by Paul Keegan
Rage from the seas, nor thy love teach them love,
Nor tame wilde Boreas harshness; thou hast read
How roughly hee in peices shivered
Faire Orithea, whome he swore hee lov’d.
Fall ill or good, ’tis madness to have prov’d
Dangers unurg’d; feede on this flatterye,
That absent lovers one in th’other bee.
Dissemble nothing, not a boy, nor change
Thy bodies habit, nor mindes; bee not strange
To thy selfe onely; all will spye in thy face
A blushing womanly discovering grace.
Richly cloth’d Apes are call’d Apes, and as soone
Ecclips’d as bright, wee call the moone, the moone.
Men of France, changeable Camelions,
Spittles of diseases, shops of fashions,
Loves fuellers, and the rightest companie
Of Players which uppon the worlds stage bee,
Will quickly knowe thee, ’and knowe thee; and alas
Th’indifferent Italian, as wee passe
His warme land, well content to thinke thee page,
Will haunt thee, with such lust and hideous rage
As Lots faire guests were vext: But none of these,
Nor spungie hydroptique Dutch, shall thee displease,
If thou stay here. Oh stay here, for, for thee
England is only’a worthy gallerie,
To walk in expectation, till from thence
Our greate King call thee into his presence.
When I am gone, dreame mee some happinesse,
Nor let thy lookes our long hid love confesse,
Nor praise, nor dispraise mee, blesse, nor curse
Openly loves force; nor in bed fright thy nurse
With midnights startings, crying out, oh, oh,
Nurse, oh my love is slaine; I saw him goe
Ore the white Alpes, alone; I saw him, I,
Assayld, fight, taken, stabb’d, bleede, fall, and dye.
Augure mee better chance, except dreade Jove
Think it enough for mee, to’have had thy love.
(1635)
MICHAEL DRAYTON from Idea 1599
5
Nothing but No and I, and I and No,
How fals it out so strangely you reply?
I tell yee (Faire) ile not be answered so,
With this affirming No, denying I.
I say, I Love, you sleightly answere I:
I say, You Love, you peule me out a No:
I say, I Die, you Eccho me with I:
Save mee I Crie, you sigh me out a No;
Must Woe and I, have naught but No and I?
No I, am I, if I no more can have;
Answere no more, with Silence make reply,
And let me take my selfe what I doe crave,
Let No and I, with I and you be so:
Then answere No and I, and I and No.
ALEXANDER HUME from Of the Day Estivall
O perfite light, quhilk schaid away,
The darkenes from the light,
And set a ruler ou’r the day,
Ane uther ou’r the night.
5
Thy glorie when the day foorth flies,
Mair vively dois appeare,
Nor at midday unto our eyes,
The shining Sun is cleare.
The shaddow of the earth anon,
10
Remooves and drawes by,
Sine in the East, when it is gon,
Appeares a clearer sky.
Quhilk Sunne perceaves the little larks,
The lapwing and the snyp,
15
And tunes their sangs like natures clarks,
Ou’r midow, mure, and stryp.
Bot everie bais’d nocturnall beast,
Na langer may abide,
They hy away baith maist and least,
20
Them selves in houis to hide.
They dread the day fra thay it see,
And from the sight of men.
To saits, and covars fast they flee,
As Lyons to their den.
25
Oure Hemisphere is poleist clein,
And lightened more and more,
While everie thing be clearely sein,
Quhilk seemed dim before.
Except the glistering astres bright,
30
Which all the night were cleere,
Offusked with a greater light,
Na langer dois appeare.
The golden globe incontinent,
Sets up his shining head,
35
And ou’r the earth and firmament,
Displayes his beims abread.
For joy the birds with boulden throts,
Agains his visage shein,
Takes up their kindelie musicke nots,
40
In woods and gardens grein.
Up braids the carefull husbandman,
His cornes, and vines to see,
And everie tymous artisan,
In buith worke busilie.
45
The pastor quits the slouthfull sleepe,
And passis forth with speede,
His little camow-nosed sheepe,
And rowtting kie to feede.
The passenger from perrels sure,
50
Gangs gladly foorth the way:
Breife, everie living creature,
Takes comfort of the day,
The subtile mottie rayons light,
At rifts thay are in wonne,
55
The glansing thains, and vitre bright,
Resplends against the sunne.
The dew upon the tender crops,
Lyke pearles white and round,
Or like to melted silver drops,
60
Refreshes all the ground.
The mystie rocke, the clouds of raine,
From tops of mountaines skails,
Cleare are the highest hils and plaine,
The vapors takes the vails.
Begaried is the saphire pend,
With spraings of skarlet hew,
And preciously from end till end,
Damasked white and blew.
The ample heaven of fabrik sure,
70
In cleannes dois surpas,
The chrystall and the silver pure,
Or clearest poleist glas.
The time sa tranquill is and still,
That na where sail ye find,
75
Saife on ane high, and barren hill,
Ane aire of peeping wind.
All trees and simples great and small,
That balmie leife do beir,
Nor thay were painted on a wall,
80
Na mair they move or steir.
Calme is the deepe, and purpour se,
Yee smuther nor the sand,
The wals that woltring wont to be,
Are stable like the land.
85
Sa silent is the cessile air,
That every cry and call,
The hils, and dails, and forrest fair,
Againe repeates them all.
The rivers fresh, the callor streames,
90
Ou’r rockes can softlie rin,
The water cleare like chrystall seames,
And makes a pleasant din.
The fields, and earthly superfice,
With verdure greene is spread,
95
And naturallie but artifice,
In partie coulors cled.
The flurishes and fragrant flowres,
Throw Phoebus fostring heit,
Refresht with dew and silver showres,
100
Casts up ane odor sweit.
The clogged busie bumming beis,
That never thinks to drowne,
On flowers and flourishes of treis,
Collects their liquor browne.
105
The Sunne maist like a speedie post,
With ardent course ascends,
The beautie of the heavenly host,
Up to our Zenith tends.
Nocht guided be na Phaeton,
110
Nor trained in a chyre,
Bot be the high and haly On,
Quhilk dois all where impire.
GEORGE PEELE from David and Fair Bethsabe
Hot sunne, coole fire, temperd with sweet aire,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white haire.
Shine sun, burne fire, breathe aire, and ease mee,
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me.
Shadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause, cause of mourning.
Let not my beauties fire,
Enflame unstaied desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye,
That wandreth lightly.
SAMUEL DANIEL from Musophilus
[Stonehenge]
Where wil you have your vertuous names safe laid,
In gorgeous tombes, in sacred Cels secure?
Do you not see those prostrate heapes betraid
Your fathers bones, and could not keepe them sure?
And will you trust deceitfull stones faire laid:
And thinke they will be to your honor truer?
No, no, unsparing time will proudly send
A warrant unto wrath that with one frown
Wil al these mock’ries of vaine glory rend,
And make them as before, ungrac’d, unknown,
Poore idle honors that can ill defend
Your memories, that cannot keepe their own.
And whereto serve that wondrous trophei now,
That on the goodly plaine neare Wilton stands?
That huge domb heap, that cannot tel us how,
Nor what, nor whence it is, nor with whose hands,
Nor for whose glory, it was set to shew
How much our pride mockes that of other lands?
Whereon when as the gazing passenger
Hath greedy lookt with admiration,
And faine would know his birth, and what he were,
How there erected, and how long agone:
Enquires and askes his fellow travailer
What he hath heard and his opinion:
And he knowes nothing. Then he turnes againe
And looks and sighs, and then admires afresh,
And in himselfe with sorrow doth complaine
The misery of darke forgetfulnesse;
Angrie with time that nothing should remain,
Our greatest wonders-wonder to expresse.
Then ignorance with fabulous discourse
Robbing faire arte and cunning of their right,
Tels how those stones were by the divels force
From Affricke brought to Ireland in a night,
And thence to Britannie by Magicke course,
From giants hand redeem’d by Merlins sleight.
FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE from Caelica 1600
Sonnet XLV
Absence, the noble truce
Of Cupids warre:
Where though desires want use,
They honoured are.
Thou art the just protection,
Of prodigall affection,
Have thou the praise;
When bankrupt Cupid braveth,
Thy mines his credit saveth,
With sweet delayes.
Of wounds which presence makes
With Beauties shot,
Absence the anguish slakes,
But healeth not:
Absence records the Stories,
Wherein Desire glories,
Although she burne;
She cherisheth the spirits
Where Constancy inherits
And Passions mourne.
Absence, like dainty Clouds,
On glorious-bright,
Natures weake senses shrowds,
From harming light.
Absence maintaines the treasure
Of pleasure unto pleasure,
Sparing with praise;
Absence doth nurse the fire,
Which starves and feeds desire
With sweet delayes.
Presence to every part
Of Beauty tyes,
Where Wonder rules the Heart
There Pleasure dyes:
Presence plagues minde and senses
With modesties defences,
Absence is free:
Thoughts doe in absence venter
On Cupids shadowed center,
They winke and see.
But Thoughts be not so brave,
With absent joy;
For you with that you have
Your selfe destroy:
The absence which you glory,
Is that which makes you sory,
And burne in vaine:
For Thought is not the weapon,
Wherewith thoughts-ease men cheapen,
Absence is paine.
(1633)
Sonnet LXXXIV
Farewell sweet Boy, complaine not of my truth;
Thy Mother lov’d thee not with more devotion;
For to thy Boyes play I gave all my youth,
Yong Master, I did hope for your promotion.
While some sought Honours, Princes thoughts observing,
Many woo’d Fame, the child of paine and anguish,
Others judg’d inward good a chiefe deserving,
I in thy wanton Visions joy’d to languish.
I bow’d not to thy image for succession,
Nor bound thy bow to shoot reformed kindnesse,
Thy playes of hope and feare were my confession,
The spectacles to my life was thy blindnesse;
But Cupid now farewell, I will goe play me,
With thoughts that please me lesse, and lesse betray me.
(1633)
Sonnet LXXXV
Love is the Peace, whereto all thoughts doe strive,
Done and begun with all our powers in one: