"He that hath feasted you these forty years,And fitted fables for your finer ears,Although at first he scarce could hit the bore;Yet you, with patience, hearkening more and more,At length have grown up to him, and made knownThe working of his pen is now your own:He prays you would vouchsafe, for your own sake,To hear him this once more, but sit awake.And though he now present you with such woolAs from mere English flocks his muse can pull,He hopes when it is made up into cloth,Not the most curious head here will be lothTo wear a hood of it, it being a fleece,To match or those of Sicily or Greece.His scene is Sherwood, and his play a taleOf Robin Hood's inviting from the valeOf Belvoir, all the shepherds to a feast;Where, by the casual absence of one guest,The mirth is troubled much, and in one manAs much of sadness shown as passion can."
"He that hath feasted you these forty years,And fitted fables for your finer ears,Although at first he scarce could hit the bore;Yet you, with patience, hearkening more and more,At length have grown up to him, and made knownThe working of his pen is now your own:He prays you would vouchsafe, for your own sake,To hear him this once more, but sit awake.And though he now present you with such woolAs from mere English flocks his muse can pull,He hopes when it is made up into cloth,Not the most curious head here will be lothTo wear a hood of it, it being a fleece,To match or those of Sicily or Greece.His scene is Sherwood, and his play a taleOf Robin Hood's inviting from the valeOf Belvoir, all the shepherds to a feast;Where, by the casual absence of one guest,The mirth is troubled much, and in one manAs much of sadness shown as passion can."
Robert Herrick wrote of him thus:
"Ah Ben!Say how or whenShall we, thy guests,Meet at those lyric feasts,Made at the Sun,The Dog, the Triple Tun;Where we such clusters had,As made us nobly wild, not mad?And yet each verse of thineOut-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine."My Ben!Or come again,Or send to usThy wit's great overplus;But teach us yetWisely to husband it,Lest we that talent spend;And having once brought to an endThat precious stock,—the storeOf such a wit the world should have no more."
"Ah Ben!Say how or whenShall we, thy guests,Meet at those lyric feasts,Made at the Sun,The Dog, the Triple Tun;Where we such clusters had,As made us nobly wild, not mad?And yet each verse of thineOut-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
"My Ben!Or come again,Or send to usThy wit's great overplus;But teach us yetWisely to husband it,Lest we that talent spend;And having once brought to an endThat precious stock,—the storeOf such a wit the world should have no more."
"In fifty-two years, without counting the drama, two hundred and thirty-three poets are enumerated, of whom forty have genius or talent. . . . What is this condition which gives rise to so universal a taste for poetry? What is it breathes life into their books? How happens it, that amongst the least, in spite of pedantrie, awkwardnesses, we meet with brilliant pictures and genuine love-cries? How happens it, that when this generation was exhausted, true poetry ended in England, as true painting in Italy and Flanders? It was because an epoch of the mind came and passed away,—that, namely, of instinctive and creative conception. These men had new senses, and no theories in their heads. . . . They are happy in contemplating beautiful things, and wish only that they should be the most beautiful possible. They do not excite themselves to express moral or philosophical ideas. They wish to enjoy through the imagination, through the eyes, like those Italian nobles, who, at the same time, were so captivated by fine colors and forms, that they covered with paintings not only their rooms and their churches, but the lids of their chests and the saddles of their horses. . . . Think what poetry was likely to spring from them, how superior to common events, how free from literal imitation, how smitten with ideal beauty, how capable of creating a world beyond our sad world."—Taine.
"In fifty-two years, without counting the drama, two hundred and thirty-three poets are enumerated, of whom forty have genius or talent. . . . What is this condition which gives rise to so universal a taste for poetry? What is it breathes life into their books? How happens it, that amongst the least, in spite of pedantrie, awkwardnesses, we meet with brilliant pictures and genuine love-cries? How happens it, that when this generation was exhausted, true poetry ended in England, as true painting in Italy and Flanders? It was because an epoch of the mind came and passed away,—that, namely, of instinctive and creative conception. These men had new senses, and no theories in their heads. . . . They are happy in contemplating beautiful things, and wish only that they should be the most beautiful possible. They do not excite themselves to express moral or philosophical ideas. They wish to enjoy through the imagination, through the eyes, like those Italian nobles, who, at the same time, were so captivated by fine colors and forms, that they covered with paintings not only their rooms and their churches, but the lids of their chests and the saddles of their horses. . . . Think what poetry was likely to spring from them, how superior to common events, how free from literal imitation, how smitten with ideal beauty, how capable of creating a world beyond our sad world."—Taine.
Sir Thomas Wyatt(1503-1542). See biographical note, page252.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey(1517-1547). See biographical note, page252.
George Gascoigne(1536-1577). "The Steel Glass"; "The Tragedy of Iocaste."
Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst(1536-1608). "The Induction to the Mirror for Magistrates"; "The Tragedy of Gorboduc."
Edmund Spenser(1552-1598). See biographical note, page245.
Sir Philip Sidney(1554-1586). "Astrophel and Stella"; sonnets and short poems.
Thomas Watson(1557-1592). "The Hecatompathia or Passionate Century of Love"; "Melibœus"; "The Tears of Fancie."
John Lyly(1554-1606). Lyrical poems; "Alexander and Campaspe"; "Love's Metamorphosis."
Robert Greene(1560-1592). Dramas and lyrical poems.
Christopher Marlowe(1564-1593). Dramas and lyrical poems.
Thomas Lodge(1556-1625). Dramas and lyrical poems.
William Warner(1550-1609). "Albion's England"; "Pan, his Syrinx or Pipe."
William Shakespeare(1564-1616). See note, page221.
Samuel Daniel(1562-1619). "History of the Civil Wars between the two Houses of York and Lancaster."
Sir Walter Raleigh(1552-1618). Short poems.
George Chapman(1559-1634). Translations of "Homer's Iliad" and "Homer's Odyssey."
Michael Drayton(1563-1631). "Polyolbion"; "The Barons' Wars"; "The Battle of Agincourt."
Joseph Hall(1574-1656). "Virgidemiarum"; satires.
Sir John Davies( -1626). "Nosce Teipsum."
John Donne(1573-1631). Short poems.
"Thou hadst been gone," quoth she, "sweet boy, ere this,But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.O, be advised! thou know'st not what it isWith javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill."On his bow-back he hath a battle setOf bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret;His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;Being moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way,And when he strikes his crooked tushes slay."His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes."Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes;Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne,Whose full perfection all the world amazes;But having thee at vantage,—wondrous dread!Would root these beauties as he roots the mead."O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still;Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:Come not within his danger by thy will;They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble."But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me;Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,Or at the roe which no encounter dare:Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,And on thy well-breathed horse keep with thy hounds."And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troublesHow he outruns the wind and with what careHe cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:The many musets through the which he goesAre like a labyrinth to amaze his foes."Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:"For there his smell with others being mingled,The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singledWith much ado the cold fault cleanly out;Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,As if another chase were in the skies."By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,To hearken if his foes pursue him still:Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;And now his grief may be compared wellTo one sore sick that hears the passing-bell."Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretchTurn, and return, indenting with the way;Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:For misery is trodden on by many,And being low never relieved by any."
"Thou hadst been gone," quoth she, "sweet boy, ere this,But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.O, be advised! thou know'st not what it isWith javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill.
"On his bow-back he hath a battle setOf bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret;His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;Being moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way,And when he strikes his crooked tushes slay.
"His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.
"Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes;Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne,Whose full perfection all the world amazes;But having thee at vantage,—wondrous dread!Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.
"O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still;Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:Come not within his danger by thy will;They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.
"But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me;Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,Or at the roe which no encounter dare:Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,And on thy well-breathed horse keep with thy hounds.
"And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troublesHow he outruns the wind and with what careHe cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:The many musets through the which he goesAre like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.
"Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:
"For there his smell with others being mingled,The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singledWith much ado the cold fault cleanly out;Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,As if another chase were in the skies.
"By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,To hearken if his foes pursue him still:Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;And now his grief may be compared wellTo one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.
"Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretchTurn, and return, indenting with the way;Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:For misery is trodden on by many,And being low never relieved by any."
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 is,My lady sweet, arise:Arise, arise.
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 is,My lady sweet, arise:Arise, arise.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,Men were deceivers ever,One foot in sea and one on shore,To one thing constant never:Then sigh not so, but let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto Hey nonny, nonny.Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,Of dumps so dull and heavy;The fraud of men was ever so,Since summer first was leafy:Then sigh not so, but let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto Hey nonny, nonny.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,Men were deceivers ever,One foot in sea and one on shore,To one thing constant never:Then sigh not so, but let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,Of dumps so dull and heavy;The fraud of men was ever so,Since summer first was leafy:Then sigh not so, but let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto Hey nonny, nonny.
Full many a glorious morning have I seenFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,Kissing with golden face the meadows green,Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;Anon permit the basest clouds to rideWith ugly rack on his celestial face,And from the forlorn world his visage hide,Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:Even so my sun one early morn did shineWith all-triumphant splendor on my brow;But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.
Full many a glorious morning have I seenFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,Kissing with golden face the meadows green,Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;Anon permit the basest clouds to rideWith ugly rack on his celestial face,And from the forlorn world his visage hide,Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:Even so my sun one early morn did shineWith all-triumphant splendor on my brow;But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,—As, to behold desert a beggar born,And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,And purest faith unhappily forsworn,And gilded honor shamefully misplaced,And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,And strength by limping sway disabled,And art made tongue-tied by authority,And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,And captive Good attending captain Ill:Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,—Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,—As, to behold desert a beggar born,And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,And purest faith unhappily forsworn,And gilded honor shamefully misplaced,And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,And strength by limping sway disabled,And art made tongue-tied by authority,And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,And captive Good attending captain Ill:Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,—Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
William Shakespearewas born at Stratford-on-Avon in April, 1564, and died there April 23, 1616. His fame rests chiefly upon his dramatic compositions. His two narrative poems, "Venusand Adonis" and "The Rape of Lucrece," were published in 1593 and 1594, before any of his plays had been printed. They may be regarded as companion pieces, written in the same style and distinguished by similar characteristics.
"A couple of ice-houses," says Dowden, "these two poems of Shakespeare have been called by Hazlitt; 'they are,' he says, 'as hard, as glittering, as cold.' Cold indeed they will seem to any one who listens to hear in them the natural cry of human passion. But the paradox is true, that for a young poet of Elizabeth's age to be natural, direct, simple, would have been indeed unnatural. He was most happy when most fantastical; he spun a shining web to catch conceits inevitably as a spider casts his thread; the quick-building wit was itself warm while erecting its ice-houses." Coleridge says of the "Venus and Adonis" that its most obvious excellence "is the perfect sweetness of the versification; its adaptation to the subject; and the power displayed in varying the march of the words without passing into a loftier and more majestic rhythm than was demanded by the thoughts, or permitted by the propriety of preserving a sense of melody predominant."
Shakespeare's "Sonnets" were published in 1609. Concerning the origin, purpose, and interpretation of these poems, many widely different theories have been proposed, "Some have looked on them as one poem." says Fleay; "some as several poems—of groups of sonnets; some as containing a separate poem in each sonnet. They have been supposed to be written in Shakespeare's own person, or in the character of another, or of several others; to be autobiographical or heterobiographical or allegorical; to have been addressed to Lord Southampton, to Sir William Herbert, to his own wife, to Lady Rich, to his child, to himself, to his Muse." The safest and wisest course seems to be, first to regard each of the one hundred and fifty-four sonnets as a poem complete in itself, and after studying whatever it may contain of art, or beauty, or truth, then to discover, if possible, its relationship to those which precede or follow it in the series.
Of the other poems written by Shakespeare, mention should be made of "The Passionate Pilgrim" (1559), "The Phoenix and the Turtle" (1601), "A Lover's Complaint," published in the same volume with the "Sonnets," and the few exquisite little songs scattered through his plays.
Guyon findes Mammon in a delve1Sunning his threasure hore2;Is by him tempted, and led downeTo see his secrete store.
Guyon findes Mammon in a delve1Sunning his threasure hore2;Is by him tempted, and led downeTo see his secrete store.
Guyon findes Mammon in a delve1Sunning his threasure hore2;Is by him tempted, and led downeTo see his secrete store.
As Pilot well expert in perilous wave,That to a stedfast starre3his course hath bent,When foggy mistes or cloudy tempests haveThe faithfull light of that faire lampe yblent,4And cover'd heaven with hideous dreriment,5Upon his card and compas firmes6his eye,The maysters of his long experiment,And to them does the steddy helme apply,Bidding his winged vessell fairely forward fly:So Guyon having lost his trustie guyde,Late left beyond that Ydle lake, proceedesYet on his way, of none accompanyde;And evermore himselfe with comfort feedesOf his own vertues and praise-worthie deedes.So, long he yode,7yet no adventure found,Which fame of her shrill trumpet worthy reedes8;For still he traveild through wide wastfull ground,That nought but desert wildernesse shewed all around.At last he came unto a gloomy glade,Cover'd with boughes and shrubs from heavens light,Whereas he sitting found in secret shadeAn uncouth, salvage,9and uncivile wight,Of griesly hew and fowle ill-favour'd sight;His face with smoke was tand, and eies were bleard,His head and beard with sout were ill bedight,10His cole-blacke hands did seeme to have been seardIn smythes fire-spitting11forge, and nayles like clawes appear.His yron cote, all overgrowne with rust,Was underneath enveloped with gold;Whose glistring glosse, darkned with filthy dust,Well yet appeared to have beene of oldA worke of rich entayle12and curious mould,Woven with antickes13and wyld ymagery;And in his lap a masse of coyne he told,And turned upside downe, to feede his eyeAnd covetous desire with his huge threasury.And round about him lay on every sideGreat heapes of gold that never could be spent;Of which some were rude owre, not purifideOf Mulcibers14devouring element;Some others were new driven, and distentInto great Ingowes and to wedges square;Some in round plates withouten moniment15;But most were stampt, and in their metal bareThe antique shapes of kings and kesars straunge and rare.Soone as he Guyon saw, in great affrightAnd haste he rose for to remove asideThose pretious hils from straungers envious sight,And downe them poured through an hole full wideInto the hollow earth, them there to hide.But Guyon, lightly to him leaping, staydHis hand that trembled as one terrifyde;And though himselfe were at the sight dismayd,Yet him perforce restraynd, and to him doubtfull sayd:"What art thou, man, (if man at all thou art)That here in desert hast thine habitaunce,And these rich hils of welth doest hide apartFrom the worldes eye, and from her right usaunce?"Thereat, with staring eyes fixed askaunce,In great disdaine he answerd: "Hardy Elfe,That darest view my direfull countenaunce,I read thee rash and heedlesse of thy selfe,To trouble my still seate, and heapes of pretious pelfe."God of the world and worldlings I me call,Great Mammon, greatest god below the skye,That of my plenty poure out unto all,And unto none my graces do envye:Riches, renowme, and principality,Honour, estate, and all this worldes good,For which men swinck16and sweat incessantly,Fro me do flow into an ample flood,And in the hollow earth have their eternall brood."Wherefore, if me thou deigne to serve and sew,17At thy commaund lo! all these mountaines bee:Or if to thy great mind, or greedy vew,All these may not suffise, there shall to theeTen times so much be nombred francke and free.""Mammon," (said he) "thy godheads vaunt is vaine,And idle offers of thy golden fee;To them that covet such eye-glutting gaineProffer thy giftes, and fitter servaunts entertaine."Me ill besits,18that in derdoing, armesAnd honours suit my vowd daies do spend,Unto thy bounteous baytes and pleasing charmes,With which weake men thou witchest, to attend;Regard of worldly mucke19doth fowly blend,And low abase the high heroicke spright,20That joyes for crownes and kingdomes to contend:Faire shields, gay steedes, bright armes be my delight;Those be the riches fit for an advent'rous knight.""Vaine glorious Elfe," (saide he) "doest not thou weet,21That money can thy wantes at will supply?Sheilds, steeds, and armes, and all things for thee meet,It can purvay in twinckling of an eye;And crownes and kingdomes to thee multiply.Do not I kings create, and throw the crowneSometimes to him that low in dust doth ly,And him that raignd into his rowme thrust downe,And whom I lust do heape with glory and renowne?""All otherwise" (saide he) "I riches read,And deeme them roote of all disquietnesse;First got with guile, and then preserv'd with dread,And after spent with pride and lavishnesse,Leaving behind them griefe and heavinesse:Infinite mischiefes of them doe arize,Strife and debate, bloodshed and bitternesse,Outrageous wrong, and hellish covetize,That noble heart as great dishonour doth despize."Ne thine be kingdomes, ne the scepters thine;But realmes and rulers thou doest both confound,And loyall truth to treason doest incline:Witnesse the guiltlesse blood pourd oft on ground,The crowned often slaine, the slayer cround;The sacred Diademe in peeces rent,And purple robe gored with many a wound,Castles surprizd, great cities sackt and brent;So mak'st thou kings, and gaynest wrongfull government."Long were to tell the troublous stormes that tosseThe private state, and make the life unsweet:Who swelling sayles in Caspian sea doth crosse,And in frayle wood on Adrian gulf doth fleet,Doth not, I weene, so many evils meet."Then Mammon wexing wroth: "And why then," sayd,"Are mortall men so fond22and undiscreetSo evill thing to seeke unto their ayd,And having not complaine, and having it upbrayd?""Indeede," (quoth he) "through fowle intemperaunceFrayle men are oft captiv'd to covetise;But would they thinke with how small allowaunceUntroubled Nature doth herselfe suffise,Such superfluities they would despise,Which with sad cares empeach23our native joyes.At the well-head the purest streames arise;But mucky filth his braunching armes annoyes,And with uncomely weedes the gentle wave accloyes.24"The antique world, in his first flowring youth,Fownd no defect in his Creators grace;But with glad thankes, and unreproved truth,25The gifts of soveraine bounty did embrace:Like Angels life was then mens happy cace;But later ages pride, like corn-fed steed,Abusd her plenty and fat swolne encreaceTo all licentious lust, and gan exceedThe measure of her meane and naturall first need."Then gan a cursed hand the quiet wombeOf his great Grandmother26with steele to wound,And the hid treasures in her sacred tombeWith Sacriledge to dig. Therein he fowndFountaines of gold and silver to abownd,Of which the matter of his huge desireAnd pompous pride eftsoones he did compownd;Then avarice gan through his veines inspireHis greedy flames, and kindled life-devouring fire.""Sonne," (said he then) "lett be27thy bitter scorne,And leave the rudenesse of that antique ageTo them that liv'd therein, in state forlorne:Thou, that doest live in later times, must wage28Thy workes for wealth, and life for gold engage.If then thee list my offred grace to use,Take what thou please of all this surplusage;If thee list not, leave have thou to refuse:But refused doe not afterward accuse.""Me list29not" (said the Elfin knight) "receaveThing offred, till I know it well be gott;Ne wote but thou didst these goods bereaveFrom rightfull owner by unrighteous lott,Or that bloodguiltinesse or guile them blott.""Perdy,"30(quoth he) "yet never eie did vew,Ne tong did tell, ne hand these handled not;But safe I have them kept in secret mewFrom hevens sight, and powre of al which them poursew."What secret place" (quoth he) "can safely holdSo huge a masse, and hide from heaven's eie?Or where hast thou thy wonne,31that so much goldThou canst preserve from wrong and robbery?""Come thou," (quoth he) "and see." So by and byThrough that thick covert he him led, and fowndA darkesome way, which no man could descry,That deep descended through the hollow grownd,And was with dread and horror compassed arownd.At length they came into a larger space,That stretcht itselfe into an ample playne;Through which a beaten broad high way did trace,That streight did lead to Plutoes griesly rayne.32By that wayes side there sate internall Payne,And fast beside him sat tumultuous Strife:The one in hand an yron whip did strayne,The other brandished a bloody knife;And both did gnash their teeth, and both did threten life.On thother side in one consort there sateCruell Revenge, and rancorous Despight,Disloyall Treason, and hart-burning Hate;But gnawing Gealousy, out of their sightSitting alone, his bitter lips did bight;And trembling Feare still to and fro did fly,And found no place wher safe he shroud him might:Lamenting Sorrow did in darknes lye,And Shame his ugly face did hide from living eye.And over them sad Horror with grim hewDid alwaies sore, beating his yron wings;And after him Owles and Night-ravens flew,The hatefull messengers of heavy things,Of death and dolor telling sad tidings,Whiles sad Celeno, sitting on a clifte,A song of bale and bitter sorrow sings,That hart of flint asonder could have rifte;Which having ended after him she flyeth swifte.All these before the gates of Pluto lay,By whom they passing spake unto them nought;But th' Elfin knight with wonder all the wayDid feed his eyes, and fild his inner thought.At last him to a little dore he brought,That to the gate of Hell, which gaped wide,Was next adjoyning, ne them parted ought:Betwixt them both was but a little stride,That did the house of Richesse from hell-mouth divide.Before the dore sat selfe-consuming Care,Day and night keeping wary watch and ward,For feare least Force or Fraud should unawareBreake in, and spoile the treasure there in gard:Ne would he suffer Sleepe once thither-wardApproch, albe his drowsy den were next;For next to Death is Sleepe to be compard;33Therefore his house is unto his annext:Here Sleep, ther Richesse, and Hel-gate them both betwext.So soon as Mammon there arrivd, the doreTo him did open and affoorded way:Him followed eke Sir Guyon evermore,Ne darknesse him, ne daunger might dismay.Soone as he entred was, the dore streight wayDid shutt, and from behind it forth there leptAn ugly feend, more fowle then dismall day,The which with monstrous stalke behind him stept,And ever as he went dew watch upon him kept.Well hoped hee, ere long that hardy guest,If ever covetous hand, or lustfull eye,Or lips he layd on thing that likte him best,Or ever sleepe his eie-strings did untye,Should be his pray. And therefore still on hyeHe over him did hold his cruell clawes,Threatning with greedy gripe to doe him dye,And rend in peeces with his ravenous pawes,If ever he transgrest the fatal Stygian lawes.That houses forme within was rude and strong,Lyke an huge cave hewne out of rocky clifte,From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hongEmbossed with massy gold of glorious guifte,And with rich metall loaded every rifte,That heavy ruine they did seeme to threatt;And over them Arachne high did lifteHer cunning web, and spred her subtile nett,Enwrapped in fowle smoke and clouds more black than Jett.Both roofe, and floore, and walls, were all of gold,But overgrowne with dust and old decay,And hid in darkenes, that none could beholdThe hew thereof; for vew of cherefull dayDid never in that house it selfe display,But a faint shadow of uncertain light:Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away,Or as the Moone, cloathed with clowdy night,Does show to him that walkes in feare and sad affright.In all that rowme was nothing to be seeneBut huge great yron chests, and coffers strong,All bard with double bends, that none could weeneThem to efforce by violence or wrong:On every side they placed were along;But all the grownd with sculs was scattered,And dead mens bones, which round about were flong;Whose lives, it seemed, whilome34there were shed,And their vile carcases now left unburied.
As Pilot well expert in perilous wave,That to a stedfast starre3his course hath bent,When foggy mistes or cloudy tempests haveThe faithfull light of that faire lampe yblent,4And cover'd heaven with hideous dreriment,5Upon his card and compas firmes6his eye,The maysters of his long experiment,And to them does the steddy helme apply,Bidding his winged vessell fairely forward fly:
So Guyon having lost his trustie guyde,Late left beyond that Ydle lake, proceedesYet on his way, of none accompanyde;And evermore himselfe with comfort feedesOf his own vertues and praise-worthie deedes.So, long he yode,7yet no adventure found,Which fame of her shrill trumpet worthy reedes8;For still he traveild through wide wastfull ground,That nought but desert wildernesse shewed all around.
At last he came unto a gloomy glade,Cover'd with boughes and shrubs from heavens light,Whereas he sitting found in secret shadeAn uncouth, salvage,9and uncivile wight,Of griesly hew and fowle ill-favour'd sight;His face with smoke was tand, and eies were bleard,His head and beard with sout were ill bedight,10His cole-blacke hands did seeme to have been seardIn smythes fire-spitting11forge, and nayles like clawes appear.
His yron cote, all overgrowne with rust,Was underneath enveloped with gold;Whose glistring glosse, darkned with filthy dust,Well yet appeared to have beene of oldA worke of rich entayle12and curious mould,Woven with antickes13and wyld ymagery;And in his lap a masse of coyne he told,And turned upside downe, to feede his eyeAnd covetous desire with his huge threasury.
And round about him lay on every sideGreat heapes of gold that never could be spent;Of which some were rude owre, not purifideOf Mulcibers14devouring element;Some others were new driven, and distentInto great Ingowes and to wedges square;Some in round plates withouten moniment15;But most were stampt, and in their metal bareThe antique shapes of kings and kesars straunge and rare.
Soone as he Guyon saw, in great affrightAnd haste he rose for to remove asideThose pretious hils from straungers envious sight,And downe them poured through an hole full wideInto the hollow earth, them there to hide.But Guyon, lightly to him leaping, staydHis hand that trembled as one terrifyde;And though himselfe were at the sight dismayd,Yet him perforce restraynd, and to him doubtfull sayd:
"What art thou, man, (if man at all thou art)That here in desert hast thine habitaunce,And these rich hils of welth doest hide apartFrom the worldes eye, and from her right usaunce?"Thereat, with staring eyes fixed askaunce,In great disdaine he answerd: "Hardy Elfe,That darest view my direfull countenaunce,I read thee rash and heedlesse of thy selfe,To trouble my still seate, and heapes of pretious pelfe.
"God of the world and worldlings I me call,Great Mammon, greatest god below the skye,That of my plenty poure out unto all,And unto none my graces do envye:Riches, renowme, and principality,Honour, estate, and all this worldes good,For which men swinck16and sweat incessantly,Fro me do flow into an ample flood,And in the hollow earth have their eternall brood.
"Wherefore, if me thou deigne to serve and sew,17At thy commaund lo! all these mountaines bee:Or if to thy great mind, or greedy vew,All these may not suffise, there shall to theeTen times so much be nombred francke and free.""Mammon," (said he) "thy godheads vaunt is vaine,And idle offers of thy golden fee;To them that covet such eye-glutting gaineProffer thy giftes, and fitter servaunts entertaine.
"Me ill besits,18that in derdoing, armesAnd honours suit my vowd daies do spend,Unto thy bounteous baytes and pleasing charmes,With which weake men thou witchest, to attend;Regard of worldly mucke19doth fowly blend,And low abase the high heroicke spright,20That joyes for crownes and kingdomes to contend:Faire shields, gay steedes, bright armes be my delight;Those be the riches fit for an advent'rous knight."
"Vaine glorious Elfe," (saide he) "doest not thou weet,21That money can thy wantes at will supply?Sheilds, steeds, and armes, and all things for thee meet,It can purvay in twinckling of an eye;And crownes and kingdomes to thee multiply.Do not I kings create, and throw the crowneSometimes to him that low in dust doth ly,And him that raignd into his rowme thrust downe,And whom I lust do heape with glory and renowne?"
"All otherwise" (saide he) "I riches read,And deeme them roote of all disquietnesse;First got with guile, and then preserv'd with dread,And after spent with pride and lavishnesse,Leaving behind them griefe and heavinesse:Infinite mischiefes of them doe arize,Strife and debate, bloodshed and bitternesse,Outrageous wrong, and hellish covetize,That noble heart as great dishonour doth despize.
"Ne thine be kingdomes, ne the scepters thine;But realmes and rulers thou doest both confound,And loyall truth to treason doest incline:Witnesse the guiltlesse blood pourd oft on ground,The crowned often slaine, the slayer cround;The sacred Diademe in peeces rent,And purple robe gored with many a wound,Castles surprizd, great cities sackt and brent;So mak'st thou kings, and gaynest wrongfull government.
"Long were to tell the troublous stormes that tosseThe private state, and make the life unsweet:Who swelling sayles in Caspian sea doth crosse,And in frayle wood on Adrian gulf doth fleet,Doth not, I weene, so many evils meet."Then Mammon wexing wroth: "And why then," sayd,"Are mortall men so fond22and undiscreetSo evill thing to seeke unto their ayd,And having not complaine, and having it upbrayd?"
"Indeede," (quoth he) "through fowle intemperaunceFrayle men are oft captiv'd to covetise;But would they thinke with how small allowaunceUntroubled Nature doth herselfe suffise,Such superfluities they would despise,Which with sad cares empeach23our native joyes.At the well-head the purest streames arise;But mucky filth his braunching armes annoyes,And with uncomely weedes the gentle wave accloyes.24
"The antique world, in his first flowring youth,Fownd no defect in his Creators grace;But with glad thankes, and unreproved truth,25The gifts of soveraine bounty did embrace:Like Angels life was then mens happy cace;But later ages pride, like corn-fed steed,Abusd her plenty and fat swolne encreaceTo all licentious lust, and gan exceedThe measure of her meane and naturall first need.
"Then gan a cursed hand the quiet wombeOf his great Grandmother26with steele to wound,And the hid treasures in her sacred tombeWith Sacriledge to dig. Therein he fowndFountaines of gold and silver to abownd,Of which the matter of his huge desireAnd pompous pride eftsoones he did compownd;Then avarice gan through his veines inspireHis greedy flames, and kindled life-devouring fire."
"Sonne," (said he then) "lett be27thy bitter scorne,And leave the rudenesse of that antique ageTo them that liv'd therein, in state forlorne:Thou, that doest live in later times, must wage28Thy workes for wealth, and life for gold engage.If then thee list my offred grace to use,Take what thou please of all this surplusage;If thee list not, leave have thou to refuse:But refused doe not afterward accuse."
"Me list29not" (said the Elfin knight) "receaveThing offred, till I know it well be gott;Ne wote but thou didst these goods bereaveFrom rightfull owner by unrighteous lott,Or that bloodguiltinesse or guile them blott.""Perdy,"30(quoth he) "yet never eie did vew,Ne tong did tell, ne hand these handled not;But safe I have them kept in secret mewFrom hevens sight, and powre of al which them poursew.
"What secret place" (quoth he) "can safely holdSo huge a masse, and hide from heaven's eie?Or where hast thou thy wonne,31that so much goldThou canst preserve from wrong and robbery?""Come thou," (quoth he) "and see." So by and byThrough that thick covert he him led, and fowndA darkesome way, which no man could descry,That deep descended through the hollow grownd,And was with dread and horror compassed arownd.
At length they came into a larger space,That stretcht itselfe into an ample playne;Through which a beaten broad high way did trace,That streight did lead to Plutoes griesly rayne.32By that wayes side there sate internall Payne,And fast beside him sat tumultuous Strife:The one in hand an yron whip did strayne,The other brandished a bloody knife;And both did gnash their teeth, and both did threten life.
On thother side in one consort there sateCruell Revenge, and rancorous Despight,Disloyall Treason, and hart-burning Hate;But gnawing Gealousy, out of their sightSitting alone, his bitter lips did bight;And trembling Feare still to and fro did fly,And found no place wher safe he shroud him might:Lamenting Sorrow did in darknes lye,And Shame his ugly face did hide from living eye.
And over them sad Horror with grim hewDid alwaies sore, beating his yron wings;And after him Owles and Night-ravens flew,The hatefull messengers of heavy things,Of death and dolor telling sad tidings,Whiles sad Celeno, sitting on a clifte,A song of bale and bitter sorrow sings,That hart of flint asonder could have rifte;Which having ended after him she flyeth swifte.
All these before the gates of Pluto lay,By whom they passing spake unto them nought;But th' Elfin knight with wonder all the wayDid feed his eyes, and fild his inner thought.At last him to a little dore he brought,That to the gate of Hell, which gaped wide,Was next adjoyning, ne them parted ought:Betwixt them both was but a little stride,That did the house of Richesse from hell-mouth divide.
Before the dore sat selfe-consuming Care,Day and night keeping wary watch and ward,For feare least Force or Fraud should unawareBreake in, and spoile the treasure there in gard:Ne would he suffer Sleepe once thither-wardApproch, albe his drowsy den were next;For next to Death is Sleepe to be compard;33Therefore his house is unto his annext:Here Sleep, ther Richesse, and Hel-gate them both betwext.
So soon as Mammon there arrivd, the doreTo him did open and affoorded way:Him followed eke Sir Guyon evermore,Ne darknesse him, ne daunger might dismay.Soone as he entred was, the dore streight wayDid shutt, and from behind it forth there leptAn ugly feend, more fowle then dismall day,The which with monstrous stalke behind him stept,And ever as he went dew watch upon him kept.
Well hoped hee, ere long that hardy guest,If ever covetous hand, or lustfull eye,Or lips he layd on thing that likte him best,Or ever sleepe his eie-strings did untye,Should be his pray. And therefore still on hyeHe over him did hold his cruell clawes,Threatning with greedy gripe to doe him dye,And rend in peeces with his ravenous pawes,If ever he transgrest the fatal Stygian lawes.
That houses forme within was rude and strong,Lyke an huge cave hewne out of rocky clifte,From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hongEmbossed with massy gold of glorious guifte,And with rich metall loaded every rifte,That heavy ruine they did seeme to threatt;And over them Arachne high did lifteHer cunning web, and spred her subtile nett,Enwrapped in fowle smoke and clouds more black than Jett.
Both roofe, and floore, and walls, were all of gold,But overgrowne with dust and old decay,And hid in darkenes, that none could beholdThe hew thereof; for vew of cherefull dayDid never in that house it selfe display,But a faint shadow of uncertain light:Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away,Or as the Moone, cloathed with clowdy night,Does show to him that walkes in feare and sad affright.
In all that rowme was nothing to be seeneBut huge great yron chests, and coffers strong,All bard with double bends, that none could weeneThem to efforce by violence or wrong:On every side they placed were along;But all the grownd with sculs was scattered,And dead mens bones, which round about were flong;Whose lives, it seemed, whilome34there were shed,And their vile carcases now left unburied.
This is a selection from Spenser's great poem, "The Faerie Queene," being a part of the seventh canto of book second. "The Faerie Queene" was published in 1590, and comprises six books of twelve cantos each. The first book is the Legend of the Red Cross Knight, or Holiness; the second, of Sir Guyon, or Temperance; the third, of Britomartis, or Chastity; the fourth, of Cambel and Triamond, or Friendship; the fifth, of Artegall, or Justice; the sixth, of Sir Calidore, or Courtesy. It was Spenser's design that the complete work should contain twelve books, but of the remaining part only a fragment of one book, the "Legend of Constance," is in existence.
The versification of the "Faerie Queene" is based upon theottava rima, made so popular in Italian poetry by Tasso and Ariosto. Instead of eight lines to a stanza, however, there are nine. The first eight lines are iambic pentameters, and the ninth a hexameter, the stanza thus closing with a lingering cadence which adds greatly to the melody of the verse. This is the "Spenserian stanza," a form of versification very popular with many of our later poets.
"If you love poetry well enough to enjoy it for its own sake," says Leigh Hunt, "let no evil reports of hisallegorydeter you from anacquaintance with Spenser, for great will be your loss. His allegory itself is but one part allegory and nine parts beauty and enjoyment; sometimes an excess of flesh and blood. His wholesale poetical belief, mixing up all creeds and mythologies, but with less violence, resembles that of Dante and Boccaccio. His versification is almost perpetual honey."
1.delve.Dell. From A.-S.delfan, delve, to dig. Each canto of the "Faerie Queene" is introduced by a four-line doggerel like this, containing the argument, or a brief summary of the narrative,—in imitation, probably, of Ariosto's "Orlando Furioso."
2.hore.Sordid, miserly. Probably from A.-S.harian, to become mouldy or musty. The wordhoardmay be traced to a similar root.
3.stedfast starre.The pole-star. See "Faerie Queene," I, ii, 1: