Posts tagged ‘1597’

Friday, 17 August 2018

Sonetto 30 by John Salusbury

Sweete beautie in thy face doth still appeere,
Myne onely joye and best beloved deere:
Myne onlye deere and best belov’d content,
Revive my heart and dyinge spirrits spent:
The onlye agent of my thoughtes delight,
Embrace my love and doe not me despight,
Secure my feares and solace cares content,
With hopes repast to favour mine entent:
The fier will out if fuell doe but want,
And love in time will die if it be scant:
Let then desire yeilde fuell to your minde,
That love be not blowen out with everie winde:
So shall my heart like Etnas lasting flame,
Burne with your love and joye still in the same.

From: Salusbury, John, Chester, Robert and Brown, Carleton (ed.), Poems by Sir John Salusbury and Robert Chester, 1914, Early English Text Society/Kraus Reprint Co.: New York, p. 74.
(https://archive.org/details/poems00salurich)

Date: 1597

By: John Salusbury (1567-1612)

Tuesday, 7 August 2018

Satire VII from “Book I” of “Virgidemiarum” by Joseph Hall with note by Samuel Weller Singer

Great is the folly of a feeble brain,
O’erruled with love, and tyrannous disdain:
For love, however in the basest breast,
It breeds high thoughts that feed the fancy best.
Yet is he blind, and leads poor fools awry,
While they hang gazing on their mistress’ eye.
The lovesick poet, whose importune prayer
Repulsed is with resolute despair,
Hopeth to conquer his disdainful dame,
With public plaints of his conceived flame.
Then pours he forth in patched sonettings,
His love, his lust, and loathsome flatterings:
As tho’ the staring world hang’d on his sleeve,
When once he smiles, to laugh: and when he sighs, to grieve.
Careth the world, thou love, thou live, or die?
Careth the world how fair thy fair one be?
Fond wit-wal* that wouldst load thy witless head
With timely horns, before thy bridal bed.
Then can he term his dirty ill faced bride
Lady and queen, and virgin deified:
Be she all sooty-black, or berry brown,
She’s white as morrows milk, or flakes new blown.
And tho’ she be some dunghill drudge at home,
Yet can he her resign some refuse room
Amidst the well known stars: or if not there,
Sure will he saint her in his Calendar.

*This should, apparently, be wittol, a tame cuckold. A Saxon word from witan, to know; or, as Philips says in his World of Words, “Wittall, a cuckold that wits all, i.e. knows all: i.e. knows that he is so.” The Witwall was a bird, by some taken for the Green-finch or Canary-bird; others relate of it, “that if a man behold it that hath the yellow jaundice, he is presently cured and the bird dieth.” I have not altered the orthography of the word, as it may stand for wile-well, i. e. know well. I find Skelton spells this word toit-woldt.

From: Hall, Joseph, Warton, Thomas and Singer, Samuel Weller, Satires by Joseph Hall, afterwards Bishop of Exeter and Norwich. With the illustrations of the Late Rev. Thomas Warton. And Additional Notes by Samuel Weller Singer, 1824, Printed by C. Whittingham for R. Triphook: Chiswick, London, pp. 19-20.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=WtMGAAAAQAAJ)

Date: 1597

By: Joseph Hall (1574-1656)

Tuesday, 30 January 2018

The Fyres, the Cordes, the Girnes, the Snaws and Dart by William Fowler

The fyres, the cordes, the girnes1, the snaws, and dart,
Wherewith blind Love has me enflam’d and wound,
The maist fair face and the maist cruell hart
I werying wryte, and sighing dois resound:
And therewith all the beauties that rebound
From her, wha is of dames maist chaste and fair;
Wha is the object, subject, and the ground
Of my loth’d love, and undeserv’d despaire.
The sweit sour jarres, the joys, the toils, and caire,
My perjur’d othes, and my denied vowes;
Her eyes, her hands, her hyde, her hewe, and haire,
Her lippes, her cheikes, her hals2, and her brent browes,
And things yet hidd, and to the world unseene,
To write with teares, and paint with plaintes I mean.

1. Girnes – snares or traps.
2. Hals – neck.

From: http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?action=GET&textsid=32904

Date: 1597

By: William Fowler (1560-1612)

Tuesday, 28 February 2017

Passion XII by Robert Parry

Waste is the soile where naught but thistles grow,
And barren ground will nothing yeild but weeds,
Unhappie is such that soweth not to mowe,
When hope is lost in care, then comfort bleeds;
Waste soyle, voyde hope, thistles and weedes encrease,
In my mindes waste, that waste for want of peace.

Peace with my soule (although my bodie warrs)
Would qualifie the rigor of my paine,
But that I want and must endure the scarrs,
To ranckle, which doe now begin againe,
When ulcers bleed, then daungers doe ensue,
And carefull thoughts my bleeding sores renew.

Renewed thus I count the clocke of care,
No minute past without the tast of smart,
Not as the diall, which doth oft declare:
The time to passe, yet not perceav’d to stait;
Poets faine, time swiftly to flie away,
Yet time is slow, when sorrowe surges sway.

As rotten ragges being dipt, the water drawes,
By soaking fits out of the vessell cleane,
Ev’n so from me doth sorrowes droth (which thawes,
My congeal’d heart, with cruell cursed speene)
Soake out the joyce and moysture of my braine,
For dropping eies can not from teares refraine.

From: Parry, Robert, Sinetes passions vppon his fortunes offered for an incense at the shrine of the ladies which guided his distempered thoughtes. The patrons patheticall posies, sonets, maddrigals, and rowndelayes. Together with Sinetes dompe, 2005, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan and Oxford, p. [unnumbered].
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A09044.0001.001)

Date: 1597

By: Robert Parry (1540-1612)

Tuesday, 29 March 2016

Verses 36-40 from “Pyramus and Thisbe” by Dunstan Gale

36
To one that’s weary drowsie sleepe will creepe,
Weary was Thisbe, Thisbe fell asleepe,
And in her sleepe she dreamt she did lament,
Thinking her heart from forth her brest was rent,
By her owne censure damn’d to cruell death,
And in her sight be rest of vitall breath.
When she awak’t, as long she had not slept,
She wept amaine, yet knew not why she wept:
For as before her heart was whole and sound,
And no defect about her could be found,
She dreamt she hurt, no hurt could she discover,
Wherefore she went to seeke her late lost lover.

37
Suspicious eyes, quick messengers of wo,
Brought home sad newes ere Thisbe farre could go:
For lo, upon the margent of the wood,
They spy’d her love, lye weltring in his bloud,
Having her late lost mantle at his side,
Stained with bloud, his hart bloud was not dry’d.
Wisty she lookt, and as she lookt did cry,
See, see, my hart, which I did iudge to dye:
Poore hart (quoth she) and then she kist his brest,
Wert thou inclosd in mine, there shouldst thou rest:
I causd thee die poor heart, yet rue thy dying,
And saw thy death, as I asleepe was lying.

38
Thou art my hart, more deare then is mine owne,
And thee sad death in my false sleepe was showne.
And then she pluckt away the murtherous blade,
And curst the hands by whom it first was made,
And yet she kist his hand that held the same,
And double kist the wound from whence it came.
Himselfe was author of his death she knew,
For yet the wound was fresh, and bleeding new,
And some bloud yet the ill-made wound did keepe,
Which when she saw, she freshly gan to weepe,
And wash the wound with fresh tears down distilling,
And view’d the same (God wot) with eyes unwilling.

39
She would have spoke, but griefe stopt up her breath,
For me (quoth she) my Loue is done to death,
And shall I live, sighes stopt her hind most word,
When speechlesse up she tooke the bloudy sword,
And then she cast a looke upon her Love,
Then to the blade her eye she did remove,
And sobbing cride, since love hath murthred thee,
He shall not chuse but likewise murther me:
That men may say, and then she sigh’d againe,
I him, he me, love him and me hath slaine.
Then with resolve, love her resolve did further:
With that same blade, her selfe, her selfe did murther.

40
Then with a sigh, she fell upon the blade,
And from the bleeding wound the sword had made,
Her fearefull bloud ran trickling to the ground,
And sought about, till Pyramus it found:
And having found him, circled in his corse,
As who should say, Ile gard thee by my force.
And when it found his bloud, as forth it came,
Then would it stay, and touch, and kisse the same,
As who should say, my mistresse love to thee,
Though dead in her, doth still remaine in me.
And for a signe of mutuall love in either,
Their ill shed bloud congealed both together.

From: Gale, Dunstan, Pyramus and Thisbe, 2003, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan and Oxford.
(http://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A01407.0001.001/1:3?rgn=div1;view=fulltext)

Date: 1597

By: Dunstan Gale (fl. 1596)

Thursday, 23 April 2015

Laura. The First Part: II by Robert Tofte

Though I doo part, my Hart yet dooth not part;
My poore afflicted bodie parts in twaine,
And doth in peeces two devide my Hart:
One peece my fainting spirit doth sustaine,
The other part I leave with thee behinde,
(The better part, and of my hart most deere)
Then to that part so parted, be thou kinde,
And to the same impart thy loving cheere:
That I (returning) may againe unite
This parted Hart, and finde for griefe, delight.
London.

From: R.T. Gentleman, Laura. The Toyes of a Traveller. OR The Feast of the Fancie. Divided into Three Parts, 1597, Valentine Sims: London, p. [unnumbered].
(http://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A13798.0001.001/1:5.1?rgn=div2;view=fulltext)

Date: 1597

By: Robert Tofte (?1562-1620)

Tuesday, 31 March 2015

If My Complaints Could Passions Move by John Dowland

If my complaints could passions move,
Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong:
My passions were enough to prove,
That my despairs had govern’d me too long.
O Love, I live and die in thee,
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks:
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me,
My heart for thy unkindness breaks:
Yet thou dost hope, when I despair,
And when I hope, thou mak’st me hope in vain.
Thou say’st thou canst my harms repair,
Yet for redress, thou let’st me still complain.

Can Love be rich, and yet I want?
Is Love my judge, and yet am I condemn’d?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant:
Thou made a God, and yet thy power contemn’d
That I do live, it is thy power:
That I desire it is thy worth:
If Love doth make men’s lives too sour,
Let me not love, nor live henceforth.
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith,
That you that of my fall may hearers be
May here despair, which truly saith,
I was more true to Love than Love to me.

From: http://www.thehypertexts.com/john%20dowland%20poet%20poetry%20picture%20bio.htm

Date: 1597

By: John Dowland (1563-1626)