The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  The counsells wise that carelesse men neglect,

  The fond desires that lead us oft astray,

  The prayses that with pride the heart infect,

  And all we loose with follie and mispending,

  May there be found unto this place ascending.

  Now, as Astolfo by those regions past,

  He asked many questions of his guide,

  And as he on tone side his eye did cast,

  A wondrous hill of bladders he espyde;

  And he was told they had been in time past,

  The pompous crowns and scepters, full of pride,

  Of Monarks of Assiria, and of Greece,

  Of which now scantlie there is left a peece.

  He saw great store of baited hookes with gold,

  And those were gifts that foolish men prepard,

  To give to Princes covetous and old,

  With fondest hope of future vaine reward:

  Then were there ropes all in sweet garlands rold,

  And those were all false flatteries he hard,

  Then hard he crickets songs like to the verses,

  The servant in his masters prayse reherses.

  There did he see fond loves, that men pursew,

  To looke like golden gyves with stones all set,

  Then things like Eagles talents he did vew,

  Those offices that favorites do get:

  Then saw he bellows large that much winde blew,

  Large promises that Lords make, and forget,

  Unto their Ganimeds in flowre of youth,

  But after nought but beggerie insewth.

  He saw great Cities seated in fayre places,

  That overthrown quite topsie turvie stood,

  He askt and learnd, the cause of their defaces

  Was treason, that doth never turne to good:

  He saw fowle serpents, with fayre womens faces,

  Of coyners and of thieves the cursed brood,

  He saw fine glasses, all in peeces broken,

  Of service lost in court, a wofull token.

  Of mingled broth he saw a mightie masse,

  That to no use, all spilt on ground did lye,

  He askt his teacher, and he heard it was,

  The fruitlesse almes that men geve when they dye:

  Then by a fayre green mountain he did passe,

  That once smelt sweet, but now it stinks perdye,

  This was that gift (be’t said without offence)

  That Constantin gave Silvester long since.

  Of birdlymd rodds, he saw no litle store,

  And these (O Ladies fayre) your bewties be,

  I do omit ten thousand things and more

  Like unto these, that there the Duke did see

  For all that here is lost, there evermore

  Is kept, and thither in a trise doth flee,

  Howbeit more nor lesse there was no folly,

  For still that here with us remaineth wholly.

  He saw some of his own lost time and deeds,

  But yet he knew them not to be his own,

  They seemed to him disguisd in so straunge weeds,

  Till his instructer made them better known:

  But last, the thing which no man thinks he needs,

  Yet each man needeth most, to him was shown,

  By name mans wit, which here we leese so fast,

  As that one substance, all the other past.

  It seemd to be a body moyst and soft,

  And apt to mount by ev’ry exhalation,

  And when it hither mounted was aloft,

  It there was kept in potts of such a fashion,

  As we call Jarrs, where oyle is kept in oft:

  The Duke beheld with no small admiration,

  The Jarrs of wit, amongst which one had writ,

  Upon the side thereof, Orlandos wit.

  This vessell bigger was then all the rest,

  And ev’ry vessell had ingrav’n with art,

  His name, that earst the wit therein possest:

  There of his own, the Duke did finde a part,

  And much he musd, and much him selfe he blest,

  To see some names of men of great desart,

  That thinke they have great store of wit, and bost it,

  And here it playne appeard they quite had lost it.

  Some loose their wit with love, some with ambition,

  Some running to the sea, great wealth to get,

  Some following Lords, and men of high condition,

  And some in fayre jewells ritch and costlie set,

  One hath desire to prove a rare magicion,

  And some with Poetrie their wit forget,

  An other thinks to be an Alcumist,

  Till all be spent, and he his number mist.

  JOHN LYLY from Midas 1592

  PAN

  Pan’s Syrinx was a Girle indeed,

  Though now shee’s turn’d into a Reed,

  From that deare Reed Pan’s Pipe does come,

  A Pipe that strikes Apollo dumbe;

  Nor Flute, nor Lute, nor Gitterne can

  So chant it, as the Pipe of Pan;

  Cross-gartred Swaines, and Dairie girles,

  With faces smug, and round as Pearles,

  When Pans shrill Pipe begins to play,

  With dancing weare out Night and Day:

  The Bag-pipes Drone his Hum layes by,

  When Pan sounds up his Minstrelsie,

  His Minstrelsie! O Base! This Quill

  Which at my mouth with winde I fill,

  Puts me in minde, though Her I misse,

  That still my Syrinx lips I kisse.

  SAMUEL DANIEL from Delia

  45

  Care-charmer sleepe, sonne of the Sable night,

  Brother to death, in silent darknes borne:

  Relieve my languish, and restore the light,

  With darke forgetting of my cares returne.

  And let the day be time enough to morne,

  The shipwrack of my ill-adventred youth:

  Let waking eyes suffice to wayle theyr scorne,

  Without the torment of the nights untruth.

  Cease dreames, th’ymagery of our day desires,

  To modell foorth the passions of the morrow:

  Never let rysing Sunne approve you lyers,

  To adde more griefe to aggravat my sorrow.

  Still let me sleepe, imbracing clowdes in vaine;

  And never wake, to feele the dayes disdayne.

  HENRY CONSTABLE

  Deere to my soule, then leave me not forsaken,

  Flie not, my hart within thy bosome sleepeth:

  Even from my selfe and sense I have betaken

  Mee unto thee, for whom my spirit weepeth;

  And on the shoare of that salt tearie sea,

  Couch’d in a bed of unseene seeming pleasure

  Where, in imaginarie thoughts thy faire selfe lay,

  But being wakt, robd of my lives best treasure,

  I call the heavens, ayre, earth, and seas, to heare

  My love, my trueth, and black disdaind estate:

  Beating the rocks with bellowings of dispaire,

  Which stil with plaints my words reverbarate.

  Sighing, ‘Alas, what shall become of me?’

  Whilst Eccho cryes, ‘What shal become of me?’

  SIR WALTER RALEGH The Lie

  Goe soule the bodies guest

  upon a thankelesse arrant,

  Feare not to touch the best

  the truth shall be thy warrant.

  Goe since I needs must die

  and give the world the lie.

  Say to the Court it glowes

  and shines like rotten wood,

  Say to the Church it showes

  what’s good, and doth noe good.

  If Church and Court reply

  then give them both the lie.

  Tell potentates they live

  acting by others action,

  Not loved unlesse they
give,

  not strong but by affection:

  If potentates reply

  give potentates the lie.

  Tell men of high condition,

  that manage the Estate,

  Their purpose is ambition,

  their practise only hate,

  And if they once reply

  then give them all the lie.

  Tell them that brave it most,

  they beg for more by spending

  Who in their greatest cost

  seek nothing, but commending.

  And if they make reply,

  then give them all the lie.

  Tell zeale it wants devotion

  tell love it is but lust,

  Tell time it meets but motion

  tell flesh it is but dust.

  And wish them not reply

  for thou must give the lie.

  Tell age it daily wasteth,

  tell honor how it alters.

  Tel beauty how she blasteth

  tell favour how it falters

  And as they shall reply,

  give every one the lie.

  Tell wit how much it wrangles

  in tickle points of nycenesse,

  Tell wisedome she entangles

  her selfe in over-wisenesse.

  And when they do reply

  straight give them both the lie.

  Tell Phisick of her boldnes,

  tel skill it is prevention

  Tel charity of coldnes,

  tell Law it is contention,

  And as they doe reply

  so give them still the lie.

  Tell Fortune of her blindnesse,

  tel nature of decay,

  Tel friendship of unkindnesse,

  tel Justice of delay.

  And if they wil reply,

  then give them all the lie.

  Tell Arts they have no soundnes,

  but vary by esteeming,

  Tel schooles they want profoundnes

  and stand to much on seeming.

  If Arts and Schooles reply,

  give arts and schooles the lie.

  Tell faith it’s fled the Citie,

  tell how the country erreth

  Tel manhood shakes of pitty

  tel vertue least preferreth,

  And if they doe reply,

  spare not to give the lie.

  So when thou hast as I,

  commanded thee, done blabbing,

  Because to give the lie,

  deserves no lesse then stabbing,

  Stab at thee, he that will,

  no stab thy soule can kill.

  (1608)

  from The Phoenix Nest 1593

  ANONYMOUS

  Praisd be Dianas faire and harmles light,

  Praisd be the dewes, wherwith she moists the ground;

  Praisd be hir beames, the glorie of the night,

  Praisd be hir powre, by which all powres abound.

  Praisd be hir Nimphs, with whom she decks the woods,

  Praisd be hir knights, in whom true honor lives,

  Praisd be that force, by which she moves the floods,

  Let that Diana shine, which all these gives.

  In heaven Queene she is among the spheares,

  In ay she Mistres-like makes all things pure,

  Eternitie in hir oft chaunge she beares,

  She beautie is, by hir the faire endure.

  Time weares hir not, she doth his chariot guide,

  Mortalitie belowe hir orbe is plaste,

  By hir the vertue of the starrs downe slide,

  In hir is vertues perfect image cast.

  A knowledge pure it is hir worth to kno,

  With Circes let them dwell that thinke not so.

  THOMAS LODGE The Sheepheards Sorrow, Being Disdained in Love

  Muses helpe me, sorrow swarmeth,

  Eies are fraught with seas of languish,

  Haples hope my solace harmeth:

  Mindes repast is bitter anguish.

  Eie of daie regarded never,

  Certaine trust in world untrustie,

  Flattring hope beguileth ever:

  Wearie olde, and wanton lustie.

  Dawne of day, beholdes inthroned,

  Fortunes darling proud and dreadles:

  Darksome night doth heare him moned,

  Who before was rich and needles.

  Rob the spheare of lines united;

  Make a sudden voide in nature:

  Force the day to be benighted;

  Reave the cause of time, and creature.

  Ere the world will cease to varie:

  This I weepe for, this I sorrow:

  Muses if you please to tarie,

  Further helpe I meane to borrow.

  Courted once by fortunes favor,

  Compast now with envies curses:

  All my thoughts of sorrowes savor,

  Hopes run fleeting like the Sourses.

  Ay me wanton scorne hath maimed

  All the joies my hart enjoied:

  Thoughts their thinking have disclaimed,

  Hate my hopes have quite annoied.

  Scant regard my weale hath scanted:

  Looking coie hath forst my lowring:

  Nothing likte, where nothing wanted,

  Weds mine eies to ceasles showring.

  Former Love was once admired,

  Present favor is estranged:

  Loath’d the pleasure long desired;

  Thus both men and thoughts are changed.

  Lovely Swaine with luckie speeding,

  Once (but now no more) so frended:

  Thou my flocks hast had in feeding,

  From the morne, till day was ended.

  Drinke and fodder, foode and folding,

  Had my lambes and ewes togeather:

  I with them was still beholding,

  Both in warmth, and winter weather.

  Now they languish since refused,

  Ewes and lambes are paind with pining:

  I with ewes and lambes confused,

  All unto our deathes declining.

  Silence leave thy cave obscured,