Posts tagged ‘1585’

Friday, 22 July 2016

Sonnet [on James VI of Scotland, I of England] by Thomas Hudson

If Martiall deeds, and practise of the pen
Have wonne to auncient Grece a worthie fame:
If Battels bold, and Bookes of learned men
Have magnified the mightie Romain name:
Then place this Prince, who well deserves the fame:
Since he is one of Mars and Pallas race:
For both the Godds in him have sett in frame
Their vertewes both, which both, he doth embrace.
O Macedon, adornde with heavenly grace,
O Romain stout, decorde with learned skill,
The Monarks all to thee shall quite their place:
Thy endles fame shall all the world fulfill.
And after thee, none worthier shalbe seene,
To sway the Sword, and gaine the Laurell greene.

From: James VI of Scotland, 1 of England and Arber, Edward (ed.), The Essayes of a Prentise, in the Divine Art of Poesie. Edinburgh. 1585. A Counterblaste to Tobacco. London, 1604, 1869, English Reprints: Birminham, p. 9.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=g2ILAAAAIAAJ)

Date: 1585

By: Thomas Hudson (d. ?1605)

Friday, 15 April 2016

Thoughe I Seeme Straunge Sweet Freende Be Thou Not So by Anne Vavasour Field Richardson

Thoughe I seeme straunge sweete freende be thou not so
Do not annoy thy selfe with sullen will
Myne harte hathe voude allthoughe my tongue saye noe
To be thyne owne in freendly liking styll
Thou seeste me live amongest the Lynxes eyes
That pryes innto each privy thoughte of mynde
Thou knowest ryghte well what sorrows may aryse
Ife once they chaunce my setled lookes to fynde
Contente thy selfe that once I made an othe
To sheylde my selfe in shrowde of honest shame
And when thou lyste make tryall of my trouthe
So that thou save the honoure of my name
And let me seme althoughe I be not coye
To cloak my sadd conceyts with smylinge cheere
Let not my jestures showe wherein to joye
Nor by my lookes let not my loue appeere.
We seely dames that falles suspecte, do feare
And live within the moughte of envyes lake
Muste in oure heartes a secrete meaning beare
Far from the reste whiche outwardlye we make
Go where I lyke, I lyste not vaunte my love
where I desyre there moste I fayne debate
One hathe my hande an other hathe my glove,
But he my harte whome I seeme most to hate
Then farewell freende I will continue straunge
Thou shalt not heere by worde or writinge oughte
Let it suffice my vowe shall never chaunge
As for the rest I leave yt to thy thoughte.

From: Stevenson, Jane and Davidson, Peter (ed.), Early Modern Women Poets (1520-1700): An Anthology, 2001, Oxford University Press: Oxford, pp. 79-80.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=EynvtQmeW-kC)

Date: 1585

By: Anne Vavasour Field Richardson (c1560-c1650)

Sunday, 29 June 2014

Excerpt from “Il Pastor Fido: Or, The Faithful Shepherd” by Giovanni Battista Guarini

O simpleton! and who forbids thy bliss?
Life is too short to let it pass away
With but a single lover; men besides
(Whether from cruelty or nature’s fault)
Are far too sparing of their favors to us;
And we’re no longer precious in their eyes
Than while the bloom of youth adorns our face.
Take youth and beauty from us, we remain
Like the forlorn abodes bees once possess’d,
Of all their honey rifled, barren trunks
That stand unheeded, all their sweetness gone.
Leave therefore men to prattle as they please,
Because they neither know nor ever feel
The troubles wretched women bear. Our case
Alas! is much unlike to that of men.
They in perfection as in age increase;
Wisdom the loss of every grace supplies;
But when our youth and beauty (which so oft
Conquer the wit and strength of men) are fled,
All’s gone with us; nor is it in thy power
To think or speak of aught so poor or vile
As an old woman. Therefore ere thou come
To this our universal misery,
Know thine own worth, nor play so poor a part
To live in sorrow, when thou may’st in joy.
What would superior strength avail the lion,
Or judgment men, unless ‘twere turn’d to use?
As then our beauty is our only strength,
Let us use it while we may,
And snatch those joys that haste away;
The changeful year its loss regains,
Spring clothes anew the desert plains,
But when the spring of beauty’s o’er,
Nought can our faded charms restore;
When age’s snow our heads shall cover,
Love may return but not a lover.

From: Guarini, Battista and Clapperton, William, Il Pastor Fido: Or, The Faithful Shepherd: A Pastoral Tragi-Comedy, attempted in English blank verse , from the Italian of Signor Cavalier Giovanni Battista Guarini, 1809, C. Stewart: Edinburgh, pp. 104-105.
(http://books.google.com.au/books?id=zQoJAAAAQAAJ)

Date: 1585 (Italian original); 1809 (translation)

By: Giovanni Battista Guarini (1538-1612)

Translated by: William Clapperton (c1779-18??)

Saturday, 11 January 2014

I Serve a Mistress by Anthony Munday

I serve a mistress whiter than snow,
Straighter than cedar, brighter than the glass,
Finer in trip and swifter than the roe,
More pleasant than the field of flowering grass;
More gladsome to my withering joys that fade,
Than winter’s sun or summer’s cooling shade.

Sweeter than swelling grape of ripest wine,
Softer than feathers of the fairest swan,
Smoother than jet, more stately than the pine,
Fresher than poplar, smaller than my span,
Clearer than beauty’s fiery pointed beam,
Or icy crust of crystal’s frozen stream.

Yet is she curster than the bear by kind,
And harder hearted than the agèd oak,
More glib than oil, more fickle than the wind,
Stiffer than steel, no sooner bent but broke.
Lo! thus my service is a lasting sore;
Yet will I serve, although I die therefore.

From: http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/munday01.html#1

Date: 1585

By: Anthony Munday (?1560-1633)