Robert Southwell. 1561-95
108. Times go by Turns
THE lopped tree in time may grow again,Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;The sorest wight may find release of pain,The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower;Times go by turns and chances change by course,From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;Her tides hath equal times to come and go,Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;No joy so great but runneth to an end,No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring,No endless night yet not eternal day;The saddest birds a season find to sing,The roughest storm a calm may soon allay:Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;The net that holds no great, takes little fish;In some things all, in all things none are crost,Few all they need, but none have all they wish;Unmeddled joys here to no man befall:Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.
unmeddled] unmixed.
Robert Southwell. 1561-95
109. The Burning Babe
AS I in hoary winter's nightStood shivering in the snow,Surprised I was with sudden heatWhich made my heart to glow;And lifting up a fearful eyeTo view what fire was near,A pretty babe all burning brightDid in the air appear;Who, scorched with excessive heat,Such floods of tears did shed,As though His floods should quench His flames,Which with His tears were bred:'Alas!' quoth He, 'but newly bornIn fiery heats I fry,Yet none approach to warm their heartsOr feel my fire but I!'My faultless breast the furnace is;The fuel, wounding thorns;Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;The ashes, shames and scorns;The fuel Justice layeth on,And Mercy blows the coals,The metal in this furnace wroughtAre men's defiled souls:For which, as now on fire I amTo work them to their good,So will I melt into a bath,To wash them in my blood.'With this He vanish'd out of sightAnd swiftly shrunk away,And straight I called unto mindThat it was Christmas Day.
Henry Constable. 1562?-1613?
110. On the Death of Sir Philip Sidney
GIVE pardon, blessed soul, to my bold cries,If they, importune, interrupt thy song,Which now with joyful notes thou sing'st amongThe angel-quiristers of th' heavenly skies.Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,That since I saw thee now it is so long,And yet the tears that unto thee belongTo thee as yet they did not sacrifice.I did not know that thou wert dead before;I did not feel the grief I did sustain;The greater stroke astonisheth the more;Astonishment takes from us sense of pain;I stood amazed when others' tears begun,And now begin to weep when they have done.
Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619
111. Love is a Sickness
LOVE is a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing;A plant that with most cutting grows,Most barren with best using.Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries—Heigh ho!
Love is a torment of the mind,A tempest everlasting;And Jove hath made it of a kindNot well, nor full nor fasting.Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries—Heigh ho!
Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619
112. Ulysses and the Siren
Siren. COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,Possess these shores with me:The winds and seas are troublesome,And here we may be free.Here may we sit and view their toilThat travail in the deep,And joy the day in mirth the while,And spend the night in sleep.
Ulysses. Fair Nymph, if fame or honour wereTo be attain'd with ease,Then would I come and rest me there,And leave such toils as these.But here it dwells, and here must IWith danger seek it forth:To spend the time luxuriouslyBecomes not men of worth.
Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceivedWith that unreal name;This honour is a thing conceived,And rests on others' fame:Begotten only to molestOur peace, and to beguileThe best thing of our life—our rest,And give us up to toil.
Ulysses. Delicious Nymph, suppose there wereNo honour nor report,Yet manliness would scorn to wearThe time in idle sport:For toil doth give a better touchTo make us feel our joy,And ease finds tediousness as muchAs labour yields annoy.
Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the shoreWhereto tends all your toil,Which you forgo to make it more,And perish oft the while.Who may disport them diverselyFind never tedious day,And ease may have varietyAs well as action may.
Ulysses. But natures of the noblest frameThese toils and dangers please;And they take comfort in the sameAs much as you in ease;And with the thought of actions pastAre recreated still:When Pleasure leaves a touch at lastTo show that it was ill.
Siren. That doth Opinion only causeThat 's out of Custom bred,Which makes us many other lawsThan ever Nature did.No widows wail for our delights,Our sports are without blood;The world we see by warlike wightsReceives more hurt than good.
Ulysses. But yet the state of things requireThese motions of unrest:And these great Spirits of high desireSeem born to turn them best:To purge the mischiefs that increaseAnd all good order mar:For oft we see a wicked peaceTo be well changed for war.
Siren. Well, well, Ulysses, then I seeI shall not have thee here:And therefore I will come to thee,And take my fortune there.I must be won, that cannot win,Yet lost were I not won;For beauty hath created beenT' undo, or be undone.
Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619
113. Beauty, Time, and Love Sonnets.
IFAIR is my Love and cruel as she 's fair;Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny.Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair,And her disdains are gall, her favours honey:A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour,Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,Sacred on earth, design'd a Saint above.Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes,Live reconciled friends within her brow;And had she Pity to conjoin with those,Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.
IIMy spotless love hovers with purest wings,About the temple of the proudest frame,Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things,Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.My ambitious thoughts, confined in her face,Affect no honour but what she can give;My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.For she, that can my heart imparadise,Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is;My Fortune's wheel 's the circle of her eyes,Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.All my life's sweet consists in her alone;So much I love the most Unloving one.
IIIAnd yet I cannot reprehend the flightOr blame th' attempt presuming so to soar;The mounting venture for a high delightDid make the honour of the fall the more.For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore?Danger hath honour, great designs their fame;Glory doth follow, courage goes before;And though th' event oft answers not the same—Suffice that high attempts have never shame.The mean observer, whom base safety keeps,Lives without honour, dies without a name,And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.—And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blotTo have attempted, tho' attain'd thee not.
IVWhen men shall find thy flow'r, thy glory, pass,And thou with careful brow, sitting alone,Received hast this message from thy glass,That tells the truth and says that All is gone;Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad'st,Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining:I that have loved thee thus before thou fad'st—My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.The world shall find this miracle in me,That fire can burn when all the matter 's spent:Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,And that thou wast unkind thou may'st repent.—Thou may'st repent that thou hast scorn'd my tears,When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
VBeauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,Whose short refresh upon the tender greenCheers for a time, but till the sun doth show,And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,Short is the glory of the blushing rose;The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth;And that, in Beauty's Lease expired, appearsThe Date of Age, the Calends of our Death—But ah, no more!—this must not be foretold,For women grieve to think they must be old.
VII must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would readLines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;Flowers have time before they come to seed,And she is young, and now must sport the while.And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years,And learn to gather flowers before they wither;And where the sweetest blossom first appears,Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither.Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;Pity and smiles do best become the fair;Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.Make me to say when all my griefs are gone,Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!
VIILet others sing of Knights and PaladinesIn aged accents and untimely words,Paint shadows in imaginary lines,Which well the reach of their high wit records:But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyesAuthentic shall my verse in time to come;When yet th' unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies!Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!These are the arcs, the trophies I erect,That fortify thy name against old age;And these thy sacred virtues must protectAgainst the Dark, and Time's consuming rage.Though th' error of my youth in them appear,Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.
Mark Alexander Boyd. 1563-1601
114. Sonet
FRA bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie;Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree,Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.
Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin,Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie;The next a wife ingenrit of the sea,And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.
Unhappy is the man for evermairThat tills the sand and sawis in the air;But twice unhappier is he, I lairn,That feidis in his hairt a mad desire,And follows on a woman throw the fire,Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.
Joshua Sylvester. 1563-1618
115. Ubique
WERE I as base as is the lowly plain,And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.Were I as high as heaven above the plain,And you, my Love, as humble and as lowAs are the deepest bottoms of the main,Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,My love should shine on you like to the Sun,And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.Wheresoe'er I am,—below, or else above you—Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
Michael Drayton. 1563-1631
116. To His Coy Love
I PRAY thee, leave, love me no more,Call home the heart you gave me!I but in vain that saint adoreThat can but will not save me.These poor half-kisses kill me quite—Was ever man thus served?Amidst an ocean of delightFor pleasure to be starved?
Show me no more those snowy breastsWith azure riverets branched,Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,Yet is my thirst not stanched;O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell!By me thou art prevented:'Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,But thus in Heaven tormented.
Clip me no more in those dear arms,Nor thy life's comfort call me,O these are but too powerful charms,And do but more enthral me!But see how patient I am grownIn all this coil about thee:Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,I cannot live without thee!
Michael Drayton. 1563-1631
117. The Parting
SINCE there 's no help, come let us kiss and part—Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,That thus so cleanly I myself can free.Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And Innocence is closing up his eyes,—Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,From death to life thou might'st him yet recover.
Michael Drayton. 1563-1631
118. Sirena
NEAR to the silver TrentSIRENA dwelleth;She to whom Nature lentAll that excelleth;By which the Muses lateAnd the neat GracesHave for their greater stateTaken their places;Twisting an anademWherewith to crown her,As it belong'd to themMost to renown her.On thy bank,In a rank,Let thy swans sing her,And with their musicAlong let them bring her.
Tagus and PactolusAre to thee debtor,Nor for their gold to usAre they the better:Henceforth of all the restBe thou the RiverWhich, as the daintiest,Puts them down ever.For as my precious oneO'er thee doth travel,She to pearl paragonTurneth thy gravel.On thy bank…
Our mournful Philomel,That rarest tuner,Henceforth in AperilShall wake the sooner,And to her shall complainFrom the thick cover,Redoubling every strainOver and over:For when my Love too longHer chamber keepeth,As though it suffer'd wrong,The Morning weepeth.On thy bank…
Oft have I seen the Sun,To do her honour,Fix himself at his noonTo look upon her;And hath gilt every grove,Every hill near her,With his flames from aboveStriving to cheer her:And when she from his sightHath herself turned,He, as it had been night,In clouds hath mourned.On thy bank…
The verdant meads are seen,When she doth view them,In fresh and gallant greenStraight to renew them;And every little grassBroad itself spreadeth,Proud that this bonny lassUpon it treadeth:Nor flower is so sweetIn this large cincture,But it upon her feetLeaveth some tincture.On thy bank…
The fishes in the flood,When she doth angle,For the hook strive a-goodThem to entangle;And leaping on the land,From the clear water,Their scales upon the sandLavishly scatter;Therewith to pave the mouldWhereon she passes,So herself to beholdAs in her glasses.On thy bank…
When she looks out by night,The stars stand gazing,Like comets to our sightFearfully blazing;As wond'ring at her eyesWith their much brightness,Which so amaze the skies,Dimming their lightness.The raging tempests are calmWhen she speaketh,Such most delightsome balmFrom her lips breaketh.On thy bank…
In all our BrittanyThere 's not a fairer,Nor can you fit anyShould you compare her.Angels her eyelids keep,All hearts surprising;Which look whilst she doth sleepLike the sun's rising:She alone of her kindKnoweth true measure,And her unmatched mindIs heaven's treasure.On thy bank…
Fair Dove and Darwen clear,Boast ye your beauties,To Trent your mistress hereYet pay your duties:My Love was higher bornTow'rds the full fountains,Yet she doth moorland scornAnd the Peak mountains;Nor would she none should dreamWhere she abideth,Humble as is the streamWhich by her slideth.On thy bank…
Yet my pour rustic MuseNothing can move her,Nor the means I can use,Though her true lover:Many a long winter's nightHave I waked for her,Yet this my piteous plightNothing can stir her.All thy sands, silver Trent,Down to the Humber,The sighs that I have spentNever can number.On thy bank,In a rank,Let thy swans sing her,And with their musicAlong let them bring her.
Michael Drayton. 1563-1631
119. Agincourt
FAIR stood the wind for FranceWhen we our sails advance,Nor now to prove our chanceLonger will tarry;But putting to the main,At Caux, the mouth of Seine,With all his martial trainLanded King Harry.
And taking many a fort,Furnish'd in warlike sort,Marcheth tow'rds AgincourtIn happy hour;Skirmishing day by dayWith those that stopp'd his way,Where the French gen'ral layWith all his power.
Which, in his height of pride,King Henry to deride,His ransom to provideUnto him sending;Which he neglects the whileAs from a nation vile,Yet with an angry smileTheir fall portending.
And turning to his men,Quoth our brave Henry then,'Though they to one be tenBe not amazed:Yet have we well begun;Battles so bravely wonHave ever to the sunBy fame been raised.
'And for myself (quoth he)This my full rest shall be:England ne'er mourn for meNor more esteem me:Victor I will remainOr on this earth lie slain,Never shall she sustainLoss to redeem me.
'Poitiers and Cressy tell,When most their pride did swell,Under our swords they fell:No less our skill isThan when our grandsire great,Claiming the regal seat,By many a warlike featLopp'd the French lilies.'
The Duke of York so dreadThe eager vaward led;With the main Henry spedAmong his henchmen.Excester had the rear,A braver man not there;O Lord, how hot they wereOn the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone,Armour on armour shone,Drum now to drum did groan,To hear was wonder;That with the cries they makeThe very earth did shake:Trumpet to trumpet spake,Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,O noble Erpingham,Which didst the signal aimTo our hid forces!When from a meadow by,Like a storm suddenlyThe English archeryStuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong,Arrows a cloth-yard longThat like to serpents stung,Piercing the weather;None from his fellow starts,But playing manly parts,And like true English heartsStuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,And forth their bilbos drew,And on the French they flew,Not one was tardy;Arms were from shoulders sent,Scalps to the teeth were rent,Down the French peasants went—Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king,His broadsword brandishing,Down the French host did dingAs to o'erwhelm it;And many a deep wound lent,His arms with blood besprent,And many a cruel dentBruised his helmet.
Gloster, that duke so good,Next of the royal blood,For famous England stoodWith his brave brother;Clarence, in steel so bright,Though but a maiden knight,Yet in that furious fightScarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade,Oxford the foe invade,And cruel slaughter madeStill as they ran up;Suffolk his axe did ply,Beaumont and WilloughbyBare them right doughtily,Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's DayFought was this noble fray,Which fame did not delayTo England to carry.O when shall English menWith such acts fill a pen?Or England breed againSuch a King Harry?
bilbos] swords, from Bilboa.
Michael Drayton. 1563-1631
120. To the Virginian Voyage
YOU brave heroic mindsWorthy your country's name,That honour still pursue;Go and subdue!Whilst loitering hindsLurk here at home with shame.
Britons, you stay too long:Quickly aboard bestow you,And with a merry galeSwell your stretch'd sailWith vows as strongAs the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer,West and by south forth keep!Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoalsWhen Eolus scowlsYou need not fear;So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at seaSuccess you still enticeTo get the pearl and gold,And ours to holdVirginia,Earth's only paradise.
Where nature hath in storeFowl, venison, and fish,And the fruitfull'st soilWithout your toilThree harvests more,All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vineCrowns with his purple massThe cedar reaching highTo kiss the sky,The cypress, pine,And useful sassafras.
To whom the Golden AgeStill nature's laws doth give,No other cares attend,But them to defendFrom winter's rage,That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smellOf that delicious landAbove the seas that flowsThe clear wind throws,Your hearts to swellApproaching the dear strand;
In kenning of the shore(Thanks to God first given)O you the happiest men,Be frolic then!Let cannons roar,Frighting the wide heaven.
And in regions far,Such heroes bring ye forthAs those from whom we came;And plant our nameUnder that starNot known unto our North.
And as there plenty growsOf laurel everywhere—Apollo's sacred tree—You it may seeA poet's browsTo crown, that may sing there.
Thy Voyages attend,Industrious Hakluyt,Whose reading shall inflameMen to seek fame,And much commendTo after times thy wit.
Christopher Marlowe. 1564-93
121. The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
COME live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dales and fields,Or woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,And see the shepherds feed their flocksBy shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies;A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest woolWhich from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair-lined slippers for the cold,With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy-budsWith coral clasps and amber studs:And if these pleasures may thee move,Come live with me and be my Love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my Love.
Sir Walter Raleigh. 1564-93
122. Her Reply (WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH)
IF all the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd's tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy Love.
But Time drives flocks from field to fold;When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;And Philomel becometh dumb;The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward Winter reckoning yields:A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,Soon break, soon wither—soon forgotten,In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,Thy coral clasps and amber studs,—All these in me no means can moveTo come to thee and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,Had joys no date, nor age no need,Then these delights my mind might moveTo live with thee and be thy Love.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
123. Silvia
WHO is Silvia? What is she?That all our swains commend her?Holy, fair, and wise is she;The heaven such grace did lend her,That she might admired be.
Is she kind as she is fair?For beauty lives with kindness:Love doth to her eyes repair,To help him of his blindness;And, being help'd, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling;She excels each mortal thingUpon the dull earth dwelling:To her let us garlands bring.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
124. The Blossom
ON a day—alack the day!—Love, whose month is ever May,Spied a blossom passing fairPlaying in the wanton air:Through the velvet leaves the windAll unseen 'gan passage find;That the lover, sick to death,Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;Air, would I might triumph so!But, alack, my hand is swornNe'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!Do not call it sin in meThat I am forsworn for thee;Thou for whom e'en Jove would swearJuno but an Ethiop were;And deny himself for Jove,Turning mortal for thy love.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
125. Spring and Winter i
WHEN daisies pied and violets blue,And lady-smocks all silver-white,And cuckoo-buds of yellow hueDo paint the meadows with delight,The cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he,Cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,And maidens bleach their summer smocksThe cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married men; for thus sings he,Cuckoo!Cuckoo, cuckoo!—O word of fear,Unpleasing to a married ear!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
126. Spring and Winter ii
WHEN icicles hang by the wall,And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doe blow,And coughing drowns the parson's saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian's nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-whit!To-who!—a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
keel] skim.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
127. Fairy Land i
OVER hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moone's sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green:The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favours,In those freckles live their savours:I must go seek some dew-drops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
128. Fairy Land ii
YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!Beetles black, approach not near;Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
129. Fairy Land iii
COME unto these yellow sands,And then take hands:Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd,—The wild waves whist,—Foot it featly here and there;And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.Hark, hark!Bow, wow,The watch-dogs bark:Bow, wow.Hark, hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
130. Fairy Land iv
WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip's bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat's back I do flyAfter summer merrily:Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
131. Fairy Land v
FULL fathom five thy father lies;Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Ding-dong.Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
132. Love
TELL me where is Fancy bred,Or in the heart or in the head?How begot, how nourished?Reply, reply.It is engender'd in the eyes,With gazing fed; and Fancy diesIn the cradle where it lies.Let us all ring Fancy's knell:I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.All. Ding, dong, bell.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
133. Sweet-and-Twenty
O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming?O, stay and hear! your true love 's coming,That can sing both high and low:Trip no further, pretty sweeting;Journeys end in lovers meeting,Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;Present mirth hath present laughter;What 's to come is still unsure:In delay there lies no plenty;Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty!Youth 's a stuff will not endure.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
134. Dirge
COME away, come away, death,And in sad cypres let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O prepare it!My part of death, no one so trueDid share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,On my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O, whereSad true lover never find my graveTo weep there!
cypres] crape.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
135. Under the Greenwood Tree
Amiens sings: UNDER the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird's throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,And loves to live i' the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither:Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
Jaques replies: If it do come to passThat any man turn ass,Leaving his wealth and easeA stubborn will to please,Ducdame, ducdamè, ducdamè:Here shall he seeGross fools as he,An if he will come to me.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
136. Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind
BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,That dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remember'd not.Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
137. It was a Lover and his Lass
IT was a lover and his lass,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,That o'er the green corn-field did pass,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,These pretty country folks would lie,In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,How that life was but a flowerIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
And, therefore, take the present timeWith a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,For love is crown`d with the primeIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
138. Take, O take those Lips away
TAKE, O take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn;And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn!But my kisses bring again,Bring again;Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,Seal'd in vain!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
139. Aubade
HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,And Phoebus 'gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty bin,My lady sweet, arise!Arise, arise!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
140. Fidele
FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,Nor the furious winter's rages;Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat;To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!Nor no witchcraft charm thee!Ghost unlaid forbear thee!Nothing ill come near thee!Quiet consummation have;And renowned be thy grave!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
141. Bridal Song ? or John Fletcher.
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,Not royal in their smells alone,But in their hue;Maiden pinks, of odour faint,Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;Merry springtime's harbinger,With her bells dim;Oxlips in their cradles growing,Marigolds on death-beds blowing,Larks'-heels trim;
All dear Nature's children sweetLie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,Blessing their sense!Not an angel of the air,Bird melodious or bird fair,Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, norThe boding raven, nor chough hoar,Nor chattering pye,May on our bride-house perch or sing,Or with them any discord bring,But from it fly!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
142. Dirge of the Three Queens ? or John Fletcher.
URNS and odours bring away!Vapours, sighs, darken the day!Our dole more deadly looks than dying;Balms and gums and heavy cheers,Sacred vials fill'd with tears,And clamours through the wild air flying!
Come, all sad and solemn shows,That are quick-eyed Pleasure's foes!We convent naught else but woes.
dole] lamentation. convent] summon.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
143. Orpheus ? or John Fletcher.
ORPHEUS with his lute made treesAnd the mountain tops that freezeBow themselves when he did sing:To his music plants and flowersEver sprung; as sun and showersThere had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play,Even the billows of the sea,Hung their heads and then lay by.In sweet music is such art,Killing care and grief of heartFall asleep, or hearing, die.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
144. The Phoenix and the Turtle
LET the bird of loudest layOn the sole Arabian tree,Herald sad and trumpet be,To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger,Foul precurrer of the fiend,Augur of the fever's end,To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdictEvery fowl of tyrant wingSave the eagle, feather'd king:Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice whiteThat defunctive music can,Be the death-divining swan,Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow,That thy sable gender mak'stWith the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:—Love and constancy is dead;Phoenix and the turtle fledIn a mutual flame from hence.
So they loved, as love in twainHad the essence but in one;Two distincts, division none;Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;Distance, and no space was seen'Twixt the turtle and his queen:But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,That the turtle saw his rightFlaming in the phoenix' sight;Either was the other's mine.
Property was thus appall'd,That the self was not the same;Single nature's double nameNeither two nor one was call'd.
Reason, in itself confounded,Saw division grow together;To themselves yet either neither;Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, 'How true a twainSeemeth this concordant one!Love hath reason, reason noneIf what parts can so remain.'
Whereupon it made this threneTo the phoenix and the dove,Co-supremes and stars of love,As chorus to their tragic scene.
BEAUTY, truth, and rarity,Grace in all simplicity,Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the phoenix' nest;And the turtle's loyal breastTo eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity:'Twas not their infirmity,It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be;Beauty brag, but 'tis not she;Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repairThat are either true or fair;For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
can] knows.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
145. Sonnets i
SHALL I compare thee to a Summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:But thy eternal Summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest:So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
146. Sonnets ii
WHEN, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself, and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possest,Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising—Haply I think on thee: and then my state,Like to the Lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven's gate;For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with Kings.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
147. Sonnets iii
WHEN to the Sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight:Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o'erThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,Which I new pay as if not paid before.But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,All losses are restored and sorrows end.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
148. Sonnets iv
THY bosom is endeared with all heartsWhich I, by lacking, have supposed dead:And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,And all those friends which I thought buried.How many a holy and obsequious tearHath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,As interest of the dead!—which now appearBut things removed that hidden in thee lie.Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,Who all their parts of me to thee did give:—That due of many now is thine alone:Their images I loved I view in thee,And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
149. Sonnets v
WHAT is your substance, whereof are you made,That millions of strange shadows on you tend?Since every one hath, every one, one shade,And you, but one, can every shadow lend.Describe Adonis, and the counterfeitIs poorly imitated after you;On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,And you in Grecian tires are painted new:Speak of the spring and foison of the year,The one doth shadow of your beauty show,The other as your bounty doth appear;And you in every blessed shape we know.In all external grace you have some part,But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
foison] plenty.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
150. Sonnets vi
O HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seemBy that sweet ornament which truth doth give!The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deemFor that sweet odour which doth in it live.The Canker-blooms have full as deep a dyeAs the perfumed tincture of the Roses,Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonlyWhen summer's breath their masked buds discloses:But—for their virtue only is their show—They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so;Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
151. Sonnets vii
BEING your slave, what should I do but tendUpon the hours and times of your desire?I have no precious time at all to spend,Nor services to do, till you require.Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hourWhilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sourWhen you have bid your servant once adieu;Nor dare I question with my jealous thoughtWhere you may be, or your affairs suppose,But, like a sad slave, stay and think of noughtSave, where you are how happy you make those!So true a fool is love, that in your Will,Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
152. Sonnets viii
THAT time of year thou may'st in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold—Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang,In me thou see'st the twilight of such dayAs after Sunset fadeth in the West,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou see'st the glowing of such fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strongTo love that well which thou must leave ere long.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
153. Sonnets ix
FAREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing,And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;My bonds in thee are all determinate.For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?And for that riches where is my deserving?The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,And so my patent back again is swerving.Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,Comes home again, on better judgment making.Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatterIn sleep a King; but waking, no such matter.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
154. Sonnets x
THEN hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,And do not drop in for an after loss:Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow,Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,To linger out a purposed overthrow.If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,When other petty griefs have done their spite,But in the onset come: so shall I tasteAt first the very worst of fortune's might;And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,Compared with loss of thee will not seem so!
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
155. Sonnets xi
THEY that have power to hurt and will do none,That do not do the thing they most do show,Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow—They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,And husband nature's riches from expense;They are the Lords and owners of their faces,Others, but stewards of their excellence.The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,Though to itself it only live and die;But if that flower with base infection meet,The basest weed outbraves his dignity:For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
156. Sonnets xii
HOW like a Winter hath my absence beenFrom thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,What old December's bareness everywhere!And yet this time removed was summer's time;The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase,Bearing the wanton burden of the primeLike widow'd wombs after their Lord's decease:Yet this abundant issue seem'd to meBut hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;For Summer and his pleasures wait on thee,And, thou away, the very birds are mute:Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheerThat leaves look pale, dreading the Winter 's near.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
157. Sonnets xiii
FROM you have I been absent in the spring,When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smellOf different flowers in odour and in hue,Could make me any summer's story tell,Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;Nor did I wonder at the Lily's white,Nor praise the deep vermilion in the Rose;They were but sweet, but figures of delight,Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.Yet seem'd it Winter still, and, you away,As with your shadow I with these did play.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
158. Sonnets xiv
MY love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;I love not less, though less the show appear:That love is merchandised whose rich esteemingThe owner's tongue doth publish everywhere.Our love was new, and then but in the spring,When I was wont to greet it with my lays;As Philomel in summer's front doth singAnd stops her pipe in growth of riper days:Not that the summer is less pleasant nowThan when her mournful hymns did hush the night,But that wild music burthens every bough,And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,Because I would not dull you with my song.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
159. Sonnets xv
TO me, fair friend, you never can be old;For as you were when first your eye I eyed,Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters coldHave from the forests shook three Summers' pride;Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn'dIn process of the seasons have I seen,Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
160. Sonnets xvi
WHEN in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rimeIn praise of Ladies dead and lovely Knights;Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have exprestEven such a beauty as you master now.So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all you prefiguring;And for they look'd but with divining eyes,They had not skill enough your worth to sing:For we, which now behold these present days,Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
161. Sonnets xvii
O NEVER say that I was false of heart,Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify!As easy might I from myself depart,As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:That is my home of love; if I have ranged,Like him that travels I return again,Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,So that myself bring water for my stain.Never believe, though in my nature reign'dAll frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,That it could so prepost'rously be stain'd,To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:For nothing this wide Universe I call,Save thou, my Rose; in it thou art my all.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
162. Sonnets xviii
LET me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove:O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,That looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wand'ring bark,Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken.Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom:—If this be error and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
163. Sonnets xix
TH' expense of Spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action; and till action, lustIs perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight;Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had,Past reason hated, as a swallow'd baitOn purpose laid to make the taker mad:Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.All this the world well knows; yet none knows wellTo shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
164. Sonnets xx
POOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth—My sinful earth these rebel powers array—Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?Why so large cost, having so short a lease,Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,And let that pine to aggravate thy store;Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;Within be fed, without be rich no more:So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men;And Death once dead, there 's no more dying then.
Richard Rowlands. 1565-1630?
165. Lullaby
UPON my lap my sovereign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast;Meantime his love maintains my lifeAnd gives my sense her rest.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on me;So may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also be.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing would;Because I would not be to theeBut in the best I should.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Yet as I am, and as I may,I must and will be thine,Though all too little for thyselfVouchsafing to be mine.Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Thomas Nashe. 1567-1601
166. Spring
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet—Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!Spring, the sweet Spring!
Thomas Nashe. 1567-1601
167. In Time of Pestilence 1593
ADIEU, farewell earth's bliss!This world uncertain is:Fond are life's lustful joys,Death proves them all but toys.None from his darts can fly;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth,Gold cannot buy you health;Physic himself must fade;All things to end are made;The plague full swift goes by;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flowerWhich wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen's eye;I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!