Posts tagged ‘1616’

Tuesday, 10 April 2018

Introduction to “And first of his Section of Heaven” from “The Philosophers Seven Satyrs, Aluding to the Seven Planets” by Robert Anton

There was a time before all time begun,
When the proud Jennets of the radiant Sunne
Were scarce delivered from the wombe of night,
And backt by circular motion, when all light,
Soiourn’d with darknesse, and this glorious ball
Had neither forme nor soule Angelicall,
To move those orbes above as some propound
With ravishing musicke, or such heavenly sound,
As that great distance of those rowling spheares,
Barres from the organs of all humane eares,
When neither Sea, nor bind coopt in a ring,
Keept their conservatiue place, nor any thing
Had an essentiall forme, or element,
 or Center had true complement
Of Art or nature: but when heaven and earth
Had from confusions bowels knawne the birth
Of this faire Child nam’d Cosmos, the Mouers eie
Distinguisht this faire obiect of the skie
From his disordred masse with all this globe,
And suted it in farre more formall robe
Of quantitie and figure. Then began
All lights to light the Makers darling (MAN:)
For which indeer’d creation and respect
This Microcosme of man was made erect
With upright speculation, lineally
To view this rich imbrodred Cannopie
Of those Coelestiall bodies; and begin
To crie, Heaven is my Countrie, Earth my Inne
But leaving him to Heaven, of Earth we sing,
As being of the world, the perfects thing
In the Creations wonder, and the end
Of our aspiring hopes, which we ascend,
As to our locall blisse, and naturall place,
To end even there, where never ended grace.

From: Anton, Robert, The Philosophers Satyrs, 1616, T.C. and B.A. for Roger Jackson: London, pp. [unnumbered].

Date: 1616

By: Robert Anton (fl. 1616)

Tuesday, 27 June 2017

To William Drummond of Hawthornden by Mary Oxlie

I never rested on the Muses bed,
Nor dipt my Quill in the Thessalian Fountaine,
My rustick Muse was rudely fostered,
And flies too low to reach the double mountaine.

Then do not sparkes with your bright Suns compare,
Perfection in a Womans worke is rare;
From an untroubled mind should Verses flow;
My discontents makes mine too muddy show;
And hoarse encumbrances of houshold care
Where these remaine, the Muses ne’re repaire.

If thou dost extoll her Haire,
Or her Ivory Forehead faire,
Or those Stars whose bright reflection
Thrals thy heart in sweet subjection:
Or when to display thou seeks
The snow-mixt Roses on her Cheekes,
Or those Rubies soft and sweet,
Over those pretty Rows that meet.
The Chian Painter as asham’d
Hides his Picture so far fam’d;
And the Queen he carv’d it by.
With a blush her face doth dye,
Since those Lines do limne a Creature
That so far surpast her Feature.
When thou shew’st how fairest Flora
Prankt with pride the banks of Ora,
So thy Verse her streames doth honour,
Strangers grow enamoured on her,
All the Swans that swim in Po
Would their native brooks forgo,
And as loathing Phoebus beames,
Long to bath in cooler streames.
Tree-turn’d Daphne would be seen
In her Groves to flourish green,
And her Boughs would gladly spare
To frame a garland for thy haire,
That fairest Nymphs with finest fingers
May thee crown the best of singers.

But when thy Muse dissolv’d in show’rs,
Wailes that peerlesse Prince of ours,
Cropt by too untimely Fate,
Her mourning doth exasperate
Senselesse things to see thee moane,
Stones do weep, and Trees do groane,
Birds in aire, Fishes in flood,
Beasts in field forsake their food;
The Nymphs forgoing all their Bow’rs
Teare their Chaplets deckt with Flow’rs;
Sol himselfe with misty vapor
Hides from earth his glorious Tapor,
And as mov’d to heare thee plaine
Shews his griefe in show’rs of raine.


Date: 1616

By: Mary Oxlie (fl. 1616)

Sunday, 7 October 2012

Sonnet XXVIII by William Drummond of Hawthornden

Sound hoarse, sad lute, true witness of my woe,
And strive no more to ease self-chosen pain
With soul-enchanting sounds; your accents strain
Unto these tears incessantly which flow.
Shrill treble, weep; and you, dull basses, show
Your master’s sorrow in a deadly vein;
Let never joyful hand upon you go,
Nor consort keep but when you do complain.
Fly Phoebus’ rays, nay, hate the irksome light;
Woods’ solitary shades for thee are best,
Or the black horrors of the blackest night,
When all the world, save thou and I, doth rest:
Then sound, sad lute, and bear a mourning part,
Thou hell mayst move, though not a woman’s heart.


Date: 1616

By: William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585-1649)

Thursday, 17 November 2011

To Celia by Ben Jonson

A Romance Poem Rendered in English by Ben Jonson
From a Love Letter by Philostratus of Athens or Philostratus of Lemnos

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I’ll not ask for wine
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth crave a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent’st back to me,
Since when it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.


Date: 1616

By: Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Alternative Title: Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes