The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;

  Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,

  In thy large recompense, and shalt be good

  To all that wander in that perilous flood.

  Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes and rills,

  While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,

  He touch’d the tender stops of various Quills,

  With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:

  And now the Sun had stretch’d out all the hills,

  And now was dropt into the Western bay;

  At last he rose, and twitch’d his Mantle blew:

  To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.

  1640 BEN JONSON from A Celebration of Charis, in Ten Lyrick Peeces

  Her Triumph

  See the Chariot at hand here of Love,

  Wherein my Lady rideth!

  Each that drawes, is a Swan, or a Dove,

  And well the Carre Love guideth.

  As she goes, all hearts doe duty

  Unto her beauty;

  And enamour’d, doe wish, so they might

  But enjoy such a sight,

  That they still were to run by her side,

  Thorough Swords, thorough Seas, whether she would ride.

  Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light

  All that Loves world compriseth!

  Doe but looke on her Haire, it is bright

  As Loves starre when it riseth!

  Doe but marke, her forehead’s smoother

  Then words that sooth her!

  And from her arched browes, such a grace

  Sheds it selfe through the face,

  As alone there triumphs to the life

  All the Gaine, all the Good, of the Elements strife.

  Have you seene but a bright Lillie grow,

  Before rude hands have touch’d it?

  Have you mark’d but the fall o’the Snow

  Before the soyle hath smutch’d it?

  Have you felt the wooll o’ the Bever?

  Or Swans Downe ever?

  Or have smelt o’the bud o’the Brier?

  Or the Nard i’ the fire?

  Or have tasted the bag o’the Bee?

  O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

  BEN JONSON [A Fragment of Petronius Arbiter]

  Doing, a filthy pleasure is, and short;

  And done, we straight repent us of the sport:

  Let us not then rush blindly on unto it,

  Like lustfull beasts, that onely know to doe it:

  For lust will languish, and that heat decay.

  But thus, thus, keeping endlesse Holy-day,

  Let us together closely lie, and kisse,

  There is no labour, nor no shame in this;

  This hath pleas’d, doth please, and long will please; never

  Can this decay, but is beginning ever.

  SIDNEY GODOLPHIN

  Faire Friend, ’tis true, your beauties move

  My heart to a respect:

  Too little to bee paid with love,

  Too great for your neglect.

  I neither love, nor yet am free,

  For though the flame I find

  Be not intense in the degree,

  ’Tis of the purest kind.

  It little wants of love, but paine,

  Your beautie takes my sense,

  And lest you should that price disdaine,

  My thoughts, too, feele the influence.

  ’Tis not a passions first accesse

  Readie to multiply,

  But like Loves calmest State it is

  Possest with victorie.

  It is like Love to Truth reduc’d,

  All the false values gone,

  Which were created, and induc’d

  By fond imagination.

  ’Tis either Fancie, or ’tis Fate,

  To love you more then I;

  I love you at your beauties rate,

  Lesse were an Injurie.

  Like unstamp’d Gold, I weigh each grace,

  So that you may collect

  Th’intrinsique value of your face

  Safely from my respect.

  And this respect would merit love,

  Were not so faire a sight

  Payment enough; for, who dare move

  Reward for his delight?

  SIDNEY GODOLPHIN

  Lord when the wise men came from Farr

  Ledd to thy Cradle by A Starr,

  Then did the shepheards too rejoyce,

  Instructed by thy Angells voyce,

  Blest were the wisemen in their skill,

  And shepheards in their harmelesse will.

  Wisemen in tracing Natures lawes

  Ascend unto the highest cause,

  Shepheards with humble fearefulnesse

  Walke safely, though their light be lesse,

  Though wisemen better know the way

  It seemes noe honest heart can stray:

  Ther is noe merrit in the wise

  But love, (the shepheards sacrifice)

  Wisemen all wayes of knowledge past,

  To ’th shepheards wonder come at last,

  To know, can only wonder breede,

  And not to know, is wonders seede.

  A wiseman at the Alter Bowes

  And offers up his studied vowes

  And is received, may not the teares,

  Which spring too from a shepheards feares,

  And sighs upon his fraylty spent,

  Though not distinct, be eloquent.

  Tis true, the object sanctifies

  All passions which within us rise,

  But since noe creature comprehends

  The cause of causes, end of ends,

  Hee who himselfe vouchsafes to know

  Best pleases his creator soe.

  When then our sorrowes wee applye

  To our owne wantes and poverty,

  When wee looke up in all distresse

  And our owne misery confesse

  Sending both thankes and prayers above

  Then though wee doe not know, we love.

  (1906)

  HENRY KING An Exequy to His Matchlesse Never to be Forgotten Freind

  Accept thou Shrine of my Dead Saint,

  Instead of Dirges this Complaint,

  And for sweet flowres to crowne thy Hearse

  Receive a strew of weeping verse

  From thy griev’d Friend; whome Thou might’st see

  Quite melted into Teares for Thee

  Deare Losse, since thy untimely fate

  My task hath beene to meditate

  On Thee, on Thee: Thou art the Book

  The Library whereon I look

  Though almost blind. For Thee (Lov’d Clay)

  I Languish out, not Live the Day,

  Using no other Exercise

  But what I practise with mine Eyes.

  By which wett glasses I find out

  How lazily Time creepes about

  To one that mournes: This, only This

  My Exercise and bus’nes is:

  So I compute the weary howres

  With Sighes dissolved into Showres.

  Nor wonder if my time goe thus

  Backward and most præposterous;

  Thou hast Benighted mee. Thy Sett

  This Eve of blacknes did begett

  Who wast my Day (though overcast

  Before thou hadst thy Noon-tide past)

  And I remember must in teares,

  Thou scarce hadst seene so many Yeeres

  As Day tells Howres; By thy cleere Sunne

  My Love and Fortune first did run;

  But Thou wilt never more appeare

  Folded within my Hemispheare:

  Since both thy Light and Motion

  Like a fledd Starr is fall’n and gone,

  And ’twixt mee and my Soule’s deare wish

  The Earth now interposed is,

  Which such a straunge Ecclipse doth make />
  As ne’re was read in Almanake.

  I could allow Thee for a time

  To darken mee and my sad Clime,

  Were it a Month, a Yeere, or Ten,

  I would thy Exile live till then;

  And all that space my mirth adjourne

  So Thou wouldst promise to returne,

  And putting off thy ashy Shrowd

  At length disperse this Sorrowes Cloud.

  But woe is mee! the longest date

  To narrowe is to calculate

  These empty hopes. Never shall I

  Be so much blest as to descry

  A glympse of Thee, till that Day come

  Which shall the Earth to cinders doome,

  And a fierce Feaver must calcine

  The Body of this World like Thine,

  (My Little World!) That fitt of Fire

  Once off, our Bodyes shall aspire

  To our Soules blisse: Then wee shall rise,

  And view our selves with cleerer eyes

  In that calme Region, where no Night

  Can hide us from each others sight.

  Meane time, thou hast Hir Earth: Much good

  May my harme doe thee. Since it stood

  With Heaven’s will I might not call

  Hir longer Mine; I give thee all

  My short liv’d right and Interest

  In Hir, whome living I lov’d best.

  With a most free and bounteous grief,

  I give thee what I could not keep.

  Be kind to Hir: and prethee look

  Thou write into thy Doomsday book

  Each parcell of this Rarity

  Which in thy Caskett shrin’d doth ly:

  See that thou make thy reck’ning streight,

  And yeeld Hir back againe by weight.

  For thou must Auditt on thy trust

  Each Grane and Atome of this Dust,

  As thou wilt answere Him that leant,

  Not gave thee, my deare Monument.

  So close the ground, and ’bout hir shade

  Black Curtaines draw, My Bride is lay’d.

  Sleep on my Love in thy cold bed

  Never to be disquieted.

  My last Good-night! Thou wilt not wake

  Till I Thy Fate shall overtake:

  Till age, or grief, or sicknes must

  Marry my Body to that Dust

  It so much loves; and fill the roome

  My heart keepes empty in Thy Tomb.

  Stay for mee there: I will not faile

  To meet Thee in that hollow Vale.

  And think not much of my delay,

  I am already on the way,

  And follow Thee with all the speed

  Desire can make, or Sorrowes breed.

  Each Minute is a short Degree,

  And e’ry Howre a stepp towards Thee.

  At Night when I betake to rest,

  Next Morne I rise neerer my West

  Of Life, almost by eight Howres sayle,

  Then when Sleep breath’d his drowsy gale.

  Thus from the Sunne my Bottome steares,

  And my Dayes Compasse downward beares.

  Nor labour I to stemme the Tide

  Through which to Thee I swiftly glide.

  Tis true, with shame and grief I yeild,

  Thou like the Vann, first took’st the Field,

  And gotten hast the Victory

  In thus adventuring to Dy

  Before Mee; whose more yeeres might crave

  A just præcedence in the Grave.

  But hark! My Pulse, like a soft Drum

  Beates my Approach; Tells Thee I come;

  And slowe howe’re my Marches bee,

  I shall at last sitt downe by Thee.

  The thought of this bids mee goe on,

  And wait my dissolution

  With Hope and Comfort. Deare (forgive

  The Crime) I am content to live

  Divided, with but half a Heart,

  Till wee shall Meet, and Never part.

  (1657)

  THOMAS CAREW Song. Celia singing

  Harke how my Celia, with the choyce

  Musique of her hand and voyce

  Stills the loude wind; and makes the wilde

  Incensed Bore, and Panther milde!

  Marke how those statues like men move,

  Whilst men with wonder statues prove!

  This stiffe rock bends to worship her,

  That Idoll turnes Idolater.

  Now see how all the new inspir’d

  Images, with love are fir’d!

  Harke how the tender Marble grones,

  And all the late transformed stones,

  Court the faire Nymph with many a teare,

  Which she (more stony then they were)

  Beholds with unrelenting mind;

  Whilst they amaz’d to see combin’d

  Such matchlesse beautie, with disdaine,

  Are all turn’d into stones againe.

  THOMAS CAREW Epitaph on the Lady Mary Villers

  The Lady Mary Villers lyes

  Under this stone; with weeping eyes

  The Parents that first gave her birth,

  And their sad Friends, lay’d her in earth:

  If any of them (Reader) were

  Knowne unto thee, shed a teare,

  Or if thyselfe possesse a gemme,

  As deare to thee, as this to them;

  Though a stranger to this place,

  Bewayle in theirs, thine owne hard case;

  For thou perhaps at thy returne

  Mayest find thy Darling in an Urne.

  THOMAS CAREW Maria Wentworth, Thomæ Comitis Cleveland, filia præmortua prima Virgineam animam exhalavit An. Dom. 1632 Æt. suæ 18.

  And here the precious dust is layd;

  Whose purely-tempered Clay was made

  So fine, that it the guest betray’d.

  Else the soule grew so fast within,

  It broke the outward shell of sinne,

  And so was hatch’d a Cherubin.

  In heigth, it soar’d to God above;

  In depth, it did to knowledge move,

  And spread in breadth to generall love.

  Before, a pious duty shind

  To Parents, courtesie behind,

  On either side an equall mind,