thy only care.
6. But, oh my God! thou art more kind,
When I look inward on my mind:
Thou fill'st my heart with humble joy,
With patience, meekness, fervant love,
(Which doth all other loves destroy)
With faith (which nothing can remove)
And hope assur'd of heavens bliss;
This is my state: thy grace is this.
poem by Henry Wotton
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Your Woman
Just tell me what you've got to say to me,
I've been waiting for so long to hear the truth,
It comes as no surprise at all you see,
So cut the crap and tell me that we're through.
Now I know your heart, I know your mind,
You don't even know you're being unkind,
So much for all your highbrow Marxist ways,
Just use me up and then you walk away,
Boy you can't play me that way.
Well I guess what you say is true,
I could never be the right kind of girl for you,
I could never be your woman.
When I saw my best friend yesterday,
She said she never liked you from the start,
Well me, I wish that I could claim the same,
But you always knew you held my heart.
And you're such a charming handsome man,
Now I think I finally understand,
Is it in your genes?, I don't know,
But I'll soon find out, that's for sure,
Why did you play me this way?.
Well I guess what you say is true,
I could never be the right kind of girl for you,
I could never be your woman.
Well I guess what they say is true,
I could never spend my life with a man like you,
I could never be your woman.
song performed by by White Town
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Saved From Grace
Save your self from grace
We must make haste
Its not what you think
Ugly is the sate of mind
Beauty being but in on the inside
With words that rhyme I try describe
What has already been inscribed
Save your self from grace
Your must have a taste
Sweet and sincere
Its unending my dear
But tells me nothing of who you really are
The skin only stretches so far
Save your self from grace
Remember this place
Hold it in your thoughts forever
For it will become the words another unwritten letter
Light as a feather
If only free the mind
Only in dark places shall we find
Save your self from grace
With a hope and a tear drop, I only hope the heart break can be erased
Let it be replaced
Begin a new
A magic formula is my glue
My hope and wish are meant for you
If only another day you get through
But you must save your self from grace
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Pariah
Pariah's pulsating in sweet reverie
Their love in mine heart voluptuary
No heart love or even accept me
Except my out casted heart in revelry
Doth I drink frothy sweet seas
Of liquors dreams and voracious sprees
Only to find my empty glass
And mine sobriety devoured and my life doth pass
Bent reflections hath showed me
Truth with no lie, nothing flowery
My life drunk in my heart outcast
No sober judgment judged drunkenness vast
Still pariahs pulsate in me
An outcast man no love to be
Only loved by pariahs in me
That reflect bent in mine heart of infamy
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Elegy X: The Dream
Image of her whom I love, more than she,
Whose fair impression in my faithful heart
Makes me her medal, and makes her love me,
As Kings do coins, to which their stamps impart
The value: go, and take my heart from hence,
Which now is grown too great and good for me:
Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense
Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see.
When you are gone, and Reason gone with you,
Then Fantasy is queen and soul, and all;
She can present joys meaner than you do;
Convenient, and more proportional.
So, if I dream I have you, I have you,
For, all our joys are but fantastical.
And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true;
And sleep which locks up sense, doth lock out all.
After a such fruition I shall wake,
And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;
And shall to love more thankful sonnets make
Than if more honour, tears, and pains were spent.
But dearest heart, and dearer image, stay;
Alas, true joys at best are dream enough;
Though you stay here you pass too fast away:
For even at first life's taper is a snuff.
Filied with her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.
poem by John Donne
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Unkind, O, stay thy flying!
Unkind, O, stay thy flying!
And if I needs must die, pity me dying.
But in thee, my heart is lying
And no death can assail me,
Alas! till life doth fail thee,
Oh therefore, if the fates bid thee be fleeting,
Stay for me, whose poor heart thou hast in keeping.
poem by John Wilbye
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Think It Over
Waking, he stared raptly at her face
On his lips, her smell, her taste
Black hair framing her perfect face
With her wonderful mind and her incredible grace
And so, he woke, he woke her with a start
To offer her his heart
For once and for all, forever to keep
And the words, that she first heard him speak
Were really very sweet
He was asking her to marry him, and to
Think it over
Baby, think it over
Think it over
Baby, why dont you think it over
She said, somewhere, theres a faraway place
Where all is ordered and all is grace
No one there is ever disgraced
And everyone there is wise and everyone has taste
And then she sighed, well la-dee-dah-dee-dah
You and I have come quite far
And we really must watch what we say
Because when you ask for someones heart
You must know that youre smart
Smart enough to care for it, so Im gonna
Think it over
Baby, think it over
Think it over
Baby, Im gonna think it over
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Licia Sonnets 46
If he be dead, in whom no heart remains,
Or lifeless be in whom no life is found;
If he do pine that never comfort gains,
And be distressed that hath his deadly wound;
Then must I die whose heart elsewhere is clad,
And lifeless pass the greedy worms to feed;
Then must I pine that never comfort had,
And be distressed whose wound with tears doth bleed.
Which if I do, why do I not wax cold?
Why rest I not like one that wants a heart?
Why move I still like him that life doth hold,
And sense enjoy both of my joy and smart?
Like Niobe queen which made a stone did weep,
Licia my heart dead and alive doth keep
poem by Giles Fletcher The Elder
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The Sun Hath Twice
The sun hath twice brought forth the tender green,
And clad the earth in lively lustiness;
Once have the winds the trees despoiled clean,
And now again begins their cruelness,
Since I have hid under my breast the harm
That never shall recover healthfulness.
The winter's hurt recovers with the warm;
The parched green restored is with shade;
What warmth, alas, may serve for to disarm
The frozen heart that mine in flame hath made?
What cold again is able to restore
My fresh green years that wither thus and fade?
Alas, I see nothing to hurt so sore
But time sometime reduceth a return;
Yet time my harm increaseth more and more,
And seem to have my cure always in scorn.
Strange kind of death in life that I do try,
At hand to melt, far off in flame to burn;
And like as time list to my cure apply,
So doth each place my comfort clean refuse.
Each thing alive, that sees the heaven with eye,
With cloak of night may cover and excuse
Himself from travail of the day's unrest,
Save I, alas, against all others use,
That then stir up the torment of my breast
To curse each star as causer of my fate.
And when the sun hath eke the dark repressed
And brought the day, it doth nothing abate
The travail of my endless smart and pain.
For then, as one that hath the light in hate,
I wish for night, more covertly to plain
And me withdraw from every haunted place,
Lest in my cheer my chance should 'pear too plain;
And with my mind I measure, pace by pace,
To seek that place where I myself had lost,
That day that I was tangled in that lace,
In seeming slack that knitteth ever most;
But never yet the travail of my thought
Of better state could catch a cause to boast.
For if I find that sometime that I have sought
Those stars by whom I trusted of the port,
My sails do fall, and I advance right naught,
As anchored fast; my sprites do all resort
To stand atgaas*, and sink in more and more [gazing]
The deadly harm which she doth take in sport.
Lo, if I seek, how I do find my sore.
And if I fly, I carry with me still
The venomed shaft which doth his force restore
By haste of flight. And I may plain my fill
Unto myself, unless this careful song
Print in your heart some parcel of my will.
For I, alas, in silence all too long
Of mine old hurt yet feel the wound but green.
Rue on my life, or else your cruel wrong
Shall well appear, and by my death be seen.
poem by Henry Howard
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