The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  A hed, where wisdom misteries did frame;

  Whose hammers bet styll in that lively brayn

  As on a stithe, where that some work of fame

  Was dayly wrought to turne to Britaines gayn.

  A visage stern and myld; where bothe did grow

  Vice to contemne, in vertue to rejoyce;

  Amid great stormes whom grace assured so

  To lyve upright and smile at fortunes choyce.

  A hand that taught what might be sayd in ryme;

  That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit;

  A mark the which, unparfited for time,

  Some may approche, but never none shall hit.

  A toung that served in forein realmes his king;

  Whose courteous talke to vertue did enflame

  Eche noble hart; a worthy guide to bring

  Our English youth by travail unto fame.

  An eye, whose judgement none affect could blinde,

  Frendes to allure, and foes to reconcile;

  Whose persing loke did represent a mynde

  With vertue fraught, reposed, voyd of gyle.

  A hart, where drede was never so imprest

  To hyde the thought that might the trouth avance;

  In neyther fortune loft nor yet represt,

  To swell in wealth, or yeld unto mischance.

  A valiant corps, where force and beawty met;

  Happy, alas, to happy, but for foes;

  Lived and ran the race that nature set;

  Of manhodes shape, where she the molde did lose.

  But to the heavens that simple soule is fled,

  Which left with such as covet Christ to know

  Witnesse of faith that never shall be ded;

  Sent for our helth, but not received so.

  Thus, for our gilte, this jewel have we lost.

  The earth his bones, the heavens possesse his gost.

  ANNE ASKEW The Balade whych Anne Askewe made and sange whan she was in Newgate 1547

  Lyke as the armed knyght

  Appoynted to the fielde

  With thys world wyll I fyght

  And fayth shall be my shielde.

  5

  Faythe is that weapon stronge

  Whych wyll not fayle at nede

  My foes therfor amonge

  Therwith wyll I procede.

  As it is had in strengthe

  10

  And force of Christes waye

  It wyll prevayle at lengthe

  Though all the devyls saye naye.

  Faythe in the fathers olde

  Obtayned ryghtwysnesse

  15

  Whych make me verye bolde

  To feare no worldes dystresse.

  I now rejoyce in hart

  And hope byd me do so

  For Christ wyll take my part

  20

  And ease me of my wo.

  Thu sayst lorde, who so knocke

  To them wylt thu attende

  Undo therfor the locke

  And thy stronge power sende.

  25

  More enmyes now I have

  Than heeres upon my heed

  Lete them not me deprave

  But fyght thu in my steed.

  On the my care I cast

  30

  For all their cruell spyght

  I sett not by their hast

  For thu art my delyght.

  I am not she that lyst

  My anker to lete fall

  35

  For everye dryslynge myst

  My shyppe substancyall.

  Not oft use I to wryght

  In prose nor yet in ryme

  Yet wyll I shewe one syght

  40

  That I sawe in my tyme.

  I sawe a ryall trone

  Where Justyce shuld have sytt

  But in her stede was one

  Of modye cruell wytt.

  45

  Absorpt was rygtwysnesse

  As of the ragynge floude

  Sathan in hys excesse

  Sucte up the gyltelesse bloude.

  Then thought I, Jesus lorde

  50

  Whan thu shalt judge us all

  Harde is it to recorde

  On these men what wyll fall.

  Yet lorde I the desyre

  For that they do to me

  55

  Lete them not tast the hyre

  Of their inyquyte.

  1557 from Tottel’s Songes and Sonettes

  SIR THOMAS WYATT from the Latin of Seneca [Chorus from Thyestes]

  Stond who so list upon the Slipper toppe

  Of courtes estates, and lett me heare rejoyce

  And use me quyet without lett or stoppe,

  Unknowen in courte, that hath such brackish joyes.

  In hidden place so lett my dayes forthe passe

  That when my yeares be done, withouten noyse,

  I may dye aged after the common trace.

  For hym death greep’the right hard by the croppe

  That is moch knowen of other, and of him self alas,

  Doth dye unknowen, dazed, with dreadfull face.

  HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY

  O happy dames, that may embrace

  The frute of your delight,

  Help to bewaile the wofull case

  And eke the heavy plight

  Of me, that wonted to rejoyce

  The fortune of my pleasant choyce:

  Good Ladies, help to fill my moorning voyce.

  In ship, freight with rememberance

  Of thoughtes and pleasures past,

  He sailes that hath in governance

  My life, while it wil last;

  With scalding sighes, for lack of gale,

  Furdering his hope, that is his sail

  Toward me, the swete port of his avail.

  Alas, how oft in dreames I se

  Those eyes, that were my food,

  Which somtime so delited me,

  That yet they do me good;

  Wherwith I wake with his returne

  Whose absent flame did make me burne.

  But when I find the lacke, Lord how I mourne!

  When other lovers in armes acrosse

  Rejoyce their chief delight,

  Drowned in teares to mourne my losse

  I stand the bitter night

  In my window, where I may see

  Before the windes how the cloudes flee.

  Lo, what a mariner love hath made me!

  And in grene waves when the salt flood

  Doth rise by rage of wind,

  A thousand fansies in that mood

  Assayle my restlesse mind.

  Alas, now drencheth my swete fo,

  That with the spoyle of my hart did go,

  And left me; but, alas, why did he so?

  And when the seas waxe calme againe,

  To chase fro me annoye,

  My doubtfull hope doth cause me plaine:

  So dreade cuts of my joye.

  Thus is my wealth mingled with wo,

  And of ech thought a dout doth growe,

  Now he comes, will he come? alas, no, no!

  HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY

  Alas, so all thinges nowe doe holde their peace,

  Heaven and earth disturbed in nothing;

  The beastes, the ayer, the birdes their song doe cease;

  The nightes chare the starres aboute dothe bring.

  Calme is the sea, the waves worke lesse and lesse;

  So am not I, whom love alas doth wring,

  Bringing before my face the great encrease

  Of my desires, whereat I wepe and syng

  In joye and wo as in a doutfull ease.

  For my swete thoughtes sometyme doe pleasure bring,

  But by and by the cause of my disease

  Geves me a pang that inwardly dothe sting,

  When that I thinke what griefe it is againe

  To live and lacke the thing should ridde my paine.

>   HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY from Certayn Bokes of Virgiles Aenaeis

  [Aeneas Searches for his Wife]

  ‘And first the walles and dark entrie I sought

  Of the same gate wherat I issued out,

  Holding backward the steppes where we had come

  In the dark night, loking all round about.

  In every place the ugsome sightes I saw,

  The silence selfe of night agast my sprite.

  From hense againe I past unto our house,

  If she by chaunce had ben returned home.

  The Grekes were there, and had it all beset.

  The wasting fire blown up by drift of wind

  Above the roofes; the blazing flame sprang up,

  The sound wherof with furie pearst the skies.

  To Priams palace and the castel then

  I made; and there at Junous sanctuair,

  In the void porches, Phenix, Ulisses eke,

  Sterne guardens stood, watching of the spoile.

  The richesse here were set, reft from the brent

  Temples of Troy; the tables of the gods,

  The vessells eke that were of massy gold,

  And vestures spoild, were gatherd all in heap.

  The children orderly and mothers pale for fright

  Long ranged on a rowe stode round about.

  So bold was I to showe my voice that night,

  With clepes and cries to fill the stretes throughout,

  With Creuse name in sorrow, with vain teres,

  And often sithes the same for to repete.

  The town restlesse with furie as I sought,

  Th’unlucky figure of Creusaes ghost,

  Of stature more than wont, stood fore mine eyen.

  Abashed then I woxe. Therwith my heare

  Gan start right up, my voice stack in my throte.

  When with such words she gan my hart remove:

  “What helps to yeld unto such furious rage,

  Sweet spouse?” quod she. “Without wil of the gods

  This chaunced not; ne lefull was for thee

  To lead away Creusa hense with thee:

  The king of the hye heven suffreth it not.

  A long exile thou art assigned to bere,

  Long to furrow large space of stormy seas:

  So shalt thou reach at last Hesperian land,

  Wher Lidian Tiber with his gentle streme

  Mildly doth flow along the frutfull felds.

  There mirthful wealth, there kingdom is for thee,

  There a kinges child preparde to be thy make.

  For thy beloved Creusa stint thy teres.

  For now shal I not see the proud abodes

  Of Myrmidons, nor yet of Dolopes;

  Ne I, a Troyan lady and the wife

  Unto the sonne of Venus the goddesse,

  Shall goe a slave to serve the Grekish dames.

  Me here the gods great mother holdes.

  And now farwell, and kepe in fathers brest

  The tender love of thy yong son and myne.”

  This having said, she left me all in teres,

  And minding much to speake; but she was gone,

  And suttly fled into the weightlesse aire.

  Thrise raught I with mine arms t’accoll her neck,

  Thrise did my handes vaine hold th’image escape,

  Like nimble windes, and like the flieng dreame.

  So night spent out, returne I to my feers.

  And ther wondring I find together swarmd

  A new nomber of mates, mothers and men,

  A rout exiled, a wreched multitude,

  From eche where flockte together, prest to passe,

  With hart and goods, to whatsoever land

  By sliding seas me listed them to lede.

  And now rose Lucifer above the ridge

  Of lusty Ide, and brought the dawning light.

  The Grekes held th’entries of the gates beset;

  Of help there was no hope. Then gave I place,

  Toke up my sire, and hasted to the hill.’

  1560 from The Geneva Bible, Ecclesiastes 3:1–8

  To all things there is an appointed time, and a time to

  everie purpose under the heaven.

  A time to be borne, and a time to dye: a time to plant, and

  a time to plucke up that, which is planted.

  A time to slay, and a time to heale: a time to breake

  downe, and a time to buylde.

  A time to wepe, and a time to laugh: a time to mourne, and

  a time to dance.

  A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones: a

  time to embrace, and a time to be farre from embracing.

  A time to seke, and a time to lose: a time to kepe, and a

  time to cast away.

  A time to rent, and a time to sowe: a time to kepe

  silence, and a time to speake.

  A time to love, and a time to hate: a time of warre, and a

  time of peace.

  ROBERT WEEVER Of Youth He Singeth

  In a herber green asleep whereas I lay,

  The birds sang sweet in the middes of the day;

  I dreamed fast of mirth and play:

  In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

  Methought I walked still to and fro,

  And from her company I could not go;

  But when I waked it was not so:

  In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

  Therefore my heart is surely pight

  Of her alone to have a sight,

  Which is my joy and heart’s delight:

  In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.

  BARNABE GOOGE Commynge Home-warde out of Spayne 1563

  O ragyng Seas,

  and myghty Neptunes rayne,

  In monstrous Hylles,

  that throwest thy selfe so hye,

  That wyth thy fludes,

  doest beate the shores of Spayne:

  And breake the Clyves,

  that dare thy force envie.

  Cease now thy rage,

  and laye thyne Ire asyde,

  And thou that hast,

  the governaunce of all,

  O myghty God,

  grant Wether Wynd and Tyde,

  Tyll on my Coun-

  treye Coast, our Anker fall.

  BARNABE GOOGE An Epytaphe of the Death of Nicolas Grimoald

  Beholde this fle-

  tyng world how al things fade