The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Golden Treasury

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Golden TreasuryThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Golden TreasuryEditor: Francis Turner PalgraveRelease date: May 14, 2010 [eBook #32373]Most recently updated: September 29, 2023Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Juliet Sutherland, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Golden TreasuryEditor: Francis Turner PalgraveRelease date: May 14, 2010 [eBook #32373]Most recently updated: September 29, 2023Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Juliet Sutherland, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

Title: The Golden Treasury

Editor: Francis Turner Palgrave

Release date: May 14, 2010 [eBook #32373]Most recently updated: September 29, 2023

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Juliet Sutherland, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY ***

Transcriber's Note:The source of the Greek quote and its meaning are from the 1914 edition.

Transcriber's Note:

The source of the Greek quote and its meaning are from the 1914 edition.

Seal

This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of English Literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts of Nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the rarest,—just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have been hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have endeavoured to make a true national Anthology of three centuries to Henry Hallam. But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love and reverence; and I desire therefore to place before it a name united with his by associations which, while Poetry retains her hold on the minds of Englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten.

Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of Treryn Dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have thus a second reason: and to this I may add, the homage which is your right as Poet, and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common value.

Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may be found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten solitude itself with best society,—with the companionship of the wise and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a store-house of delight to Labour and to Poverty,—if it teaches those indifferent to the Poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully accomplished.

F.T.P.

May: 1861

This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and Songs in our language (save a very few regretfully omitted on account of length), by writers not living,—and none beside the best. Many familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be familiar:—the Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who love Poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known and valued.

The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision increase in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work, whilst keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been here held essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some single thought, feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, narrative, descriptive, and didactic poems,—unless accompanied by rapidity of movement, brevity, and the colouring of human passion,—have been excluded. Humourous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances where a truly poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly personal, occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to the idea of the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with all pieces markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is commonly understood by Song, and rarely conforming to Lyrical conditions in treatment. But it is not anticipated, nor is it possible, that all readers shall think the line accurately drawn. Some poems, as Gray's Elegy, the Allegro and Penseroso, Wordsworth's Ruth or Campbell's Lord Ullin, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice for a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference especially to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that he has taken his utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality.

This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to question;—what degree of merit should give rank among the Best. That a poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,—that it shall reach a perfection commensurate with its aim,—that we should require finish in proportion to brevity,—that passion, colour, and originality cannot atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity or truth,—that a few good lines do not make a good poem, that popular estimate is serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,—above all, that excellence should be looked for rather in the whole than in the parts,—such and other such canons have been always steadily regarded. He may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger number rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and that he has been aided throughout by two friends of independent and exercised judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the Dedication. It is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been freed from that one-sidedness which must beset individual decisions:—but for the final choice the Editor is alone responsible.

Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible poets not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different periods, have been twice systematically read through: and it is hence improbable that any omissions which may be regretted are due to oversight. The poems are printed entire, except in a very few instances where a stanza or passage has been omitted. These omissions have been risked only when the piece could be thus brought to a closer lyrical unity: and, as essentially opposed to this unity, extracts, obviously such, are excluded. In regard to the text, the purpose of the book has appeared to justify the choice of the most poetical version, wherever more than one exists; and much labour has been given to present each poem, in disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to the greatest advantage.

In the arrangement, the most poetically-effective order has been attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of thought and cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of Poetry, that a rapid passage between old and new, like rapid alteration of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always be wearisome and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been therefore distributed into Books corresponding, I to the ninety years closing about 1616, II thence to 1700, III to 1800, IV to the half century just ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give each portion its distinctive character, they might be called the Books of Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, in this respect, so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately reflects the natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly chronological sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at instruction than at pleasure, and the wisdom which comes through pleasure:—within each book the pieces have therefore been arranged in gradations of feeling or subject. And it is hoped that the contents of this Anthology will thus be found to present a certain unity, 'as episodes,' in the noble language of Shelley, 'to that great Poem which all poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have built up since the beginning of the world.'

As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add without egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular Fame more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism, would confine judgments on Poetry to 'the selected few of many generations.' Not many appear to have gained reputation without some gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more thought than mastery of expression, are printed in this volume, it should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much hesitation and regret,—far less that they have been slighted. Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few have been honoured with the name Poet, and have not possessed a skill in words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or seriousness in reflection, which render their works, although never perhaps attaining that loftier and finer excellence here required,—better worth reading than much of what fills the scanty hours that most men spare for self-improvement, or for pleasure in any of its more elevated and permanent forms.—And if this be true of even mediocre poetry, for how much more are we indebted to the best! Like the fabled fountain of the Azores, but with a more various power, the magic of this Art can confer on each period of life its appropriate blessing: on early years Experience, on maturity Calm, on age, Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures 'more golden than gold,' leading us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world, and interpreting to us the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for herself. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success, may be heard throughout the following pages:—wherever the Poets of England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience.

1861

Some poems, especially in Book I, have been added:—either on better acquaintance;—in deference to critical suggestions;—or unknown to the Editor when first gathering his harvest. For aid in these after-gleanings he is specially indebted to the excellent reprints of rare early verse given us by Dr. Hannah, Dr. Grosart, Mr. Arber, Mr. Bullen, and others,—and (in regard to the additions of 1883) to the advice of that distinguished Friend, by whom the final choice has been so largely guided. The text has also been carefully revised from authoritative sources. It has still seemed best, for many reasons, to retain the original limit by which the selection was confined to those then no longer living. But the editor hopes that, so far as in him lies, a complete and definitive collection of our best Lyrics, to the central year of this fast-closing century, is now offered.

1883-1890-1891

Εἰς τὸν λειμῶνα καθίσας,ἔδρεπεν ἕτερον ἐφ' ἑτέρῳαἰρόμενος ἄγρευμ' ἀνθέωνἁδομένᾳ ψυχᾷ— —

[Eurip. frag. 754.]

[‘He sat in the meadow and pluckedwith glad heart the spoil of theflowers,gathering them one by one.’]

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!

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!

T. Nash.

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!

Come unto these yellow sands,And then take hands:Courtsied when you have, and kiss'dThe wild waves whist,Foot it featly here and there;And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.Hark, hark!Bow-bow.The watch-dogs bark:Bow-wow.Hark, hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

W. Shakespeare

Phoebus, arise!And paint the sable skiesWith azure, white, and red:Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bedThat she may thy career with roses spread:The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:Make an eternal Spring!Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;Spread forth thy golden hairIn larger locks than thou wast wont before,And emperor-like decoreWith diadem of pearl thy temples fair:Chase hence the ugly nightWhich serves but to make dear thy glorious light.—This is that happy morn,That day, long-wishéd dayOf all my life so dark,(If cruel stars have not my ruin swornAnd fates my hopes betray),Which, purely white, deservesAn everlasting diamond should it mark.This is the morn should bring unto this groveMy Love, to hear and recompense my love.Fair King, who all preserves,But show thy blushing beams,And thou two sweeter eyesShalt see than those which by Penéus' streamsDid once thy heart surprize.Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:If that ye winds would hearA voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,Your furious chiding stay;Let Zephyr only breathe,And with her tresses play.—The winds all silent are,And Phoebus in his chairEnsaffroning sea and airMakes vanish every star:Night like a drunkard reelsBeyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;Here is the pleasant place—And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!

—This is that happy morn,That day, long-wishéd dayOf all my life so dark,(If cruel stars have not my ruin swornAnd fates my hopes betray),Which, purely white, deservesAn everlasting diamond should it mark.This is the morn should bring unto this groveMy Love, to hear and recompense my love.Fair King, who all preserves,But show thy blushing beams,And thou two sweeter eyesShalt see than those which by Penéus' streamsDid once thy heart surprize.Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:If that ye winds would hearA voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,Your furious chiding stay;Let Zephyr only breathe,And with her tresses play.—The winds all silent are,And Phoebus in his chairEnsaffroning sea and airMakes vanish every star:Night like a drunkard reelsBeyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;Here is the pleasant place—And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!

W. Drummond of Hawthornden

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defacedThe rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;When I have seen the hungry ocean gainAdvantage on the kingdom of the shore,And the firm soil win of the watery main,Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;When I have seen such interchange of state,Or state itself confounded to decay,Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate—That Time will come and take my Love away:—This thought is as a death, which cannot chooseBut weep to have that which it fears to lose.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defacedThe rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;

When I have seen the hungry ocean gainAdvantage on the kingdom of the shore,And the firm soil win of the watery main,Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;

When I have seen such interchange of state,Or state itself confounded to decay,Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate—That Time will come and take my Love away:

—This thought is as a death, which cannot chooseBut weep to have that which it fears to lose.

W. Shakespeare

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,But sad mortality o'ersways their power,How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,Whose action is no stronger than a flower?O how shall summer's honey breath hold outAgainst the wreckful siege of battering days,When rocks impregnable are not so stoutNor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?O fearful meditation! where, alack!Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?O! none, unless this miracle have might,That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,But sad mortality o'ersways their power,How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O how shall summer's honey breath hold outAgainst the wreckful siege of battering days,When rocks impregnable are not so stoutNor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack!Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O! none, unless this miracle have might,That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

W. Shakespeare.

Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.There will we sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.There will I 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 wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair linéd 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.Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me.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.

Come live with me and be my Love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat hills and valleys, dale and field,And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocksAnd see the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers, to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I 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 wool,Which from our pretty lambs we pull,Fair linéd 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.

Thy silver dishes for thy meatAs precious as the gods do eat,Shall on an ivory table bePrepared each day for thee and me.

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.

C. Marlowe

Fain would I change that noteTo which fond Love hath charm'd meLong long to sing by rote,Fancying that that harm'd me:Yet when this thought doth come'Love is the perfect sumOf all delight,'I have no other choiceEither for pen or voiceTo sing or write.O Love! they wrong thee muchThat say thy sweet is bitter,When thy rich fruit is suchAs nothing can be sweeter.Fair house of joy and bliss,Where truest pleasure is,I do adore thee:I know thee what thou art,I serve thee with my heart,And fall before thee!

O Love! they wrong thee muchThat say thy sweet is bitter,When thy rich fruit is suchAs nothing can be sweeter.Fair house of joy and bliss,Where truest pleasure is,I do adore thee:I know thee what thou art,I serve thee with my heart,And fall before thee!

Anon.

Crabbed Age and YouthCannot live together:Youth is full of pleasance,Age is full of care;Youth like summer morn,Age like winter weather,Youth like summer brave,Age like winter bare:Youth is full of sport,Age's breath is short,Youth is nimble, Age is lame:Youth is hot and bold,Age is weak and cold,Youth is wild, and Age is tame:—Age, I do abhor thee,Youth, I do adore thee;O! my Love, my Love is young!Age, I do defy thee—O sweet shepherd, hie thee,For methinks thou stay'st too long.

W. Shakespeare

Under the greenwood treeWho 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 shunAnd loves to live i' the sun,Seeking the food he eatsAnd pleased with what he gets—Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.

Under the greenwood treeWho 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 shunAnd loves to live i' the sun,Seeking the food he eatsAnd pleased with what he gets—Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.

W. Shakespeare

It was a lover and his lassWith a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino!That o'er the green corn-field did passIn the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing hey ding a ding:Sweet lovers love the Spring.Between the acres of the ryeThese pretty country folks would lie:This carol they began that hour,How that life was but a flower:And therefore take the present timeWith a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!For love is crowned with the primeIn spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing hey ding a ding:Sweet lovers love the Spring.

Between the acres of the ryeThese pretty country folks would lie:This carol they began that hour,How that life was but a flower:

And therefore take the present timeWith a hey and a ho and a hey nonino!For love is crowned with the primeIn spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing hey ding a ding:Sweet lovers love the Spring.

W. Shakespeare

Absence, hear thou this protestationAgainst thy strength,Distance, and length;Do what thou canst for alteration:For hearts of truest mettleAbsence doth join, and Time doth settle.Who loves a mistress of such quality,His mind hath foundAffection's groundBeyond time, place, and mortality.To hearts that cannot varyAbsence is present, Time doth tarry.By absence this good means I gain,That I can catch her,Where none can match her,In some close corner of my brain:There I embrace and kiss her;And so I both enjoy and miss her.

Absence, hear thou this protestationAgainst thy strength,Distance, and length;Do what thou canst for alteration:For hearts of truest mettleAbsence doth join, and Time doth settle.

Who loves a mistress of such quality,His mind hath foundAffection's groundBeyond time, place, and mortality.To hearts that cannot varyAbsence is present, Time doth tarry.

By absence this good means I gain,That I can catch her,Where none can match her,In some close corner of my brain:There I embrace and kiss her;And so I both enjoy and miss her.

J. Donne

High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,Tempers her words to trampling horses' feetMore oft than to a chamber-melody,—Now, blesséd you bear onward blesséd meTo her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;My Muse and I must you of duty greetWith thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;And that you know I envy you no lotOf highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,—Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!

High-way, since you my chief Parnassus be,And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,Tempers her words to trampling horses' feetMore oft than to a chamber-melody,—

Now, blesséd you bear onward blesséd meTo her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;My Muse and I must you of duty greetWith thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;

Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot;Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;And that you know I envy you no lot

Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,—Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss!

Sir P. Sidney

Being your slave, what should I do but tendUpon the hours and times of your desire?I have no precious time at all to spendNor 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 willThough you do anything, he thinks no ill.

Being your slave, what should I do but tendUpon the hours and times of your desire?I have no precious time at all to spendNor 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 willThough you do anything, he thinks no ill.

W. Shakespeare

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 every where!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 lords' 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 cheer,That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

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 every where!

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 lords' 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 cheer,That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

W. Shakespeare

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyesI 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 remember'd, such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyesI 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 remember'd, such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.

W. Shakespeare

O never say that I was false of heart,Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:As easy might I from myself departAs 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 preposterously be stain'dTo 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.

O never say that I was false of heart,Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:As easy might I from myself departAs 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 preposterously be stain'dTo 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.

W. Shakespeare

To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I eyedSuch 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.

To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I eyedSuch 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.

W. Shakespeare

Like to the clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,Of selfsame colour is her hairWhether unfolded, or in twines:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,Resembling heaven by every wink;The Gods do fear whenas they glow,And I do tremble when I thinkHeigh ho, would she were mine!Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora's face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within which bounds she balm enclosesApt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!Her neck is like a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison'd lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes:Heigh ho, for Rosaline!Her paps are centres of delight,Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blueHer body every way is fed,Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Nature herself her shape admires;The Gods are wounded in her sight;And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosaline,Since for a fair there's fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloudThat beautifies Aurora's face,Or like the silver crimson shroudThat Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Her lips are like two budded rosesWhom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,Within which bounds she balm enclosesApt to entice a deity:Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately towerWhere Love himself imprison'd lies,To watch for glances every hourFrom her divine and sacred eyes:Heigh ho, for Rosaline!Her paps are centres of delight,Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,Where Nature moulds the dew of lightTo feed perfection with the same:Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,With marble white, with sapphire blueHer body every way is fed,Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!Nature herself her shape admires;The Gods are wounded in her sight;And Love forsakes his heavenly firesAnd at her eyes his brand doth light:Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoanThe absence of fair Rosaline,Since for a fair there's fairer none,Nor for her virtues so divine:Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!

T. Lodge

Beauty sat bathing by a springWhere fairest shades did hide her;The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,The cool streams ran beside her.My wanton thoughts enticed mine eyeTo see what was forbidden:But better memory said, fie!So vain desire was chidden:—Hey nonny nonny O!Hey nonny nonny!Into a slumber then I fell,When fond imaginationSeemed to see, but could not tellHer feature or her fashion.But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,And sometimes fall a-weeping,So I awaked, as wise this whileAs when I fell a-sleeping:—-Hey nonny nonny O!Hey nonny nonny!

Into a slumber then I fell,When fond imaginationSeemed to see, but could not tellHer feature or her fashion.But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,And sometimes fall a-weeping,So I awaked, as wise this whileAs when I fell a-sleeping:—-Hey nonny nonny O!Hey nonny nonny!

The Shepherd Tonie

Back to Index Next