Household Book of English Poetry
[Illustration: colophon]
A HOUSEHOLD BOOK
OF
ENGLISH POETRY
SELECTED AND ARRANGED
With Notes
BY
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D.D.
ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN
LONDON
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1868
LONDON: PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
AND PARLIAMENT STREET
PREFACE.
The first question which I asked myself, when I resumed a purpose long
ago entertained, and then for a long while laid aside, of publishing
such a selection of English Poetry as the present, was this, namely,
whether Mr. Palgrave’s _Golden Treasury_ had not so occupied the ground
that there was no room for one who should come after. The selection is
one made with so exact an acquaintance with the sources from which his
_Treasury_ was to be replenished, with so fine a taste in regard of what
was worthy to be admitted there, that this was the conclusion to which
at the first I was disposed to arrive. Presently, however, I saw reason
to change my mind. The volume which I meditated was on so different a
scheme and plan from his, that, while no doubt I should sometimes go
over ground which he had gone over before, it was evident that for the
most part our paths would be different, and my choice not identical with
his. This to so great an extent has proved the case, that of more than
three hundred pieces which compose this volume, less than seventy have
appeared in his. And it is easy to perceive how this should be. His is
a _Treasury of the best songs and lyrical poems in the English
Language_, and of these exclusively; but within this circle he proposes
to include _all_ which is of first-rate excellence in our language by
authors not living. My scheme is at once broader and narrower; broader,
in that I limit myself to no one particular class of poetry, and embrace
the living and the dead alike; narrower, in that I make no attempt to be
exhaustive, or to give more than a very few samples even of the best and
greatest of our poets.
But if Mr. Palgrave had not forestalled me, I certainly did not feel
that any other had so done. Most of the collections which have fallen
under my eye have failed to give me the impression of being the result
of direct and immediate investigation on the part of the collector into
the treasures of our English Poetry. There is so much there which
invites citation, and which has never been cited yet in any of our
popular anthologies, that it is difficult to think that any one who had
himself wandered in this garden of riches would not have carried off
some flowers and fruits of his own gathering; instead of offering to us
again, as most do, though it may be in somewhat different combinations,
what already has been offered by others. When I see, for example, ‘Queen
and huntress chaste and fair,’ doubtless a very graceful lyric, with one
or two other familiar poems, doing duty in one collection after another
as the specimens of Ben Jonson’s verse, it is hard to suppose that his
rich and pleasant _Underwood_ has been wandered through; since in that
case something which others have not brought already would surely have
been brought away from thence; while the specimens from other poets
provoke a similar misgiving. Whatever merit or demerit this may imply,
the volume here presented lays claim to a certain originality--or, if
that word cannot in this matter be allowed,--to a certain independence
of judgment. There has not, indeed, been any attempt, as certainly there
has been no desire, to reverse the general judgment and decision about
the great poems of the language. He who should offer to do this would
merely betray his own presumption, and his unfitness for even so humble
a task as that here attempted. But in poems of a very high merit, which
yet do not attain to the highest rank of all, there is ample space for
the play of such an independent judgment, and I have not hesitated to
exercise this. Many, which almost all collections have hitherto
contained, will be looked for in vain in this; not a few which, so far
as I know, none have included, have found room in it. It is not always
that I have considered what I bring forward _better_ than what to make
place for it I set aside; but where I have only considered it as good,
it has seemed a real gain to put new treasures within the reach of those
who are little able, or, if able, are little likely, to go and discover
such for themselves. But in very many instances I feel sure that what I
have made room for is not merely as good, but better than that which to
make room for it I have dismissed; nor has it been a little pleasure to
draw from obscure retreats, or from retreats only familiar to those who
have made English poetry more or less of a special study, and
acquainted themselves with its bye ways no less than its high ways,
poems which little merit the oblivion into which they had fallen.
I have called this volume a _Household Book of English Poetry_, by this
name implying that it is a book for all, that there is nothing in it to
prevent it from being confidently placed in the hands of every member of
the household. I wish I could have kept it within a moderate size by no
more than the excluding from it everything of inferior value; but it
will be evident to all who are at all acquainted with the inexhaustible
opulence of English Poetry that I could only do this by continual acts
of self-denial, having, at every step of my progress, to set my seal to
the truth of that Eastern proverb which says, ‘You may bring a nosegay
to the city, but you cannot bring the garden.’ This is indeed all which
in this anthology I have attempted. To have allowed it to grow to a
larger bulk would have defeated my hopes that it might be a volume which
the emigrant, finding room for little not absolutely necessary, might
yet find room for it in his trunk, and the traveller in his knapsack,
and that on some narrow shelves where there are few books this might be
one. But indeed the actual amount which such a volume contains, whether
it be much or little, will be of less consequence in our eyes, when once
we have apprehended that Horace was only under the mark when he affirmed
of good poetry that ten times repeated it will please. It would be truer
to say of a poem which in motive, in form, in diction, in melody, in
unity of plan, satisfies all conditions, that it is ‘a joy for ever.’
It is impossible so to draw out the sweetness of it that it shall not
still have as much to yield us, or it maybe more than it had at the
beginning. How many another book, once read, can yield no more pleasure
or profit to us--but poems of the highest order are in their very
essence sources of a delight which is inexhaustible. However much of
this has been drawn from them, as much or more remains behind.
There is another reflection which may console us in leaving so much
untouched, namely, that almost every considerable poet has written
something, in which all that he has of highest and most characteristic
has come to a head. Thus I remember that Wordsworth used to speak of
Shelley’s _Ode to a Skylark_ as the expression of the highest to which
his genius had attained. Wordsworth’s own _Lines on revisiting the banks
of the Wye_, or, higher perhaps even than these, his _Lines suggested by
a picture of Peele Castle in a Storm_, I should regard as fulfilling for
him the same conditions; and what is true of these two, is no less true
of other poets out of number.
I have nowhere given extracts from larger poems, but only poems which
may be regarded as complete in themselves. It is true that I have
sometimes made room for such as, through their length, or through some
other cause, must otherwise have been shut out, by omissions; but only
where I believed these omissions to be real gains; and I do not think I
have anywhere done this without giving warning to the reader. There are,
no doubt, certain inconveniences which attend a resolution only to give
entire poems and not extracts; and this the chief one--that the space
allotted to different poets cannot in all or nearly all instances
represent or correspond to their several importance. Some poets have
thrown all or well nigh all their poetic faculty into the composition of
one or two great poems; and have very seldom indeed allowed themselves
in briefer excursions into the land of song. Others on the contrary, of
not higher, or it may be not nearly so high, a gift, have put a large
part of their strength into these occasional poems, and will therefore
yield for a volume like the present infinitely more than their more
illustrious compeers. Under the action of this rule, and dramatic poetry
being of necessity excluded, there is nothing of Shakespeare’s to choose
from but his Sonnets and his Songs--these certainly being in themselves
much, but still little when compared with what is passed by. Again, one
who does not believe in _Alexander’s Feast_, and still less in the _Ode
on the Death of Mrs. Killigrew_, finds it hard, indeed impossible, to
deal anything approaching to justice to Dryden, or by specimens which
are at his command to afford any true representation of the range of his
powers or the eminence of his place in English literature. It is the
same and nearly to the same extent with Pope; while others, like Gray
and Campbell, get justice and more than justice; though, yielding what
they do, one does not grudge this to them in the least. The
inconvenience would certainly be a grave one, if the volume presented
itself as primarily a Manual of English Poetry, or an assistance to the
study of the history of this; but having quite another as its primary
object, it is one which may very well be borne, while the advantages of
such a rule of selection are undoubted.
I have attached a few notes to this volume. I had intended to add many
more, but under the pressure of events which now claim, and for a long
time to come are likely to claim, nearly all one’s thoughts and leisure,
have been obliged to renounce the carrying of this intention out, and
only to print those which were ready. If in them there is little or
nothing with which professed students of English literature are not
already familiar, I can only urge that this volume was not designed, and
still less were the notes designed, for such; but for readers who,
capable of an intelligent interest in the subject, have yet had neither
time nor opportunity for special studies of their own in it, and who
must therefore rely more or less on the hand-leading of others; nor I
trust shall I be found fault with that I have sometimes taken upon me in
these notes to indicate what seemed worthy of special admiration; or
sought in other ways to plant the reader at that point of view from
which the merits of some poem might be most deeply felt and best
understood. If I am, I must plead in excuse that for myself in other
regions of art, as in music or painting, where I have comparatively
little or no confidence in my own judgment, I have been and often am
most thankful to those, being persons whom I could trust, who have told
me what to admire, and given me the reasons for so doing. If we set
aside a few intuitive geniuses, it is only thus that any of us can ever
hope to be educated into independence of judgment; and I am sure that
some, acknowledging this, will be grateful for notes of admiration, by
which I have sometimes called their attention to that which otherwise
might not obtain it, or might not obtain it to the full of its deserts.
LONDON: _May 8th, 1868_.
A
HOUSEHOLD BOOK
OF
ENGLISH POETRY.
PART THE FIRST.
I
_A MEDITATION UPON THE FRAILTY OF THIS LIFE._
O trifling toys that toss the brains,
While loathsome life doth last;
O wishèd wealth, O sugared joys,
O life when death is past;
Who loaths exchange of loss with gain? 5
Yet loath we death as hell.
What woeful wight would wish his woe?
Yet wish we here to dwell.
O Fancy frail, that feeds on earth,
And stays on slippery joys; 10
O noble mind, O happy man,
That can contemn such toys!
Such toys as neither perfect are,
And cannot long endure;
Our greatest skill, our sweetest joy, 15
Uncertain and unsure.
For life is short, and learning long,
All pleasure mixt with woe;
Sickness and sleep steal time unseen,
And joys do come and go. 20
Thus learning is but learned by halves,
And joy enjoyed no while;
That serves to show thee what thou want’st,
This helps thee to beguile.
But after death is perfect skill, 25
And joy without decay;
When sin is gone, that blinds our eyes,
And steals our joys away;
No crowing cock shall raise us up,
To spend the day in vain; 30
No weary labour shall us drive
To go to bed again.
But for we feel not what we want,
Nor know not what we have;
We love to keep the body’s life, 35
We loath the soul to save.
_Anon._
II
_LOVE THE ONLY PRICE OF LOVE._
The fairest pearls that northern seas do breed,
For precious stones from eastern coasts are sold;
Nought yields the earth that from exchange is freed;
Gold values all, and all things value gold.
Where goodness wants an equal change to make, 5
There greatness serves, or number place doth take.
No mortal thing can bear so high a price,
But that with mortal thing it may be bought;
The corn of Sicil buys the western spice;
French wine of us, of them our cloth is sought. 10
No pearls, no gold, no stones, no corn, no spice,
No cloth, no wine, of Love can pay the price.
What thing is Love, which nought can countervail?
Nought save itself, ev’n such a thing is Love.
All worldly wealth in worth as far doth fail, 15
As lowest earth doth yield to heaven above.
Divine is Love, and scorneth worldly pelf,
And can be bought with nothing but with self.
_Anon._
III
_A POESY TO PROVE AFFECTION IS NOT LOVE_
Conceit, begotten by the eyes,
Is quickly born, and quickly dies;
For while it seeks our hearts to have,
Meanwhile there reason makes his grave:
For many things the eyes approve, 5
Which yet the heart doth seldom love.
For as the seeds, in springtime sown,
Die in the ground ere they be grown;
Such is conceit, whose rooting fails,
As child that in the cradle quails; 10
Or else within the mother’s womb
Hath his beginning, and his tomb.
Affection follows Fortune’s wheels,
And soon is shaken from her heels;
For following beauty or estate, 15
Her liking still is turned to hate;
For all affections have their change,
And Fancy only loves to range.
Desire himself runs out of breath,
And, getting, doth but gain his death; 20
Desire nor reason hath, nor rest,
And, blind, doth seldom choose the best:
Desire attained is not desire,
But as the cinders of the fire.
As ships in ports desired are drowned; 25
As fruit, once ripe, then falls to ground;
As flies, that seek for flames, are brought
To cinders by the flames they sought:
So fond Desire, when it attains,
The life expires, the woe remains. 30
And yet some poets fain would prove
Affection to be perfect love;
And that Desire is of that kind,
No less a passion of the mind,
As if wild beasts and men did seek 35
To like, to love, to choose alike.
_Sir Walter Raleigh._
IV
_LIFE._
The World’s a bubble, and the Life of Man
Less than a span;
In his conception wretched; from the womb
So to the tomb;
Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years 5
With cares and fears.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.
Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best? 10
Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools:
The rural parts are turned into a den
Of savage men:
And where’s a city from foul vice so free, 15
But may be termed the worst of all the three?
Domestic cares afflict the husband’s bed,
Or pains his head:
Those that live single, take it for a curse,
Or do things worse: 20
Some would have children; those that have them, moan,
Or wish them gone:
What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,
But single thraldom, or a double strife?
Our own affections still at home to please 25
Is a disease:
To cross the seas to any foreign soil,
Peril and toil:
Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
We’ are worse in peace:-- 30
What then remains, but that we still should cry
For being born, or, being born, to die?
_Lord Bacon._
V
_NATURAL COMPARISONS WITH PERFECT LOVE._
The lowest trees have tops; the ant her gall;
The fly her spleen; the little sparks their heat:
The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small;
And bees have stings, although they be not great.
Seas have their surges, so have shallow springs; 5
And love is love, in beggars as in kings.
Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords;
The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move;
The firmest faith is in the fewest words;
The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love. 10
True hearts have eyes, and ears, no tongues to speak;
They hear, and see, and sigh; and then they break.
_Anon._
VI
_THE SOUL’S ERRAND._
Go, Soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant.
Go, since I needs must die, 5
And give the world the lie.
Say to the Court it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the Church it shows
What’s good, and doth no good. 10
If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell Potentates they live
Acting by others’ action;
Not loved unless they give, 15
Not strong but by affection.
If Potentates reply,
Give Potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition,
That manage the Estate, 20
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most, 25
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost
Like nothing but commending:
And if they make reply,
Then tell them all they lie. 30
Tell Zeal it wants devotion;
Tell Love it is but lust;
Tell Time it is but motion;
Tell Flesh it is but dust.
And wish them not reply, 35
For thou must give the lie.
Tell Age it daily wasteth;
Tell Honour how it alters;
Tell Beauty how she blasteth;
Tell Favour how it falters. 40
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
Tell Wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell Wisdom she entangles 45
Herself in over-wiseness.
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell Physic of her boldness;
Tell Skill it is pretension; 50
Tell Charity of coldness;
Tell Law it is contention.
And as they do reply,
So give them all the lie.
Tell Fortune of her blindness; 55
Tell Nature of decay;
Tell Friendship of unkindness;
Tell Justice of delay.
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie. 60
Tell Arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell Schools they want profoundness,
And stand so much on seeming.
If Arts and Schools reply, 65
Give Arts and Schools the lie.
Tell Faith it’s fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell Manhood shakes off pity;
Tell Virtue least preferreth. 70
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,
Because to give the lie 75
Deserves no less than stabbing,
Stab at thee who that will,
No stab the soul can kill.
_Anon._.
VII
1
_MUNDUS QUALIS._
What is the world? tell, worldling, if thou know it.
If it be good, why do all ills o’erflow it?
If it be bad, why dost thou like it so?
If it be sweet, how comes it bitter then?
If it be bitter, what bewitcheth men? 5
If it be friend, why kills it, as a foe,
Vain-minded men that over-love and lust it?
If it be foe, fondling, how dar’st thou trust it?
2
_EMBLEMA._
Friend faber, cast me a round hollow ball,
Blown full of wind, for emblem of this All;
Adorn it fair, and flourish every part
With flowers and fruits, with brooks, beasts, fish, and fowl,
With rarest cunning of thy curious art: 5
And grave in gold, about my silver bowl,
_Thus rolls the world, the idol of mankind,
Whose fruit is fiction; whose foundation wind_.
3
_FUIMUS FUMUS._
Where, where are now the great reports
Of those huge haughty earthborn giants?
Where are the lofty towers and forts
Of those proud kings bade Heaven defiance?
When these I to my mind revoke, 5
Methinks I see a mighty smoke
Thick mounting from quick-burning matter,
Which in an instant winds do scatter.
4
_OMNIA SOMNIA._
Go, silly worm, drudge, trudge, and travel,
Despising pain, so thou may’st gain
Some honour or some golden gravel;
But death the while, to fill his number,
With sudden call takes thee from all, 5
To prove thy days but dream and slumber.
5
_MORS MORTIS._
The World and Death one day them cross-disguisèd,
To cozen man, when sin had once beguiled him.
Both called him forth, and questioning advisèd
To say whose servant he would fairly yield him.
Man, weening then but to the World to’ have given him, 5
By the false World became the slave of Death;
But from their fraud he did appeal by faith
To HIM whose death killed Death, and from the world has driven him.
_Joshua Sylvester._
VIII
_THE STORY OF A SUMMER DAY._
O perfect Light, which shaid away
The darkness from the light,
And set a ruler o’er the day,
Another o’er the night;
Thy glory, when the day forth flies, 5
More vively does appear,
Than at midday unto our eyes
The shining sun is clear.
The shadow of the earth anon
Removes and drawis by, 10
While in the east, when it is gone,
Appears a clearer sky.
Which soon perceive the little larks,
The lapwing and the snipe,
And tune their songs, like Nature’s clerks, 15
O’er meadow, muir, and stripe.
Our hemisphere is polished clean,
And lightened more and more;
While everything is clearly seen,
Which seemèd dim before: 20
Except the glistering astres bright,
Which all the night were clear,
Offuskèd with a greater light
No longer do appear.
The golden globe incontinent 25
Sets up his shining head,
And o’er the earth and firmament
Displays his beams abread.
For joy, the birds with boulden throats
Against his visage sheen 30
Take up their kindly music notes
In woods and gardens green.
The dew upon the tender crops,
Like pearles white and round,
Or like to melted silver drops, 35
Refreshes all the ground.
The misty reek, the clouds of rain
From tops of mountains skails,
Clear are the highest hills and plain,
The vapours take the vales. 40
The ample heaven, of fabric sure,
In cleanness does surpass
The crystal and the silver pure,
Or clearest polished glass.
The time so tranquil is and still, 45
That no where shall ye find,
Save on a high and barren hill,
The air of peeping wind.
All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear, 50
Than they were painted on a wall,
No more they move or steir.
Calm is the deep and purple sea,
Yea, smoother than the sand;
The waves, that weltering wont to be, 55
Are stable like the land.
So silent is the cessile air,
That every cry and call,
The hills and dales and forest fair
Again repeats them all. 60
The flourishes and fragrant flowers,
Through Phœbus’ fostering heat,
Refreshed with dew and silver showers,
Cast up an odour sweet.
The cloggèd busy humming bees, 65
That never think to drone,
On flowers and flourishes of trees,
Collect their liquor brown.
The sun, most like a speedy post,
With ardent course ascends; 70
The beauty of the heavenly host
Up to our zenith tends;
Not guided by a Phaëthon,
Not trainèd in a chair,
But by the high and holy One, 75
Who does all where empíre.
The burning beams down from his face
So fervently can beat,
That man and beast now seek a place
To save them from the heat. 80
The herds beneath some leafy tree,
Amidst the flowers they lie;
The stable ships upon the sea
Tend up their sails to dry.
With gilded eyes and open wings, 85
The cock his courage shows;
With claps of joy his breast he dings,
And twenty times he crows.
The dove with whistling wings so blue,
The winds can fast collect, 90
Her purple pens turn many a hue
Against the sun direct.
Now noon is went; gone is midday,
The heat does slake at last,
The sun descends down west away, 95
For three o’clock is past.
The rayons of the sun we see
Diminish in their strength,
The shade of every tower and tree
Extended is in length. 100
Great is the calm, for everywhere
The wind is setting down,
The reek throws right up in the air
From every tower and town.
The gloming comes, the day is spent, 105
The sun goes out of sight,
And painted is the occident
With purple sanguine bright.
The scarlet nor the golden thread,
Who would their beauty try, 110
Are nothing like the colour red
And beauty of the sky.
Our west horizon circular,
From time the sun be set,
Is all with rubies, as it were, 115
Or roses red o’erfret.
What pleasure were to walk and see,
Endlong a river clear,
The perfect form of every tree
Within the deep appear. 120
Oh then it were a seemly thing,
While all is still and calm,
The praise of God to play and sing
With cornet and with shalm!
All labourers draw home at even, 125
And can to other say,
Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
Which sent this summer day.
_Alexander Hume._
IX
_A VOW TO LOVE FAITHFULLY, HOWSOEVER HE BE REWARDED._
Set me whereas the sun doth parch the green,
Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice;
In temperate heat where he is felt and seen;
In presence prest of people, mad or wise;
Set me in high, or yet in low degree; 5
In longest night, or in the shortest day;
In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be;
In lusty youth, or when my hairs are gray:
Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell,
In hill or dale, or in the foaming flood; 10
Thrall, or at large, alive whereso I dwell,
Sick or in health, in evil fame or good,
Hers will I be; and only with this thought
Content myself, although my chance be nought.
_Earl of Surrey._
X
_AN APPEAL._
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet when first began 5
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service none tell can;
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways; 10
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!
Forget not! oh! forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is
The mind that never meant amiss-- 15
Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved--
Forget not this! 20
_Sir Thomas Wyat._
XI
_A RENUNCIATION._
If women could be fair, and yet not fond,
Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,
I would not marvel that they make men bond
By service long to purchase their good will;
But when I see how frail those creatures are, 5
I muse that men forget themselves so far.
To mark the choice they make, and how they change,
How oft from Phœbus they do flee to Pan;
Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,
These gentle birds that fly from man to man; 10
Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,
And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?
Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when nothing else can please,
And train them to our lure with subtle oath, 15
Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;
And then we say when we their fancy try,
To play with fools, oh what a fool was I!
_Earl of Oxford._
XII
_THE EXCELLENCY OF HIS LOVE._
Give place, ye lovers, here before
That spent your boasts and brags in vain:
My lady’s beauty passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well say’n,
Than doth the sun the candle light, 5
Or brightest day the darkest night.
And thereto hath a troth as just
As had Penelope the fair;
For what she saith, ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealèd were; 10
And virtues hath she many mo,
Than I with pen have skill to show.
I could rehearse, if that I would,
The whole effect of Nature’s plaint,
When she had lost the perfect mould, 15
The like to whom she could not paint:
With wringing hands how she did cry,
And what she said, I know it, I.
I know she swore with raging mind,
Her kingdom only set apart, 20
There was no loss by law of kind
That could have gone so near her heart;
And this was chiefly all her pain:
‘She could not make the like again.’
Sith Nature thus gave her the praise 25
To be the chiefest work she wrought;
In faith, methink! some better ways
On your behalf might well be sought,
Than to compare, as ye have done,
To match the candle with the sun. 30
_Earl of Surrey._
XIII
When first mine eyes did view and mark
Thy beauty fair for to behold,
And when mine ears ’gan first to hark
The pleasant words that thou me told,
I would as then I had been free 5
From ears to hear, and eyes to see.
And when in mind I did consent
To follow thus my fancy’s will,
And when my heart did first relent
To taste such bait, myself to spill, 10
I would my heart had been as thine,
Or else thy heart as soft as mine.
O flatterer false! thou traitor born,
What mischief more might thou devise
Than thy dear friend to have in scorn, 15
And him to wound in sundry wise;
Which still a friend pretends to be,
And art not so by proof I see?
Fie, fie upon such treachery!
_William Hunnis._
XIV
_TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS._
I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair,
And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, had power to move thee;
But I can let thee now alone, 5
As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou’rt sweet, but find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind,
That kisses everything it meets: 10
And since thou can with more than one,
Thou’rt worthy to be kissed by none.
The morning rose that untouched stands,
Armed with her briars, how sweetly smells
But, plucked and strained through ruder hands, 15
Her scent no longer with her dwells.
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been a while; 20
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside;--
And I will sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love for more than one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.
_Sir Robert Aytoun._
XV
_THE SHEPHERDS FAREWELL._
While that the sun with his beams hot
Scorchèd the fruits in vale and mountain,
Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
In shadow of a green oak tree 5
Upon his pipe this song playèd he:
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
So long as I was in your sight, 10
I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
And evermore you sobbed and sighed,
Burning in flames beyond all measure:
Three days endured your love to me,
And it was lost in other three! 15
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Another shepherd you did see,
To whom your heart was soon enchainèd; 20
Full soon your love was leapt from me,
Full soon my place he had obtainèd.
Soon came a third, your love to win,
And we were out, and he was in.
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love, 25
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Sure you have made me passing glad
That you your mind so soon removèd,
Before that I the leisure had 30
To choose you for my best belovèd:
For all your love was past and done
Two days before it was begun:--
Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love; 35
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
_Anon._
XVI
_SONNET._
Rudely thou wrongest my dear hearts desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride:
The thing which I do most in her admire,
Is of the world unworthy most envíed;
For in those lofty looks is close implied 5
Scorn of base things and sdeign of foul dishonour,
Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they ne dare to look upon her.
Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour;
That boldness innocence bears in her eyes; 10
And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner,
Spreads in defiance of all enemies.
Was never in this world ought worthy tried,
Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.
_Edmund Spenser._
XVII
_SONNET._
Like as a huntsman after weary chace,
Seeing the game from him escaped away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguilèd of their prey;
So after long pursuit and vain assay, 5
When I all weary had the chace forsook,
The gentle deer returned the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook;
There she beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide, 10
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own good-will her firmly tied;
Strange thing meseemed to see a beast so wild
So goodly won, with her own will beguiled.
_Edmund Spenser._
XVIII
_A VISION UPON THE FAIRY QUEEN._
Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and passing by that way
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, 5
All suddenly I saw The Fairy Queen:
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept;
And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura’s hearse. 10
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce,
Where Homer’s spright did tremble all for grief,
And cursed the access of that celestial thief.
_Sir Walter Raleigh._
XIX
_THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE._
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, [or] hills and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks, 5
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies, 10
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-linèd slippers for the cold, 15
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love. 20
Thy silver dishes for thy meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall, on an ivory table, be
Prepared each day for thee and me.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 25
For thy delight each May-morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
_Christopher Marlowe._
XX
_THE ANSWER._
If all the world and Love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love,
Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 5
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
Then Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields; 10
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten; 15
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To come to thee, and be thy love. 20
What should we talk of dainties then,
Of better meat than’s fit for men?
These are but vain: that’s only good
Which God hath blessed and sent for food.
But could youth last, and love still breed, 25
Had joys no date, nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
_Anon._
XXI
_SAMELA._
Like to Diana in her summer weed,
Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,
Goes fair Samela;
Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,
When washed by Arethusa faint they lie, 5
Is fair Samela;
As fair Aurora in her morning grey,
Decked with the ruddy glister of her love,
Is fair Samela;
Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd day, 10
Whenas her brightness Neptune’s fancy move,
Shines fair Samela;
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory
Of fair Samela; 15
Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams,
Her brows’ bright arches framed of ebony;
Thus fair Samela
Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,
And Juno in the show of majesty, 20
For she’s Samela:
Pallas in wit, all three, if you will view,
For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity
Yield to Samela.
_Robert Greene._
XXII
_SILENT MUSIC._
Rose-cheeked Laura, come!
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’s
Silent music, either other
Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow 5
From concent divinely framed,
Heaven is music, and thy beauty’s
Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them; 10
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord;
But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renewed by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-selves eternal. 15
_Thomas Campion._
XXIII
_TRIUMPH OF CHARIS._
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty 5
Unto her beauty,
And enamoured do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. 10
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love’s world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love’s star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother 15
Than words that soothe her!
And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good of the elements’ strife. 20
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall o’ the snow,
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver? 25
Or swan’s down ever?
Or have smelt o’ the bud of the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag o’ the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! 30
_Ben Jonson._
XXIV
_A BRIDAL SONG_
Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden-pinks, of odour faint;
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, 5
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time’s harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing, 10
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Lark-heels trim;
All, dear Nature’s children sweet,
Lie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,
Blessing their sense! 15
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious, or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar, 20
Nor chattering pie,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
_Beaumont and Fletcher._
XXV
_SONNET._
You that do search for every purling spring,
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts, into your posy wring;
You that do dictionaries’ method bring 5
Into your rhymes, running in rattling rows;
You that poor Petrarch’s long deceasèd woes
With new-born sighs and wit disguisèd sing;
You take wrong ways: those far-fetched helps be such
As do bewray a want of inward touch: 10
And sure at length stoln goods do come to light.
But if (both for your love and skill) your name
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of fame,
Stella behold, and then begin to’ endite.
_Sir Philip Sidney._
XXVI
_SONNET._
Come Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,
The indifferent Judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease 5
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw.
Oh! make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise, and blind of light, 10
A rosy garland, and a weary head:
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella’s image see.
_Sir Philip Sidney._
XXVII
_SONNET._
To yield to those I cannot but disdain,
Whose face doth but entangle foolish hearts;
It is the beauty of the better parts,
With which I mind my fancies for to chain.
Those that have nought wherewith men’s minds to gain, 5
But only curlèd locks and wanton looks,
Are but like fleeting baits that have no hooks,
Which may well take, but cannot well retain.
He that began to yield to the outward grace,
And then the treasures of the mind doth prove, 10
He who as ’twere was with the mask in love,
What doth he think whenas he sees the face?
No doubt being limed by the outward colours so,
That inward worth would never let him go.
_Earl of Stirling._
XXVIII
_SONNET._
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste;
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 5
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long-since-cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er 10
The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before:--
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
_William Shakespeare._
XXIX
_SONNET._
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 5
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; 10
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you--you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
_William Shakespeare._
XXX
_SONNET._
Oh how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 5
As the perfumèd tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses;
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwooed, and unrespected fade; 10
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distils your truth.
_William Shakespeare._
XXXI
_SONNET._
A good that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April flowers,
A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A honour that more fickle is than wind, 5
A glory at opinion’s frown that lowers,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness, in effect a dream, 10
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, decked with a pompous name;
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errors know.
_William Drummond._
XXXII
_SONNET._
Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,
The morning’s darling late, the summer’s queen,
Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so my life, contentments being dead, 5
Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
As doth the pilgrim therefore, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, 10
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what yet rests thee of life’s wasting day;
Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.
_William Drummond._
XXXIII
_SONNET._
Alexis, here she stayed; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines.
She sat her by these muskèd eglantines, 5
The happy place the print seems yet to bear;
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugared lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds did lend an ear.
Me here she first perceived, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did o’erspread her face: 10
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
Here first I got a pledge of promised grace:
But ah! what served it to be happy so?
Sith passèd pleasures double but new woe?
_William Drummond._
XXXIV
_SONNET._
Sweet spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers;
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers,
Thou turn’st, sweet youth; but ah! my pleasant hours 5
And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair; 10
But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air,
Is gone; nor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected Virtue! seasons go and come,
When thine, forgot, lie closèd in a tomb.
_William Drummond._
XXXV
_SONNET._
Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part--
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 5
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of love’s latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, 10
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his eyes,--
Now if thou would’st, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!
_Michael Drayton._
XXXVI
_A SAD SONG._
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:
Violets plucked, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again;
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; 5
Fate’s hidden ends eyes cannot see:
Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo. 10
_Beaumont and Fletcher._
XXXVII
_INVOCATION TO SLEEP._
Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving
Lock me in delight awhile;
Let some pleasing dreams beguile
All my fancies; that from thence
I may feel an influence, 5
All my powers of care bereaving!
Though but a shadow, but a sliding,
Let me know some little joy!
We that suffer long annoy
Are contented with a thought, 10
Through an idle fancy wrought:
Oh, let my joys have some abiding!
_Beaumont and Fletcher._
XXXVIII
_SONG._
Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm 5
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
_Beaumont and Fletcher._
XXXIX
_THE SHEPHERD’S PRAISE OF HIS SACRED DIANA._
Praised be Diana’s fair and harmless light,
Praised be the dews, wherewith she moists the ground:
Praised be her beams, the glory of the night,
Praised be her power, by which all powers abound.
Praised be her nymphs, with whom she decks the woods,
Praised be her knights, in whom true honour lives: 6
Praised be that force by which she moves the floods,
Let that Diana shine which all these gives.
In heaven Queen she is among the spheres,
She, mistress-like, makes all things to be pure; 10
Eternity in her oft change she bears,
She beauty is, by her the fair endure.
Time wears her not, she doth his chariot guide,
Mortality below her orb is placed;
By her the virtue of the stars down slide, 15
In her is Virtue’s perfect image cast.
A knowledge pure it is her worth to know:
With Circe let them dwell that think not so.
_Anon._
XL
_TRUE GROWTH._
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make men better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day 5
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be. 10
_Ben Jonson._
XLI
_THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT_
Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main, 5
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort, 10
Marched towards Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French general lay 15
With all his power.
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the King sending; 20
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men, 25
Quoth our brave Henry then,
‘Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazèd.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won 30
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raisèd.
‘And for myself,’ quoth he,
‘This my full rest shall be;
England ne’er mourn for me, 35
Nor more esteem me.
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me. 40