The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

So pynchyng and sparyng, and so lytell profyte growth;

  So many howgye howsys byldyng, and so small howse-holdyng;

  Suche statutes apon diettes, suche pyllyng and pollyng –

  50 So ys all thyng wrowghte wylfully withowte reson and skylle.

  Syns Dewcalyons flodde the world was never so yll.

  So many vacabondes, so many beggers bolde,

  So myche decay of monesteries and relygious places;

  So hote hatered agaynste the Chyrche and cheryte so colde;

  55 So myche of my lordes grace, and in hym no grace ys;

  So many holow hartes, and so dowbyll faces;

  So myche sayntuary brekyng, and prevylegidde barryd –

  Syns Dewcalyons flodde was nevyr sene nor lyerd.

  So myche raggyd ryghte of a rammes horne;

  60 So rygorous revelyng, in a prelate specially;

  So bold and so braggyng, and was so baselye borne;

  So lordlye of hys lokes, and so dysdayneslye;

  So fatte a magott, bred of a flesshe-flye;

  Was nevyr suche a fylty gorgon, nor suche an epycure,

  65 Syn Dewcalyons flodde, I make the faste and sure.

  So myche prevye wachyng in cold wynters nyghtes;

  So myche serchyng of loselles, and ys hym selfe so lewde;

  So myche conjuracions for elvyshe myday sprettes;

  So many bullys of pardon publysshed and shewyd;

  70

  So myche crossyng and blyssyng and hym all be shrewde;

  Suche pollaxis and pyllers, suche mulys trapte with gold –

  Sens Dewcalyons flodde, in no cronycle ys told.

  (1554)

  1530 WILLIAM CORNISH

  Pleasure it is

  To here, iwis,

  The birdes sing;

  The dere in the dale,

  5

  The shepe in the vale,

  The corne springing.

  God’s purveaunce

  For sustenaunce

  It is for man:

  10

  Then we always

  To him give praise,

  And thank him than,

  And thank him than.

  MYLES COVERDALE from The Bible 1535

  Psalm 137: Super flumina

  By the waters of Babylon we sat downe and weapte, when we remembred the, O Syon. As for our harpes, we hanged them up upon the trees, that are therin. Then they that led us awaye captyve, required of us a songe and melody in our hevynes: synge us one of the songes of Sion. How shall we synge the Lordes songe in a straunge lande. If I forget the, O Jerusalem, let my right hande be forgotten. If I do not remembre the, let my tongue cleve to the rofe of my mouth: yee yf I preferre not Jerusalem in my myrth. Remembre the chyldren of Edom, O Lorde, in the daye of Jerusalem, how they sayd: downe with it, downe with it, even to the grounde. O daughter of Babylon, thou shalt come to misery thy selfe: yee, happy shall he be, that rewardeth the as thou hast served us. Blessed shall he be, that taketh thy chyldren, and throweth them agaynst the stones.

  SIR THOMAS WYATT from the Italian of Petrarch 1540

  The longe love that in my thought doeth harbar

  And in myn hert doeth kepe his residence,

  Into my face preseth with bold pretence,

  And therin campeth, spreding his baner.

  She that me lerneth to love and suffre

  And will that my trust and lustes negligence

  Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence,

  With his hardines taketh displeasure.

  Wherewithall, unto the hertes forrest he fleith,

  Leving his entreprise with payne and cry

  And there him hideth and not appereth.

  What may I do, when my maister fereth,

  But in the felde with him to lyve and dye?

  For goode is the liff ending faithfully.

  (1557)

  SIR THOMAS WYATT from the Italian of Petrarch

  Who so list to hount I knowe where is an hynde,

  But as for me, helas, I may no more;

  The vayne travaill hath weried me so sore,

  I ame of them that farthest cometh behinde;

  Yet may I by no meanes my weried mynde

  Drawe from the Deere, but as she fleeth afore

  Faynting I followe. I leve of therefore

  Sithens in a nett I seke to hold the wynde.

  Who list her hount, I put him owte of dowbte,

  As well as I may spend his tyme in vain.

  And graven with Diamondes in letters plain

  There is written her faier neck rounde abowte:

  ‘Noli me tangere for Cesars I ame

  And wylde for to hold though I seme tame.’

  (1815)

  SIR THOMAS WYATT

  They fle from me that sometyme did me seke

  With naked fote stalking in my chambre.

  I have sene theim gentill tame and meke

  That nowe are wyld and do not remembre

  That sometyme they put theimself in daunger

  To take bred at my hand; and nowe they raunge

  Besely seking with a continuell chaunge.

  Thancked be fortune it hath ben othrewise

  Twenty tymes better, but ons in special,

  In thyn arraye after a pleasaunt gyse

  When her lose gowne from her shoulders did fall

  And she me caught in her armes long and small,

  Therewithall swetely did me kysse

  And softely said ‘Dere hert, how like you this?’

  It was no dreme: I lay brode waking.

  But all is torned thorough my gentilnes

  Into a straunge fasshion of forsaking;

  And I have leve to goo of her goodenes

  And she also to use new fangilnes.

  But syns that I so kyndely ame served

  I would fain knowe what she hath deserved.

  (1557)

  SIR THOMAS WYATT

  My lute, awake! Perfourme the last

  Labour that thou and I shall wast,

  And end that I have now begon;

  For when this song is sung and past,

  My lute be still, for I have done.

  As to be herd where ere is none,

  As lede to grave in marbill stone,

  My song may perse her hert as sone;

  Should we then sigh or syng or mone?

  No, no, my lute, for I have done.

  The Rokkes do not so cruelly

  Repulse the waves continuelly

  As she my suyte and affection,

  So that I ame past remedy,

  Whereby my lute and I have done.

  Prowd of the spoyll that thou hast gott

  Of simple hertes thorough Loves shot,

  By whome, unkynd, thou hast theim wone,

  Thinck not he haith his bow forgot,

  All tho my lute and I have done.

  Vengeaunce shall fall on thy disdain

  That makest but game on ernest pain;

  Thinck not alone under the sonne

  Unquyt to cause thy lovers plain,

  All tho my lute and I have done.

  Perchaunce thee lye wethered and old

  The wynter nyghtes that are so cold,

  Playnyng in vain unto the mone;

  Thy wisshes then dare not be told;

  Care then who lyst for I have done.

  And then may chaunce the to repent

  The tyme that thou hast lost and spent

  To cause thy lovers sigh and swoune;

  Then shalt thou knowe beaultie but lent

  And wisshe and want as I have done.

  Now cesse, my lute; this is the last

  Labour that thou and I shall wast,

  And ended is that we begon;

  Now is this song boeth sung and past;

  My lute, be still, for I have done.

  (1557)

  SIR THOMAS WYATT

  Forget not yet the tryde entent

  Of suche a truthe as I ha
ve ment,

  My gret travayle so gladly spent

  Forget not yet.

  Forget not yet when fyrst began

  The wery lyffe ye know syns whan,

  The sute, the servys none tell can,

  Forget not yet.

  Forget not yet the gret assays,

  The cruell wrong, the skornfull ways,

  The paynfull pacyence in denays,

  Forgett not yet.

  Forget not yet, forget not thys,

  How long ago hathe bene and ys

  The mynd that never ment amys,

  Forget not yet.

  Forget not then thyn owne aprovyd

  The whyche so long hathe the so lovyd,

  Whose stedfast faythe yet never movyd,

  Forget not thys.

  (1815)

  SIR THOMAS WYATT from the Italian of Alamanni

  Myne owne John Poyntz, sins ye delight to know

  The cawse why that homeward I me draw,

  And fle the presse of courtes wher soo they goo

  Rather then to lyve thrall under the awe

  Of lordly lookes, wrappid within my cloke,

  To will and lust lerning to set a lawe,

  It is not for becawsse I skorne or moke

  The power of them to whome fortune hath lent

  Charge over us, of Right to strike the stroke;

  But trew it is that I have allwais ment

  Lesse to estime them then the common sort,

  Off owtward thinges that juge in their intent

  Withowte Regarde what dothe inwarde resort.

  I grawnt sumtime that of glorye the fyar

  Dothe touche my hart; me lyst not to report

  Blame by honowr and honour to desyar;

  But how may I this honour now atayne

  That cannot dy the coloure blake a lyer?

  My Poyntz, I cannot frame my tune to fayne,

  To cloke the trothe for praisse, withowt desart,

  Of them that lyst all vice for to retayne.

  I cannot honour them that settes their part

  With Venus and Baccus all their lyf long,

  Nor holld my pece of them alltho I smart.

  I cannot crowche nor knelle to do so great a wrong

  To worship them like God on erthe alone

  That ar as wollffes thes sely lambes among.

  I cannot with my wordes complayne and mone

  And suffer nought, nor smart wythout complaynt,

  Nor torne the worde that from my mouthe is gone.

  I cannot speke and loke lyke as a saynct,

  Use wyles for witt and make deceyt a plesure

  And call crafft counsell, for proffet styll to paint.

  I cannot wrest the law to fill the coffer,

  With innocent blode to fede my sellff fat,

  And doo most hurt where most hellp I offer.

  I am not he that can alow the state

  Off him Cesar and dam Cato to dye,

  That with his dethe dyd skape owt off the gate

  From Cesares handes, if Lyvye do not lye,

  And wolld not lyve whar lyberty was lost,

  So did his hart the commonn wele aplye.

  I am not he suche eloquence to boste

  To make the crow singing as the swanne,

  Nor call the lyon of cowarde bestes the moste

  That cannot take a mows as the cat can;

  And he that diethe for hunger of the golld,

  Call him Alessaundre, and say that Pan

  Passithe Apollo in musike manyfolld;

  Praysse Syr Thopas for a noble tale

  And skorne the story that the knyght tolld;

  Praise him for counceill that is droncke of ale;

  Grynne when he laugheth that bereth all the swaye,

  Frowne when he frowneth and grone when he is pale,

  On othres lust to hang boeth nyght and daye.

  None of these poyntes would ever frame in me.

  My wit is nought, I cannot lerne the waye.

  And much the lesse of thinges that greater be,

  That asken helpe of colours of devise

  To joyne the mene with eche extremitie:

  With the neryst vertue to cloke alway the vise

  And, as to pourpose like wise it shall fall,

  To presse the vertue that it may not rise.

  As dronkenes good felloweshippe to call,

  The frendly foo with his dowble face

  Say he is gentill and courtois therewithall;

  And say that Favell hath a goodly grace

  In eloquence; and crueltie to name

  Zele of Justice and chaunge in tyme and place;

  And he that sufferth offence withoute blame

  Call him pitefull, and him true and playn

  That raileth rekles to every mans shame;

  Say he is rude that cannot lye and fayn,

  The letcher a lover, and tirannye

  To be the right of a prynces reigne.

  I cannot, I; no, no, it will not be!

  This is the cause that I could never yet

  Hang on their slevis that way, as thou maist se,

  A chippe of chaunce more then a pownde of witt.

  This maketh me at home to hounte and to hawke

  And in fowle weder at my booke to sitt;

  In frost and snowe then with my bow to stawke;

  No man doeth marke where so I ride or goo;

  In lusty lees at libertie I walke,

  And of these newes I fele nor wele nor woo,

  Sauf that a clogg doeth hang yet at my hele:

  No force for that, for it is ordered so

  That I may lepe boeth hedge and dike full well.

  I ame not now in Fraunce to judge the wyne,

  With saffry sauce the delicates to fele;

  Nor yet in Spaigne where oon must him inclyne

  Rather then to be, owtewerdly to seme.

  I meddill not with wittes that be so fyne,

  Nor Flaunders chiere letteth not my sight to deme

  Of black and white, nor taketh my wit awaye

  With bestlynes they, beestes, do so esteme;

  Nor I ame not where Christe is geven in pray

  For mony, poisen and traison at Rome,

  A commune practise used nyght and daie.

  But here I ame in Kent and Christendome

  Emong the muses where I rede and ryme,

  Where if thou list, my Poynz, for to come,

  Thou shalt be judge how I do spend my tyme.

  (1557)

  HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY An Excellent 1542 Epitaffe of Syr Thomas Wyat

  W. resteth here, that quick could never rest;

  Whose heavenly giftes encreased by disdayn

  And vertue sank the deper in his brest:

  Such profit he by envy could obtain.