Posts tagged ‘1603’

Saturday, 30 January 2016

The Induction from “Elizabetha Quasi Vivens, Eliza’s Funerall. A fewe Aprill Drops, showred on the Hearse of a dead Eliza. Or, The Funerall Tears of a true hearted Subject” by Henry Petowe

I that obscure have wept till eyes be drye,
Wilt each my pen another while to weep.
Obdurant hartes that they may mollifye,
For losse of her that now in peace doth sfleep.
Peace rest with her, but sorowe with my pen,
Till dead Eliza doth revive agen.

I that obscure have wept till eyes be drye,
Wilt each my pen another while to weep.
Obdurant hartes that they may mollifye,
For losse of her that now in peace doth sfleep.
Peace rest with her, but sorowe with my pen,
Till dead Eliza doth revive agen.

Amongst high sp’rited paragons of wit,
That mount beyond our earthlie pitch to fame,
Creepes forth my Muse; ye great ones favour it,
Take her not up, alas she is too tame.
Sheel come to hand, if you but lure her to you,
Then use her kindly, for shele kindly woe you.

And if this infant of mine art-lesse braine,
Passe with your sweet applause as some have done,
And meane good favour of the learned gaine
For showring teares upon Eliza’s tombe;
My Muse shall hatch such breed when she’s of yeres
Shall bring you comfort, and dry up your teares.

The last of many, yet not the least of all,
Sing I a heavie dirdge for our late Queene:
And singing, mourne Eliza’s Funerall,
The E per se of all that e’re have beene.
She was, she is, and evermore shall bee,
The blessed Queene of sweet eternitie.

With her in Heaven remaines her fame: on earth
Each moderne Poet that can make a verse
Writes of Eliza, even at their Muses birth.
Then why not I weepe on Eliza’s herse?
Som-where in England shall my lines go sleep
Till England read; and (England reading) weepe.

From: Nichols, John, The Progresses, and Public Processions, of Queen Elizabeth. Among which are interspersed , other Solemnities, Public Expenditures, and Remarkable Events, during the Reign of that illustrious Princess. Now first printed from Original MSS. of the Times; or collected from Scarce Pamphlets, etc., illustrated with historical notes. Volume II, 1788, John Nichols: London, p. 4 [p. 117].
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=L1tfAAAAcAAJ)

Date: 1603

By: Henry Petowe (1575/6-?1636)

Monday, 26 December 2011

A Modest Love by Edward Dyer

The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall,
   The fly her spleen, the little sparks their heat;
The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small,
   And bees have stings, although they be not great;
Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs;
And love is love, in beggars as in kings.

Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the fords;
   The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move;
The firmest faith is in the fewest words;
   The turtles cannot sing, and yet they love:
True hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak;
They hear and see, and sigh, and then they break.

From: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180645

Date: ?1603

By: Edward Dyer (?1543-1607)

Wednesday, 2 November 2011

The Passionate Man’s Pilgrimage by Walter Ralegh

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN

BY ONE AT THE POINT OF DEATH

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
    My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
    My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage ;
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body’s balmer,
    No other balm will there be given ;
Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer,
    Travelleth towards the land of heaven ;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains :
           There will I kiss
           The bowl of bliss ;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill :
My soul will be a-dry before ;
But after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy blestful day,
    More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
    And walk apparelled fresh like me.
        I’ll take them first
        To quench their thirst,
And taste of nectar suckets,
        At those clear wells
        Where sweetness dwells
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,
Then the blessed paths we’ll travel,
Strowed with rubies thick as gravel ;
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to heavens’s bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl ;
No conscience molten into gold,
No forged accuser bought or sold,
No cause deferred, nor vain-spent journey ;
For there Christ is the King’s Attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
And when the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
‘Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.

Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder !
Thou giv’st salvation even for alms ;
Not with a bribèd lawyer’s palms.
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That, since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit ;
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

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

Date: 1603

By: Walter Ralegh (1552-1618)

Alternative Title: His Pilgrimage

Tuesday, 25 October 2011

Song of the Witches by William Shakespeare

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

From: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171942

Date: ?1603

By: William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Alternative Title:  The Witches’ Spell