Posts tagged ‘1600’

Saturday, 20 May 2017

Thule, the Period of Cosmography by Thomas Weelkes

Thule, the period of cosmography,
Doth vaunt of Hecla, whose sulphureous fire
Doth melt the frozen clime and thaw the sky;
Trinacrian Etna’s flames ascend not higher:
These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I,
Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.

The Andalusian merchant, that returns
Laden with cochineal and china dishes,
Reports in Spain how strangely Fogo burns
Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes:
These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I,
Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.

From: https://tspace.library.utoronto.ca/html/1807/4350/poem2268.html

Date: 1600

By: Thomas Weelkes (?1576-1623)

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Tuesday, 11 October 2016

Excerpt from “Tom Tel-Troths Message, and His Pens Complaint” by John Lane

Time sits him downe to weepe in sorrowes sell,
And Truth bewailes mans present wickednes,
Both Time and Truth a dolefull tale doe tell,
Deploring for mans future wretchednes:
With teare-bedewed cheeks help, help therfore,
Sad tragicke muse to weepe, bewaile, deplore.

Mee thinks I see the ghost of Conscience,
Raisde from the darke grave of securitie,
Viewing the world, who once was banisht thence,
Her cheeks with teares made wet, with sighs made dry:
And this did aggravate her griefe the more,
To see the world much worse then twas before.

She wept, I saw her weepe, and wept to see
The salt teares trickling from her aged eyes,
Yea and my pen copartner needs would bee,
With black-inke teares, our teares to simpathize:
So long wee wept that all our eyes were drie,
And then our tongues began aloud to crie.

From: Lane, John, Tom Tel-Troths message, and his pens complaint A worke not vnpleasant to be read, nor vnprofitable to be followed, 2007, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan and Oxford, p. 8.
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A05047.0001.001)

Date: 1600

By: John Lane (15??-16??)

Tuesday, 31 May 2016

Of the Booke by Richard Hathwaye

The sundry beames proceeding from one Sunne,
The hive where many Bees their honey brings,
The Sea, to which a thousand rivers runne,
The garden where survives contintuall spring,
The Trophee hung with divers painfull hands,
Abstract of knowledge, Briefe of Eloquence,
Aiding the weake, preserving him that stands:
Guide to the soule, and ruler of the sense.
Such is this Volume, and the fraight hereof,
How-ever ignorance presume to scoffe.

From: Bodenham, John, Bodenham’s Belvedére or The Garden of the Muses, Reprinted from the Original Edition of 1600, 1875, Spenser Society: Manchester, p. [37].
(https://archive.org/stream/bodenhamsbelved00bodegoog#page/n35/mode/2up)

Date: 1600

By: Richard Hathwaye (fl. 1597-1603)

Friday, 18 September 2015

All Maried Men Desire to Have Good Wifes by Anne Southwell with modernised version by Horace Jeffery Hodges

All.maried.men.desire.to.have good wifes:
but.few.give good example.by thir lives
They are owr head they wodd have us thir heles.
this makes the good wife kick the good man reles.
When god brought Eve to Adam for a bride
the text sayes she was taene from out mans side
A.simbole of that side, whose sacred bloud.
flowed for his spowse, the Churches savinge good.
This is a.misterie, perhaps too deepe.
for blockish Adam that was falen a sleepe.

All Married Men Desire to Have Good Wives by Anne Southwell (modernised by Horace Jeffery Hodges)

All married men desire to have good wives,
but few give good example by their lives.
They are our head; they would have us their heels.
This makes the good wife kick, the good man reels.
When God brought Eve to Adam for a bride,
the text says she was taken from out man’s side,
a symbol of that side, whose sacred blood
flowed for his spouse, the church’s saving good.
This is a mystery, perhaps too deep,
for blockish Adam that was fallen asleep.

From: Longfellow, Erica, Women and Religious Writing in Early Modern England, 2004, Cambridge University Press: Cambridge, p. 1 and p. 119.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=n2MxAOp6bxEC)
(http://gypsyscholarship.blogspot.com.au/2010/03/lady-anne-southwell-all-maried-men.html)

Date: c1600 (original); 2010 (modernised)

By: Anne Southwell (1574-1636)

Modernised by: Horace Jeffery Hodges (19??- )

Sunday, 19 April 2015

A Palinode by Edmund Bolton

As withereth the primrose by the river,
As fadeth summer’s sun from gliding fountains,
As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever,
As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains:
So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers
The rose, the shine, the bubble and the snow
Of praise, pomp, glory, joy – which short life gathers –
Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy.
The withered primrose by the mourning river,
The faded summer’s sun from weeping fountains,
The light-blown bubble, vanishéd for ever,
The molten snow upon the naked mountains,
Are emblems that the treasures we up-lay
Soon wither, vanish, fade and melt away.

For as the snow, whose lawn did overspread
The ambitious hills, which giant-like did threat
To pierce the heaven with their aspiring head,
Naked and bare doth leave their craggy seat;
Whenas the bubble, which did empty fly
The dalliance of the undiscernéd wind,
On whose calm rolling waves it did rely,
Hath shipwreck made, where it did dalliance find;
And when the sunshine, which dissolved the snow,
Coloured the bubble with a pleasant vary,
And made the rathe and timely primrose grow,
Swarth clouds withdrawn (which longer time do tarry) –
Oh, what is praise, pomp, glory, joy, but so
As shine by fountains, bubbles, flowers or snow?

From: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2011/may/09/poem-of-the-week-edmund-bolton

Date: 1600

By: Edmund Bolton (?1575-?1633)

Sunday, 15 March 2015

To the Reader by Robert Allott

I hang no lvie out to sell my Wine,
The Nectar of good witts will sell it selfe;
I feare not what detraction can define,
I saile secure from Envies storme or shelfe
I set my picture out to each mans vewe,
Limd with these colours, and so cunning arts,
That like the Phoenix will their age renewe,
And conquer Envie by their good desarts.
If any Cobler carpe above his shoo,
I rather pittie, then repine his action,
For ignorance stil maketh much adoo,
And wisdom loves that which offends detraction.
Go fearles forth, my booke, hate canot harm thee,
Apollo bred thee, & the Muses arm thee.

From: Collier, J. Payne (ed.), Seven English Poetical Miscellanies, Printed Between 1556 and 1662 (Englands Parnassus compiled by Robert Allott, 1600), Volume 6, 1867, London, p. 36.
(https://archive.org/stream/englandsparnassu00allo#page/n35/mode/2up)

Date: 1600

By: Robert Allott (fl. 1600)

Sunday, 21 September 2014

In Cornutum by John Harington

What curl’d-pate youth is he that sitteth there,
So near thy wife, and whispers in her eare,
And takes her hand in his, and soft doth wring her,
Sliding his ring still up and down her finger?
Sir, ’tis a proctor, seen in both the lawes,
Retain’d by her in some important cause;
Prompt and discreet both in his speech and action,
And doth her business with great satisfaction.
And think’st thou so? a horn-plague on thy head!
Art thou so like a fool, and wittol led,
To think he doth the bus’ness of thy wife?
He doth thy bus’ness, I dare lay my life.

From: Harington, John and McClure, Norman Egbert (ed.),The Letters and Epigrams of Sir John Harington together with The Prayse of Private Life, 1930, University of Pennsylvania Press: Philadelphia, p. 280.
(https://archive.org/stream/lettersepigramso00hari#page/280)

Date: 1600

By: John Harington (1561-1612)

Monday, 21 April 2014

To the Reader by Cyril Tourneur

It may be (Reader) I may gall those men
Whose golden thoughts thinke no man dare them touch;
It may be too my fearelesse ayre-plume-pen
May rouse that sluggish watch whose tongues are such
As are controll’d by feare or gold too much:
Yet were Apelles here, he could not paint
Forth perfectly the world’s deformities.
For as the troubled mind whose sad complaint
Still tumbles forth half-breathed accenties,
Th’ Idea doth confuse and chaoize:
So will the Chaos of up-heaped sinne
Confound his braine that takes in hand to lay
A platforme plainly forth, of all that in
This Pluto-visag’d world hell doth bewray,
When death or hell doth worke it lives decay.
So perfect is our imperfectionesse
For imperfection is sinne’s perfectnesse.
Yet seeke I not to touch as he that seekes
The publike defamation of some one;
Nor have I spent my voide houres in three weekes
To shew that I am unto hatred prone;
For in particular I point at none:
Nay I am forced my lines to limit in
Within the pale of generalitie:
For should I seeke by unites to begin
To point at all that in their sinne do lie
And hunt for wickedness advisedly,
As well I then might go about to tell
The perfect number of the Ocean sands,
Or by Arithmetike goe downe to hell
And number them that lie in horror’s bands,
(Ne’re to be ransom’d from the diuell’s hands).
Who finds him touch’t may blame himself not me
And he will thanke me, doth himselfe know free.

From: Tourneur, Cyril and Collins, John Churton (ed), The Poems and Plays of Cyril Tourneur Edited with Critical Introduction and Notes by John Churton Collins in Two Volumes – Volume II, 1878, Chatto and Windus: London, pp. 175-176.
(https://archive.org/stream/playspoems00touruoft#page/174/mode/2up)

Date: 1600

By: Cyril Tourneur (1575-1626)

Tuesday, 8 April 2014

Excerpt from “Godfrey of Bulloigne; or the Recoverie of Jerusalem” by Torquato Tasso

These naked wantons, tender, faire and white,
Mooved so farre the warriours stubborne harts,
That on their shapes they gazed with delite;
The Nymphes applide their sweete alluring artes,
And one of them above the waters quite,
Lift up her head, her brests, and higher partes,
And all that might weake eies subdew and take,
Her lower beauties vailed the gentle lake.

As when the morning starre escapt and fled,
From greedie waves with dewie beames up flies,
Or as the Queene of love, new borne and bred
Of th’ Oceans fruitfull froth, did first arise:
So vented she, her golden lockes foorth shed
Round pearles and cristall moist therein which lies:
But when her eies upon the knights she cast
She start, and fain’d her of their sight agast.

And her faire lockes, that on a knot were tide
High on her crowne, she gan at large unfold;
Which falling long and thicke, and spreading wide,
The ivorie soft and white, mantled in gold:
Thus her faire skin the dame would cloath and hide,
And that which hid it no lesse faire was hold;
Thus clad in waves and lockes, her eies divine
From them ashamed did she turne and twine.

With all she smiled, and she blusht withall,
Her blush, her smiling; smiles, her blushing graced:
Over her face her amber tresses fall,
Where under love himselfe in ambush placed:
At last she warbled forth a treble small,
And with sweet lookes, her sweet songs enterlaced;
O happie men! that have the grace (quoth shee)
This blisse, this heav’n, this paradise to see.

From: http://spenserians.cath.vt.edu/TextRecord.php?action=GET&textsid=32959

Date: 1580 (Italian); 1600 (translated)

By: Torquato Tasso (1544-1595)

Translated by: Edward Fairfax (c1575-1635)

Wednesday, 26 February 2014

Damætas’ Madrigal in Praise of his Daphnis by John Wotton

Tune on my pipe the praises of my love,
Love fair and bright;
Fill earth with sound, and airy heavens above,
Heavens Jove’s delight,
With Daphnis’ praise.

To pleasant Tempe groves and plains about,
Plains shepherds’ pride,
Resounding echoes of her praise ring out,
Ring far and wide
My Daphnis’ praise.

When I begin to sing, begin to sound,
Sounds loud and shrill
Do make each note unto the skies rebound,
Skies calm and still.
With Daphnis’ praise.

Her tresses are like wires of beaten gold,
Gold bright and sheen;
Like Nisus’ golden hair that Scylla poll’d,
Scyll o’erseen
Through Minos’ love.

Her eyes like shining lamps in midst of night,
Night dark and dead,
Or as the stars that give the seamen light,
Light for to lead
Their wand’ring ships.

Amidst her cheeks the rose and lily strive,
Lily snow-white,
When their contend doth make their colour thrive.
Colour too bright
For shepherds’ eyes.

Her lips like scarlet of the finest dye,
Scarlet blood-red;
Teeth white as snow which on the hills doth lie.
Hills overspread
By Winter’s force.

Her skin as soft as is the finest silk,
Silk soft and fine,
Of colour like unto the whitest milk.
Milk of the kine
Of Daphnis’ herd.

As swift of foot as is the pretty roe,
Roe swift of pace.
When yelping hounds pursue her to and fro,
Hounds fierce in chase.
To reave her life.

Cease, tongues, to tell of any more compares.
Compares too rude,
Daphnis’ deserts and beauty are too rare:
Then here conclude
Fair Daphnis’ praise.

From: Bullen, A H, England’s Helicon. A Collection of Lyrical and Pastoral Poems: Published in 1600, 1899, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd: London, pp. 82-84.
(https://archive.org/stream/englandsheliconc00bulliala#page/82/mode/2up)

Date: 1600

By: John Wotton (1550-1597)