Posts tagged ‘1634’

Friday, 6 September 2019

Excerpt from “Of our Iosse by Adam, and our gayne by Christ; The first Adam was made a living soule, the second Adam a quickning Spirit; For as in Adam wee all dye, so in Christ, shall all be made alive. I Corinth. 15” by Alice Sutcliffe

Alas how many are the snares and bayts,
Which Sathan layes, our poore soules to betray,
Hiena like, he murthers by deceites,
Through false delights to cause us misse our way,
His Mermaides Songs are onely sweet in sound,
Approach them not, lest Death thy Iife doth wound.

Therefore the safest way unto our blisse,
Is meditation of our certaine Death
And though we tread the steps of carefulness,
And all our life in sorrow draw our breath,
The guerdon of our paines our Christ will give
In causing us eternally to live.

Thus by a godly and an upright life,
Man of a deadly foe may make a friend
And by a wise provision stint that strife,
Which Sathan laid to bring us to our end:
And though our flesh prove false, our God is Just,
By death our soule gaines heaven, our body dust.

Be ever vigilant in all thy wayes,
And alwayes live as in the sight of God,
Performe good actions and use no delayes,
Then feare not Death it brings with it no rod:
With care attend that sure uncertainety,
And live, as every howre thou shouldest dye.

This watchfull care wounds Sathan in the head,
For hee that thinkes of Death doth shun all Sinne,
B thought of this man to the world proves dead
He counts all drosse and only Christ would win:
No earthly joyes can cause him life to love,
His Soule it fixt and nothing can him move.

Thus each weake Christian may this tyrant foyle,
For by Christ’s Death man armed is with strength,
Though in this Combate he a while may toyle,
But Faith in Christ, gives victory at length;
And with a courage bold, man now may cry
Death where’s thy sting? Grave where’s thy victory?

From: Sutcliffe, Alice, Meditations of Mans Mortalitie; or, A Way to True Blessednesse, 1634, Bernard Alsop and Thomas Fawcett for Henry Seyle: London, pp. 193-196.
(https://archive.org/details/meditationsofman00sutc/)

Date: 1634

By: Alice Sutcliffe (fl. 1634)

Thursday, 12 January 2017

Various Effects of Love by Félix Lope de Vega y Carpio

To be fainthearted, to be bold, possessed,
abrasive, tender, open, isolated,
spirited, dying, dead, invigorated,
loyal, treacherous, venturesome, repressed.

Not to find, without your lover, rest.
To seem happy, sad, haughty, understated,
emboldened, fugitive, exasperated,
satisfied, offended, doubt-obsessed.

To face away from disillusionment,
to swallow venom like liqueur, and quell
all thoughts of gain, embracing discontent;

to believe a heaven lies within a hell,
to give your soul to disillusionment;
that’s love, as all who’ve tasted know too well.

From: http://www.unsplendid.com/4-1/4-1_lopedevega_various_frames.htm

Date: 1634 (original in Spanish); 2012 (translation in English)

By: Félix Lope de Vega y Carpio (1562-1635)

Translated by: David Rosenthal (19??- )

Thursday, 1 December 2016

Excerpt from “The Blessed Birth-Day Celebrated in Some Pious Meditations on the Angels Anthem. Luke 2. 14” by Charles Fitzgeoffrey

Behold a Mother, yet a Virgin still,
Whose Wombe not lust, but lively Faith did fill.
Before, and in, and after Birth a Mayd,
Of whom ‘mong all her sexe it may be said,
Sh’ enioy’d by bringing forth that heavenly Boy,
A virgins honour, with a Mothers joy:
Behold a field which nere by man was tild,
Wheat whence is made, the bread of life doth yield.
Thus ere the Heavens did showers on Earth distill,
A my’st her pregnant wombe with fruit did fill.

Thus Gedeons fleece was moist when all was drie,
And dry when all about it moist did lie.
Thus Moses bush sent forth a flaming fume,
And burning did not with the fire consume.
Thus did Faiths fire the Virgins heart inflame,
And yet abolisht not her Virgin-name:
Her swelling bellie nothing did abate
The entireness of her Maydenhead, state.
And thus on Aarons Rod ripe Almonds grew,
Nor set in earth nor moist’ned with the dew.
And thus from Maries Wombe a Plant proceeded,
Which neither setting, neither plantage needed.

Never till now two Phœnixes were seene
At once; For this the usuall course hath beene
(If all be true, that Naturallists have told,)
The young ones birth brings death unto the old:
One Phœnix here another forth did bring,
And yet her selfe is sav’d from perishing.
The mother there dies to produce an other,
But here the Child must die to save the Mother,
The young one must himselfe of life deprive,
Or else the Mother Phœnix cannot live.

If thou ô man doest aske how this may be,
The same that answer’d her must answer thee.
When of the Messenger she did demand
How this with possibility might stand.
That she should have a Man-child of her owne,
Who never Man in all her life had knowne.
All things are possible with God, whose skill
And power to worke are equall with his will.
Least we should doubt of this he first would doe
Things all as strange as this, and stranger too.

He who at first to frame a Man did need
Neither a Mothers wombe nor Fathers seed,
Could he not now forme in a Virgins Womb
A Child, who from no Fathers seed should come?
Could not the same who first made man of Earth
Procure a Mayden to bring forth a Birth?
He, who a Woman of a Man could frame
Without a Womans help, could not the same
A perfect Man now of a Woman make,
One who no man should for his Father take?

Let this suffice. The reason of the deed,
Doth from the doers will and powre proceed.
Consider who it is that wrought the fact,
Once know the Author, doubt not of the Act.
But for the Act the Author magnifie,
Joyning with th’. Angels in their melodie,
Glory to God on high, on Earth be Peace,
And let good will t’wards Christians never cease.

From: Fitzgeoffrey, Charles, The Blessed Birth-Day Celebrated in Some Pious Meditations on the Angels Anthem. Luke 2. 14. Also Holy Raptures, Etc. [In Verse.], 1634, John Lichfield: Oxford, pp. 11-12.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=MUNoAAAAcAAJ)

Date: 1634

By: Charles Fitzgeoffrey (1576-1638)

Wednesday, 11 June 2014

A Platonick Elegie by Thomas Randolph

Love, give me leave to serve thee, and be wise
To keepe thy torch in, but restore blind eyes.
I will a flame into my bosome take,
That Martyrs Court when they embrace the stake:
Not dull, and smoakie fires, but heat divine,
That burnes not to consume, but to refine.
I have a Mistresse, for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most faire.
Like Tapers on the Altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of Sacrifice.
And where soe’re my fancy would begin,
Still her perfection lets religion in.
I touch her, like my Beads, with devout care,
And come unto my Courtship as my Praier.
We sit, and talke, and kisse away the houres,
As chastly as the morning dews kisse flowers.
Goe wanton Lover, spare, thy sighs and teares,
Put on the Livery which thy dotage weares,
And call it Love, where heresie gets in
Zeale’s but a coale to kindle greater sin.
Wee weare no flesh, but one another greet,
As blessed soules in separation meet.
Were’t possible that my ambitious sin,
Durst commit rapes upon a Cherubin,
I might have lustfull thoughts to her, of all
Earth’s heav’nly Quire the most Angelicall.
Looking into my brest, her forme I find
That like my Guardian-Angell keeps my mind
From rude attempts; and when affections stirre,
I calme all passions with one thought of her.
Thus they whose reasons love, and not their sence,
The spirits love: thus one Intelligence
Reflects upon his like, and by chast loves
In the same spheare this and that Angell moves.
Nor is this barren Love; one noble thought
Begets an other, and that still is brought
To bed of more; vertues and grace increase,
And such a numerous issue ne’re can cease,
Where Children, though great blessings, only bee
Pleasures repriv’d to some posteritie.
Beasts love like men, if men in lust delight
And call that love which is but appetite.
When essence meets with essence, and soules joyne
In mutuall knots, thats the true Nuptall twine:
Such Lady is my Love, and such is true;
All other Love is to your Sexe, not You.

From: Randolph, Thomas and Parry, John J. (ed.), The Poems and Amyntas of Thomas Randolph, 1917, Yale University Press: New Haven, pp. 113-114.
(https://archive.org/stream/poemsamyntasofth00randiala#page/112/mode/2up)

Date: 1634

By: Thomas Randolph (1605-1635)

Tuesday, 29 April 2014

To Castara, of his Being in Love by William Habington

Where am I? not in Heaven: for oh I feele
The stone of Sisiphus, Ixion’s wheele;
And all those tortures, poets (by their wine
Made judges) laid on Tantalus, are mine.
Nor yet am I in Hell: for still I stand,
Though giddy in my passion, on firme land.
And still behold the seasons of the yeare,
Springs in my hope, and winters in my feare.
And sure I’m ‘bove the Earth, for th’ highest star
Shoots beames, but dim, to what Castara’s are;
And in her sight and favour I even shine
In a bright orbe beyond the christalline.
If then, Castara, I in Heaven nor move,
Nor Earth, nor Hell; where am I but in love?

From: Habington, William and Elton, Charles A. (ed), Habington’s Castara, with a Preface and Notes, 1812, J.M. Gutch: Bristol, pp. 59-61.
(https://archive.org/stream/habingtonscastar00habi#page/58/mode/2up)

Date: 1634

By: William Habington (1605-1654)

Saturday, 29 October 2011

Song by John Donne

Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil’s foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be’st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find’st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

From: http://www.online-literature.com/poe/339/

Date: ? (published 1634)

By: John Donne (1572-1631)