by Paul Keegan
9
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer,
Great Englands glory and the Worlds wide wonder,
Whose dreadfull name, late through all Spaine did thunder,
And Hercules two pillors standing neere,
Did make to quake and feare:
Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie,
That fillest England with thy triumphes fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victorie,
And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name
That promiseth the same:
That through thy prowesse and victorious armes,
Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes:
And great Elisaes glorious name may ring
Through al the world, fil’d with thy wide Alarmes,
Which some brave muse may sing
To ages following,
Upon the Brydale day, which is not long:
Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.
10
From those high Towers, this noble Lord issuing,
Like Radiant Hesper when his golden hayre
In th’Ocean billowes he hath Bathed fayre,
Descended to the Rivers open vewing,
With a great traine ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to bee seene
Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature
Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene,
With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature:
That like the twins of Jove they seem’d in sight,
Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright.
They two forth pacing to the Rivers side,
Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight,
Which at th’appointed tyde,
Each one did make his Bryde,
Against their Brydale day, which is not long:
Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.
SIR JOHN DAVIES In Cosmum
Cosmus hath more discoursing in his head,
Then Jove, when Pallas issued from his braine,
And still he strives to be delivered,
Of all his thoughtes at once, but al in vaine.
For as we see at all the play house dores,
When ended is the play, the daunce, and song:
A thousand townsemen, gentlemen, and whores,
Porters and serving-men togither throng,
So thoughts of drinking, thriving, wenching, war,
And borrowing money, raging in his minde,
To issue all at once so forwarde are,
As none at all can perfect passage finde.
SIR JOHN DAVIES from Orchestra, or a Poeme of Dauncing
[‘The speach of Love persuading men to learn Dancing’]
And now behold your tender Nurse the Ayre Of the Ayre.
And common neighbour that ay runns around,
How many pictures and impressions faire
Within her emptie regions are there found,
Which to your sences Dauncing doe propound?
For what are Breath, Speech, Ecchos, Musick, Winds,
But Dauncings of the ayre in sundry kinds?
For when you breath, the ayre in order moves,
Now in, now out, in time and measure trew;
And when you speake, so well she dauncing loves,
That doubling oft, and oft redoubling new,
With thousand formes she doth her selfe endew:
For all the words that from your lips repaire,
Are nought but tricks and turnings of the aire.
Hence is her pratling daughter Eccho borne
That daunces to all voyces she can heare:
There is no sound so harsh that she doth scorne,
Nor any time wherein she will forbeare
The aiery pavement with her feete to weare.
And yet her hearing sence is nothing quick,
For after time she endeth every trick.
And thou sweet Musick, Dauncings only life,
The eares sole happines, the ayres best speach,
Loadstone of fellowship, charming rod of strife,
The soft minds Paradice, the sick minds Leach,
With thine owne tongue thou trees and stones canst teach
That when the Aire doth daunce her finest measure,
Then art thou borne the Gods and mens sweet pleasure.
Lastly, where keepe the Winds their revelry,
Their violent turnings and wild whirling hayes?
But in the Ayres tralucent gallery?
Where she her selfe is turnd a hundreth wayes,
While with those Maskers wantonly she playes;
Yet in this misrule, they such rule embrace
As two at once encomber not the place.
If then fier, ayre, wandring and fixed lights
In every province of th’imperiall skye,
Yeeld perfect formes of dauncing to your sights,
In vaine I teach the eare, that which the eye
With certaine view already doth descrie.
But for your eyes perceive not all they see,
In this I will your sences maister bee.
For loe the Sea that fleets about the Land, Of the Sea.
And like a girdle clips her solide wast,
Musick and measure both doth understand:
For his great Christall eye is alwayes cast
Up to the Moone, and on her fixed fast.
And as she daunceth in her pallid spheere,
So daunceth he about the Center heere.
Sometimes his proud greene waves in order set,
One after other flow unto the shore,
Which when they have with many kisses wet,
They ebb away in order as before;
And to make knowne his Courtly Love the more,
He oft doth lay aside his three-forkt Mace,
And with his armes the timerous Earth embrace.
Onely the Earth doth stand for ever still,
Her rocks remove not, nor her mountaines meete,
(Although some witts enricht with Learnings skill
Say heav’n stands firme, and that the Earth doth fleete
And swiftly turneth underneath their feete)
Yet though the Earth is ever stedfast seene,
On her broad breast hath Dauncing ever beene.
For those blew vaines that through her body spred,Of the Rivers.
Those saphire streams which from great hills do spring,
(The Earths great duggs: for every wight is fed
With sweet fresh moisture from them issuing)
Observe a daunce in their wide wandering:
And still their daunce begets a murmur sweete,
And still the murmur with the daunce doth meete.
Of all their wayes I love Mœanders path,
Which to the tunes of dying Swans doth daunce,
Such winding sleights, such turnes and tricks he hath,
Such Creekes, such wrenches, and such daliaunce,
That whether it be hap or heedlesse chaunce,
In this indented course and wriggling play
He seemes to daunce a perfect cunning >Hay.
1597 ANONYMOUS
Since Bonny-boots was dead, that so divinely
Could toot and foot it, (O he did it finely!)
We ne’er went more a-Maying
Nor had that sweet fa-laing. Fa la.
WILLIAM ALABASTER Of the Reed That the Jews Set in Our Saviour’s Hand
Long time hath Christ, long time I must confess,
Held me a hollow reed within his hand,
That merited in hell to make a brand,
Had not his grace supplied mine emptiness.
Oft time with languor and newfangleness,
Had I been borne away like sifted sand,
When sin and Satan got the upper hand,
But that his steadfast mercy did me bless.
<
br /> Still let me grow upon that living land,
Within that wound which iron did impress,
And made a spring of blood flow from thy hand.
Then will I gather sap and rise and stand,
That all that see this wonder may express,
Upon this ground how well grows barrenness.
(1938)
WILLIAM ALABASTER Of His Conversion
Away feare with thy projectes, noe false fyre
which thou doest make, can ought my courage quaile
or cause mee leward come, or strike my sayle;
what if the world doe frowne att my retyre,
what if denyall dash my wish’d desire
and purblind pitty doe my state bewaile
and wonder cross it selfe, and free speech raile
and greatnes take it not, and death shew nigher?
Tell them, my Soule, the feares that make mee quake:
the smouldering brimstone, and the burninge lake,
life feeding Death, Death ever life devowring,
tormentes not moved, unheard, yett still roaring,
God lost, hell fownd: ever, never begune:
now bidd mee into flame from smoake to runne.
(1831)
ROBERT SIDNEY, EARL OF LEICESTER
Forsaken woods, trees with sharpe storms opprest
whose leaves once hidd, the sun, now strew the grownd
once bred delight, now scorn, late usde to sownd
of sweetest birds, now of hoars crowes the nest
Gardens which once in thowsand coulers drest
shewed natures pryde: now in dead sticks abownd
in whome prowde summers treasure late was found
now but the rags, of winters torn coate rest
Medows whose sydes, late fayre brookes kist now slyme
embraced holds: feelds whose youth green and brave
promist long lyfe, now frosts lay in the grave
Say all and I with them: what doth not tyme!
But they whoe knew tyme, tyme will finde again
I that fayre tymes lost, on tyme call in vaine
(1975)
1598 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
When to my deadlie pleasure,
When to my livelie torment,
Ladie mine eyes remained,
Joyned alas to your beames,
With violence of heav’nly
Beautie tied to vertue,
Reason abasht retyred,
Gladly my senses yeelded.
Gladly my senses yeelding,
Thus to betray my hart’s fort,
Left me devoid of all life;
They to the beamie Sunnes went,
Where by the death of all deaths,
Finde to what harme they hastned,
Like to the silly Sylvan,
Burn’d by the light he best liked,
When with a fire he first met.
Yet, yet, a life to their death,
Lady you have reserved,
Lady the life of all love;
For though my sense be from me,
And I be dead who want sense,
Yet do we both live in you.
Turned anew by your meanes,
Unto the flowre that ay turnes,
As you, alas, my Sunne bends;
Thus do I fall to rise thus,
Thus do I dye to live thus,
Changed to a change, I change not.
Thus may I not be from you:
Thus be my senses on you:
Thus what I thinke is of you:
Thus what I seeke is in you:
All what I am, it is you.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
Leave me ô Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou my mind aspire to higher things:
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
What ever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beames, and humble all thy might,
To that sweet yoke, where lasting freedomes be:
Which breakes the clowdes and opens forth the light,
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold, let that light be thy guide,
In this small course which birth drawes out to death,
And thinke how evil becommeth him to slide,
Who seeketh heav’n, and comes of heav’nly breath.
Then farewell world, thy uttermost I see,
Eternall Love maintaine thy life in me.
MARY HERBERT, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE Psalm 58
And call yee this to utter what is just,
You that of justice hold the sov’raign throne?
And call yee this to yeld, O sonnes of dust,
To wronged brethren ev’ry man his own?
O no: it is your long malicious will
Now to the world to make by practize known,
With whose oppression you the ballance fill,
Just to your selves, indiff’rent else to none.
But what could they, who ev’n in birth declin’d,
From truth and right to lies and injuries?
To shew the venim of their cancred mynd
The adders image scarcly can suffice;
Nay scarce the aspick may with them contend,
On whom the charmer all in vaine applies
His skillfull’st spells: ay missing of his end,
While shee self-deff, and unaffected lies.
Lord crack their teeth, Lord crush these lions jawes,
Soe lett them sinck as water in the sand:
When deadly bow their aiming fury drawes,
Shiver the shaft er past the shooters hand.
So make them melt as the dishowsed snaile
Or as the Embrio, whose vitall band
Breakes er it holdes, and formlesse eyes do faile
To see the sun, though brought to lightfull land.
O let their brood, a brood of springing thornes,
Be by untymely rooting overthrowne
Er bushes waxt, they push with pricking homes,
As fruites yet greene are oft by tempest blowne.
The good with gladness this reveng shall see,
And bath his feete in bloud of wicked one
While all shall say: the just rewarded be,
There is a God that carves to each his own.
(1823)
