Posts tagged ‘1595’

Wednesday, 6 September 2017

L’Envoy to Narcissus by Thomas Edwards

Scarring beautie all bewitching,
Tell a tale to hurt it selfe,
Tels a tale how men are fleeting,
All of Love and his power,
Tels how womens shewes are pelfe,
And their constancies as flowers.

Aie me pretie wanton boy,
What a sire did hatch thee forth,
To shew thee of the worlds annoy,
Ere thou kenn’st anie pleasure:
Such a favour’s nothing worth,
To touch not to taste the treasure.

Poets that divinely dreampt,
Telling wonders visedly,
My slow Muse have quite benempt,
And my rude skonce have aslackt,
So I cannot cunningly,
Make an image to awake.

Ne the frostie lims of age,
Uncouth shape (mickle wonder)
To tread with them in equipage,
As quaint light blearing eies,
Come my pen broken under,
Magick-spels such devize.

Collyn was a mighty swaine,
In his power all do flourish,
We are shepheards but in vaine,
There is but one tooke the charge,
By his toile we do nourish,
And by him are inlarg’d.

He unlockt Albions glorie,
He twas tolde of Sidneys honor,
Onely he of our stories,
Must be sung in greatest pride,
In an Eglogue he hath wonne her,
Fame and honor on his side.

Deale we not with Rosamond,
For the world our sawe will coate,
Amintas and Leander’s gone,
Oh deere sonnes of stately kings,
Blessed be your nimble throats,
That so amorously could sing.

Adon deafly masking thro,
Stately troupes rich conceited,
Shew’d he well deserved to,
Loves delight on him to gaze,
And had not love her selfe intreated,
Other nymphs had sent him baies.

Eke in purple roabes distaind,
Amid’st the Center of this clime,
I have heard saie doth remaine,
One whose power floweth far,
That should have bene of our rime,
The onely object and the star.

Well could his bewitching pen,
Done the Muses obiects to us,
Although he differs much from men,
Tilting under Frieries,
Yet his golden art might woo us,
To have honored him with baies.

He that gan up to tilt,
Babels fresh remembrance,
Of the worlds-wracke how twas spilt,
And a world of stories made,
In a catalogues semblance
Hath alike the Muses staide.

What remaines peerelesse men,
That in Albions confines are,
But eterniz’d with the pen,
In sacred Poems and sweet laies,
Should be sent to Nations farre,
The greatnes of faire Albions praise.

Let them be audacious proude,
Whose devises are of currant,
Everie stampe is not allow’d,
Yet the coine may prove as good,
Yourselves know your lines have warrant,
I will talke of Robin Hood.

And when all is done and past,
Narcissus in another sort,
And gaier clothes shall be pla’st,
Eke perhaps in good plight,
In meane while I’le make report,
Of your winnings that do write.

Hence a golden tale might grow,
Of due honor and the praise,
That longs to Poets, but the show
Were not worth the while to spend,
Sufficeth that they merit baies,
Saie what I can it must have end,
Then thus faire Albion flourish so,
As Thames may nourish as did Po.

From: http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?action=GET&textsid=32821

Date: 1595

By: Thomas Edwards (fl. 1587-1595)

Sunday, 12 April 2015

Aeliana’s Ditty: Wily Cupid by Henry Chettle

Trust not his wanton tears,
Lest they beguile ye;
Trust not his childish sight,
He breatheth slily.
Trust not his touch,
His feeling may defile ye;
Trust nothing that he doth,
The wag is wily.
If you suffer him to prate,
You will rue it over late;
Beware of him, for he is witty.
Quickly strive the boy to bind,
Fear him not, for he is blind;
If he gets loose, he shows no pity.

From: http://www.poetrynook.com/poem/aelianas-ditty

Date: 1595

By: Henry Chettle (c1564-c1606)

Monday, 23 March 2015

Excerpt from “The Most Honourable Tragedie of Sir Richard Grinville, Knight” by Gervase Markham

That time oſ yeare when the inamored Sunne
Clad in the richest roabes of living fiers,
Courted ye Virgin signe, great Naturs Nunne,
Which barrains earth of al what earth desires
Even in the month that from Augustus wonne,
His sacred name which unto heaven aspires,
And on the last of his ten trebled days,
When wearie labour new refresh assayes.

Then when the earth out-brav’d ye beautious Morne,
Boasting his cornie Mantle stird with aire,
Which like a golden Ocean did adorne,
His cold drie carcasse, ſeaturelesse, unſaire,
Holding the naked shearers scithe in scorne,
Or ought that might his borrowed pride empaire,
The soule of vertue seeing earth so ritch,
With his deare presence gilds the sea as mitch.

The sea, which then was heavie, sad, and still,
Dull, unapplyed to sportive wantonnesse,
As if her first-borne Venus had beene ill,
Or Neptune seene the Sonne his love possesse,
Or greater cares, that greatest comforts kill,
Had crowned with griefe, the worlds wet wildemesse,
Such was the still-foote Thetis silent paine,
Whose flowing teares, ebbing fell backe againe.

Thetis, the mother of the pleasant springs,
Grandam of all the Rivers in the world,
To whom earths veins their moistning tribut brings,
Now with a mad disturbed passion hurld,
About her cave (the worlds great treasure) flings:
And with wreath’d armes, and long wet hairs uncurld,
Within her selfe laments a losse, unlost,
And mones her wrongs, before her joyes be crost.

From: Raleigh, Sir Walter; Markham, Gervase; van Linschoten, Jan Huygen; and Arber, Edward (ed.), The Last Fight of the Revenge at Sea; under the Command of Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Grenville, on the 10-11th September , 1591, 1871, English Reprints: London, pp. 44-45.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=uxBBAQAAMAAJ)

Date: 1595

By: Gervase Markham (c1568-1637)

Friday, 21 February 2014

A Coronet for his Mistress, Philosophy by George Chapman

Muses that sing love’s sensual empery,
And lovers kindling your enraged fires
At Cupid’s bonfires burning in the eye,
Blown with the empty breath of vain desires;
You that prefer the painted cabinet
Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye,
That all your joys in dying figures set,
And stain the living substance of your glory;
Abjure those joys, abhor their memory,
And let my love the honour’d subject be
Of love, and honour’s complete history.
Your eyes were never yet let in to see
The majesty and riches of the mind,
But dwell in darkness; for your god is blind.

From: https://tspace.library.utoronto.ca/html/1807/4350/poem451.html

Date: 1595

By: George Chapman (c1559-1634)

Saturday, 30 March 2013

Tymes Goe By Turnes by Robert Southwell

The loppèd tree in tyme may growe agayne;
Most naked plants renewe both, frute and fioure;
The soriest wight may finde release of payne,
The dryest soyle sucke in some moystning shoure;
Tymes go by turnes and chaunces chang by course,
From foule to fayre, from better happ to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever floe,
She drawes her favours to the lowest ebb;
Her tide hath equall tymes to come and goe,
Her loome doth weave the fine and coarsest webb;
No joy so great but runneth to an ende,
No happ so harde but may in fine amende.

Not allwayes fall of leafe nor ever springe,
No endlesse night yet not eternall daye;
The saddest birdes a season finde to singe.
The roughest storme a calme may soone alaye;
Thus with succeding turnes God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise yet feare to fall.

A chaunce may wynne that by mischance was lost;
The nett that houldes no greate, takes little fishe;
In some thinges all, in all thinges none are croste,
Fewe all they neede, hut none have all they wishe;
Unmedled joyes here to no man befall,
Who least hath some, who most hath never all.

From: Grosart, Alexander B (ed), The Complete Poems of Robert Southwell SJ, for the first time fully collected and collated with the original and early additions and mss, 1872, The Fuller Worthies Library: London, pp. 64-65.
(http://archive.org/stream/completepoemsofr00sout#page/64/mode/2up)

Date: 1595

By: Robert Southwell (c1561-1595)

Friday, 23 March 2012

The Dolefull Lay of Clorinda by Mary (Sidney) Herbert

Ay me, to whom shall I my case complaine?
That may compassion my impatient griefe?
Or where shall I unfold my inward paine,
That my enriuen heart may find reliefe?
Shall I vnto the heauenly powres it show?
Or unto earthly men that dwell below?

To heauens? ah they alas the authors were,
And workers of my vnremedied wo:
For they foresee what to vs happens here,
And they foresaw, yet suffred this be so.
From them comes good, from them comes also il
That which they made, who can them warne to spill.

To men? ah, they alas like wretched bee,
And subiect to the heauens ordinance:
Bound to abide what euer they decree,
Their best redresse, is their best sufferance.
How then can they like wretched comfort mee,
The which no lesse, need comforted to bee?

Then to my selfe will I my sorrow mourne,
Sith none aliue like sorrowfull remaines
And to my selfe my plaints shall back retourne,
To pay their vsury with doubled paines.
The woods, the hills, the riuers shall resound
The mournfull accent of my sorrowes ground.

Woods, hills and riuers, now are desolate,
Sith he is gone the which them all did grace:
And all the fields do waile their widow state,
Sith death their fairest flowre did late deface.
The fairest flowre in field that euer grew,
Was Astrophel:  that was, we all may rew.

What cruell hand of cursed foe vnknowne,
Hath cropt the stalke which bore so faire a flowre?
Vntimely cropt, before it well were growne,
And cleane defaced in vntimely howre.
Great losse to all that ever him did see,
Great losse to all, but greatest losse to mee.

Breake now your gyrlonds, O ye shepheards lasses,
Sith the faire flowre, which them adornd, is gon:
The flowre, which them adornd, is gone to ashes,
Neuer againe let lasse put gyrlond on:
In stead of gyrlond, weare sad Cypres nowe,
And bitter Elder, broken from the bowe.

Ne euer sing the loue-layes which he made,
Who euer made such layes of loue as hee?
Ne euer read the riddles, which he sayd
Vnto your selues, to make you mery glee.
Your mery glee is now laid all abed,
Your mery maker now alasse is dead.

Death, the deuourer of all worlds delight,
Hath robbed you and reft from me my ioy:
Both you and me, and all the world he quight
Hath robd of ioyance, and left sad annoy.
Ioy of the world, and shepheards pride was hee,
Shepheards hope neuer like againe to see.

Oh death that hast vs of such riches reft,
Tell vs at least, what hast thou with it done?
What is become of him whose flowre here left
Is but the shadow of his likenesse gone.
Scarse like the shadow of that which he was,
Nought like, but that he like a shade did pas.

But that immortall spirit, which was deckt
With all the dowries of celestiall grace:
By soueraine choyce from th’hevenly quires select,
And lineally deriu’d from Angels race,
O what is now of it become aread,
Ay me, can so diuine a thing be dead?

Ah no:  it is not dead, ne can it die,
But liues for aie, in blisfull Paradisse:
Where like a new-borne babe it soft doth lie,
In beds of lillies wrapt in tender wise.
And compast all about with roses sweet,
And daintie violets from head to feet.

There thousand birds all of celestiall brood,
To him do sweetly caroll day and night:
And with straunge notes, of him well vnderstood,
Lull him asleepe in Angel-like delight:
Whilest in sweet dreame to him presented bee
Immortall beauties, which no eye may see.

But he them sees and takes exceeding pleasure
Of their diuine aspects, appearing plaine,
And kindling loue in him aboue all measure,
Sweet loue still ioyous, never feeling paine.
For what so goodly forme he there doth see,
He may enioy from iealous rancor free.

There liueth he in euerlasting blis,
Sweet spirit neuer fearing more to die:
Ne dreading harme from any foes of his,
Ne fearing saluage beasts more crueltie.
Whilest we here wretches waile his priuate lack,
And with vain vowes do often call him back.

But liue thou there still happie, happie spirit,
And giue vs leaue thee here thus to lament:
Not thee that doest thy heauens ioy inherit,
But our owne selues that here in dole are drent.
Thus do we weep and waile, and wear our eies,
Mourning in others, our owne miseries.

From: http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/dolefull.htm

Date: 1595

By: Mary (Sidney) Herbert (1561-1621)

Wednesday, 14 March 2012

One Day I Wrote Her Name Upon the Strand by Edmund Spenser

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so to immortalize!
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eek my name be wiped out likewise.
Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name;
Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew.

From: http://www.sonnets.org/spenser.htm#075

Date: 1595

By: Edmund Spenser (c1552-1599)