The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Dri’d up? lyes Thespia wast?

  Doth Clarius Harp want strings,

  That not a Nymph now sings?

  Or droop they as disgrac’t,

  To see their Seats and Bowers by chattring Pies defac’t?

  If hence thy silence be,

  As ’tis too just a cause;

  Let this thought quicken thee,

  Minds that are great and free,

  Should not on fortune pause,

  ’Tis crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause.

  What though the greedie Frie

  Be taken with false Baytes

  Of worded Balladrie,

  And thinke it Poësie?

  They die with their conceits,

  And only pitious scorne, upon their folly waites.

  Then take in hand thy Lyre,

  Strike in thy proper straine,

  With Japhets lyne, aspire

  Sols Chariot for new fire,

  To give the world againe:

  Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Joves braine.

  And since our Daintie age,

  Cannot indure reproofe,

  Make not thy selfe a Page,

  To that strumpet the Stage,

  But sing high and aloofe,

  Safe from the wolves black jaw, and the dull Asses hoofe.

  (1640)

  MICHAEL DRAYTON from Nimphidia, The Court of Fayrie

  [Queen Mab’s Chariot]

  Her Chariot ready straight is made,

  Each thing therein is fitting layde,

  That she by nothing might be stayde,

  For naught must her be letting,

  Foure nimble Gnats the Horses were,

  Their Harnasses of Gossamere,

  Flye Cranion her Chariottere,

  Upon the Coach-box getting.

  Her Chariot of a Snayles fine shell,

  Which for the colours did excell:

  The faire Queene Mab, becomming well,

  So lively was the limming:

  The seate the soft wooll of the Bee;

  The cover (gallantly to see)

  The wing of a pyde Butterflee,

  I trowe t’was simple trimming.

  The wheeles compos’d of Crickets bones,

  And daintily made for the nonce,

  For feare of ratling on the stones,

  With Thistle-downe they shod it;

  For all her Maydens much did feare,

  If Oberon had chanc’d to heare,

  That Mab his Queene should have bin there,

  He would not have aboad it.

  She mounts her Chariot with a trice,

  Nor would she stay for no advice,

  Untill her Maydes that were so nice,

  To wayte on her were fitted,

  But ranne her selfe away alone;

  Which when they heard there was not one,

  But hasted after to be gone,

  As she had beene diswitted.

  Hop, and Mop, and Drop so cleare,

  Pip, and Trip, and Skip that were,

  To Mab their Soveraigne ever deare:

  Her speciall Maydes of Honour;

  Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin,

  Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin,

  Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,

  The Trayne that wayte upon her.

  Upon a Grashopper they got,

  And what with Amble, and with Trot,

  For hedge nor ditch they spared not,

  But after her they hie them.

  A Cobweb over them they throw,

  To shield the winde if it should blowe,

  Themselves they wisely could bestowe,

  Lest any should espie them.

  MICHAEL DRAYTON These Verses weare Made by Michaell 1631 Drayton Esquier Poett Lawreatt the Night before Hee Dyed.

  Soe well I love thee, as without thee I

  Love Nothing, yf I might Chuse, I’de rather dye

  Then bee one day debarde thy companye

  Since Beasts, and plantes doe growe, and live and move

  Beastes are those men, that such a life approve

  Hee onlye Lives, that Deadly is in Love

  The Corne that in the grownd is sowen first dies

  And of one seed doe manye Eares arise

  Love this worldes Corne, by dying Multiplies

  The seeds of Love first by thy eyes weare throwne

  Into a grownd untild, a harte unknowne

  To beare such fruitt, tyll by thy handes t’was sowen

  Looke as your Looking glass by Chance may fall

  Devyde and breake in manye peyces smale

  And yett shewes forth, the selfe same face in all

  Proportions, Features Graces just the same

  And in the smalest peyce as well the name

  Of Fayrest one deserves, as in the richest frame

  Soe all my Thoughts are peyces but of you

  Whiche put together makes a Glass soe true

  As I therin noe others face but yours can Veiwe

  (1905)

  ANONYMOUS Feltons Epitaph

  Heere uninterr’d suspendes (though not to save,

  Surviving Frendes th’expenses of a grave)

  Feltons dead Earth; which to the world must bee

  Its owne sadd Monument. His elegie

  As large as fames; but whether badd or good

  I say not; by himself ’twas writt in blood;

  For which his bodie is entomb’d in Ayre,

  Archt o’re with heaven, sett with a thousand faire

  And glorious Diamond Starrs. a Sepulchre

  That time can never ruinate, and where

  Th’impartiall Worme (which is not brid’d to spare

  Princes corrupt in Marble) cannot share

  His Flesh; which yf the cahritable skies

  Emblame with teares; doeing those obsequies

  Belong to emn shall last; till pittying fowle

  Contend to beare his bodie to his soule.

  (1658)

  ANONYMOUS [Epitaph on the Duke of Buckingham]

  This little Grave embraces

  One Duke and twentie places.

  GEORGE HERBERT from The Temple 1633

  Redemption

  Having been tenant long to a rich Lord,

  Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,

  And make a suit unto him, to afford

  A new small-rented lease, and cancell th’ old.

  In heaven at his manour I him sought:

  They told me there, that he was lately gone

  About some land, which he had dearly bought

  Long since on earth, to take possession.

  I straight return’d, and knowing his great birth,

  Sought him accordingly in great resorts;

  In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts:

  At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth

  Of theeves and murderers: there I him espied,

  Who straight, Your suit is granted, said, and died.

  Prayer

  Prayer the Churches banquet, Angels age,

  Gods breath in man returning to his birth,

  The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,

  The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth;

  Engine against th’ Almightie, sinners towre,

  Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,

  The six-daies world-transposing in an houre,

  A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear;

  Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,

  Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best,

  Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,

  The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,

  Church-bels beyond the starres heard, the souls bloud,

  The land of spices; something understood.

  Church-monuments

  While that my soul repairs to her devotion,

  Here I intombe my flesh, that it betimes

  May take acquaint
ance of this heap of dust;

  To which the blast of deaths incessant motion,

  Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,

  Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust

  My bodie to this school, that it may learn

  To spell his elements, and finde his birth

  Written in dustie heraldrie and lines;

  Which dissolution sure doth best discern,

  Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.

  These laugh at Jeat and Marble put for signes,

  To sever the good fellowship of dust,

  And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,

  When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat

  To kisse those heaps, which now they have in trust?

  Deare flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stemme

  And true descent; that when thou shalt grow fat,

  And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,

  That flesh is but the glasse, which holds the dust

  That measures all our time; which also shall

  Be crumbled into dust. Mark here below

  How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,

  That thou mayst fit thy self against thy fall.

  Deniall

  When my devotions could not pierce

  Thy silent eares;

  Then was my heart broken, as was my verse:

  My breast was full of fears

  And disorder:

  My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow,

  Did flie asunder:

  Each took his way; some would to pleasures go,

  Some to the warres and thunder

  Of alarms.

  As good go any where, they say,

  As to benumme

  Both knees and heart, in crying night and day,

  Come, come, my God, O come,

  But no hearing.

  O that thou shouldst give dust a tongue

  To crie to thee,

  And then not heare it crying! all day long

  My heart was in my knee,

  But no hearing.

  Therefore my soul lay out of sight,

  Untun’d, unstrung:

  My feeble spirit, unable to look right,

  Like a nipt blossome, hung

  Discontented.

  O cheer and tune my heartlesse breast,

  Deferre no time;

  That so thy favours granting my request,

  They and my minde may chime,

  And mend my ryme.

  Hope

  I gave to Hope a watch of mine: but he

  An anchor gave to me.

  Then an old prayer-book I did present:

  And he an optick sent.

  With that I gave a viall full of tears:

  But he a few green eares.

  Ah Loyterer! I’le no more, no more I’le bring:

  I did expect a ring.

  The Collar

  I struck the board, and cry’d, No more.

  I will abroad.

  What? shall I ever sigh and pine?

  My lines and life are free; free as the rode,

  Loose as the winde, as large as store.

  Shall I be still in suit?

  Have I no harvest but a thorn

  To let me bloud, and not restore

  What I have lost with cordiall fruit?

  Sure there was wine

  Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn

  Before my tears did drown it.

  Is the yeare onely lost to me?

  Have I no bayes to crown it?

  No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?

  All wasted?

  Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,

  And thou hast hands.

  Recover all thy sigh-blown age

  On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute

  Of what is fit, and not. Forsake thy cage,

  Thy rope of sands,

  Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee

  Good cable, to enforce and draw,

  And be thy law,

  While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.

  Away; take heed:

  I will abroad.

  Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears.

  He that forbears

  To suit and serve his need,

  Deserves his load.

  But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde

  At every word,

  Me thoughts I heard one calling, Childe:

  And I reply’d, My Lord.

  The Flower

  How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean

  Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;

  To which, besides their own demean,

  The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.

  Grief melts away

  Like snow in May,

  As if there were no such cold thing.

  Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart

  Could have recover’d greennesse? It was gone

  Quite under ground; as flowers depart

  To see their mother-root, when they have blown;

  Where they together

  All the hard weather,

  Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

  These are thy wonders, Lord of power,

  Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell

  And up to heaven in an houre;

  Making a chiming of a passing-bell.

  We say amisse,

  This or that is:

  Thy word is all, if we could spell.

  O that I once past changing were,

  Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!

  Many a spring I shoot up fair,

  Offring at heav’n, growing and groning thither:

  Nor doth my flower

  Want a spring-showre,

  My sinnes and I joining together.

  But while I grow in a straight line,

  Still upwards bent, as if heav’n were mine own,