The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Sonnet LXVIII

  Most glorious Lord of lyfe that on this day,

  Didst make thy triumph over death and sin:

  and having harrowd hell didst bring away

  captivity thence captive us to win:

  This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin,

  and grant that we for whom thou diddest dye

  being with thy deare blood clene washt from sin,

  may live for ever in felicity.

  And that thy love we weighing worthily,

  may likewise love thee for the same againe:

  and for thy sake that all lyke deare didst buy,

  with love may one another entertayne.

  So let us love, deare love, lyke as we ought,

  love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

  ROBERT SOUTHWELL S.J. Decease Release

  The pounded spice both tast and sent doth please,

  In fading smoke the force doth incense shewe,

  The perisht kernell springeth with encrease,

  The lopped tree doth best and soonest growe.

  Gods spice I was and pounding was my due,

  In fadinge breath my incense savored best,

  Death was the meane my kyrnell to renewe,

  By loppinge shott I upp to heavenly rest.

  Some thinges more perfect are in their decaye,

  Like sparke that going out gives clerest light,

  Such was my happ whose dolefull dying daye

  Beganne my joy and termed fortunes spite.

  Alive a Queene, now dead I am a Sainte,

  Once Mary calld, my name nowe Martyr is,

  From earthly raigne debarred by restraint,

  In liew whereof I raigne in heavenly blisse.

  My life my griefe, my death hath wrought my joye,

  My frendes my foyle, my foes my weale procur’d,

  My speedy death hath shortned longe annoye,

  And losse of life an endles life assur’d.

  My skaffold was the bedd where ease I founde,

  The blocke a pillowe of Eternall reste,

  My hedman cast me in a blisfull swounde,

  His axe cutt off my cares from combred breste.

  Rue not my death, rejoyce at my repose,

  It was no death to me but to my woe,

  The budd was opened to lett out the Rose,

  The cheynes unloo’sd to lett the captive goe.

  A prince by birth, a prisoner by mishappe,

  From Crowne to crosse, from throne to thrall I fell,

  My right my ruthe, my titles wrought my trapp,

  My weale my woe, my worldly heaven my hell.

  By death from prisoner to a prince enhaunc’d,

  From Crosse to Crowne, from thrall to throne againe,

  My ruth my right, my trapp my stile advaunc’d,

  From woe to weale, from hell to heavenly raigne.

  (1817)

  ROBERT SOUTHWELL New Heaven, New Warre

  This little Babe so few dayes olde,

  Is come to ryfle sathans folde;

  All hell doth at his presence quake,

  Though he himselfe for cold doe shake:

  For in this weake unarmed wise,

  The gates of hell he will surprise.

  With teares he fights and winnes the field,

  His naked breast stands for a shield;

  His battring shot are babish cryes,

  His Arrowes lookes of weeping eyes,

  His Martiall ensignes cold and neede,

  And feeble flesh his warriers steede.

  His Campe is pitched in a stall,

  His bulwarke but a broken wall:

  The Crib his trench, hay stalks his stakes,

  Of Sheepheards he his Muster makes;

  And thus as sure his foe to wound,

  The Angells trumps alarum sound.

  My soule with Christ joyne thou in fight,

  Sticke to the tents that he hath pight;

  Within his Crib is surest ward,

  This little Babe will be thy guard:

  If thou wilt foyle thy foes with joy,

  Then flit not from this heavenly boy.

  (1602)

  ROBERT SOUTHWELL S.J. The Burning Babe

  As I in hoarie Winters night stoode shivering in the snow,

  Surpris’d I was with sodaine heate, which made my hart to glow;

  And lifting up a fearefull eye, to view what fire was neare,

  A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the ayre appeare;

  Who scorched with excessive heate, such floods of teares did shed,

  As though his floods should quench his flames, which with his teares were fed:

  Alas (quoth he) but newly borne, in fierie heates I frie,

  Yet none approach to warme their harts or feele my fire, but I;

  My faultlesse breast the furnace is, the fuell wounding thornes:

  Love is the fire, and sighs the smoake, the ashes, shame and scornes;

  The fewell Justice layeth on, and Mercie blowes the coales,

  The mettall in this furnace wrought, are mens defiled soules:

  For which, as now on fire I am to worke them to their good,

  So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood.

  With this he vanisht out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away,

  And straight I called unto minde, that it was Christmasse day.

  (1602)

  GEORGE PEELE from The Old Wives Tale

  When as the Rie reach to the chin,

  And chopcherrie chopcherrie ripe within,

  Strawberries swimming in the creame,

  And schoole boyes playing in the streame:

  Then O, then O, then O my true love said,

  Till that time come againe,

  Shee could not live a maid.

  VOICE.

  Gently dip: but not too deepe;

  For feare you make the goulden beard to weepe.

  [A head comes up with eares of Come, and she combes them in her lap.]

  Faire maiden white and red,

  Combe me smoothe, and stroke my head:

  And thou shalt have some cockell bread.

  Gently dippe, but not too deepe,

  For feare thou make the goulden beard to weep.

  [A head comes up full of golde, she combes it into her lap.]

  Faire maiden, white, and redde,

  Combe me smooth, and stroke my head;

  And every haire, a sheave shall be,

  And every sheave a goulden tree.

  EDMUND SPENSER Prothalamion 1596

  1

  Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre,

  Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly play

  A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay

  Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre:

  When I whom sullein care,

  Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay

  In Princes Court, and expectation vayne

  Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away,

  Like empty shaddowes, did aflict my brayne,

  Walkt forth to ease my payne

  Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes,

  Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes,

  Was paynted all with variable flowers,

  And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes,

  Fit to decke maydens bowres,

  And crowne their Paramours,

  Against the Brydale day, which is not long:

  Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

  2

  There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side,

  A Flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy,

  All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby,

  With goodly greenish locks all loose untyde,

  As each had bene a Bryde,

  And each one had a little wicker basket,

  Made of fine twigs entrayled curiously,

  In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket:r />
  And with fine Fingers, cropt full feateously

  The tender stalkes on hye.

  Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew,

  They gathered some; the Violet pallid blew,

  The little Dazie, that at evening closes,

  The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew,

  With store of vermeil Roses,

  To decke their Bridegromes posies,

  Against the Brydale day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

  3

  With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe,

  Come softly swimming downe along the Lee;

  Two fairer Birds I yet did never see:

  The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew,

  Did never whiter shew,

  Nor Jove himselfe when he a Swan would be

  For love of Leda, whiter did appeare:

  Yet Leda was they say as white as he,

  Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare;

  So purely white they were,

  That even the gentle streame, the which them bare,

  Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare

  To wet their silken feathers, least they might

  Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,

  And marre their beauties bright,

  That shone as heavens light,

  Against their Brydale day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

  4

  Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill,

  Ran all in haste, to see that silver brood,

  As they came floating on the Christal Flood,

  Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still,

  Their wondring eyes to fill.

  Them seem’d they never saw a sight so fayre,

  Of Fowles so lovely, that they sure did deeme

  Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre

  Which through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme,

  For sure they did not seeme

  To be begot of any earthly Seede,

  But rather Angels or of Angels breede:

  Yet were they bred of Somers-heat they say,

  In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede

  The earth did fresh aray,

  So fresh they seem’d as day,

  Even as their Brydale day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

  5

  Then forth they all out of their baskets drew

  Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field,

  That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,

  All which upon those goodly Birds they threw,

  And all the Waves did strew,

  That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme,

  When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore

  Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,

  That they appeare through Lillies plenteous store,

  Like a Brydes Chamber flore:

  Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound,

  Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found,

  The which presenting all in trim Array,

  Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd,

  Whil’st one did sing this Lay,

  Prepar’d against that Day,

  Against their Brydale day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

  6

  Ye gentle Birdes, the worlds faire ornament,

  And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower

  Doth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower,

  Joy may you have and gentle hearts content

  Of your loves couplement:

  And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love,

  With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile,

  Whose smile they say, hath vertue to remove

  All Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile

  For ever to assoile.

  Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord,

  And blessed Plentie wait upon your bord,

  And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,

  That fruitfull issue may to you afford,

  Which may your foes confound,

  And make your joyes redound,

  Upon your Brydale day, which is not long:

  Sweete Themmes run softlie, till I end my Song.

  7

  So ended she; and all the rest around

  To her redoubled that her undersong,

  Which said, their bridale daye should not be long.

  And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground,

  Their accents did resound.

  So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along,

  Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low,

  As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,

  Yet did by signes his glad affection show,

  Making his streame run slow.

  And all the foule which in his flood did dwell

  Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell

  The rest, so far, as Cynthia doth shend

  The lesser starres. So they enranged well,

  Did on those two attend,

  And their best service lend,

  Against their wedding day, which was not long:

  Sweete Themmes run softly, till I end my song.

  8

  At length they all to mery London came,

  To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse,

  That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse:

  Though from another place I take my name,

  An house of auncient fame.

  There when they came, whereas those bricky towres,

  The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde,

  Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers,

  There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde,

  Till they decayd through pride:

  Next whereunto there standes a stately place,

  Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace

  Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell,

  Whose want too well, now feeles my freendles case:

  But Ah here fits not well

  Olde woes but joyes to tell

  Against the bridale daye, which is not long:

  Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.