Posts tagged ‘1650’

Thursday, 10 October 2019

Under Mr. Hales Picture by Anne King

Though by a Sodaine and unfeard surprise,
thou lately taken wast from thy friends eies:
Even in that instant, when they had design’d
to keipe thee, by thy picture still in minde:
least thou like others lost in deths dark night
shouldst stealing hence vanish quite out of sight;
I did content with greater zeale then Art,
This shadow of my phancie to impart:
which all shood pardon, when they understand
the lines were figur’d by a womans hand,
who had noe copy to be guided by
but Hales imprinted on her memory.
Thus ill cut Brasses serve upon a grave,
Which less resemblance of the persons have.

From: Post, Jonathan F. S. (ed.), English Lyric Poetry: The Early Seventeenth Century, 1999, Routledge: London and New York, p. 251.

Date: c1650

By: Anne King (1621-?1701)

Monday, 23 September 2019

Wretten By Me On the Death of My Child Robert Payler by Mary Jackson Carey/Peyler

My lord hath called for my sonne
my hart breth’s forth; thy will be done:

my all; that mercy hath made mine
frely’s surendered to be thine:

But if I give my all to the
lett me not pyne for poverty:

Change Wth me; doe, as I have done
give me thy all; Even thy deare sonne:

Tis Jesus Christ; lord I would have;
he’s thine, mine all; ’tis him I crave:

Give him to me; and I’le reply
Enoughe my lord; now lett me dye.


Date: c1650

By: Mary Jackson Carey/Peyler (c1609-c1680)

Thursday, 28 March 2019

On an Acquaintance by Jane Cavendish

When looke on you then each should truely name
A woman faire and then speake you the same
For you appeare as if you could well tell
The way of love, and yet keep vertue well
Your Eye lookes innocence, this is trueth
An you your selfe is full of gentle youth
And every looke of you doth mildely say
I have heard of sinn, but yet not knowes the way
I longe to name thee, what then shall it bee?
Witts waggerie, and that I sweare is thee.

From: Cavendish, Jane and Bennet, Alexandra G. (ed.), The Collected Works of Jane Cavendish, 2018, Routledge: Abingdon, Oxon and New York, p. 6.

Date: c1650

By: Jane Cavendish (1621-1669)

Saturday, 28 November 2015

Sonnet by Sibylla Schwarz

If love is chaste, what bears adultery?
If love is good, and does no evil own,
How can its fire so many flames propone?
If love is joy, why’s it called cruelty?
Who love adores, sails on a lustful sea,
And lets himself into death’s net be sewn,
Which does not tear; he lives for sin alone,
Is stripped of virtue, worships vanity.

From: Walsøe-Engel, Ingrid (ed.), German Poetry from the Beginnings to 1750, 1992, Continuum: New York, p. 251.

Date: 1650 (published in German); 1992 (translated in English)

By: Sibylla Schwarz (1621-1638)

Translated by: George C. Schoolfield (1925- )

Friday, 23 October 2015

An Epitaph Upon E.T. by Robert Wilde (Wylde)

Reader, didst thou but know what sacred dust
Thou tread’st upon, thou’dst judge thyself unjust
Shouldst thou neglect a shower of tears to pay,
To wash the sin of thy own feet away.
That actor in the play, who looking down
When he should cry’ O heaven,’ was thought a clown
And guilty of a solecism, might have
Applause for such an action o’er this grave.
Here lies a piece of heaven, and Heaven one day
Will send the best in heaven to fetch’t away.
Truth is, this lovely virgin from her birth
Became a constant strife ‘twixt heaven and earth;
Both claimed her, pleaded for her; either cried,
‘The child is mine!’ at length they did divide:
Heaven took her soul, the earth her corpse did seize;
Yet not in fee, she only holds by lease,
With this proviso—when the Judge shall call,
Earth shall give up her share, and heaven have all.

From: Wilde, Robert and Hunt, John (ed.), Poems by Robert Wilde, D.D., One of the Ejected Ministers of 1662, with a Historical and Biographical Preface and Notes, 1870, Strahan & Co. Publishers: London, p. 38.

Date: 16??

By: Robert Wilde (Wylde) (1615-1679)

Thursday, 2 July 2015

On Copernicus His Opinion of the Earths Turning Round by Robert Heath

Copernicus was of opinion
That the Earths globe by spherick motion
Turn’d round, and that the Heav’ns were fixt: the man
Was drunk sure or on shipboard, when his brain
Hatcht this Maeander; for to such the land
Doth only seem to move when they do stand.
When Noahs floud had turn’d the land to Sea
And the earth seem’d one floating Isle to be,
The world then rid on waves indeed, and then
Ith’ Ark there was no terra firma seen:
Yet true we find what was but Phansie then,
(For th’ world if we but understand the men
That live therein) for they alas turn round
And scotomized sail on firmest ground:
Or drunk with madnes, with their poreblind eies
Think States wel setled totter though they rise.
A strange Vertigo or Delirium,
Oth’ brain it is, that thus possesses’um;
Whilst like to fashions grown Orbicular,
Kingdomes thus turn’d, and overturned are:
Nothing but fine Eutopian worlds ith’ moon
Must be new form’d by revolution.
Nor doth the State alone on fortuns wheels
Run round, alas our rock Religion, reels:
We have saild so far the Antipodian way
That into darkness we have turnd our day.
Amidst these turnings ’tis some comfort yet,
Heav’n doth not flie from us, though we from it.

From: Heath, Robert, Clarastella together with poems occasional, elegies, epigrams, satyrs, 1650, Hump. Mosley: London, pp. 5-6.

Date: 1650

By: Robert Heath (fl. 1636-1659)

Friday, 2 December 2011

The World by Henry Vaughan

I saw Eternity the other night
Like a great Ring of pure and endless light
     All calm as it was bright;
And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,
     Driven by the spheres,
Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world
      And all her train were hurled.
The doting Lover in his quaintest strain
     Did there complain;
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,
      Wit’s sour delights;
With gloves and knots, the silly snares of pleasure;
      Yet his dear treasure
All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour
     Upon a flower.

The darksome Statesman hung with weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight fog, moved there so slow
     He did nor stay nor go;
Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses, scowl
     Upon his soul,
And clouds of crying witnesses without
     Pursued him with one shout.
Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found,
     Worked under ground,
Where he did clutch his prey; but One did see
     That policy.
Churches and altars fed him, perjuries
     Were gnats and flies;
It rained about him blood and tears, but he
     Drank them as free.

The fearful Miser on a heap of rust
Sat pining all his life there, did scarce trust
     His own hands with the dust;
Yet would not place one piece above, but lives
     In fear of thieves.
Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
     And hugged each one his pelf.
The downright Epicure placed heaven in sense
     And scorned pretence;
While others, slipped into a wide excess,
     Said little less;
The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave,
     Who think them brave;
And poor despisèd Truth sat counting by
     Their victory.

Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
And sing and weep, soared up into the Ring;
     But most would use no wing.
‘Oh, fools,’ said I, ‘thus to prefer dark night
     Before true light,
To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
     Because it shows the way,
The way which from this dead and dark abode
     Leaps up to God,
A way where you might tread the sun, and be
     More bright than he.’
But as I did their madness so discuss,
     One whispered thus,
This Ring the Bridegroom did for none provide
     But for his Bride.


Date: 1650

By: Henry Vaughan (1621-1695)