The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Long kept from prey, in forcing which his high mind makes him dare

  Assault upon the whole full fold, though guarded never so

  With well-arm’d men and eager dogs – away he will not go

  But venture on and either snatch a prey or be a prey:

  So far’d divine Sarpedon’s mind, resolv’d to force his way

  Through all the fore-fights and the wall. Yet, since he did not see

  Others as great as he in name, as great in mind as he,

  He spake to Glaucus: ‘Glaucus, say why are we honord more

  Than other men of Lycia in place – with greater store

  Of meates and cups, with goodlier roofes, delightsome gardens, walks,

  More lands and better, so much wealth that Court and countrie talks

  Of us and our possessions and every way we go

  Gaze on us as we were their Gods? This where we dwell is so:

  The shores of Xanthus ring of this: and shall not we exceed

  As much in merit as in noise? Come, be we great in deed

  As well as looke, shine not in gold but in the flames of fight,

  That so our neat-arm’d Lycians may say: “See, these are right

  Our kings, our Rulers: these deserve to eate and drinke the best;

  These governe not ingloriously; these thus exceed the rest.

  Do more than they command to do.” O friend, if keeping backe

  Would keepe backe age from us, and death, and that we might not wracke

  In this life’s humane sea at all, but that deferring now

  We shund death ever – nor would I halfe this vaine valour show,

  Nor glorifie a folly so, to wish thee to advance:

  But, since we must go though not here, and that, besides the chance

  Proposd now, there are infinite fates of other sort in death

  Which (neither to be fled nor scap’t) a man must sinke beneath –

  Come, trie we if this sort be ours and either render thus

  Glorie to others or make them resigne the like to us.’

  ANONYMOUS A Belmans Song

  Maides to bed, and cover coale,

  Let the Mouse Out of her hole:

  Crickets in the Chimney sing,

  Whil’st the little Bell doth ring.

  If fast asleepe, who can tell

  When the Clapper hits the Bell.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from The Winter’s Tale

  Enter Autolicus singing

  When Daffadils begin to peere.

  With heigh the Doxy over the dale,

  Why then comes in the sweet o’the yeere,

  For the red blood raigns in the winters pale.

  The white sheete bleaching on the hedge,

  With hey the sweet birds, O how they sing:

  Doth set my pugging tooth on edge

  For a quart of Ale is a dish for a King.

  The Larke that tirra-Lyra chaunts,

  With heigh, the Thrush and the Jay:

  Are Summer songs for me and my Aunts

  While we lye tumbling in the hay.

  (… )

  Enter Autolicus singing.

  Lawne as white as driven Snow,

  Cypresse black as ere was Crow,

  Gloves as sweete as Damask Roses,

  Maskes for faces, and for noses:

  Bugle-bracelet, Necke-lace Amber,

  Perfume for a Ladies Chamber:

  Golden Quoifes, and Stomachers

  For my Lads, to give their deers:

  Pins, and poaking-stickes of steele.

  What Maids lacke from head to heele:

  Come buy of me, come: come buy, come buy,

  Buy Lads, or else your Lasses cry: come buy.

  (1623)

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from The Tempest

  Enter Ferdinand & Ariel, invisible playing and singing.

  Ariels Song.

  Come unto these yellow sands,

  and then take hands:

  Curtsied when you have, and kist

  The wilde waves whist:

  Foote it featly heere, and there,

  And Sweet Sprights beare

  The burthen.

  [Burthern dispersedly.] Bowgh-wawgh.

  ARIEL

  The watch-Dogges barke:

  [Burthen dispersedly.] Bowgh-wawgh.

  ARIEL

  Hark, hark, I heare

  The straine of strutting Chanticlere

  Cry cockadidle-dowe.

  FERDINAND

  Where should this Musick be? I’th’aire, or th’earth?

  It sounds no more: and sure it waytes upon

  Some God o’th’Iland, sitting on a banke,

  Weeping againe the King my Fathers wracke.

  This Musicke crept by me upon the waters,

  Allaying both their fury, and my passion

  With its sweet ayre: thence have I follow’d it

  (Or it hath drawne me rather) but ’tis gone.

  No, it begins againe.

  Full fadom five thy Father lies,

  Of his bones are Corall made:

  Those are pearles that were his eies,

  Nothing of him that doth fade,

  But doth suffer a Sea-change

  Into something rich, and strange:

  Sea Nimphs hourly ring his knell.

  [Burthen: ding dong.]

  ARIEL

  Harke now I heare them, ding-dong bell.

  (1623)

  1612

  JOHN WEBSTER from The White Divel

  FLAMINEO

  I would I were from hence.

  CORNELIA

  Do you heere, sir?

  Ile give you a saying which my grandmother

  Was wont, when she heard the bell tolle, to sing ore

  to her lute.

  FLA.

  Doe, and you will, doe.

  COR.

  Call for the Robin-Red-brest and the wren,

  Since ore shadie groves they hover,

  And with leaves and flowres doe cover

  The friendlesse bodies of unburied men.

  Call unto his funerall Dole

  The Ante, the field-mouse, and the mole

  To reare him hillockes, that shall keepe him warme,

  And (when gay tombes are rob’d) sustaine no harme,

  But keepe the wolfe far thence, that’s foe to men,

  For with his nailes hee’l dig them up agen.

  They would not bury him ’cause hee died in a quarrell

  But I have an answere for them.

  Let holie Church receive him duly

  Since hee payd the Church tithes truly.

  GEORGE CHAPMAN from the Latin of Epictetus

  Pleasd with thy Place

  God hath the whole world perfect made, and free;

  His parts to th’use of all. Men then, that be

  Parts of that all, must as the generall sway

  Of that importeth, willingly obay

  In everie thing, without their powres to change.

  He that (unpleasd to hold his place) will range,

  Can in no other be containd, thats fit:

  And so resisting all, is crusht with it.

  But he that knowing how divine a frame

  The whole world is, and of it all can name

  (Without selfe flatterie) no part so divine

  As he himselfe, and therefore will confine

  Freely, his whole powres, in his proper part:

  Goes on most god-like. He that strives t’invert

  The universall course, with his poore way:

  Not onely, dustlike, shivers with the sway;

  But (crossing God in his great worke) all earth

  Beares not so cursed, and so damn’d a birth.

  This then the universall discipline

  Of manners comprehends: a man to joyne

  Himselfe with th’universe, and wish to be

  Made all with it, and go on, round as he.

  Not plucking from the whole
his wretched part,

  And into streights, or into nought revert:

  Wishing the complete universe might be

  Subject to such a ragge of it, as he.

  But to consider great necessitie,

  All things, as well refract, as voluntarie

  Reduceth to the high celestiall cause:

  Which he that yeelds to, with a mans applause,

  And cheeke by cheeke goes, crossing it, no breath,

  But like Gods image followes to the death:

  That man is perfect wise, and everie thing,

  (Each cause and everie part distinguishing)

  In nature, with enough Art understands,

  And that full glorie merits at all hands,

  That doth the whole world, at all parts adorne,

  And appertaines to one celestiall borne.

  THOMAS CAMPION

  Never weather-beaten Saile more willing bent to shore,

  Never tyred Pilgrims limbs affected slumber more,

  Then my weary spright now longs to flye out of my troubled brest.

  O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soule to rest.

  Ever-blooming are the joyes of Heav’ns high paradice,

  Cold age deafes not there our eares, nor vapour dims our eyes;

  Glory there the Sun outshines, whose beames the blessed onely see:

  O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my spright to thee.

  WILLIAM FOWLER

  Ship-broken men whom stormy seas sore toss

  Protests with oaths not to adventure more;

  Bot all their perils, promises, and loss

  They quite forget when they come to the shore:

  Even so, fair dame, whiles sadly I deplore

  The shipwreck of my wits procured by you,

  Your looks rekindleth love as of before,

  And dois revive which I did disavow;

  So all my former vows I disallow,

  And buries in oblivion’s grave, but groans;

  Yea, I forgive, hereafter, even as now

  My fears, my tears, my cares, my sobs, and moans,

  In hope if anes I be to shipwreck driven,

  Ye will me thole to anchor in your heaven.

  JOHN WEBSTER from The Dutchesse of Malfy 1614

  BOSOLA

  I am the common Bell-man, ()[Takes up the Bell.]()

  That usually is sent to condemn’d persons

  The night before they suffer:

  DUCHESS

  Even now thou said’st,

  Thou wast a tombe-maker?

  BOS.

  ’Twas to bring you

  By degrees to mortification: Listen.()[Rings his bell.]()

  Hearke, now every thing is still—

  The Schritch-Owle, and the whistler shrill,

  Call upon our Dame, aloud,

  And bid her quickly don her shrowd:

  Much you had of Land and rent,

  Your length in clay’s now competent.

  A long war disturb’d your minde,

  Here your perfect peace is sign’d—

  Of what is’t fooles make such vaine keeping?

  Sin their conception, their birth, weeping:

  Their life, a generall mist of error,

  Their death, a hideous storme of terror—

  Strew your haire, with powders sweete:

  Don cleane linnen, bath your feete,

  And (the foule feend more to checke)

  A crucifixe let blesse your necke,

  ’Tis now full tide, ’tweene night, and day,

  End your groane, and come away.

  CARIOLA

  Hence villaines, tyrants, murderers: alas!

  What will you do with my Lady? call for helpe.

  DUCH.

  To whom, to our next neighbours? they are mad-folkes.

  1615

  SIR JOHN HARINGTON Of Treason

  Treason doth never prosper, what’s the reason?

  For if it prosper, none dare call it Treason.

  ANONYMOUS [Tom o’ Bedlam’s Song]

  From the hagg and hungrie goblin

  That into raggs would rend ye,

  And the spirit that stands by the naked man

  In the Book of Moones defend yee,

  That of your five sounde sences

  You never be forsaken,

  Nor wander from your selves with Tom

  Abroad to begg your bacon.

  While I doe sing Any foode, any feeding,

  Feedinge, drinke or clothing

  Come dame or maid, be not afraid,

  Poor Tom will injure nothing.

  Of thirty bare years have I

  Twice twenty bin enraged,

  And of forty bin three tymes fifteene

  In durance soundlie cagèd

  On the lordlie loftes of Bedlam,

  With stubble softe and dainty,

  Brave braceletts strong, sweet whips ding dong,

  With wholsome hunger plenty.

  And nowe I sing, etc.

  With a thought I tooke for Maudlin,

  And a cruse of cockle pottage,

  With a thing thus tall, skie blesse you all,

  I befell into this dotage.

  I slept not since the Conquest,

  Till then I never waked,

  Till the rogysh boy of love where I lay

  Mee found and strip’t mee naked.

  And nowe I sing, etc.

  When I short have shorne my sow’s face

  And swigg’d my horny barrel,

  In an oaken inne I pound my skin

  As a suite of guilt apparell.

  The moon’s my constant Mistrisse,

  And the lowlie owle my marrowe,

  The flaming Drake and the Nightcrowe make

  Mee musicke to my sorrowe.

  While I doe sing, etc.

  The palsie plagues my pulses

  When I prigg your pigs or pullen,

  Your culvers take, or matchles make

  Your Chanticleare, or Sullen.

  When I want provant, with Humfrie

  I sup, and when benighted,

  I repose in Powles with waking soules

  Yet nevere am affrighted.

  But I doe sing, etc.

  I knowe more then Apollo,

  For oft, when hee ly’s sleeping,

  I see the starres att bloudie warres

  In the wounded welkin weeping;