Posts tagged ‘1601’

Monday, 30 January 2017

Conclusion of “Love’s Martyr” by Robert Chester

Gentle conceivers of true meaning Wit,
Let good Experience judge what I have writ,
For the Satyricall fond applauded vaines,
Whose bitter worme-wood spirite in some straines,
Bite like the Curres of Ægypt those that love them,
Let me alone, I will be loth to move them,
For why, when mightie men their wit do prove,
How shall I least of all expect their love?
Yet to those men I gratulate some paine,
Because they touch those that in art do saine.
But those that have the spirit to do good,
Their whips will will never draw one drop of bloud:
To all and all in all that view my labour,
Of every judging sight I crave some favour
At least to reade, and if you reading find,
A lame leg’d staffe, tis lamenesse of the mind
That had no better skill: yet let it passe,
For burdnous lodes are set upon an Asse.
From the sweet fire of perfumed wood,
Another princely Phœnix upright stood:
Whose feathers purified did yeeld more light,
Then her late burned mother out of sight,
And in her heart restes a perpetuall love,
Sprong from the bosome of the Turtle-Dove.
Long may the new uprising bird increase,
Some humors and some motions to release,
And thus to all I offer my devotion,
Hoping that gentle minds accept my motion.

From: Grosart, Alexander B. (ed.), The Poems of Robert Chester (1601-1611) with Verse-Contributions by Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, George Chapman, John Marston, etc., 1878, Shakespeare Society: Blackburn, Lancashire, pp. 141-142.

Date: 1601

By: Robert Chester (fl. 1601)

Thursday, 4 June 2015

The Substance of Humaine Flesh by Richard Rowlands Verstegen

As once I did behold,
The potters active skil,
In ordring of his earthen pots,
According to his wil.

And some for woorthy use.
And some for servile trade,
As hee them from one clod of clay,
In sundry fashons made.

And when they al were wrought,
And each was put a parte,
No cause they had (If they had could)
To blame their makers arte.

To each it might suffise,
To serve his use asygn’d,
Since each to serve some proper use,
Was utile in his kynde.

Then as thereat I mus’d,
It came unto my thought,
How God even from one masse of clay,
All humaine kynd had wrought,

Aswel the silly wretch,
That lives in low degree,
As any mighty Emperor,
How puisant so hee bee.

And how at his estate,
None rightly may repyne,
Since that the woork man of his woork,
Hath freedome to •esigne.

And each in each degree,
Sufficient hath in charge,
And hee the more whose mighty rule,
Extendeth moste at large.

For how more great the charge.
Cares burden greater weyes,
And greatnesse beares the greatest brunt,
And breedes the lesser ease.

And vertue can aswel
In cottages remaine,
As honor may in high estate,
In courtes of Princes raigne.

Let each him then dispose,
Wel in his charge to serve,
To have the hyre that at the last,
Wel-doing doth deserve.

For when a whyle on earth,
Each hath serv’d in his turne,
Earths fragile woork earst made of earth,
Must unto earth returne.

From: Verstegan, Richard, Odes in Imitation of the Seaven Penitential Psalmes, with Sundry Other Poemes and Ditties Tending to Devotion and Pietie, 1601, A. Concinx: Antwerp, pp. 107-108.

Date: 1601

By: Richard Rowlands Verstegen (c1550-1640)

Wednesday, 9 May 2012

My Love by Robert Jones

My love is neither young nor old,
Not fiery-hot nor frozen-cold,
But fresh and fair as springing-briar
Blooming the fruit of love’s desire;
Not snowy-white nor rosy-red,
But fair enough for shepherd’s bed;
And such a love was never seen
On hill or dale or country-green.

From: Chambers, Edmund Kerchever, English Pastorals, 1969, Ayer Publishing:New York, p. 109.

Date: 1601

By: Robert Jones (fl.1597-1617)