Posts tagged ‘1611’

Saturday, 18 February 2017

Stanzas 10-13 of “Hiren; or The Fair Greeke” by William Barksted

Hither was got of silly maides some few,
Whom happily no Souldier yet had seas’d,
Tendring their spotlesse vows, in child-cold dew,
Of virgin teares, to have the heavens appeas’d
But teares too late, must be too soone displeas’d,
And hither, like a Tyger from the chase,
Reeking in bloudy thoughts, and bloudy shew
Came Amurath himselfe to sacke the place.

In Armour-clad, of watchet steele, full grim,
Fring’d round about the sides, with twisted gold,
Spotted with shining stars unto the brim,
Which seem’d to burn the spheare which did thě hold:
His bright sword drawn, of temper good and old,
A full moone in a sable night he bore,
On painted shield, which much adornèd him,
With this short Motto: Never glorious more.

And as a Diamond in the dark-dead night,
Cannot but point at beames on every side,
Or as the shine of Cassiopæa bright
Which make the zodiacke, where it doth abide,
Farre more then other planets to be ey’d:
So did faire Hirens eyes encounter his,
And so her beames did terror-strike his sight,
As at the first it made e’m vale amisse.

O that faire beauty in distresse should fall,
For so did she, the wonder of the east,
At least, if it be wondrous faire at all,
That staines the morning, in her purple nest
With guilt-downe curlèd Tresses, rosy drest,
Reflecting in a comet wise, admire,
To every eye whom vertue might appall,
And Syren love inchant with amorous fire.

From: Barksted, William and Grosart, Alexander (ed.), The Poems of William Barksted, One of the Servants of His Majesty’s Revels, 1876, Charles E. Sims: Manchester, pp. 74-75.

Date: 1611

By: William Barksted (fl. 1607-1611)

Saturday, 19 November 2016

Sonnet 20 from “Caelia” by David Murray

Ponder thy cares, and summe them all in one,
Get the account of all thy hearts disease,
Recken the torments do thy mind displease,
Write up each sigh, each plaint, each teare, each grone,
Remember on thy griefe conceav’d by day,
And call to minde thy nights disturbed rest,
Thinke on those visions did thy soule molest,
While as thy wearied corpes a-sleeping lay,
And when all those thou hast enrold aright,
Into the count-booke of thy daily care,
Extract them truly, then present the sight,
With them of flinty Celia the faire,
That she may see, if yet moe ills remaines,
For to be paid to her unjust disdaines.


Date: 1611

By: David Murray (1567-1629)

Sunday, 15 November 2015

The Author to the Curious Reader by Edmond Graile

I Leave perfection of a Poets Skill,
(which doth with silver raies poor rusticks daunt)
To Silvesters, and to Du Bartas quill,
and such as harbour, where the Muses haunt;
Bathing in crystall streames of rare conceits,
conceiting what they list, of any subject,
Subjecting whatsoever them delights,
unto their witte and art, their natures object.
To such leave I, the majestie
of Poetrie divine:
more rife is their dexteritie,
their wittes more ripe than mine.

There needes no garland where the wine is good,
nor colours, where the substance is most pure:
Sinceritie by Truth hath ever stood,
and shall, so long as doth the Truth indure,
More Truth than Sacred veritie,
no creature can require.
And who so likes simplicitie,
to heere his full desire.

From: Graile, Edmond, Little Timothe his lesson: or, A summary relation of the historicall part of holy scripture plainely and familiarly comprized in meeter, for the helpe of memory, and instruction of the ignorant in the writings of God. By E.G. Mr. in Arts, and practitioner in physicke for the Kings hospitall of St. Bartholomew, in the city of Glocester. 1611, William Hall for Ionas Man: London, page [unnumbered].

Date: 1611

By: Edmond Graile (c1577-16??)

Friday, 26 September 2014

Old Wormy Age by Ludovic (Lewes) Lewknor

Old wormy age that in thy musty writs
Of former rules records the present wits,
Tell us no more the tale of Apuleius Asse,
Nor Midas ears, nor Io eating grasse.
This work of Tom’s so far them all exceeds,
As Phoebus’ fiddle did Pan’s squeaking reeds.
He writes not of a gnat, nor frog, nor woodcocks bill,
Of steeples, towns, and towers, entreats his goose’s quill.
Among the rest he of a wondrous tub doth tell,
The wine whereof more Poets made than Tempes Well.
In Odcomb’d Tom’s regard the Cyclops’ herds were thin,
Our Tom quick cattle fed whole legions on his skin.
So did poor bare Philosophers in former times,
And so do Poets now that make the lowzy rimes.
Five months with this in child-birth lay Tom’s lab’ring Muse,
In all which time he seldom chang’d his shirt or shoes.
The care and toil was his, thine are the gains,
Crack then the nut, and take the kernel for thy pains.


Date: 1611

By: Ludovic (Lewes) Lewknor (c1560-1627)

Monday, 15 September 2014

Goldilockt God that Doest on Parnasse Dwell by Henry Nevill

Goldilockt God that doest on Parnasse dwell,
O thou that sweetly playest on a fiddle
To sisters Nine, that Aganippes Well
Do much frequent, there bathing to the middle;
Lend me thy notes, that I may sweeter sing
Of Tom of Odcombe then doth Odcombe ring.

Oh that some errant Knight could now be seene,
That he might dubbe thee; crying, Up Sir Thomas:
Their dangers and adventures lesse have beene
That erst did wander to the land of promise.
Thou mak’st Sir Bevis and sir Guy a fable,
With all the daring knights of the round table.

Unto thy shoes, thy shirt, thy fustian case,
That hang at Odcombe, trophees of thy travailes,
Joyne this fayre book of thine, which makes thee passe
Great Merlin Cockay in recounting marveiles.
Whilst pendant scutchins others tombes adorne,
O’re thine these faire atchivements shall be borne.

From: Coryat, Thomas, Coryat’s Crudities; hastily gobbled up in five Moneths travels in France, Savoy, Italy, Rhetia commonly called the Grisons country, Helvetia alias Switzerland, some parts of high Germany and the Netherlands; Newly digested in the hungry aire of Odcombe in the County of Somerset, and now dispersed to the nourishment of the travelling Members of this Kingdome, Volume I, 1905, James MacLehose and Sons: Glasgow, p. 26.

Date: 1611

By: Henry Nevill (c1580-1641)

Sunday, 25 March 2012

To the Ladie Lucie, Countesse of Bedford by Aemilia Lanyer

Me thinkes I see faire Virtue readie stand,
T’unlocke the closet of your louely breast,
Holding the key of Knowledge in her hand,
Key of that Cabbine where your selfe doth rest,
To let him in, by whom her youth was blest:
The true-loue of your soule, your hearts delight,
Fairer than all the world in your cleare sight.

He that descended from celestiall glory,
To taste of our infirmities and sorrowes,
Whose heauenly wisdom read the earthly storie
Of fraile Humanity, which his godhead borrows:
Loe here he coms all stucke with pale deaths arrows:
In whose most pretious wounds your soule may reade
Saluation, while he (dying Lord) doth bleed.

You whose cleare Iudgement farre exceeds my skil,
Vouchsafe to entertaine this dying louer,
The Ocean of true grace, whose streames doe fill
All those with Ioy, that can his loue recouer;
About this blessed Arke bright Angels houer:
Where your faire sould may sure and safely rest,
When he is sweetly seated in your brest.

There may your thoughts as seruants to your heart,
Giue true attendance on this louely guest,
While he doth to that blessed bowre impart
Flowres of fresh comforts, decke that bed of rest,
With such rich beauties as may make it blest:
And you in whom all raritie is found,
May be with his eternall glory crownd.


Date: 1611

By: Aemilia Lanyer (1569-1645)