by Paul Keegan
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone,
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?
And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my onely light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.
These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can finde and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
The Answer
My comforts drop and melt away like snow:
I shake my head, and all the thoughts and ends,
Which my fierce youth did bandie, fall and flow
Like leaves about me: or like summer friends,
Flyes of estates and sunne-shine. But to all,
Who think me eager, hot, and undertaking,
But in my prosecutions slack and small;
As a young exhalation, newly waking,
Scorns his first bed of dirt, and means the sky;
But cooling by the way, grows pursie and slow,
And setling to a cloud, doth live and die
In that dark state of tears: to all, that so
Show me, and set me, I have one reply,
Which they that know the rest, know more then I.
A Wreath
A wreathed garland of deserved praise,
Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,
I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes,
My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live,
Wherein I die, not live: for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,
To thee, who art more farre above deceit,
Then deceit seems above simplicitie.
Give me simplicitie, that I may live,
So live and like, that I may know, thy wayes,
Know them and practise them: then shall I give
For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.
Love
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack’d any thing.
A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkinde, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame?
My deare, then I will serve.
You must sit down, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
1635 FRANCIS QUARLES Embleme IV [Canticles 7.10.1 am my Beloved’s, and his desire is towards me.]
Like to the Artick needle, that doth guide
The wand’ring shade by his Magnetick pow’r,
And leaves his silken Gnomon to decide
The question of the controverted houre;
First franticks up and down, from side to side,
And restlesse beats his crystall’d Iv’ry case
With vain impatience; jets from place to place,
And seeks the bosome of his frozen bride;
At length he slacks his motion, and doth rest
His trembling point at his bright Pole’s beloved brest.
Ev’n so my soul, being hurried here and there,
By ev’ry object that presents delight,
Fain would be settled, but she knowes not where;
She likes at morning what she loaths at night;
She bowes to honour; then she lends an eare
To that sweet swan-like voyce of dying pleasure,
Then tumbles in the scatter’d heaps of treasure;
Now flatter’d with false hope; now foyl’d with fear:
Thus finding all the world’s delights to be
But empty toyes, good God, she points alone to thee.
But hath the virtued steel a power to move?
Or can the untouch’d needle point aright?
Or can my wandring thoughts forbear to rove,
Unguided by the virtue of thy spirit?
O hath my leaden soul the art t’ improve
Her wasted talent, and unrais’d, aspire
In this sad moulting-time of her desire?
Not first belov’d have I the power to love?
I cannot stirre, but as thou please to move me,
Nor can my heart return thee love, until thou love me.
The still Commandresse of the silent night
Borrows her beams from her bright brother’s eye;
His fair aspect filles her sharp horns with light;
If he withdraw, her flames are quench’d and die:
Even so the beams of thy enlightning spirit
Infus’d and shot into my dark desire,
Inflame my thoughts, and fill my soul with fire,
That I am ravisht with a new delight;
But if thou shroud thy face, my glory fades,
And I remain a Nothing, all compos’d of shades.
Eternall God, O thou that onely art
The sacred Fountain of eternall light,
And blessed Loadstone of my better part;
O thou my heart’s desire, my soul’s delight,
Reflect upon my soul, and touch my heart,
And then my heart shall prize no good above thee;
And then my soul shall know thee; knowing, love thee;
And then my trembling thoughts shall never start
From thy commands, or swerve the least degree,
Or once presume to move, but as they move in thee.
Epigram
My soul, thy love is dear: ’Twas thought a good
And easie pen’worth of thy Saviour’s bloud:
But be not proud; All matters rightly scann’d,
’Twas over-bought: ’Twas sold at second hand.
1637 EDWARD LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY Epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney Lying in St Paul’s without a Monument, to be Fastned upon the Church Door
Reader,
Within this Church Sir Philip Sidney lies,
Nor is it fit that I should more acquaint,
Lest superstition rise,
And men adore,
Souldiers, their Martyr; Lovers, their Saint.
ROBERT SEMPILL OF BELTREES The Life and Death of Habbie Simson, the Piper of Kilbarchan
Kilbarchan now may say alas!
For she hath lost her game and grace,
Both Trixie and The Maiden Trace;
But what remead?
5
For no man can supply his place:
Hab Simson’s dead.
Now who shall play The Day it Dawis,
Or Hunt’s Up, when the cock he craws?
Or who can for our kirk-town cause
10
Stand us in stead?
On bagpipes now nobody blaws
Sen Habbie’s dead.
Or wha will cause our shearers shear?
Wha will bend up the brags of weir,
15
Bring in the bells, or good play-meir
In time of need?
Hab Simson cou’d, what needs you speir?
But now he’s dead.
So kindly to his neighbours neast
20
At Beltan and St Barchan’s feast
As he were weid:
But now we need not him arrest,
For Habbie’s dead.
25
At fairs he play’d before the spear-men
All gaily graithed in their gear men:
Steel bonnets, jacks, and swords so clear then
Like any bead:
Now wha shall play before such weir-men
30
Sen Habbie’s dead?
At clark-plays when he wont to come
His Pipe play’d trimly to the drum;
Like bikes of bees he gart it bum,
And tun’d his reed:
35
Now all our pipers may sing dumb,
Sen Habbie’s dead.
And at horse races many a day,
Before the black, the brown, the gray,
He gart his pipe, when he did play,
40
Baith skirl and skreed:
Now all such pastime’s quite away
Sen Habbie’s dead.
He counted was a weil’d wight-man,
And fiercely at football he ran:
45
At every game the gree he wan
For pith and speed.
The like of Habbie was na than,
But now he’s dead.
And than, besides his valiant acts,
50
At bridals he won many placks;
He bobbed ay behind fo’k’s backs
And shook his head.
Now we want many merry cracks
Sen Habbie’s dead.
55
He was convoyer of the bride,
With Kittock hinging at his side;
About the kirk he thought a pride
The ring to lead:
But now we may gae but a guide,
60
For Habbie’s dead.
So well’s he keeped his decorum
And all the stots of Whip-meg-morum;
He slew a man, and wae’s me for him,
And bure the fead!
65
But yet the man wan hame before him,
And was not dead.
And whan he play’d, the lasses leugh
To see him teethless, auld, and teugh,
He wan his pipes besides Barcleugh,
70
Withouten dread!
Which after wan him gear eneugh;
But now he’s dead.
Ay when he play’d the gaitlings gedder’d,
And when he spake, the carl bledder’d,
75
On Sabbath days his cap was fedder’d,
A seemly weid;
In the kirk-yeard his mare stood tedder’d
Where he lies dead.
Alas! for him my heart is saur,
80
For of his spring I gat a skair,
At every play, race, feast, and fair,
But guile or greed;
We need not look for pyping mair,
Sen Habbie’s dead.
THOMAS JORDAN A Double Acrostich on Mrs Svsanna Blvnt
Sweete
Soule of goodnesse, in whose Saintlike brest
Vertue
Vowe’s dwelling, to make beauty blest;
Sure
Sighing Cytherea sits, your eyes
Are
Altars whereon shee might sacrifice;
Now
None will of the Paphean order be;
Natur’s
New worke transcends a deity;
Arabia’s
Aromatticks court your scent;
Bright
Beauty makes your gazers eloquent,
Let
Little Cupid his lost eyes obtaine
(Vayl’d)
Viewing you would strike him blinde againe;
Nay
Never thinke I flatter, if you be
Thus
To none else (by love) you are to me.
JOHN MILTON from A Mask Presented at Ludlow-Castle, 1634 [Comus]
Comus enters with a Charming Rod in one hand, his Glass in the other, with him a rout of Monsters headed like sundry sorts of wilde Beasts, but otherwise like Men and Women, their Apparel glistring, they com in making a riotous and unruly noise, with Torches in their hands.
COMUS
The Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav’n doth hold,
And the gilded Car of Day,
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream,
And the slope Sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky Pole,
Pacing toward the other gole
Of his Chamber in the East.
Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsie dance, and Jollity.
Braid your Locks with rosie Twine
Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
Rigor now is gon to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age, and sowre Severity,
With their grave Saws in slumber ly.
We that are of purer fire
Imitate the Starry Quire,
Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,
Lead in swift round the Months and Years.
The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove
Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,
And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,
Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;
By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
What hath night to do with sleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wak’ns Love.
Com let us our rights begin,
’Tis onely day-light that makes Sin
Which these dun shades will ne’re report.
Hail Goddesse of Nocturnal sport
Dark vaild Cotytto, t’whom the secret flame
Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame
That ne’re art call’d, but when the Dragon woom
Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the ayr,
Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair,
Wherin thou rid’st with Hecat’, and befriend
Us thy vow’d Priests, till utmost end