Posts tagged ‘1645’

Monday, 30 April 2018

Hearing the Birds Sing After the Departure of our Deare Mother by Christopher Wyvill

And can you sing poor birds? do you not see
A mourning countenance on every tree?
Doth not each stone in this sad fabrick, tell
What sable thoughts within these walls do dwell?
Since she who added sweetnesse to the spring,
To Summer glory, she whose care did bring
More fruit then Autumne, and from whom it was
That Icy-Winter undiscern’d did passe,
Hath left these habitations, my-thinks you
Should leave henceforth your warbling sonnets too,
Yet sing, but change your note and joyne with me,
Tune your loud whistles to an Elegie.

May 10, 1645

From: Wyvill, Christopher, Certaine serious thoughts which at severall times & upon sundry occasions have stollen themselves into verse and now into the publike view from the author [Wyvill coat of arms] Esquire ; together w[i]th a chronologicall table denoeting [sic] the names of such princes as ruled the neighbor states and were con-temporary to our English kings, observeing throughout ye number of yeares w[hi]ch every one of them reigned, 2004, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan and Oxford, pp. 34-35.

Date: 1645

By: Christopher Wyvill (16??-1711)

Saturday, 5 August 2017

The Larke by Hester Ley Pulter

See how Arachne doth her Howres Pass
In weaving Tincile on the verdent Grass
Look how it glitters, now the sun doth Rise
The Bane of Harmles sheep, and death of flyes
And over it the slow and Unctious Snayl
In winding knots doth draw a slimey Trayl
The cheerfull Lark as in the Ayr shee Flyes
And on this Gossomeire casts down her eyes
Takes it for Merrours Laid by Rurall swains
And therefore fears to Light upon the plains
But with alacrity aloft shee Flyes
And early Sings her Morning sacrifice
And in her Language magnifies his Name
From whose imensity all creatures came
Doe thou my soul sing too, let none on earth
Or Ayr beyond thee goe, think on thy Birth
For though my Body’s dust, thou art a Spark
Celestiall, For shame out sing the Lark
Shee hath but one life that shee spends in praise
Tho hast and shallt have two, yet wat’s thy dayes
In Bleeding sighs, and Fruitless briney tears
In Melancholly thoughts vain causles Fears
Learn thou of this sweet Ayry Chorister
Doe thou her her cheerfull Actions Register
For I have seen Walking one summers day
To take the Ayr when Flora did display
Her youthfull Pride as shee did smileing Pass
She threw her Flowered Mantle on the Grass
Which strait allured a Sunburnt Rurall Clown
To come and Mow thes Fadeing Beuties Down
Unbracet, unblest hee doth with hast repair
This valley to deflower, then Temp’ more faire
Thus stew’d in sweet this Gripple hide bound slave
Cuts nere the Ground the greater Crop to have
Greedy of gain and sweltring him hee high’d
Mowing by chance neare where a spring did Glide
That in her Purling Language seemd to chide
Because hee Rob’d her of her chiefest pride
But hee Regardles of her murmering Woe
Still nearer to the Rill did straddling Goe
In this sweet place the Lark tooke such delight
Because it shadey was and out of sight
By this cool Rivolet shee took such Pleasure
That here shee placed her Young, even all her treasure
Was here inclosed, in one round little nest
Which this indulgent Bird warm’d with her brest
And by the Eccho of this Bubling Spring
Shee meant to teach her Ayry Young to sing
But in a Moment all her Joys were Quasht
In twinckling of an eye her hopes were Dasht
For this bold scoundrill without Fear or wit
Her Pritty Globe like Nest in Sunder split
Some are in Middle Cut, Some of their Head
Thus all her Young are either Maimd or Dead
One not quite kild doth weakly Fly about
Which soon perceived is by this Rude Lowt
Who Throws his Syth away to it doth run
Meaning to carry it to his little Son
Which having caught and it in ins Pocket put
Withs swetty Glove hee doth’t in prison shut
Next day hee Gives it to his crying squale
Who in a thred this pretty Bird doth Hale
Hither and thither, as his fond desire
Him Leads but ear’t bee Night it doth expire
The poor old Dam seeing this sad Massacker
With heavie Heart to her light Wings betakes her
Yet Hovering below in hope to find
Some of her Brood according to their kind
To Follow her, but seeing at Last’s ther’s none
That doth survive shee sadly makes her moan
Yet mounts and sings, Though in a sadder Tone
Thus as thou art afflicted here below
My troubled soul, still nearer Heaven goe
Let every troublesome Heart breaking Cross
Like Surly Billowes to thy Haven thee Toss
And As thy Friends And Lovly Children Die
Soe thou my soul to Heaven for Comfort Fly
There doe thou place thy whole and sole delight
There There are Joys nere seen by Mortall sight
Bee thou Possest my soul with those true Joys
And thou shalt Find worldly delights meer toys
Fix thou thy mind where those true pleasures dwell
Thou shalt noe leasure have to feare a Hell
And when Death ceaseth on thy Mortall Part
Thou mayest indure it with a constant Heart
And when thy Last Friends close thy Roleing Eye
Then chang thy place but not thy company.

From: Millman, Jill Seal and Wright, Gillian (eds.), Early Modern Women’s Manuscript Poetry, 2005, Manchester University Press: Manchester and New York, pp. 119-121.

Date: c1645

By: Hester Ley Pulter (c1607-1678)

Monday, 4 January 2016

The Cryes of Ulster by Payne Fisher

To my much honored Friend and Coll.: Sr. J. CI. [Sir John Clotworthy]

Up sad Melpomene; up; and condole
The Ruines of a Realme: attire thy soule
In sorrowes Dresse; and let thy Fountaines rise
And overflow the Floud-gates of thine eyes.
Fill up thy sanguine Cisternes to the Brimme:
Spread forth thy expanded armes, and learne to swim
In thine owne Teares, that thus thou maist make knowne
The Griefes of others, fully as thine own.
Oh! here’s a Theame indeed! If mortalls could
Not now lament, the Rocks and Mountains would:
The melting Heavens, whose Influences steepe
The tender stones, would teach us how to weepe.
The Blood-imbrued-Earth doth Blush to see
Such horrid Massakers ; and shall not wee?
Sure should wee not; wee had lesse shame than Those
Hard Hearts that were first Authors of these Woes.

Disastrous state! how beautifull, how faire
Thy Buildings, and how foule thy Vices were!
How were thy glorious Blossomes turn’d to Dust,
And blasted with the lightning of thy lust!
Brim’d with Excesse how did thy cuppes o’reflowe
More fast than all thy trickling Teares doe now!
How have thy crimes ecclips’d thee, and crying loud
For Vengance masqued thy Forhead in a cloud!
Thy Greatnesse but encreas’d thy Griefe: and that
Which was thy Glory, usherd on thy Fate.
Thy Store and Plenty, have but centuplied
Thy greater Plauges, and made thy wound more wide;
And what should most revive thee and restoare
Thine Health, did most exulcerat the Soare.
Thy stately woods, whose beauty did excite
In the spectator, wonder, and delight:
Proved but thy Funerall Faggots, to consume
Thee in cinders; and to exaggerat thy Doome
And all thy Blazing Territories have
But Torches beene, to light thee to thy Grave.

And shall Shee perish; and wee sorrow thus,
And is there none to help Hir, or pitty us?
O happy England! who wilt scarce confesse
Lulld with security thine Happinesse!
Thy Troubles were but triviall, and thy Feares
But merely Fantasies compar’d with Hirs.
‘Tis Shee, ’tis Shee hath suffer’ d: and drunck up
Those Dregges whereof Thou ‘hast onely kiss’d the cup.
Those puny Plauges, which partially have met
In Thee, have beene soe ample, soe compleat
And numerous in Hir; that nothing more
Could once be heapt or added to Hir Score.

But ah! complaints are Shaddowes and too breife
And short to ‘expresse the Substance of my Griefe!
Thou that wert once great Brittanes only glory
And now become a Gazing-stock, a story:
Exiled from Humane Joyes, and Heaven’s smiles,
Or’ewhelmed, and sepulchred in thine owne spoiles.
Famine! thou Sister of the Sword; and Sonne
Of Death; how many worlds hast thou undone!
How dost thou tyrannize! and keep thy Leets
And constant Stations in all Hir streets!
Oh how the pale -face’t Sucklings roare for food
And from their milke-lesse Mother’s Breast draw blood.
They crye’d for bread that had scarce breath to crye
And wanting Meanes to live, found Meanes to die.
The gasping Father lies; and to his Heire
Bequeathes his pined coarse: The Nurses teare
And quarter out their Infants; whiles they Feast
Upon the one halfe, and preserve the rest.
O cruell Famine; which compells the Mother
To kill one hungry Child to feed another!

Thus is thy Glory vanisht in a Trice
And all thy Braveryes buried in abysse.
Yet bee not thou dismay’d with too much sorrow:
These Nights of griefe may finde a joy full Morrow:
Cleare then thy clouded Countenance; and calme
Thy discomposed Soule: Heaven, Heaven has Balme
As well as Thunder Bolts; and bee thou sure
Thou canst not Bleed soe fast as hee can cure.
‘Tis Hee, ’tis Hee, can heale thee; and bruise those
That have triumphed in these Overthrowes.
There is a time for them : when Heaven’s Decree
Shall call Them to accompt as well as Thee;
And a Day there is: if Souldiers may divine,
To worke their Ruines, who have thus wrought Thine.

From: Pinkerton, William, “Unpublished Poems Relating to Ulster in 1642-43” in The Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 1860, Volume 8, 1860, Hodges & Smith: Dublin, pp. 156-158.

Date: 1645-1646

By: Payne Fisher (1616-1693)

Sunday, 27 May 2012

Song [Go Lovely Rose] by Edmund Waller

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retir’d:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir’d,
And not blush so to be admir’d.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.


Date: 1645

By: Edmund Waller (1606-1687)