by Paul Keegan
Daine a dolefull Swaine to tender,
Though disdaines I have endured,
Yet I am no deepe offender.
Philips sonne can with his finger,
Hide his scar, it is so little:
Little sinne a day to linger,
Wise men wander in a tittle.
Trifles yet my Swaine have turned,
Tho my sonne he never showeth:
Tho I weepe, I am not mourned,
Tho I want, no pitie groweth.
Yet for pitie love my muses,
Gentle silence be their cover,
They must leave their wonted uses,
Since I leave to be a Lover.
They shall live with thee inclosed,
I will loath my pen and paper:
Art shall never be supposed,
Sloth shall quench the watching taper.
Kisse them silence, kisse them kindely,
Tho I leave them, yet I love them:
Tho my wit have led them blindely,
Yet my Swaine did once approve them.
I will travell soiles removed,
Night and morning never merie,
Thou shalt harbor that I loved,
I will love that makes me wearie.
If perchaunce the Shepherd straieth,
In thy walks and shades unhaunted,
Tell the Teene my hart betraieth,
How neglect my joyes have daunted.
BARNABE BARNES from Parthenophil and Parthenophe
[Sestina]
Then, first with lockes disheveled, and bare,
Straite guirded, in a chearefull calmie night:
Having a fier made of greene Cypresse woode,
And with male franckincense on alter kindled
I call on threefould Hecate with teares,
And here (with loude voyce) invocate the furies:
For their assistance, to me with their furies:
Whilst snowye steedes in coach bright Phoebe bare.
Ay me Parthenophe smiles at my teares,
I neither take my rest by day, or night:
Her cruell loves in me such heate have kindled.
Hence goate and bring her to me raging woode:
Hecate tell which way she comes through the woode.
This wine aboute this aulter, to the furies
I sprinkle, whiles the Cypresse bowes be kindled,
This brimstone earth within her bowelles bare,
And this blew incense sacred to the night.
This hand (perforce) from this bay this braunche teares.
So be she brought which pittied not my teares.
And as it burneth with the Cypresse woode
So burne she with desier by day and night.
You goddes of vengance, and avenge-full furies
Revenge, to whom I bende on my knees bare.
Hence goate, and bring her with loves outrage kindled.
Hecate make signes if she with love come kindled.
Thinke on my passions Hec’ate, and my teares:
This Rosemariene (whose braunche she cheefely bare
And loved best) I cut both barke and woode,
Broke with this brasen Axe, and in loves furies
I treade on it, rejoycing in this night:
And saying, let her her feele such woundes this night.
About this alter, and rich incense kindled
This lace and Vervine to loves bitter furies
I binde, and strewe, and with sadde sighes and teares
About I beare her Image raging woode.
Hence goate and bring her from her bedding bare:
(…)
Come blessed goate, that my sweet Lady bare:
Where hast thou beene (Parthenophe) this night?
What, cold? Sleepe by this fier of Cypresse woode
Which I much longing for thy sake have kindled,
Weepe not, come loves and wipe away her teares:
At length yet, wilt thou take away my furies?
Ay me, embrace me, see those ouglye furies.
Come to my bed, least they behold thee bare
And beare thee hence. They will not pittie teares,
And these still dwell in everlasting night:
Ah loves, sweet love, sweet fiers for us hath kindled,
But not inflam’d, with franckinsense, or woode,
The furies, they shall hence into the woode,
Whiles Cupid shall make calmer his hot furies,
And stand appeased at our fier’s kindled.
Joyne; joyne (Parthenophe) thy selfe unbare,
None can perceive us in the silent night,
Now will I cease from sighes, lamentes, and teares,
And cease (Parthenophe) sweet cease thy teares:
Beare golden Apples thornes in every woode,
Joyne heavens, for we conjoyne this heavenly night:
Let Alder trees beare Apricockes (dye furies)
And Thistles Peares, which prickles lately bare.
Now both in one with equall flame be kindled:
Dye magicke bowes, now dye, which late were kindled:
Here is mine heaven: loves droppe in steede of teares.
It joynes, it joynes, ah both embracing bare.
Let Nettles bring forth Roses in each woode,
Last ever verdant woodes: hence former furies:
Oh dye, live, joye: what? last continuall night,
Sleepe Phoebus still with Thetis: rule still night.
I melt in love, loves marrow-flame is kindled:
Here will I be consum’d in loves sweet furies.
I melt, I melt, watche Cupid my love-teares:
If these be furies, oh let me be woode!
If all the fierie element I bare
Tis now acquitted: cease your former teares,
For as she once with rage my bodie kindled,
So in hers am I buried this night.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY from The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia
STREPHON
Yee Gote-heard Gods, that love the grassie mountaines,
Yee Nimphes which haunt the springs in pleasant vallies,
Ye Satyrs joyde with free and quiet forrests,
Vouchsafe your silent eares to playning musique,
Which to my woes gives still an early morning:
And drawes the dolor on till wery evening.
KLAIUS
O Mercurie, foregoer to the evening,
O heavenlie huntresse of the savage mountaines,
O lovelie starre, entitled of the morning,
While that my voice doth fill these wofull vallies,
Vouchsafe your silent eares to plaining musique,
Which oft hath Echo tir’d in secrete forrests.
STREPHON
I that was once free-burges of the forrests,
Where shade from Sunne, and sporte I sought in evening,
I that was once esteem’d for pleasant musique,
Am banisht now among the monstrous mountaines
Of huge despaire, and foule affliction’s vallies,
Am growne a shrich-owle to my selfe each morning.
KLAIUS
I that was once delighted every morning,
Hunting the wilde inhabiters of forrests,
I that was once the musique of these vallies,
So darkened am, that all my day is evening,
Hart-broken so, that molehilles seeme high mountaines,
And fill the vales with cries in steed of musique.
STREPHON
Long since alas, my deadly Swannish musique
Hath made it selfe a crier of the morning,
And hath with wailing strength clim’d highest mountaines:
Long since my thoughts more desert be then forrests:
Long since I see my joyes come to their evening,
And state throwen downe to over-troden vallies.
KLAIUS
Long since the happie dwellers of these vallies,
&
nbsp; Have praide me leave my strange exclaiming musique,
Which troubles their daye’s worke, and joyes of evening:
Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:
Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forrests,
And make me wish my selfe layd under mountaines.
STREPHON
Me seemes I see the high and stately mountaines,
Transforme themselves to lowe dejected vallies:
Me seemes I heare in these ill-changed forrests,
The Nightingales doo learne of Owles their musique:
Me seemes I feele the comfort of the morning
Turnde to the mortall serene of an evening.
KLAIUS
Me seemes I see a filthie clowdie evening,
As soon as Sunne begins to clime the mountaines:
Me seemes I feele a noysome sent, the morning
When I doo smell the flowers of these vallies:
Me seemes I heare, when I doo heare sweete musique,
The dreadfull cries of murdred men in forrests.
STREPHON
I wish to fire the trees of all these forrests;
I give the Sunne a last farewell each evening;
I curse the fidling finders out of Musicke:
With envie I doo hate the loftie mountaines;
And with despite despise the humble vallies:
I doo detest night, evening, day, and morning.
KLAIUS
Curse to my selfe my prayer is, the morning:
My fire is more, then can be made with forrests;
My state more base, then are the basest vallies:
I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;
Shamed I hate my selfe in sight of mountaines,
And stoppe mine eares, lest I growe mad with Musicke.
STREPHON
For she, whose parts maintainde a perfect musique,
Whose beawties shin’de more then the blushing morning,
Who much did passe in state the stately mountaines,
In straightnes past the Cedars of the forrests,
Hath cast me, wretch, into eternall evening,
By taking her two Sunnes from these darke vallies.
KLAIUS
For she, with whom compar’d, the Alpes are vallies,
She, whose lest word brings from the spheares their musique,
At whose approach the Sunne rase in the evening,
Who, where she went, bare in her forhead morning,
Is gone, is gone from these our spoyled forrests,
Turning to desarts our best pastur’de mountaines.
STREPHON
These mountaines witnesse shall, so shall these vallies,
KLAIUS
These forrests eke, made wretched by our musique,
Our morning hymne this is, and song at evening.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from Love’s Labours Lost 1594
ARMADO
Holla, Approach.
Enter all.
This side is Hiems, Winter.
This Ver, the Spring: the one maintained by the Owle,
Th’other by the Cuckow.
Ver, begin.
Spring
When Dasies pied, and Violets blew,
And Cuckow-buds of yellow hew:
And Ladie-smockes all silver white,
Do paint the Medowes with delight.
The Cuckow then on everie tree,
Mockes married men, for thus sings he,
Cuckow.
Cuckow, Cuckow: O word of feare,
Unpleasing to a married eare.
When Shepherds pipe on Oaten strawes,
And merrie Larkes are Ploughmens clockes:
When Turtles tread, and Rookes and Dawes,
And Maidens bleach their summer smockes:
The Cuckow then on everie tree
Mockes married men; for thus sings he, Cuckow.
Cuckow, Cuckow: O word of feare,
Unpleasing to a married eare.
Winter
When Isicles hang by the wall,
And Dicke the Shepheard blowes his naile:
And Tom beares logges into the hall,
And Milke comes frozen home in paile:
When blood is nipt, and waies be fowle,
Then nightly sings the staring Owle
Tu-whit to-who.
A merrie note,
While greasie Jone doth keele the pot.
When all aloud the winde doth blow,
And coffing drownes the Parsons saw:
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marrians nose lookes red and raw:
When roasted Crabs hisse in the bowle,
Then nightly sings the staring Owle,
Tu-whit to who:
A merrie note,
While greasie Jone doth keele the pot.
ARMADO
The Words of Mercurie,
Are harsh after the songs of Apollo:
You that way; we this way.
Exeunt omnes.
(1598)
ANONYMOUS
Weare I a Kinge I coude commande content;
Weare I obscure unknowne shoulde be my cares,
And weare I ded no thoughtes should me torment,
Nor wordes, nor wronges, nor loves, nor hopes, nor feares.
A dowtefull choyse of these thinges one to crave,
A Kingdom or a cottage or a grave.
1595 EDMUND SPENSER from Amoretti
Sonnet LXVII
Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace,
Seeing the game from him escapt away,
sits downe to rest him in some shady place,
with panting hounds beguiled of their pray:
So after long pursuit and vaine assay,
when I all weary had the chace forsooke,
the gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way,
thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke.
There she beholding me with mylder looke,
sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide:
till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke,
and with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde.
Strange thing me seemd to see a beast so wyld,
so goodly wonne with her owne will beguyld.