The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  The first and last in us that is alive,

  End of the good, and therewith pleas’d alone.

  Perfections spirit, Goddesse of the minde,

  Passed through hope, desire, griefe and feare,

  A simple Goodnesse in the flesh refin’d,

  Which of the joyes to come doth witnesse beare.

  Constant, because it sees no cause to varie,

  A Quintessence of Passions overthrowne,

  Rais’d above all that change of objects carry,

  A Nature by no other nature knowne:

  For Glorie’s of eternitie a frame,

  That by all bodies else obscures her name.

  (1633)

  Sonnet XCIX

  Downe in the depth of mine iniquity,

  That ugly center of infernall spirits;

  Where each sinne feeles her owne deformity,

  In these peculiar torments she inherits,

  Depriv’d of humane graces, and divine,

  Even there appeares this saving God of mine.

  And in this fatall mirrour of transgression,

  Shewes man as fruit of his degeneration,

  The errours ugly infinite impression,

  Which beares the faithlesse downe to desperation;

  Depriv’d of humane graces and divine,

  Even there appeares this saving God of mine.

  In power and truth, Almighty and eternall,

  Which on the sinne reflects strange desolation,

  With glory scourging all the Sprites infernall,

  And uncreated hell with unprivation;

  Depriv’d of humane graces, not divine,

  Even there appeares this saving God of mine.

  For on this sp’rituall Crosse condemned lying,

  To paines infernall by eternall doome,

  I see my Saviour for the same sinnes dying,

  And from that hell I fear’d, to free me, come;

  Depriv’d of humane graces, not divine,

  Thus hath his death rais’d up this soule of mine.

  (1633)

  Sonnet C

  In Night when colours all to blacke are cast,

  Distinction lost, or gone downe with the light;

  The eye a watch to inward senses plac’d,

  Not seeing, yet still having power of sight,

  Gives vaine Alarums to the inward sense,

  Where feare stirr’d up with witty tyranny,

  Confounds all powers, and thorough selfe-offence,

  Doth forge and raise impossibility:

  Such as in thicke depriving darkenesses,

  Proper reflections of the errour be,

  And images of selfe-confusednesses,

  Which hurt imaginations onely see;

  And from this nothing seene, tels newes of devils,

  Which but expressions be of inward evils.

  (1633)

  from Englands Helicon

  ANONYMOUS The Sheepheards Description of Love

  MELIBEUS

  Sheepheard, what’s Love, I pray thee tell?

  FAUSTUS

  It is that Fountaine, and that Well,

  Where pleasure and repentance dwell.

  It is perhaps that sauncing bell,

  That toules all into heaven or hell,

  And this is Love as I heard tell.

  MELI.

  Yet what is Love, I pre-thee say?

  FAU.

  It is a worke on holy-day,

  It is December match’d with May,

  When lustie-bloods in fresh aray,

  Heare ten moneths after of the play,

  And this is Love, as I heare say.

  MELI.

  Yet what is Love, good Sheepheard saine?

  FAU.

  It is a Sun-shine mixt with raine,

  It is a tooth-ach, or like paine,

  It is a game where none dooth gaine,

  The Lasse saith no, and would full faine:

  And this is Love, as I heare saine.

  MELI.

  Yet Sheepheard, what is Love, I pray?

  FAU.

  It is a yea, it is a nay,

  A pretty kind of sporting fray,

  It is a thing will soone away,

  Then Nimphs take vantage while ye may:

  And this is love as I heare say.

  MELI.

  Yet what is love, good Sheepheard show? FAU.

  A thing that creepes, it cannot goe,

  A prize that passeth too and fro,

  A thing for one, a thing for moe,

  And he that prooves shall finde it so;

  And Sheepheard this is love I troe.

  CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE The Passionate Sheepheard to his Love

  Come live with mee, and be my love,

  And we will all the pleasures prove,

  That Vallies, groves, hills and fieldes,

  Woods, or steepie mountaine yeeldes.

  And wee will sit upon the Rocks,

  Seeing the Sheepheards feede theyr flocks,

  By shallow Rivers, to whose falls,

  Melodious byrds sing Madrigalls.

  And I will make thee beds of Roses,

  And a thousand fragrant poesies,

  A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,

  Imbroydred all with leaves of Mirtle.

  A gowne made of the finest wooll,

  Which from our pretty Lambes we pull,

  Fayre lined slippers for the cold:

  With buckles of the purest gold.

  A belt of straw, and Ivie buds,

  With Corall clasps and Amber studs,

  And if these pleasures may thee move,

  Come live with mee, and be my love.

  The Sheepheards Swaines shall daunce and sing,

  For thy delight each May-morning,

  If these delights thy minde may move;

  Then live with mee, and be my love.

  SIR WALTER RALEGH The Nimphs Reply to the Sheepheard

  If all the world and love were young,

  And truth in every Sheepheards 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 Philomell becommeth dombe,

  The rest complaines of cares to come.

  The flowers doe fade, and wanton fieldes,

  To wayward winter reckoning yeeldes,

  A honny tongue, a hart of gall,

  Is fancies spring, but sorrowes fall.

  Thy gownes, thy shooes, thy beds of Roses,

  Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy poesies,

  Soone breake, soone wither, soone forgotten:

  In follie ripe, in reason rotten.

  Thy belt of straw and Ivie buddes,

  Thy Corall claspes and Amber studdes,

  All these in mee no meanes can move,

  To come to thee, and be thy love.

  But could youth last, and love still breede,

  Had joyes no date, nor age no neede,

  Then these delights my minde might move,

  To live with thee, and be thy love.

  THOMAS NASHE from Summers Last Will and Testament

  Fayre Summer droops, droope men and beasts therefore:

  So fayre a summer looke for never more.

  All good things vanish, lesse then in a day,

  Peace, plenty, pleasure, sodainely decay.

  Goe not yet away, bright soule of the sad yeare;

  The earth is hell when thou leav’st to appeare.

  What, shall those flowres that deckt thy garland erst,

  Upon thy grave be wastfully disperst?

  O trees, consume your sap in sorrowes sourse;

  Streames, turne to teares your tributary course.

  Goe not yet hence, bright soule of the sad yeare;

  The earth is hell, when thou leav’st to appeare.

  *

  Adieu, farewell earths bli
sse,

  This world uncertaine is,

  Fond are lifes lustfull joyes,

  Death proves them all but toyes,

  None from his darts can flye;

  I am sick, I must dye:

  Lord, have mercy on us.

  Rich men, trust not in wealth,

  Gold cannot buy you health;

  Phisick himselfe must fade.

  All things to end are made,

  The plague full swift goes bye;

  I am sick, I must dye:

  Lord, have mercy on us.

  Beauty is but a flowre,

  Which wrinckles will devoure,

  Brightness falls from the ayre,

  Queenes have died yong and faire,

  Dust hath closde Helens eye.

  I am sick, I must dye:

  Lord, have mercy on us.

  Strength stoopes unto the grave,

  Wormes feed on Hector brave,

  Swords may not fight with fate,

  Earth still holds ope her gate.

  Come, come, the bells do crye.

  I am sick, I must dye:

  Lord, have mercy on us.

  Wit with his wantonnesse

  Tasteth deaths bitternesse:

  Hels executioner

  Hath no eares for to heare

  What vaine art can reply.

  I am sick, I must dye:

  Lord, have mercy on us.

  Haste therefore eche degree,

  To welcome destiny:

  Heaven is our heritage

  Earth but a players stage,

  Mount wee unto the sky.

  I am sick, I must dye:

  Lord, have mercy on us.

  ANONYMOUS [A Lament for Our Lady’s Shrine at Walsingham]

  In the wrackes of Walsingam

  Whom should I chuse,

  But the Queene of Walsingam

  to be guide to my muse

  Then thou Prince of Walsingam

  graunt me to frame,

  Bitter plaintes to rewe thy wronge,

  bitter wo for thy name,

  Bitter was it oh to see,

  The seely sheepe

  Murdred by the raveninge wolves

  While the sheephardes did sleep,

  Bitter was it oh to vewe

  the sacred vyne,

  Whiles the gardiners plaied all close,

  rooted up by the swine

  Bitter bitter oh to behould,

  the grasse to growe

  Where the walles of Walsingam

  so statly did shewe,

  Such were the workes of Walsingam:

  while shee did stand

  Such are the wrackes as now do shewe

  of that holy land,

  Levell Levell with the ground

  the towres doe lye

  Which with their golden glitteringe tops

  Pearsed once to the skye,

  Wher weare gates no gates ar nowe,

  the waies unknowen

  Wher the presse of peares did passe

  While her fame far was blowen

  Oules do scrike wher the sweetest himnes

  lately weer songe

  Toades and serpentes hold ther dennes,

  Wher the Palmers did thronge

  Weepe weepe o Walsingam

  Whose dayes are nightes

  Blessinges turned to blasphemies

  Holy deedes to dispites,

  Sinne is wher our Ladie sate

  Heaven turned is to Hell.

  Sathan sittes wher our Lord did swaye

  Walsingam oh farewell.

  (1868)

  ANONYMOUS

  Fine knacks for ladies, cheape choise brave and new,

  Good penniworths but mony cannot move,

  I keep a faier but for the faier to view,

  A beggar may bee liberall of love,

  Though all my wares bee trash the hart is true,

  The hart is true,

  The hart is true.

  Great gifts are guiles and looke for gifts againe,

  My trifles come, as treasures from my minde,

  It is a precious Jewell to bee plaine,

  Sometimes in shell th’ orients pearles we finde,

  Of others take a sheaf, of mee a graine,

  Of me a graine,

  Of me a graine.

  Within this packe pinnes points laces and gloves,

  And divers toies fitting a country faier,

  But in my hart where duety serves and loves,

  Turtels and twins, courts brood, a heavenly paier:

  Happy the hart that thincks of no removes,

  Of no removes,

  Of no removes.

  ANONYMOUS

  Thule, the period of cosmography,

  Doth vaunt of Hecla, whose sulphurious fire

  Doth melt the frozen clime and thaw the sky;

  Trinacrian Ætna’s flames ascend not higher.

  These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I,

  Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.

  The Andalusian merchant, that returns

  Laden with cochineal and China dishes,

  Reports in Spain how strangely Fogo burns

  Amidst an ocean full of flying fishes.

  These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I,

  Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.

  JOHN HOLMES 1601

  Thus Bonny-boots the birthday celebrated

  Of her his lady dearest,

  Fair Oriana, which to his heart was nearest:

  The nymphs and shepherds feasted

  With clowted cream were, and to sing requested.

  Lo here the fair created,

  Quoth he, the world’s chief goddess.

  Sing then, for she is Bonny-boots’ sweet mistress.

  Then sang the shepherds and nymphs of Diana:

  Long live fair Oriana.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from Twelfth Night

  Exeunt.