Posts tagged ‘1593’

Thursday, 19 April 2018

The Death of Shore’s Wife (Jane Shore) from “Beawtie Dishonoured Written Under the Title of Shores Wife Chascun se Plaist ou il se Trouve Mieux” by Anthony Chute

For even as looketh at the sunnes late sitting
A witherd lilly, dry’d, and saplesse quyte,
And in her weakned leaves, inwardly knitting,
Seem’s dead: and yet, retaines a perfect white:
So seem’d her face, when now her fayre did fall
That death still fear’d she would not dye at all.

He saw’t, and sigh’d, and yet he could not see,
Cause to induce his hope-perswading eye,
To thincke that there was any cause that shee,
Could be so passing fayre and yet could dye:
He thinckes the bewtious never life should loose
And yet withall he thinckes, she should not choose:

O what a combat wrought her life and death,
Both clayming interest in her end, to spill her,
Life would not that the fayre should loose her breath:
Death would not loose his right, yet would not kill her,
But lookes upon her with a curious eye,
Doubting (though she were dead) she could not dye.

At last, perswading palenesse seem’s to say,
O she is dead, her breathlesse sences fayled,
Her life hath lost her joy, her death his pray,
And now nor her life, nor her death avayled,
O then did any ever ought else trye
Then life or death that maketh us to dye.

Death tooke delight in her, untill she dyed,
Life fed upon her lookes, he did so way her,
Death and his life upon her end relied,
And greeving life likt her she was so fayre
This lent her living: that prolong’d her breath,
O then ther’s somthing else that kills then death.

For he wisht that he were not death, she might not dye,
Pittieng in this, he greeves he wanteth pietie,
Tyrant in Acte, his will doth this deny
That her death should conferme him in his diety:
And rather then of life he would bereave her
He would give leave to all, to live for ever,

Rather then she should not, he would not be,
Or to a mortall being he would bow,
So she might, all should live as well as she,
(For death did never doubt untill t’was now)
And yet by death if she might gained be,
The world should dye and none should live but she,

But as a Christall with a tender breath
Receives dim thicknesse, and doth seeme obscure
So darkt with palenesse of a breath’d on death
(If it were death that did this darke procure,)
She seem’s alive and yet ah she was gone
And then life greev’d, and death did fetch a grone.

Yet would they part the remnant of her being
Her body went to death: her fame to life
Thus life, and death, in unitie agreeing
Dated the tenor of their sonderie strife,
Death vow’d her body should be eyed never,
Yet life hath vow’d her fame should live for ever.

From: Chute, Anthony, Beawtie dishonoured written under the title of Shores wife Chascun se plaist ou il se trouve mieux, 2005, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan and Oxford, pp. 52-54.
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A18771.0001.001)

Date: 1593

By: Anthony Chute (fl. 1590-1595)

Monday, 15 August 2016

An Elegy; or, Friend’s Passion for his Astrophel by Matthew Roydon

As then, no winde at all there blew,
No swelling cloude accloid the aire,
The skie, like grasse of watchet hew,
Reflected Phoebus golden haire,
The garnisht tree, no pendant stird;
No voice was heard of anie Bird.

There might you see the burly Beare,
The Lion king, the Elephant,
The maiden Unicorne was there;
So was Acteons horned plant,
And what of wilde or tame are found,
Were coucht in order on the ground.

Alcides speckled poplar tree,
The palme that Monarchs do obtaine,
With love juice staind the mulberie,
The fruit that dewes the Poets brain,
And Phillis philbert there away,
Comparde with mirtle and the bay.

The tree that coffins doth adorne,
With stately height threatning the skie,
And for the bed of Love forlorne,
The blacke and dolefull Ebonie;
All in a circle compast were,
Like to an Ampitheater.

Upon the branches of those trees,
The airie winged people sat,
Distinguished in od degrees,
One sort is this, another that,
Here Philomell, that knowes full well,
What force and wit in love doth dwell.

The skiebred Egle roiall bird,
Percht there upon an oke above,
The Turtle by him never stird,
Example of immortall love.
The Swan that sings about to dy,
Leaving Meander stood thereby.

And that which was of woonder most,
The Phoenix left sweet Arabie:
And on a Cedar in this coast,
Built up her tombe of spicerie,
As I conjecture by the same,
Preparde to take her dying flame.

In midst and center of this plot,
I saw one groveling on the grasse:
A man or stone, I knew not that,
No stone, of man the figure was,
And yet I could not count him one,
More than the image made of stone.

At length I might perceive him reare
His bodie on his elbow end:
Earthly and pale with gastly cheare,
Upon his knees he upward tend,
Seeming like one in uncouth stound,
To be ascending out the ground.

A grievous sigh forthwith he throwes,
As might have torne the vitall strings,
Then down his cheeks the teares so flows,
As doth the streame of many springs.
So thunder rends the cloud in twaine,
And makes a passage for the raine.

Incontinent with trembling sound,
He wofully gan to complaine,
Such were the accents as might wound,
And teare a diamond rocke in twaine,
After his throbs did somewhat stay,
Thus heavily he gan to say.

O sunne (said he) seeing the sunne,
On wretched me why dost thou shine,
My star is falne, my comfort done,
Out is the apple of mine eine,
Shine upon those possesse delight,
And let me live in endlesse night.

O griefe that liest upon my soule,
As heavie as a mount of lead,
The temnant of my life controll,
Consort me quickly with the dead,
Halfe of this hart, this sprite and will,
Di’de in the brest of Astrophill.

And you compassionate of my wo,
Gentle birds, beasts, and shadie trees,
I am assurde ye long to kno,
What be the sorrowes me aggriev’s,
Listen ye then to that insu’th,
And hear a tale of teares and ruthe.

You knew, who knew not Astrophill,
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still)
Things knowne permit me to renew
Of him you know his merit such,
I cannot say, you heare too much.

Within these woods of Arcadie
He chief delight and pleasure tooke,
And on the mountaine Parthenie,
Upon the chrystall liquid brooke,
The Muses met him ev’ry day,
That taught him sing, to write, and say,

When he descended down the mount,
His personage seemed more divine,
A thousand graces one might count,
Upon his lovely cheerfull eine,
To hear him speake and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.

A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face,
The lineaments of Gospell bookes,
I trowe that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.

Was never eie, did see that face,
Was never eare, did heare that tong,
Was never minde, did minde his grace,
That ever thought the travell long,
But eies, and eares, and every thought,
Were with his sweete perfections caught.

O God, that such a worthy man,
In whom so rare desarts did raigne,
Desired thus, must leave us than,
And we to wish for him in vaine,
O could the stars that bred that wit,
In force no longer fixed sit.

Then being fild with learned dew,
The Muses willed him to love,
That instrument can aptly shew,
How finely our conceits will move,
As Bacchus opes dissembled harts,
So love sets out our better parts.

Stella, a Nymph within this wood,
Most rare and rich of heav’nly blis,
The highest in his fancie stood,
And she could well demerite this:
‘Tis likely they acquainted soone,
He was a Sun, and she a Moone.

Our Astrophill did Stella love,
O Stella vaunt of Astrophill,
Albeit thy graces gods may move,
Where wilt thou find an Astrophill,
The rose and lillie have their prime,
And so hath beautie but a time.

Although thy beautie do exceed,
In common sight of ev’ry eie,
Yet in his Poesies when we reede,
It is apparent more thereby,
He thee hath love and judgment too,
Sees more than any other doo.

Then Astrophill hath honord thee,
For when thy bodie is extinct,
Thy graces shall eternall be,
And live by vertue of his inke,
For by his verses he doth give,
To short livde beautie aye to live.

Above all others, this is hee,
Which erst approved in his song,
That love and honor might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints, it is no sinne nor Blame
To love a man of vertuous name.

Did never love so sweetly breath
In any mortall brest before,
Did never Muse inspire beneath,
A Poets braine with finer store:
He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beautie reard above her height.

Then Pallas afterward attyrde,
Our Astrophill with her device,
Whom in his armor heaven admyrde,
As of the nation of the skies,
He sparkled in his armes afarrs,
As he were dight with fiery starrs.

The blaze whereof when Mars beheld,
(An envious eie doth see afar)
Such majesie (quoth he) is seeld,
Such majestie my mart may mar,
Perhaps this may a suter be,
To set Mars by his deitie.

In this surmize he made with speede,
An iron cane wherein he put,
The thunder that in cloudes doth breede,
The flame and bolt togither shut,
With privie force burst out againe,
And so our Astrophill was slaine.

This word (was slaine) straightway did move,
And nature’s inward life strings twitch;
The skie immediately above,
Was dimd with hideous clouds of pitch,
The wrastling winds from out the ground,
Fild all the aire with ratling sound.

The bending trees exprest a grone,
And sighd the sorrow of his fall;
The forrest beasts made ruthfull mone,
The birds did tune their mourning call,
And Philomell for Astrophill,
Unto her notes annext a phill.

The Turtle dove, with Tunes of ruthe,
Shewd feeling passion of his death,
Me thought she said I tell the truthe,
Was never he that drew in breath,
Unto his love more trustie found,
Than he for whom our griefs abound.

The swan that was in presence heere,
Began his funerall dirge to sing,
Good things (quoth he) may scarce appeere,
But passe away with speedie wing.
This mortall life, as death is tride,
And death gives life, and so he di’de.

The general sorrow that was made,
Among the creatures of kinde,
Fired the Phoenix where she laide,
Her ashes flying with the winde,
So as I might with reason see,
That such a Phoenix nere should bee.

Haply the cinders driven about,
May breede an offspring neere that kinde,
But hardly a peere to that I doubt.
It cannot sinke into my minde,
That under branches ere can bee
Of worth and value as the tree.

The Egle markt with pearcing sight,
The mournfull habit of the place,
And parted thence with mounting flight,
To signifie to Jove the case,
What sorrow nature doth sustaine,
For Astrophill by envie slaine.

And while I followed with mine eie,
The flight the Egle upward tooke,
All things did vanish by and by,
And disappeared from my looke,
The trees, beasts, birds, and grove was gone,
So was the friend that made this mone.

This spectacle had firmly wrought,
A deep compassion in my spright,
My molting hart issude me thought,
In streames forth at mine eies aright,
And here my pen is forst to shrinke,
My teares discollors so mine inke.

From: http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?textsid=32828

Date: 1593

By: Matthew Roydon (c1550-1622)

Saturday, 9 January 2016

Her Face, Her Tongue, Her Wit by Arthur Gorges

Her Face, her Tonge, her Wytte
So fayre, so sweete, so sharpe,
First bent, then drew, then hytte,
Myne Eye, mine Eare, my Hartt.

Myne eye, mine eare, mine Harte,
To Lyke, to Learne, to Love,
Your face, your Tongue, your Wytt
Doth Leade, doth teache, doth move.

Her face, her Tongue, her Wytt,
With Beames, with Sound, with Arte
Doth bynde, doth Charme, doth Rule,
myne eye, myne eare, my harte.

Myne eye, myne eare, my harte,
with Lyfe, with Hope, with Skill
Your face, your Tonge, your wytt,
Doth feed, doth feast, doth fill.

Oh face, oh Tonge, oh Wytte
with Frownes, with Checkes, with Smarte
wronge not, vex not, wound not
myne eye, myne eare, my Harte.

This Eye, this Eare, this Harte,
Shall joy, shall bynd, shall sweare,
Yowr Face, yowr Tonge, your Wytt
To Serve, to Love, to Feare.

From: http://www.poetrynook.com/poem/her-face-her-tongue-her-wit

Date: 1593

By: Arthur Gorges (c1569-1625)

Saturday, 8 February 2014

Sonnet 53 by Thomas Watson

In clowdes she shines and so obscurely shineth,
That like a mastles shipe at seas I wander:
For want of her to guide my hart that pineth,
Yet can I not entreat yet ne yet command her.
So I am tied in Laborinths of fancy,
In darke and obscure Laborinths of love:
That everie one may plaine behold that can see,
How I am fetterd and what paines I prove.
The Lampe whose light should lead my ship about,
Is placed upon my Mistres heavenlie face.
Her hand doth hold the clew must lead me out,
And free my hart from thraldomes lothed place.
But cleave to lead me out or Lampe to light me,
She scornefullie denide, the more to spight me.

From: http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/watson

Date: 1593

By: Thomas Watson (1555-1592)

Wednesday, 22 January 2014

Sonnet 47 by Barnabe Barnes

Give me my Heart! For no man liveth heartles!
And now deprived of heart I am but dead,
(And since thou hast it, in his tables read!
Whether he rest at ease, in joys and smartless?
Whether beholding him thine eyes were dartless?
Or to what bondage his enthralment leads?)
Return, dear Heart! and me to mine restore!
Ah, let me thee possess! Return to me!
I find no means, devoid of skill and artless.
Thither return, where thou triumphed before!
Let me of him but repossessor be!
And when thou gives to me mine heart again
Thyself thou dost bestow! For thou art She!
Whom I call Heart! and of whom I complain.

From: http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/barnes

Date: 1593

By: Barnabe Barnes (?1569-1609)

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

Sonnet XXVIII by Giles Fletcher the Elder

In time the strong and stately turrets fall.
In time the rose and silver lilies die.
In time the monarchs captive are and thrall.
In time the sea and rivers are made dry.
The hardest flint in time doth melt asunder
Still living fame, in time doth fade away.
The mountains proud we see in time come under:
And earth for aye we see in time decay.
The sun in time forgets for to retire
From out the East, where he was wont to rise.
The basest thoughts, we see in time aspire.
And greedy minds, in time do wealth despise.
Thus all, sweet Fair, in time must have an end:
Except thy beauty, virtues, and thy friend.

From: http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/fletcher

Date: 1593

By: Giles Fletcher the Elder (c1548-1611)

Thursday, 3 May 2012

A Strange Description of A Rare Garden Plot by Nicholas Breton

My garden ground of griefe: where selfe wils seeds are sowne,
Whereof comes vp the weedes of wo, that ioies haue ouergrown:
With patience paled round, to keep in secret spight:
And quickset round about with care, to keepe out all delight.

Foure quarters squared out, I finde in sundrie sort;
Whereof according to their kindes, I meane to make report:
The first, the knot of loue, drawne euen by true desier,
Like as it were two harts in one, and yet both would be nier.

The herbe is calde Isop, the iuice of such a taste,
As with the sowre, makes sweete conceits to flie away too fast:
The borders round about, are set with priuie sweete,
Where neuer bird but nightingale, presumde to set hir feete.

From this I stept aside, vnto the knot of care,
Which so was crost with strange co[n]ceits, as tong cannot declare:
The herbe was called Time, which set out all that knot:
And like a Maze me thought it was, when in the crookes I got.

The borders round about, are Sauerie vnsweete:
An herbe not much in my conceit, for such a knot vnmeete:
From this to friendships knot, I stept and tooke the view,
How it was drawne, and then againe, in order how it grew.

The course was not vnlike, a kinde of hand in hand:
But many fingers were away, that there should seeme to stand:
The herbe that set the knot, was Pennie Riall round:
And as me seem’d, it grew full close, and nere vnto the ground.

And parched heere and there, so that it seemed not
Full as it should haue been in deed, a perfect friendship knot:
Heerat I pawsd awhile, and tooke a little view
Of an od quarter drawne in beds, where herbs and flowers grew.

The flowres were buttons fine, for batchelers to beare,
And by those flowres ther grew an herb, was called maiden hear.

Amid this garden ground, a Condit strange I found,
Which water fetcht from sorows spring, to water al the ground:
To this my heauie house, the dungeon of distresse,
Where fainting hart lies panting still, despairing of redresse.

Whence from my window loe, this sad prospect I haue,
A piece of ground wheron to gaze, would bring one to his graue:
Lo thus the welcome spring, that others lends delight,
Doth make me die, to thinke I lie, thus drowned in despight,

That vp I cannot rise, and come abrode to thee,
My fellow sweet, with whom God knowes, how oft I wish to bee:
And thus in haste adieu, my hart is growne so sore,
And care so crookes my fingers ends, that I can write no more.

From: http://www.luminarium.org/renascence-editions/phoenix.html#Forpittiepretieeiessurcease

Date: 1593

By: Nicholas Breton (?1545-?1626)

Wednesday, 2 May 2012

Accurst Be Love, and Those That Trust His Trains! by Thomas Lodge

Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains!
He tastes the fruit whilst others toil;
He brings the lamp, we lend the oil;
He sows distress, we yield him soil;
He wageth war, we bide the foil.

Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains!
He lays the trap, we seek the snare;
He threat’neth death, we speak him fair;
He coins deceits, we foster care;
He favoureth pride, we count it rare

Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains!
He seemeth blind, yet wounds with art;
He vows content, he pays with smart;
He swears relief, yet kills the heart;
He calls for truth, yet scorns desart.
Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains!
Whose heaven is hell, whose perfect joys are pains.

From: http://www.archive.org/stream/songssonnets00lodgiala/songssonnets00lodgiala_djvu.txt

Date: 1593

By: Thomas Lodge (?1558-1625)

Monday, 23 April 2012

What Cunning Can Express by Edward de Vere

What cunning can express
The favour of her face
To whom in this distress
I do appeal for grace?
     A thousand Cupids fly
    About her gentle eye.

From whence each throws a dart
That kindleth soft sweet fire
Within my sighing heart,
Possessèd by desire.
    No sweeter life I try
    Than in her love to die.

The lily in the field
That glories in his white,
For pureness now must yield
And render up his right.
    Heaven pictured in her face
    Doth promise joy and grace.

Fair Cynthia’s silver light
That beats on running streams
Compares not with her white,
Whose hairs are all sunbeams.
    Her virtues so do shine
    As day unto mine eyne.

With this there is a red
Exceeds the damask rose,
Which in her cheeks is spread,
Whence every favour grows.
    In sky there is no star
    That she surmounts not far.

When Phoebus from the bed
Of Thetis doth arise,
The morning blushing red
In fair carnation wise,
    He shows it in her face
    As queen of every grace.

This pleasant lily-white,
This taint of roseate red,
This Cynthia’s silver light,
This sweet fair Dea spread,
    These sunbeams in mine eye,
    These beauties make me die!

From: http://theotherpages.org/poems/vere01.html

Date: 1593

By: Edward de Vere (1550-1604)