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1. WALTER RAWELY OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE

IN COMMENDATION OF GEORGE GASCOIGNE'S 'STEEL GLASS' (SWEET WERE THE SAUCE WOULD PLEASE EACH KIND OF TASTE)

Sweet were the sauce would please each kind of taste;
The life likewise were pure that never swerved:
For spiteful tongues in cankered stomachs placed
Deem worst of things which best (percase) deserved.
But what for that?   This medicine may suffice
To scorn the rest, and seek to please the wise.

Though sundry minds in sundry sort do deem,
Yet worthiest wights, yield praise for every pain;
But envious brains do nought, or light, esteem,
Such stately steps as they cannot attain:
For whoso reaps renown above the rest,
VVith heaps of hate shall surely be oppressed.

Wherefore, to write my censure of this book,
This Glass of Steel unpartially doth show
Abuses all to such as in it look,
From prince to poor, from high estate to low.
As for the verse, who list like trade to try,
I fear me much, shall hardly reach so high.


2. THE EXCUSE

WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH IN HIS
YOUNGER YEARS (CALLING TO MIND, MY EYES WENT LONG ABOUT)

Calling to mind, my eyes went long about
To cause my heart to forsake my breast,
All in a rage I sought to pull them out,
As who had been such traitors to my rest :
What could they say to win again my grace?—
Forsooth, that they had seen my mistress' face.

Another time, my heart I called to mind,—
Thinking that he this woe on me had brought,
Because that he to love his force resigned,
When of such wars my fancy never thought :
What could he say when I would him have slain?—
That he was hers, and had forgone my chain.

At last, when I perceived both eyes and heart
Excuse themselves, as guiltless of my ill,
I found myself the cause of all my smart,
And told myself that I myself would kill :
Yet when I saw myself to you was true,
I loved myself, because myself loved you.


3. AN EPITAPH

UPON THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR PHILIP SIDNEY,
KNIGHT, LORD GOVERNOR OF FLUSHING (TO PRAISE THY LIFE OF WAIL THY WORTHY DEATH)

To praise thy life or wail thy worthy death,
And want thy wit,— thy wit high, pure, divine,—
Is far beyond the power of mortal line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath;

Yet rich in zeal (though poor in learning's lore),
And friendly care obscured in secret breast,
And love that envy in thy life suppressed,—
Thy dear life done,—and death hath doubled more.

And I, that in thy time and living state
Did only praise thy virtues in my thought,
As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought,
With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate.

Drawn was thy race aright from princely line;
Nor less than such, by gifts that nature gave,—
The common mother that all creatures have,—
Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine.

A king gave thee thy name ; a kingly mind,—
That God thee gave,—who found it now too dear
For this base world, and hath resumed it near
To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine.

Kent thy birth-days, and Oxford held thy youth;
The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime;
Thy will, thy words ; thy words the seals of truth.

Great gifts and wisdom rare employed thee thence,
To treat from kings with those more great than kings;
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence.

Whence to sharp wars sweet honour did thee call,
Thy country's love, religion, and thy friends;
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labour all.

There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,
Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortune's might;
Thy rising day saw never woeful night,
But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the camp by thee that day was brought,
First thine own death ; and after, thy long fame;
Tears to the soldiers ; the proud Castilian's shame;
Virtue expressed, and honour truly taught.

What hath he lost that such great grace hath won
Young years for endless years, and hope unsure
Of fortune's gifts for wealth that still shall dure:
O happy race, with so great praises run!

England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same;
Flanders thy valour, where it last was tried
The camp thy sorrow, where thy body died;
Thy friends thy want ; the world thy virtue's fame;

Nations thy wi; our minds lay up thy love;
Letters thy learning; thy loss years long to come;
In worthy hearts sorrow hath made thy tomb;
Thy soul and spright enrich the heavens above.

Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears,
Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs, bewail thy fall;
Envy her sting, and spite hath left her gall;
Malice herself a mourning garment wears.

That day their Hannibal died, our Scipio fell,—
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time;
Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme,
Let angels speak, end heaven thy praises tell.


4. A VISION UPON THIS CONCEIT OF THE FAIRY QUEEN (METHOUGHT I SAW THE GRAVE WHERE LAURA LAY)

Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn: and, passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept,
All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen,
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept;
And from thenceforth those graces were not seen,
For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse.
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce:      
Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And cursed the access of that celestial thief.

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5. ANOTHER OF THE SAME (THE FAERIE QUEENE) (THE PRAISE OF MEANER WITS THIS WORK LIKE PROFIT BRINGS)

The praise of meaner wits this work like profit brings,
As doth the cuckoo's song delight when Philumema sings.
If thou hast formed right true virtue's face herein,
Virtue herself can best discern, to whom they written bin.
If thou hast beauty praised, let her sole looks divine
Judge if aught therein be amiss, and mend it by her eine.
If Chastity want aught, or Temperance her due,
Behold her princely mind aright, and write thy Queen anew.
Meanwhile she shall perceive how far her virtues soar
Above the reach of all that live, or such as wrote of yore:
And thereby will excuse and favour thy goodwill:
Whose virtue cannot be expressed but by an angel's quill.
Of me no lines are loved nor letters are of price,
Of all which speak our English tongue, but those of thy device.

6. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE (COME LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE)

BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

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7. RALEIGH'S REPLY: THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD (IF ALL THE WORLD AND LOVE WERE YOUNG)

If all the world and love were young,            
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the 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 fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

The 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 move
To 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 move
To live with thee and be thy love.

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8. LIKE TO A HERMIT POOR (LIKE TO A HERMIT POOR IN PLACE OBSCURE)

Like to a hermit poor in place obscure
I mean to spend my days of endless doubt,
To wail such woes as time cannot recure,
Where none but Love shall ever find me out.

My food shall be of care and sorrow made,
My drink nought else but tears fall'n from mine eyes;
And for my light in such obscured shade,
The flames shall serve wich from my heart arise.

A gown of gray my body shall attire,
My staff of broken hope whereon I'll stay;
Of late repentance linked with long desire
The couch is framed whereon my limbs I'll lay;

And at my gate despair shall linger still
To let in death when love and fortune will.

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9. FAREWELL TO THE COURT (LIKE TRUTHLESS DREAMS, SO ARE MY JOYS EXPIRED)

Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expired,
And past return are all my dandled days;
My love misled, and fancy quite retired—
Of all which passed the sorrow only stays.

My lost delights, now clean from sight of land,
Have left me all alone in unknown ways;
My mind to woe, my life in fortune's hand—
Of all which passed the sorrow only stays.

As in a country strange, without companion,
I only wail the wrong of death's delays,
Whose sweet spring spent, whose summer well-nigh done—
Of all which passed the sorrow only stays.

Whom care forewarns, ere age and winter cold,
To haste me hence to find my fortune's fold.

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10. THE ADVICE (MANY DESIRE, BUT FEW OF NONE DESERVE)

Many desire, but few or none deserve
To win the fort of thy most constant will;
Therefore take heed; let fancy never swerve
But unto him that will defend thee still:
For this be sure, the fort of fame once won,
Farewell the rest, thy happy days are done!

Many desire, but few or none deserve
To pluck the flowers , and let the leaves to fall;
Therefore take heed; let fancy never swerve
But unto him that will take leaves and all:
For this be sure, the flower once plucked away,
Farewell the rest, thy happy days decay!

Many desire, but few or none deserve
To cut the corn, not subject to the sickle;
Therefore take heed; let fancy never swerve,
But constant stand, for mowers' minds are fickle;
For this be sure, the crop once obtained,
Farewell the rest, the soil will be disdained.

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11. IN GRACE OF WIT, OF TONGUE, AND FACE (HER FACE, HER TONGUE, HER WIT, SO FAIR, SO SWEET, SO SHARP)

Her face, her tongue, her wit, so fair, so sweet, so sharp,
First bent, then drew, now hit, mine eye, mine ear, my heart:
Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, to like, to learn, to love,
Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth lead, doth teach, doth move:
Her face, her tongue, her wit, with beams, with sound, with art,
Doth blind, doth charm, doth rule, mine eye, mine ear, my heart.

Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, with life, with hope, with skill,
Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth feed, doth feast, doth fill:
O face, O tongue, O wit, with frowns, with cheeks, with smart,
Wring not, vex not, wound not, mine eye, mine ear, my heart:
This eye, this ear, this heart, shall joy, shall bind, shall swear
Your face, your tongue, your wit, to serve, to love, to fear.

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12. FAIN WOULD I, BUT I DARE NOT; I DARE, AND YET I MAY NOT

Fain would I, but I dare not; I dare, and yet I may not;
I may, although I care not, for pleasure when I play not.
You laugh because you like not; I jest whenas I joy not;
You pierce, although you strike not; I strike yet annoy not.

I spy, whenas I speak not; for oft I speak and speed not;
But of my wounds you reck not, because you see they bleed not:
Yet bleed they where you see not, but you the pain endure not:
Of noble mind they be not that ever kill and cure not.

I see, whenas I view not; I wish, although I crave not;
I serve, and yet sue not; I hope for that I have not;
I catch, although I hold not; I burn, although I flame not;
I seem, whenas I would not; and when I seem, I am not.

Yours am I, though I seem not, and will be, though I show not;
Mine outward deeds then deem not, when mine intent you know not;
But if my serving prove not most sure, although I sue not,
Withdraw your mind and love not, nor of my ruin rue not.

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13. SIR WALTER RALEIGH TO HIS SON (THE WOOD, THE WEED, THE WAG) (THREE THINGS THERE BE THAT PROSPER UP APACE)

Three things there be that prosper up apace,
And flourish while they grow asunder far;
But on a day, they meet all in a place,
And when they meet, they one another mar.

And they be these: the Wood, the Weed, the Wag:
The Wood is that that makes the gallows tree;
The Weed is that that strings the hangman's bag;
The Wag, my pretty knave, betokens thee.

Now mark, dear boy—while these assemble not,
Green springs the tree, hemp grows, the wag is wild;
But when they meet, it makes the timber rot,
It frets the halter, and it chokes the child.

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14. ON THE CARDS AND DICE (BEFORE THE SIXTH DAY OF THE NEW YEAR)

BEFORE the sixth day of the next new year,
Strange wonders in this kingdom shall appear:
Four kings shall be assembled in this isle,
Where they shall keep great tumult for awhile.
Many men then shall have an end of crosses,
And many likewise shall sustain great losses;
Many that now full joyful are and glad,
Shall at that time be sorrowful and sad;
Full many a Christian's heart shall quake for fear,               
The dreadful sound of trump when he shall hear.
Dead bones shall then be tumbled up and down,
In every city and in every town.
By day or night this tumult shall not cease,
Until an herald shall proclaim a peace;
An herald strong, the like was never born,
Whose very beard is flesh and mouth is horn.

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15. THE SILENT LOVER (PASSIONS ARE LINKED BEST TO FLOODS AND STREAMS) (WRONG NOT, SWEET EMPRESS OF MY HEART)

I

Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

II

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion.

Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne'er so witty:
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My true, though secret passion;
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.

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16. A POESY TO PROVE AFFECTION IS NOT LOVE (CONCEIT, BEGOTTEN BY THE EYES)

Conceit, begotten by the eyes,
Is quickly born and quickly dies;
For while it seeks our hearts to have,
Meanwhile, there reason makes his grave;
For many things the eyes approve,
Which yet the heart doth seldom love.

For as the seeds in spring time sown
Die in the ground ere they be grown,
Such is conceit, whose rooting fails,
As child that in the cradle quails;
Or else within the mother's womb
Hath his beginning and his tomb.

Affection follows Fortune's wheels,
And soon is shaken from her heels;
For, following beauty or estate,
Her liking still is turned to hate;
For all affections have their change,
And fancy only loves to range.

Desire himself runs out of breath,
And, getting, doth not gain his death:
Desire nor reason hath not rest,
And, blind, doth seldom choose the best:
Desire attained is not desire,
But as the cinders of the fire.

As ships in ports desired are drowned,
As fruit once ripe, then falls to ground,
As flies that seek for flames are brought
To cinders by the flames they sought;
So fond desire when it attains,
The life expires, the woe remains.

And yet some poets fain would prove
Affection to be the perfect love;
And that desire is of that kind,
No less a passion of the mind;
As if wild beasts and men seek
To like, to love, to choose alike.

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17. THE LIE (GO, SOUL, THE BODY'S QUEST)

Go, soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Say to the court it glows
And shines like rotten wood,
Say to the church it shows
What's good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates, they live
Acting, by others' action;
Not lov'd unless they give;
Not strong, but by affection.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition;
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost
Like nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it meets but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honour how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favour how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In fickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is prevention;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.

Tell faith it's fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood, shakes off pity;
Tell virtue, least preferred.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing;
Because to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing:
Stab at thee, he that will,
No stab thy soul can kill!

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18. SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S PILGRIMAGE (GIVE ME MY SCALLOP-SHELL OF QUIET)

Written by Sir Walter Raleigh, Knight, After his CONDEMNATION, The Day before his Death.

GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer,
No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like a quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains:
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill:
My soul will be a-dry before;
But after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy blestful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.
I'll take them first
To quench their thirst,
And taste of nectar suckets,
At those clear wells
Where sweetness dwells
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,
Then the blessed paths we'll travel,
Strowed with rubies thick as gravel ;
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to heavens's bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl;
No conscience molten into gold,
No forged accuser bought or sold,
No cause deferred, nor vain-spent journey;
For there Christ is the King's Attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
And when the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.

Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder !
Thou giv'st salvation even for alms;
Not with a bribed lawyer's palms.
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That, since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit;
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.

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19. ON THE LIFE OF MAN (WHAT IS OUR LIFE? A PLAY OF PASSION)

What is our life? a play of passion,
Our mirth the musicke of division,
Our mothers wombes the tyring houses be,
When we are drest for this short Comedy,
Heaven the Judicious sharpe spector is,               
That sits and markes still who doth act amisse,
Our graves that hide us from the searching Sun,
Are like drawne curtaynes when the play is done,
Thus march we playing to our latest rest,
Onely we dye in earnest, that's no Jest.

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20. TO THE TRANSLATOR OF LUCAN'S PHARSALIA (THAN LUCAN HID THE TRUTH TO PLEASE THE TIME)

Than Lucan hid the truth to please the time,
He had been too unworthy of thy pen,
Who never sought, nor ever cared to climb
By flattery, or seeking worthless men.
For this thou hast been bruised; but yet those scars
Do beautify no less than those wounds do
Received in just and in religious wars;
Though thou hast bled by both, and bear'st them too.   
Change not! To change thy fortune 'tis too late.
Who with a manly faith resolves to die,
May promise to himself a lasting state,
Though not so great, yet free from infamy.
Such was thy Lucan, whom so to translate,
Nature thy muse like Lucan's did create.


21. SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S PETITION TO THE QUEEN (ANN OF DANMARK) (O HAD THRUTH POWER, THE QUILTLESS COULD NOT FALL)


O had truth power, the guiltless could not fall,
Malice win glory, or revenge triumph;
But truth alone cannot encounter all.

Mercy is fled to God, which mercy made;
Compassion dead ; faith turned to policy;
Friends know not those who sit in sorrow's /shade.

For what we sometime were, we are no more:
Fortune hath changed our shape, and destiny
Defaced the very form we had before.

All love, and all desert of former times,
Malice hath covered from my sovereign's eyes,
And largely laid abroad supposed crimes.

But kings call not to mind what vassals were,
But know them now, as envy hath described them:
So can I look on no side from despair.

Cold walls ! to you I speak; but you are senseless:
Celestial Powers ! you hear, but have determined,
And shall determine, to my greatest happiness.

Then unto whom shall I unfold my wrong,
Cast down my tears, or hold up folded hands?
To Her, to whom remorse doth most belong;

To Her who is the first, and may alone
Be justly called the Empress of the Bretanes.
Who should have mercy if a Queen have none?

Save those that would have died for your defence!
Save him whose thoughts no treason ever tainted!
For lo ! destruction is no recompense.

If I have sold my duty, sold my faith
To strangers, which was only due to One;
Nothing I should esteem so dear as death.

But if both God and Time shall make you know
That I, your humblest vassal, am oppressed,
Then cast your eyes on undeserved woe;

That I and mine may never mourn the miss
Of Her we had, but praise our living Queen,
Who brings us equal, if not greater, bliss.


22. SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S VERSES FOUND IN HIS BIBLE IN THE GATE HOUSE OF WESTMINSTER (EVEN SUCH IS TIME HAT TAKES ON TRUST)

Even such is time, that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust
My God shall raise me up, I trust!

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23. FRAGMENTS AND EPIGRAMS

I

This made him write in a glass window,
obvious to the Queen's eye —

"Fain would I climb, yet fear I to fall."

Her Majesty, either espying or being
shown it, did under-write —

"If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all."

II

SIR WA. RAWLEY made this rhyme upon the name of a gallant, one Mr. Noel : —

"Noe. L.
"The word of denial and the letter of fifty
Makes the gentleman's name that will never be thrifty."

And Noel's answer : —

"'Raw. Ly.

" The foe to the stomach and the word of disgrace
Shews the gentleman's name with the boldface."

III

IN vain mine eyes, in vain you waste your tears;
In vain my sighs, the smokes of my despairs;
In vain you search the earth and heavens above;
In vain ye seek ; for Fortune keeps my love.

IV

With wisdom's eyes had but blind fortune seen,
Then had my love, my love v. for ever been.

V

EPITAPH ON THE EARL OF LEICESTER

(Died Sept. 4, 1588.)


HERE lies the noble warrior that never blunted sword;
Here lies the noble courtier that never kept his word;
Here lies his excellency that governed all the state;
Here lies the L. of Leicester that all the world did hate.

VI

EPITAPH ON THE EARL OF SALISBURY

(Died May 24, 1612.)

HERE lies Hobbinol, our pastor whilere,
That once in a quarter our fleeces did sheer.
To please us his cur he kept under clog,
And was ever after both shepherd and dog.
For oblation to Pan his custom was thus: —
He first gave a trifle, then offered up us.
And through his false worship such power he did gain,
As kept him o'th' mountain and us on the plain:
Where many a hornpipe he tuned to his Phyllis,
And sweetly sung Walsingham to 's Amaryllis.
(Two lines omitted)

VII

A POEM PUT INTO MY LADY LAITON'S POCKET

LADY, farewell, whom I in silence serve!
Would God thou knewest the depth of my desire!
Then mought I wish, though nought I can deserve,
Some drops of grace to slake my scalding fire;
But sith to live alone I have decreed,
I'll spare to speak, that I may spare to speed!

VIII

SIR WALTER RALEIGH ON THE SNUFF OF A CANDLE
THE NIGHT BEFORE HE DIED

COWARDS [may] fear to die; but courage stout,
Rather than live in snuff, will be put out.
 

24. FRAGMENTS AND EPITAPHS


25. NO PLEASURE WITHOUT PAIN (SWEET UNSURE) (SWEET WERE THE JOYS BOTH MIGHT LIKE AND LAST)

Sweet were the joys that both might like and last;
Strange were the state exempt from all distress;
Happy the life that no mishap should taste;
Blessed the chance might never change success.
Were such a life to lead or state to prove,
Who would not wish that such a life were love?

But oh! the soury sauce of sweet unsure,
When pleasures flit, and fly with waste of wind.
The trustless trains that hoping hearts allure,
When sweet delights do but allure the mind;
When care consumes and wastes the wretched wight,
While fancy feeds and draws of her delight.

What life were love, if love were free from pain?
But oh that pain with pleasure matched should meet!
Why did the course of nature so ordain
That sugared sour must sauce the bitter sweet?
Which sour from sweet might any means remove,
What hap, what heaven, what life, were like to love!

http://stihi.ru/2023/11/30/6529


26. THE SHEPHERD'S PRAISE TO HIS SACRED DIANA (PRAISED TO DIANA'S FAIR AND HARMLESS LIGHT)

Praised be Diana's fair and harmless light,
Praised be the dews wherewith she moists the ground;
Praised be her beams, the glory of the night;
Praised be her power, by which all powers abound.

Praised be her nymphs, with whom she decks the woods;
Praised be her knights, in whom true honor lives;
Praised be that force by which she moves the floods;
Let that Diana shine, which all these gives.

In heaven queen she is among the spheres;
In aye she mistress-like makes all things pure;
Eternity in her oft change she bears;
She beauty is; by her the fair endure.

Time wears her not—she doth his chariot guide;
Mortality below her orb is placed.
By her the virtue of the stars down slide,
In her is virtue's perfect image cast.

A knowledge pure it is her worth to know;
With Circes let them dwell that think not so.

http://stihi.ru/2019/12/15/523


27. A SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE (NOW WHAT IS LOVE? I PRAY THEE, TELL)

Now what is love?  I pray thee, tell.
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell.
It is perhaps the sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell:
And this is love, as I hear tell.

Yet what is love?  I pray thee say.
It is a work on holy-day;
It is December matched with May;
When lusty bloods, in fresh array,
Hear ten months after of the play:
And this is love, as I hear say.

Yet what is love?  I pray thee sain.
It is a sunshine mixed with rain;
It is a tooth-ache, or like pain;
It is a game where none hath gain;
The lass saith no, and would full fain:
And this is love, as I hear sain.

Yet what is love?  I pray thee say.
It is a yea, it is a nay,
A pretty kind of sporting fray;
It is a thing will soon away;
Then take the vantage while you may:
And this is love, as I hear say.

Yet what is love, I pray thee show.
A thing that creeps, it cannot go;
A prize that passeth to and fro;
A thing for one, a thing for mo;
And he that proves must find it so:
And this is love, sweet friend, I trow.

http://stihi.ru/2021/06/11/5544


28. WALSINGHAM (PILGRIM TO PILGRIM) (AS YOU CAME FROM THE HOLY LAND)

As you came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came ?

How shall I know your true love,
That have met many one,
As I went to the holy land,
That have come, that have gone?

She is neither white nor brown,
But as the heavens fair;
There is none hath a form so divine
In the earth or the air.

Such a one did I meet, good sir,
Such an angel-like face,
Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear,
By her gait, by her grace.

She hath left me here all alone,
All alone, as unknown,
Who sometimes did me lead with herself,
And me loved as her own.

What's the cause that she leaves you alone,
And a new way doth take,
Who loved you once as her own,
And her joy did you make?

I have loved her all my youth,
But now old, as you see,
Love likes not the falling fruit
From the withered tree.

Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past;
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.

His desire is a dureless content,
And a trustless joy;
He is won with a world of despair,
And is lost with a toy.

Of womankind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abused,
Under which many childish desires
And conceits are excused.

But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning.

http://stihi.ru/2019/11/26/9716


29. SHALL I, LIKE A HERMIT, DWELL

Shall I (like a hermit) dwell
On a rock or in a cell;
Calling home the smallest part
That is missing of my heart,
To bestow it where I may
Meet a rival every day?
If she undervalue me,
What care I how fair she be!

Were her tresses angel-gold;
If a stranger may be bold,
Unrebuked, and unafraid,
To convert them to a braid;
And, with little more ado,
Work them into bracelets, too!
If the mine be grown so free,
What care I how rich it be!

Were her hands as rich a prize
As her hair or precious eyes;
If she lay them out to take
Kisses for good manners' sake!
And let every lover slip
From her hand unto her lip!
If she seem not chaste to me,
What care I how chaste she be!

No! She must be perfect snow
In effect as well as show!
Warming but as snowballs do;
Not like fire by burning, too!
But when she by change hath got
To her heart a second lot;
Then if others share with me,
Farewell her! whate'er she be!


30.TO HIS SINGULAR FRIEND WILLIAM LITHGOW (WHILES I ADMIRE THY FIRST AND SECOND WAYS)

Whiles I admire thy first and second ways,
Long ten years wondering in the world-wide bounds;
I rest amazed to think on these essays
That thy first travel to the world forth sounds:
In bravest sense, compendious ornate style,
Didst show most rare adventures to this isle.

And now thy second pilgrimage I see
At London thou resoulvest to put in light;
Thy Lybian ways, so fearful to the eye,
And Garamants their strange amazing sight.
Meanwhile this work affords a three-fold gain
In fury in thy fierce Castalian vein;
As thou for travels brookest the greatest name
So voyage on, increase, maintain the same!


NATURE THAT WASHED HER HANDS IN MILK

Nature, that washed her hands in milk,
And had forgot to dry them,
Instead of earth took snow and silk,
At love's request to try them,
If she a mistress could compose
To please love's fancy out of those.

Her eyes he would should be of light,
A violet breath, and lips of jelly;
Her hair not black, nor overbright,
And of the softest down her belly;
As for her inside he 'ld have it
Only of wantonness and wit.

At love's entreaty such a one
Nature made, but with her beauty
She hath framed a heart of stone;
So as love, by ill destiny,
Must die for her whom nature gave him,
Because her darling would not save him.

But time  (which nature doth despise
And rudely gives her love the lie,
Makes hope a fool, and sorrow wise)
His hands do neither wash nor dry;
But being made of steel and rust,
Turns snow and silk and milk to dust.

The light, the belly, lips, and breath,
He dims, discolors, and destroys;
With those he feeds but fills not death,
Which sometimes were the food of joys.
Yea, time doth dull each lively wit,
And dries all wantonness with it.

Oh, cruel time!  which takes in trust
Our youth, or joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave
When we have wandered all our ways
Shuts up the story of our days.

http://stihi.ru/2020/01/31/194


TO HIS LOVE WHEN HE HAD OBTAINED HER (NOW, SERENA, BE NOT COY)

Now Serena be not coy,
Since we freely may enjoy
Sweet embraces, such delights,
As will shorten tedious nights.
Think that beauty will not stay
With you always, but away,
And that tyrannizing face
That now holds such perfect grace
Will both changed and ruined be;
So frail is all things as we see,
So subject unto conquering Time.
Then gather flowers in their prime,
Let them not fall and perish so;
Nature her bounties did bestow
On us that we might use them, and
’Tis coldness not to understand
What she and youth and form persuade
With opportunity that’s made
As we could wish it.  Let’s, then, meet
Often with amorous lips, and greet
Each other till our wanton kisses
In number pass the day Ulysses
Consumed in travel, and the stars
That look upon our peaceful wars
With envious luster.  If this store
Will not suffice, we’ll number o’er
The same again, until we find
No number left to call to mind
And show our plenty. They are poor
That can count all they have and more.

http://stihi.ru/2021/06/09/7488


THE OCEAN TO CYNTHIA (BUT STAY, MY THOUGHTS, MAKE END, GIVE FORTUNE WAY)

But stay, my thoughts, make end, give fortune way;
Harsh is the voice of woe and sorrow's sound;
Complaints cure not, and tears do but allay
Griefs for a time, which after more abound.

To seek for moisture in the Arabian sand
Is but a loss of labor and of rest;
The links which time did break of hearty bands

Words cannot knit, or wailings make anew.
Seek not the sun in clouds when it is set.
On highest mountains, where those cedars grew,
Against whose banks the troubled ocean beat,

And were the marks to find thy hoped port,
Into a soil far off themselves remove;
On Sestos' shore, Leander's late resort,
Hero hath left no lamp to guide her love.

Thou lookest for light in vain, and storms arise;
She sleeps thy death that erst thy danger sighed;
Strive then no more, bow down thy weary eyes,
Eyes which to all these woes thy heart have guided.

She is gone, she is lost, she is found, she is ever fair;
Sorrow draws weakly where love draws not too;
Woe's cries sound nothing, but only in love's ear.
Do then by dying what life cannot do.
Unfold thy flocks and leave them to the fields,
To feed on hills or dales, where likes them best,
Of what the summer or the springtime yields,
For love and time hath given thee leave to rest.

Thy heart which was their fold, now in decay
By often storms and winter's many blasts,
All torn and rent becomes misfortune's prey;
False hope, my shepherd's staff, now age hath brast.

My pipe, which love's own hand gave my desire
To sing her praises and my woe upon,
Despair hath often threatened to the fire,
As vain to keep now all the rest are gone.

Thus home I draw, as death's long night draws on;
Yet every foot, old thoughts turn back mine eyes;
Constraint me guides, as old age draws a stone
Against the hill, which over-weighty lies

For feeble arms or wasted strength to move:
My steps are backward, gazing on my loss,
My mind's affection and my soul's sole love,
Not mixed with fancy's chaff or fortune's dross.

To God I leave it, who first gave it me,
And I her gave, and she returned again,
As it was hers; so let His mercies be
Of my last comforts the essential mean.

But be it so or not, the effects are past;
Her love hath end; my woe must ever last.

http://stihi.ru/2023/12/24/7888


TO HIS MISTRESS (FORTUNE HAS TAKEN THEE AWAY, MY LOVE)

Fortune hath taken thee away, my love,
My life’s soul and my soul’s heaven above;
Fortune hath taken thee away, my princess;
My only light and my true fancy’s mistress.

Fortune hath taken all away from me,
Fortune hath taken all by taking thee.
Dead to all joy, I only live to woe,
So fortune now becomes my mortal foe.

In vain you eyes, you eyes do waste your tears,
In vain you sighs do smoke forth my despairs,
In vain you search the earth and heaven above,
In vain you search, for fortune rules in love.

Thus now I leave my love in fortune’s hands,
Thus now I leave my love in fortune’s bands,
And only love the sorrows due to me;
Sorrow henceforth it shall my princess be.

I joy in this, that fortune conquers kings;
Fortune that rules on earth and earthly things
Hath taken my love in spite of Cupid’s might;
So blind a dame did never Cupid right.

With wisdom’s eyes had but blind Cupid seen,
Then had my love my love for ever been;
But love farewell; though fortune conquer thee,
No fortune base shall ever alter me.

http://stihi.ru/2017/12/12/828


FAREWELL TO FALSE LOVE (FAREWELL, FALSE LOVE, THE ORACLE OF LIES)   

Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed,
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.

A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers,
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose,
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.

A fortress foiled, which reason did defend,
A siren song, a fever of the mind,
A maze wherein affection finds no end,
A raging cloud that runs before the wind,
A substance like the shadow of the sun,
A goal of grief for which the wisest run.

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,
A path that leads to peril and mishap,
A true retreat of sorrow and despair,
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap,
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems,
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.

Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed,
And for my faith ingratitude I find;
And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed,
Whose course was ever contrary to kind:
False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu!
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

http://stihi.ru/2023/12/29/7327


IF CYNTHIA BE A QUEEN, A PRINCESS, AND SUPREME

If Cynthia be a queen, a princess, and supreme,
Keep these among the rest, or say it was a dream,
For those that like, expound, and those that loathe express
Meanings according as their minds are moved more or less;
For writing what thou art, or showing what thou were,
Adds to the one disdain, to the other but despair,
Thy mind of neither needs, in both seeing it exceeds.

http://stihi.ru/2019/12/09/8002