The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

Clowne sings

  When that I was and a little tiny boy,

  with hey, ho, the winde and the raine:

  A foolish thing was but a toy,

  for the raine it raineth every day.

  But when I came to mans estate,

  with hey ho, the winde and the raine:

  Gainst Knaves and Theeves men shut their gate,

  for the raine it raineth every day.

  But when I came alas to wive,

  with hey ho, the winde and the raine:

  By swaggering could I never thrive,

  for the raine it raineth every day.

  But when I came unto my beds,

  with hey ho, the winde and the raine:

  With tosspottes still had drunken heades,

  for the raine it raineth every day.

  A great while ago the world begon,

  hey ho, the winde and the raine:

  But that’s all one, our play is done,

  and wee’l strive to please you every day.

  (1623)

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE [The Phoenix and Turtle]

  Let the bird of lowdest lay,

  On the sole Arabian tree,

  Herauld sad and trumpet be:

  To whose sound chaste wings obay.

  But thou shriking harbinger,

  Foule precurrer of the fiend,

  Augour of the fevers end,

  To this troupe come thou not neere.

  From this Session interdict

  Every foule of tyrant wing,

  Save the Eagle feath’red King,

  Keepe the obsequie so strict.

  Let the Priest in Surples white,

  That defunctive Musicke can,

  Be the death-devining Swan,

  Lest the Requiem lacke his right.

  And thou treble dated Crow,

  That thy sable gender mak’st,

  With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,

  Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

  Here the Antheme doth commence,

  Love and Constancie is dead,

  Phœnix and the Turtle fled,

  In a mutuall flame from hence.

  So they lov’d as love in twaine,

  Had the essence but in one,

  Two distincts, Division none,

  Number there in love was slaine.

  Hearts remote, yet not asunder;

  Distance and no space was seene,

  Twixt this Turtle and his Queene;

  But in them it were a wonder.

  So betweene them Love did shine,

  That the Turtle saw his right,

  Flaming in the Phœnix sight;

  Either was the others mine.

  Propertie was thus appalled,

  That the selfe was not the same:

  Single Natures double name,

  Neither two nor one was called.

  Reason in it selfe confounded,

  Saw Division grow together,

  To themselves yet either neither,

  Simple were so well compounded,

  That it cried, how true a twaine,

  Seemeth this concordant one,

  Love hath Reason, Reason none,

  If what parts, can so remaine.

  Whereupon it made this Threne,

  To the Phœnix and the Dove,

  Co-supremes and starres of Love.

  As Chorus to their Tragique Scene.

  Threnos

  Beautie, Truth, and Raritie,

  Grace in all simplicitie,

  Here enclosde, in cinders lie.

  Death is now the Phœnix nest,

  And the Turtles loyall brest,

  To eternitie doth rest.

  Leaving no posteritie,

  Twas not their infirmitie,

  It was married Chastitie.

  Truth may seeme, but cannot be,

  Beautie bragge, but tis not she,

  Truth and Beautie buried be.

  To this urne let those repaire,

  That are either true or faire,

  For these dead Birds, sigh a prayer.

  THOMAS CAMPION from the Latin of Catullus

  My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,

  And, though the sager sort our deedes reprove,

  Let us not way them: heav’ns great lampes doe dive

  Into their west, and strait againe revive,

  But, soone as once set is our little light,

  Then must we sleepe one ever-during night.

  If all would lead their lives in love like mee,

  Then bloudie swords and armour should not be,

  No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleepes should move,

  Unles alar’me came from the campe of love:

  But fooles do live, and wast their little light,

  And seeke with paine their ever-during night.

  When timely death my life and fortune ends,

  Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends,

  But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come,

  And with sweet pastimes grace my happie tombe;

  And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light,

  And crowne with love my ever-during night.

  THOMAS CAMPION

  Followe thy faire sunne unhappy shaddowe,

  Though thou be blacke as night

  And she made all of light,

  Yet follow thy faire sunne unhappie shaddowe.

  Follow her whose light thy light depriveth,

  Though here thou liv’st disgrac’t,

  And she in heaven is plac’t,

  Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth.

  Follow those pure beames whose beautie burneth,

  That so have scorched thee,

  As thou still blacke must bee,

  Til her kind beames thy black to brightnes turneth.

  Follow her while yet her glorie shineth,

  There comes a luckles night,

  That will dim all her light,

  And this the black unhappie shade devineth.

  Follow still since so thy fates ordained,

  The Sunne must have his shade,

  Till both at once doe fade,

  The Sun still prov’d the shadow still disdained.

  THOMAS CAMPION from the Latin of Propertius

  When thou must home to shades of under ground,

  And there ariv’d, a newe admired guest,

  The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round,

  White Iope, blith Hellen, and the rest,

  To heare the stories of thy finisht love,

  From that smoothe toong whose musicke hell can move:

  Then wilt thou speake of banqueting delights,

  Of masks and revels which sweete youth did make,

  Of Turnies and great challenges of knights,

  And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake:

  When thou hast told these honours done to thee,

  Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murther me.

  1602ANONYMOUS

  The lowest trees have tops, the Ant her gall,

  the flie her spleene, the little sparke his heate,

  and slender haires cast shadowes though but small,

  and Bees have stings although they be not great.

  Seas have their source, and so have shallowe springs,

  and love is love in beggers and in kings.

  Where waters smoothest run, deep are the foords,

  The diall stirres, yet none perceives it move:

  The firmest faith is in the fewest words,

  The Turtles cannot sing, and yet they love,

  True hearts have eyes and eares, no tongues to speake:

  They heare, and see, and sigh, and then they breake.

  THOMAS CAMPION

  Rose-cheekt Lawra come

  Sing thou smoothly with thy beawties

  Silent musick, either other

  Sweetely gracing.

  Lovely formes do flowe

  From concent devinely framed,

  Heav’n
is musick, and thy beawties

  Birth is heavenly.

  These dull notes we sing

  Discords neede for helps to grace them,

  Only beawty purely loving

  Knowes no discord:

  But still mooves delight

  Like cleare springs renu’d by flowing,

  Ever perfet, ever in them-

  selves eternall.

  ANONYMOUS 1603

  Weepe you no more sad fountaines,

  What need you flowe so fast,

  Looke how the snowie mountaines,

  Heav’ns sunne doth gently waste.

  But my sunnes heav’nly eyes

  View not your weeping,

  That nowe lies sleeping

  Softly now softly lies sleeping.

  Sleepe is a reconciling,

  A rest that peace begets:

  Doth not the sunne rise smiling,

  When faire at ev’n he sets,

  Rest you, then rest sad eyes,

  Melt not in weeping,

  While she lies sleeping

  Softly now softly lies sleeping.

  1604ANONYMOUS The Passionate Mans Pilgrimage

  Supposed to be Written by One at the Point of Death

  Give me my Scallop shell of quiet,

  My staffe of Faith to walke upon,

  My Scrip of Joy, Immortall diet,

  My bottle of salvation:

  My Gowne of Glory, hopes true gage,

  And thus Ile take my pilgrimage.

  Blood must be my bodies balmer,

  No other balme will there be given

  Whilst my soule like a white Palmer

  Travels to the land of heaven,

  Over the silver mountaines,

  Where spring the Nectar fountaines:

  And there Ile kisse

  The Bowle of blisse,

  And drink my eternall fill

  On every milken hill.

  My soule will be a-dry before,

  But after it, will nere thirst more.

  And by the happie blisfull way

  More peacefull Pilgrims I shall see,

  That have shooke off their gownes of clay,

  And goe appareld fresh like mee.

  Ile bring them first

  To slake their thirst,

  And then to tast those Nectar suckets

  At the cleare wells

  Where sweetnes dwells,

  Drawne up by Saints in Christall buckets.

  And when our bottles and all we,

  Are fill’d with immortalitie:

  Then the holy paths we’ll travell

  Strewde with Rubies thicke as gravell,

  Ceilings of Diamonds, Saphire floores,

  High walles of Corall and Pearle Bowres.

  From thence to heavens Bribeless hall

  Where no corrupted voyces brall,

  No Conscience molten into gold,

  Nor forg’d accusers bought and sold,

  No cause deferd, nor vaine spent Journey,

  For there Christ is the Kings Atturney:

  Who pleades for all without degrees,

  And he hath Angells, but no fees.

  When the grand twelve million Jury,

  Of our sinnes and sinfull fury,

  Gainst our soules blacke verdicts give,

  Christ pleades his death, and then we live,

  Be thou my speaker taintless pleader,

  Unblotted Lawyer, true proceeder,

  Thou movest salvation even for almes:

  Not with a bribed Lawyers palmes.

  And this is my eternall plea,

  To him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea,

  Seeing my flesh must die so soone,

  And want a head to dine next noone,

  Just at the stroke when my vaines start and spred

  Set on my soule an everlasting head.

  Then am I readie like a palmer fit,

  To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

  NICHOLAS BRETON from A Solemne Long Enduring Passion

  Wearie thoughts doe waite upon me

  Griefe hath to much over-gone me

  Time doth howerly over-toyle me,

  While deepe sorrowes seeke to spoile me

  Wit and sences all amazéd,

  In their Graces over-gazéd:

  In exceeding torments tell me,

  Never such a death befell mee.

  (… )

  Let mee thinke no more on thee,

  Thou hast too much wounded me:

  And that skarre upon thy throate,

  No such starre on Stellas coate.

  Let me chide, yet with that stay,

  That did weare the skinne away:

  But alas shall I goe lower,

  In sweet similies to showe her?

  When to touch her praises tittle,

  Nature’s sweetnes is to little:

  Where each Sinow, Limme and joynt,

  Perfect shape in every point,

  From corruptions eye concealed,

  But to vertue love revealed,

  Binde my thoughts to silence speaking,

  While my hart must lye a breaking.

  Petrarche, in his thoughts divine,

  Tasso in his highest line.

  Ariosto’s best invention.

  Dante’s best obscur’d intention.

  Ovid in his sweetest vaine:

  Pastor Fidos purest straine.

  With the finest Poet’s wit,

  That of wonders ever writ:

  Were they all but now alive,

  And would for the Garland strive,

  In the gratious praise of love,

  Heere they might their passions proove.

  On such excellences grownded;

  That their wittes would be confounded.

  (…)

  I have neither Plummes nor Cherries,

  Nuttes, nor Aples, nor Straw-berries;

  Pinnes nor Laces, Pointes nor gloves,

  Nor a payre of painted Doves: