A Strange Gentlewoman Passing By His Window
As I out of a casement sent
Mine eyes as wand'ring as my thought,
Upon no certayne object bent,
But only what occasion brought,
A sight surpriz'd my hart at last,
Nor knewe I well what made it burne;
Amazement held me then so fast
I had no leasure to discerne.
Sure 'twas a Mortall, but her name,
Or happy parentage or place,
Or (that which did mee most inflame)
I cannot tell her very Face:
No; 'twere prophane to think I could,
And I should pitch my thoughts too lowe
If ever sett my love I should
On that which Art or Words can shewe.
Was ever man so vext before,
Or ever love so blind as this,
Which vows and wishes to implore,
And yet not knows for what to wish?
Thus children spend theyr wayward cryes,
Not knowing why they doe complayne;
Thus sicke men long for remedyes,
Not knowing what would ease theyr payne.
Some god call backe againe that sight;
Ile suffer double payne to boote,
For griefe and anger in mee fight
So strongly at no marke to shoote!
Not only meanes to winne her grace,
But meanes to seeke are barr'd from mee;
Despayre enforc't by such a case
Is not a sinne but miserie.
Pygmalion hold thine Image fast,
'Tis something to enjoy Love so:
Narcissus thou a shaddowe hast,
At least thereby to cheate thy woe;
But I no likenesse can inferre
My pyning fancy to supply;
Nothing to love instead of her
For feare of some idolatry.
poem by William Strode
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Sonnet LXXXIII
MY hungry eyes, through greedy couetize,
Still to behold the obiect of theyr payne:
with no contentment can themselues suffize,
but hauing pine, and hauing not complayne
For lacking it, they cannot lyfe sustayne,
and seeing it, they gaze on it the more:
in theyr amazement lyke Marcissus vayne
whose eyes him staru'd: so plenty makes me pore.
Yet are myne eyes so filled with the store
of that fayre sight, that nothing else they brooke:
but loath the things which they did like before,
and can no more endure on them to looke.
All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me,
and all theyr shewes but shadowes sauing she.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet XLVII
TRust not the treason of those smyling lookes,
vntill ye haue theyr guylefull traynes well tryde:
for they are lyke but vnto golden hookes,
that from the foolish fish theyr bayts doe hyde:
So she with flattring smyles weake harts doth guyde,
vnto her loue and tempte to theyr decay,
whome being caught she kills with cruell pryde,
and feeds at pleasure on the wretched pray:
Yet euen whylst her bloody hands them slay,
her eyes looke louely and vpon them smyle:
that they take pleasure in her cruell play,
and dying doe them selues of payne beguyle.
O mighty charm which makes men loue theyr bane,
and thinck they dy with pleasure, liue with payne.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Coridon to his Phillis
Alas my hart, mine eye hath wrongèd thee,
Presumptious eye, to gaze on Phillis face:
Whose heavenly eye no mortall man may see
But he must die, or purchase Phillis grace.
Poor Coridon, the Nimph whose eye doth moove thee,
Dooth love to draw, but is not drawne to love thee.
Her beautie, Nature's pride, and sheepheards praise,
Her eye, the heavenly Planet of my life:
Her matchlesse wit and grace, her fame displaies,
As if that love had made her for his wife.
Onely, her eyes shoote fierie darts to kill,
Yet is her hart as cold as Caucase hill.
My wings too weake to flye against the Sunne,
Mine eyes unable to sustaine her light,
My hart doth yeeld that I am quite undone,
Thus hath faire Phillis slaine me with her sight.
My bud is blasted, withred is my leafe
And all my corne is rotted in the sheafe.
Phillis, the golden fetter of my minde,
My fancie's Idoll, and my vitall power:
Goddesse of Nimphs, and honour of thy kinde,
This Age's Phoenix, Beautie's richest bower.
Poore Coridon for love of thee must die:
Thy beautie's thrall and conquest of thine eye.
Leave Coridon to plough the barren field,
Thy buds of hope are blasted with disgrace:
For Phillis' lookes no harty love doo yeeld,
Nor can she love, for all her lovely face.
Die Coridon, the spoile of Phillis' eye:
She cannot love, and therefore thou must die.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Holy Sonnet III: O Might Those Sighes
O might those sighes and teares returne againe
Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,
That I might in this holy discontent
Mourne with some fruit, as I have mourn'd in vaine;
In mine Idolatry what showres of raine
Mine eyes did waste? what griefs my heart did rent?
That sufferance was my sinne; now I repent;
'Cause I did sufffer I must suffer paine.
Th'hydroptique drunkard, and night-scouting thiefe,
The itchy Lecher, and selfe-tickling proud
Have the remembrance of past joyes, for reliefe
Of comming ills. To (poore) me is allow'd
No ease; for, long, yet vehement griefe hath beene
Th'effect and cause, the punishment and sinne.
poem by John Donne
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A Paralell Between Bowling And Preferment
Preferment, like a Game at bowles,
To feede our hope with diverse play
Heer quick it runnes, there soft it rowles:
The Betters make and shew the way.
As upper ground, so great Allies
Doe many cast on theyr desire:
Some uppe are thrust, and forc't to rise,
When those are stopt that would aspire.
Some whose heate and zeale exceed
Thrive well by Rubbs that curb theyr hast
Some that languish in theyr speede
Are cherisht by a gentle blast.
Some rest: and others cutting out
The same by whome themselves were made:
Some fetch a compasse farre about
And secretly the marke invade.
Some gett by knocke, and so advance
Theyr fortune by a boystrous ayme:
And some who have the sweetest chance
Theyr mistresse hitt, and winne the game.
The fayrest casts are those that owe
No thanks to Fortunes giddy sway:
Such honest men good bowles doe throw,
Whose owne true Byass cutts the way.
poem by William Strode
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Love's Exchange
LOVE, any devil else but you
Would for a given soul give something too.
At court your fellows every day
Give th' art of rhyming, huntsmanship, or play,
For them which were their own before;
Only I have nothing, which gave more,
But am, alas ! by being lowly, lower.
I ask no dispensation now,
To falsify a tear, or sigh, or vow;
I do not sue from thee to draw
A non obstante on nature's law;
These are prerogatives, they inhere
In thee and thine; none should forswear
Except that he Love's minion were.
Give me thy weakness, make me blind,
Both ways, as thou and thine, in eyes and mind;
Love, let me never know that this
Is love, or, that love childish is;
Let me not know that others know
That she knows my paines, lest that so
A tender shame make me mine own new woe.
If thou give nothing, yet thou 'rt just,
Because I would not thy first motions trust;
Small towns which stand stiff, till great shot
Enforce them, by war's law condition not;
Such in Love's warfare is my case;
I may not article for grace,
Having put Love at last to show this face.
This face, by which he could command
And change th' idolatry of any land,
This face, which, wheresoe'er it comes,
Can call vow'd men from cloisters, dead from tombs,
And melt both poles at once, and store
Deserts with cities, and make more
Mines in the earth, than quarries were before.
For this Love is enraged with me,
Yet kills not; if I must example be
To future rebels, if th' unborn
Must learn by my being cut up and torn,
Kill, and dissect me, Love; for this
Torture against thine own end is;
Rack'd carcasses make ill anatomies.
poem by John Donne
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Psalm 116 part 2
v.12ff
C. M.
Vows made in trouble paid in the church.
What shall I render to my God
For all his kindness shown?
My feet shall visit thine abode,
My songs address thy throne.
Among the saints that fill thine house
My off'rings shall be paid;
There shall my zeal perform the vows
My soul in anguish made.
How much is mercy thy delight,
Thou ever-blessed God!
How dear thy servants in thy sight!
How precious is their blood!
How happy all thy servants are!
How great thy grace to me!
My life, which thou hast made thy care,
Lord, I devote to thee.
Now I am thine, for ever thine,
Nor shall my purpose move
Thy hand hath loosed my bonds of pain,
And bound me with thy love.
Here in thy courts I leave my vow,
And thy rich grace record;
Witness, ye saints, who hear me now,
If I forsake the Lord.
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Looks Of A Lover Enamoured
THOU, with thy looks, on whom I look full oft,
And find therein great cause of deep delight,
Thy face is fair, thy skin is smooth and soft,
Thy lips are sweet, thine eyes are clear and bright,
And every part seems pleasant in my sight;
Yet wote thou well, those looks have wrought my woe,
Because I love to look upon them so.
For first those looks allured mine eye to look,
And straight mine eye stirred up my heart to love;
And cruel love, with deep deceitful hook,
Choked up my mind, whom fancy cannot move,
Nor hope relieve, nor other help behoove
But still to look; and though I look too much,
Needs must I look because I see none such.
Thus in thy looks my love and life have hold;
And with such life my death draws on apace:
And for such death no med'cine can be told
But looking still upon thy lovely face,
Wherein are painted pity, peace, and grace.
Then though thy looks should cause me for to die,
Needs must I look, because I live thereby.
Since then thy looks my life have so in thrall
As I can like none other looks but thine,
Lo, here I yield my life, my love, and all
Into thy hands, and all things else resign
But liberty to gaze upon thine eyen:
Which when I do, then think it were thy part
To look again, and link with me in heart.
poem by George Gascoigne
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Give to Love
Love came knocking on thy door
With you in sight to love and adore
But thine did give
All that thou have and
need to live?
You gave thine lips for love to speak
You gave thine heart for love's heart's weak
You gave thine face, to love to trace
its tears across thee a sorrowful place
thou give to thy loss when it comes to love!
You gave thine soul to love's control
You gave love thy hand to hold
You gave thy feet for love to kiss
You gave thy happiness to love's bliss
You gave thy breast for love to touch
You gave thine body for love to clutch.
But what did love give thee?
Love took and took and left thee with nothing!
With nothing now you are at peace, thou art free!
This is what love did to me!
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Elegy III: Change
Although thy hand and faith, and good workes too,
Have ſeal'd thy love which nothing ſhould undoe,
Yea though thou fall backe, that apoſtaſie
Confirme thy love; yet much, much I feare thee.
Women, are like the Arts, forc'd unto none,
Open to'all ſearchers, unpriz'd, if unknowne.
If I have caught a bird, and let him flie,
Another fouler uſing theſe meanes, as I,
May catch the ſame bird; and, as theſe things bee,
Women are made for men, not him, nor mee.
Foxes and goats; all beaſts change when they pleaſe,
Shall women, more hot, wily, wild then theſe,
Be bound to one man, and did Naturre then
Idly make them apter to'endure then men?
They'are our clogges, not their owne; if a man bee
Chain'd to a galley, yet the galley'is free;
Who hath a plow-land, caſts all his feed come there,
And yet allowes his ground more corne ſhould beare;
Though Danuby into the ſea muſt flow,
The ſea receives the Rhene, Volga, and Po.
By nature, which gave it, this liberty
Thou lov'ſt, but Oh! canſt thou love it and mee?
Likenſſe glues love: and if that thou ſo doe,
To make us like and love, muſt I change too?
More then thy hate, I hate it, rather let mee
Allow her change, then change as oft as shee,
And ſoe not teach, but force my'opinion
To love not any one, nor every one.
To live in one land, is captivitie,
To runne all countries, a wild roguery;
Waters ſtincke ſoone, if in one place they bide,
And in the vaſt ſea are more putrifi'd:
But when they kiſſe one banke, and leaving this
Never looke backe, but the next banke doe kiſſe,
Then are they pureſt; Change'is the nurſery
Of muſicke, joy, life, and eternity.
poem by John Donne
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Sonnet 40: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thy self refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.
poem by William Shakespeare
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An Epitaph On Mr. Fishborne The Great London Benefactor, And His Executor
What are thy gaines, O death, if one man ly
Stretch'd in a bed of clay, whose charity
Doth hereby get occasion to redeeme
Thousands out of the grave: though cold hee seeme
He keepes those warme that else would sue to thee,
Even thee, to ease them of theyr penury.
Sorrow I would, but cannot thinke him dead,
Whose parts are rather all distributed
To those that live; His pitty lendeth eyes
Unto the blind, and to the cripple thighes,
Bones to the shatter'd corps, his hand doth make
Long armes for those that begg and cannot take:
All are supply'd with limbs, and to his freind
Hee leaves his heart, the selfe-same heart behind;
Scarce man and wife so much one flesh are found
As these one soule; the mutuall ty that bound
The first prefer'd in heav'n to pay on earth
Those happy fees which made them strive for death,
Made them both doners of each others store,
And each of them his own executor:
Those hearty summes are twice confer'd by either,
And yet so given as if confer'd by neither.
Lest some incroching governour might pare
Those almes and damne himselfe with pooremens share,
Lameing once more the lame, and killing quite
Those halfe-dead carcases, by due foresight
His partner is become the hand to act
Theyr joynt decree, who else would fain have lackt
This longer date that so hee might avoyd
The praise wherewith good eares would not be cloy'd,
For praises taint our charity, and steale
From Heav'ns reward; this caus'd them to conceale
Theyr great intendment till the grave must needs
Both hide the Author and reveale the deeds.
His widdow-freind still lives to take the care
Of children left behind; Why is it rare
That they who never tied the marriage knott,
And but good deeds no issue ever gott,
Should have a troupe of children? All mankind
Beget them heyres, heyres by theyr freinds resign'd
Back into nature's keepeinge. Th' aged head
Turn'd creeping child of them is borne and bredd;
The prisons are theyr cradles where they hush
Those piercing cryes. When other parents blush
To see a crooked birth, by these the maim'd
Deform'd weake offcasts are sought out and claim'd
To rayse a Progeny: before on death
Thus they renew mens lives with double breath,
And whereas others gett but halfe a man
Theyr nobler art of generation can
Repayr the soule itselfe, and see that none
Bee cripled more in that then in a bone,
For which the Cleargy being hartned on
Weake soules are cur'd in theyr Physition,
Whose superannuat hatt or threadbare cloake
Now doth not make his words so vainly spoke
To people's laughter: this munificence
At once hath giv'n them ears, him eloquence.
Now Henryes sacriledge is found to bee
The ground that sets off Fishborne's charity,
Who from lay owners rescueing church lands,
Buys out the injury of wrongfull hands,
And shewes the blackness of the other's night
By lustre of his day that shines so bright.
Sweet bee thy rest until in heav'n thou see
Those thankefull soules on earth preserv'd by thee,
Whose russet liv'ryes shall a Robe repay
That by reflex makes white the milky way.
Then shall those feeble limbs which as thine owne
Thou here didst cherish, then indeed bee known
To bee thy fellow limbs, all joyn'd in one;
For temples here renew'd the corner stone
Shall yeild thee thanks, when thou shall wonder at
The churches glory, but so poore of late,
Glad of thy almes! Because thy tender eare
Was never stop'd at cryes, it there shall heare
The Angells quire. In all things thou shalt see
Thy gifts were but religious Usury
poem by William Strode
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Love in many phases
Love at first sight: many vouch for it.
Love at long sight: It exists between fans
and stardoms.
Love at short sight: Proximity brings about it.
Love at dim sight: It thrives in profession.
Love at random sight: It revamps in absentia.
Love at blind sight: It is the Oedipus complex.
Love at wrong sight: Incest relation.
Each has its own span of life with momentary pleasure.
29.05.2001, Berhampur
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Xiv
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
'I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'--
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby !
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Sonnet XIV
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
'I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'--
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby !
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Will Ye Also Go Away?
When any turn from Zion's way,
(Alas! what numbers do!)
Methinks I hear my Saviour say,
Wilt thou forsake me too?
Ah Lord! with such a heart as mine,
Unless thou hold me fast;
I feel I must, I shall decline,
And prove like them at last.
Yet thou alone hast pow'r, I know,
To save a wretch like me;
To whom, or whither, could I go,
If I should turn from thee?
Beyond a doubt I rest assured
Thou art the Christ of God;
Who hast eternal life secured
By promise and by blood.
The help of men and angels joined,
Could never reach my case;
Nor can I hope relief to find,
But in thy boundless grace.
No voice but thine can give me rest,
And bid my fears depart;
No love but thine can make me blest,
And satisfy my heart.
What anguish has that question stirred,
If I will also go?
Yet, Lord, relying on thy word,
I humbly answer, No!
poem by John Newton
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XIV (If thou must love me, let it be for nought)
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
"I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of ease on such a day--"
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry,--
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Consolatorium, Ad Parentes
Lett her parents then confesse
That they beleeve her happinesse,
Which now they question. Thinke as you
Lent her the world, Heaven lent her you:
And is it just then to complayne
When each hath but his owne againe?
Then thinke what both your glories are
In her preferment: for tis farre
Nobler to gett a Saint, and beare
A childe to Heaven than an Heyre
To a large Empire. Thinke beside
Shee dyde not yong, but livde a Bride.
Your best wishes for her good
Were but to see her well bestowde:
Was shee not so? Shee marryed to
The heyre of all things: who did owe
Her infant Soule, and bought it too.
Nor was shee barren: markt you not
Those pretty little Graces, that
Play'd round about her sicke bedde; three
Th' eldst Faith, Hope, & Charity.
Twere pretty bigge ones, and the same
That cryde so on theyr Fathers name.
The yongst is gone with Her: the two
Eldest stay to comfort you,
And little though they bee, they can
Master the biggest foes of man.
Lastly thinke that Hir abode
With you was some fewe years boarde;
After hir marriage: now shee's gone
Home, royally attended on:
And if you had Elisha's sight
To see the number of her bright
Attendants thither; or Paul's rapt sprite
To see her Welcome there; why then,
Wish if you could Her here agen.
Ime sure you could not: but all passion
Would loose itselfe in admiration,
And strong longings to be there
Where, cause shee is, you mourn for Her
poem by William Strode
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The Hunter's Even-Song
THE plain with still and wand'ring feet,
And gun full-charged, I tread,
And hov'ring see thine image sweet,
Thine image dear, o'er head.
In gentle silence thou dost fare
Through field and valley dear;
But doth my fleeting image ne'er
To thy mind's eye appear?
His image, who, by grief oppress'd,
Roams through the world forlorn,
And wanders on from east to west,
Because from thee he's torn?
When I would think of none but thee,
Mine eyes the moon survey;
A calm repose then steals o'er me,
But how, 'twere hard to say.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Sonnet XIV: If Thou Must Love Me
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
"I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" -
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, -
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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