The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Daily they grow, and daily forth are sent

  Into the world, it to replenish more;

  Yet is the stocke not lessened, nor spent,

  But still remaines in everlasting store,

  As it at first created was of yore.

  For in the wide wombe of the world there lyes,

  In hatefull darkenesse and in deepe horrore,

  An huge eternall Chaos, which supplyes

  The substances of natures fruitfull progenyes.

  All things from thence doe their first being fetch,

  And borrow matter, whereof they are made,

  Which when as forme and feature it does ketch,

  Becomes a bodie, and doth then invade

  The state of life, out of the griesly shade.

  That substance is eterne, and bideth so,

  Ne when the life decayes, and forme does fade,

  Doth it consume, and into nothing go,

  But chaunged is, and often altred to and fro.

  The substance is not chaunged, nor altered,

  But th’only forme and outward fashion;

  For every substance is conditioned

  To change her hew, and sundry formes to don,

  Meet for her temper and complexion:

  For formes are variable and decay,

  By course of kind, and by occasion;

  And that faire flowre of beautie fades away,

  As doth the lilly fresh before the sunny ray.

  Great enimy to it, and to all the rest,

  That in the Gardin of >Adonis springs,

  Is wicked Time, who with his scyth addrest,

  Does mow the flowring herbes and goodly things,

  And all their glory to the ground downe flings,

  Where they doe wither, and are fowly mard:

  He flyes about, and with his flaggy wings

  Beates down both leaves and buds without regard,

  Ne ever pittie may relent his malice hard.

  Yet pittie often did the gods relent,

  To see so faire things mard, and spoyled quight:

  And their great mother Venus did lament

  The losse of her deare brood, her deare delight;

  Her hart was pierst with pittie at the sight,

  When walking through the Gardin, them she spyde,

  Yet no’te she find redresse for such despight.

  For all that lives, is subject to that law:

  All things decay in time, and to their end do draw.

  But were it not, that Time their troubler is,

  All that in this delightful Gardin growes,

  Should happie be, and have immortall blis:

  For here all plentie, and all pleasure flowes,

  And sweet love gentle fits emongst them throwes,

  Without fell rancor, or fond gealosie;

  Franckly each paramour his leman knowes,

  Each bird his mate, ne any does envie

  Their goodly meriment, and gay felicitie.

  There is continuall spring, and harvest there

  Continuall, both meeting at one time:

  For both the boughes doe laughing blossomes beare,

  And with fresh colours decke the wanton Prime,

  And eke attonce the heavy trees they clime,

  Which seeme to labour under their fruits lode:

  The whiles the joyous birdes make their pastime

  Emongst the shadie leaves, their sweet abode,

  And their true loves without suspition tell abrode.

  from Book III, Canto XI [Britomart in the House of the Enchanter Busyrane]

  And at the upper end of that faire rowme,

  There was an Altar built of pretious stone,

  Of passing valew, and of great renowme,

  On which there stood an Image all alone,

  Of massy gold, which with his owne light shone;

  And wings it had with sundry colours dight,

  More sundry colours, then the proud Pavone

  Beares in his boasted fan, or Iris bright,

  When her discolourd bow she spreds through heaven bright.

  Blindfold he was, and in his cruell fist

  A mortall bow and arrowes keene did hold,

  With which he shot at random, when him list,

  Some headed with sad lead, some with pure gold;

  (A man beware, how thou those darts behold)

  A wounded Dragon under him did ly,

  Whose hideous tayle his left foot did enfold,

  And with a shaft was shot through either eye,

  That no man forth might draw, ne no man remedye.

  And underneath his feet was written thus,

  Unto the Victor of the Gods this bee:

  And all the people in that ample hous

  Did to that image bow their humble knee,

  And oft committed fowle Idolatree.

  That wondrous sight faire Britomart amazed,

  Ne seeing could her wonder satisfie,

  But ever more and more upon it gazed,

  The whiles the passing brightnes her fraile sences dazed.

  Tho as she backward cast her busie eye,

  To search each secret of that goodly sted

  Over the dore thus written she did spye

  Be bold: she oft and oft it over-red,

  Yet could not find what sence it figured:

  But what so were therein or writ or ment,

  She was no whit thereby discouraged

  From prosecuting of her first intent,

  But forward with bold steps into the next roome went.

  Much fairer, then the former, was that roome,

  And richlier by many partes arayd:

  For not with arras made in painefull loome,

  But with pure gold it all was overlayd,

  Wrought with wilde Antickes, which their follies playd,

  In the rich metall, as they living were:

  A thousand monstrous formes therein were made,

  Such as false love doth oft upon him weare,

  For love in thousand monstrous formes doth oft appeare.

  And all about, the glistring walles were hong

  With warlike spoiles, and with victorious prayes,

  Of mighty Conquerours and Captaines strong,

  Which were whilome captived in their dayes

  To cruell love, and wrought their owne decayes:

  Their swerds and speres were broke, and hauberques rent;

  And their proud girlonds of tryumphant bayes

  Troden in dust with fury insolent,

  To shew the victors might and mercilesse intent.

  The warlike Mayde beholding earnestly

  The goodly ordinance of this rich place,

  Did greatly wonder ne could satisfie

  Her greedy eyes with gazing a long space,

  But more she mervaild that no footings trace,

  Nor wight appear’d, but wastefull emptinesse,

  And solemne silence over all that place:

  Straunge thing it seem’d, that none was to possesse

  So rich purveyance, ne them keepe with carefulnesse.

  And as she lookt about, she did behold,

  How over that same dore was likewise writ,

  Be bold, be bold, and every where Be bold,

  That much she muz’d, yet could not construe it

  By any ridling skill, or commune wit.

  At last she spyde at that roomes upper end,

  Another yron dore, on which was writ,

  Be not too bold; whereto though she did bend

  Her earnest mind, yet wist not what it might intend.

  Thus she there waited untill eventyde,

  Yet living creature none she saw appeare:

  And now sad shadowes gan the world to hyde,

  From mortall vew, and wrap in darkenesse dreare;

  Yet nould she d’off her weary armes, for feare

  Of secret daunger, ne let sleepe oppresse

  Her heavy eyes with natur
es burdein deare,

  But drew her selfe aside in sickernesse,

  And her welpointed weapons did about her dresse.

  SIR PHILIP SIDNEY from Astrophil and Stella 1591

  1

  Loving in truth, and faine in verse my love to show,

  That she deare she might take some pleasure of my paine:

  Pleasure might cause her reade, reading might make her know,

  Knowledge might pitie winne, and pitie grace obtaine,

  I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,

  Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertaine:

  Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow

  Some fresh and fruitfull showers upon my sunne-burn’d braine.

  But words came halting forth, wanting Invention’s stay,

  Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Studie’s blowes,

  And others’ feete still seem’d but strangers in my way.

  Thus great with child to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,

  Biting my trewand pen, beating my selfe for spite,

  ‘Foole,’ said my Muse to me, ‘looke in thy heart and write.’

  31

  With how sad steps, ô Moone, thou climb’st the skies,

  How silently, and with how wanne a face,

  What, may it be that even in heav’nly place

  That busie archer his sharpe arrowes tries?

  Sure, if that long with Love acquainted eyes

  Can judge of Love, thou feel’st a Lover’s case;

  I reade it in thy lookes, thy languisht grace,

  To me that feele the like, thy state descries.

  Then ev’n of fellowship, ô Moone, tell me

  Is constant Love deem’d there but want of wit?

  Are Beauties there as proud as here they be?

  Do they above love to be lov’d, and yet

  Those Lovers scorne whom that Love doth possesse?

  Do they call Vertue there ungratefulnesse?

  33

  I might, unhappie word, ô me, I might,

  And then would not, or could not see my blisse:

  Till now, wrapt in a most infernall night,

  I find how heav’nly day wretch I did misse.

  Hart rent thy selfe, thou doest thy selfe but right,

  No lovely Paris made thy Hellen his:

  No force, no fraud, robd thee of thy delight,

  Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is:

  But to my selfe my selfe did give the blow,

  While too much wit (forsooth) so troubled me,

  That I respects for both our sakes must show:

  And yet could not by rising Morne foresee

  How faire a day was neare, ô punisht eyes,

  That I had bene more foolish or more wise.

  THOMAS CAMPION

  Harke, al you ladies that do sleep;

  The fayry queen Proserpina

  Bids you awake and pitie them that weep.

  You may doe in the darke

  What the day doth forbid;

  Feare not the dogs that barke,

  Night will have all hid.

  But if you let your lovers mone,

  The Fairie Queene Proserpina

  Will send abroad her Fairies ev’ry one,

  That shall pinch blacke and blew

  Your white hands and faire armes

  That did not kindly rue

  Your Paramours harmes.

  In Myrtle Arbours on the downes

  The Fairie Queene Proserpina,

  This night by moone-shine leading merrie rounds

  Holds a watch with sweet love,

  Downe the dale, up the hill;

  No plaints or groanes may move

  Their holy vigill.

  All you that will hold watch with love,

  The Fairie Queene Proserpina

  Will make you fairer than Dione’s dove;

  Roses red, Lillies white,

  And the cleare damaske hue,

  Shall on your cheekes alight:

  Love will adorne you.

  All you that love, or lov’d before,

  The Fairie Queene Proserpina

  Bids you encrease that loving humour more:

  They that yet have not fed

  On delight amorous,

  She vowes that they shall lead

  Apes in Avernus.

  SIR JOHN HARINGTON from Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, in English Heroical Verse

  [Astolfo flies by Chariot to the Moon, where he collects Orlando’s lost wits]

  I say although the fire were wondrous hot,

  Yet in their passage they no heat did feele,

  So that it burnd them, nor offends them not;

  Thence to the moone he guids the running wheele,

  The Moone was like a glasse all voyd of spot,

  Or like a peece of purelie burnisht steele,

  And lookt, although to us it seems so small,

  Well nye as bigg as earth, and sea and all.

  Here had Astolfo cause of double wonder,

  One, that that region seemeth there so wyde,

  That unto us that are so far a sunder,

  Seems but a little circle, and beside,

  That to behold the ground that him lay under,

  A man had need to have been sharply eyd,

  And bend his brows, and marke ev’n all they might,

  It seemed so small, now chiefly wanting light.

  Twere infinit to tell what wondrous things

  He saw, that passed ours not few degrees,

  What towns, what hills, what rivers and what springs

  What dales, what Pallaces, what goodly trees:

  But to be short, at last his guide him brings,

  Unto a goodlie vallie, where he sees,

  A mightie masse of things straungely confused,

  Things that on earth were lost, or were abused.

  A store house straunge, that what on earth is lost,

  By fault, by time, by fortune, there is found,

  And like a marchaundise is there engrost,

  In straunger sort then I can well expound:

  Nor speake I sole of wealth, or things of cost,

  In which blind fortunes powre doth most abound,

  But ev’n of things quite out of fortunes powre,

  Which wilfullie we wast each day and houre.

  The precious time that fools mispend in play,

  The vaine attempts that never take effect,

  The vows that sinners make, and never pay,