by Paul Keegan
The moone embrace her shepheard,
And the quene of Love her warryor,
While the first doth horne the star of morne,
And the next the heavenly Farrier.
While I doe sing, etc.
The Gipsie Snap and Pedro
Are none of Tom’s comradoes,
The punk I skorne and the cut purse sworn
And the roaring boyes bravadoe.
The meeke, the white, the gentle,
Me handle touch and spare not
But those that crosse Tom Rynosseros
Doe what the panther dare not.
Although I sing, etc.
With an host of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning speare, and a horse of aire,
To the wildernesse I wander.
By a knight of ghostes and shadowes
I summon’d am to tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end.
Me thinke it is noe journey.
Yet will I sing, etc.
1616
BEN JONSON from Epigrammes
XIV To William Camden
Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe
All that I am in arts, all that I know,
(How nothing’s that?) to whom my countrey owes
The great renowne, and name wherewith shee goes.
Then thee the age sees not that thing more grave,
More high, more holy, that shee more would crave.
What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!
What sight in searching the most antique springs!
What weight, and what authoritie in thy speech!
Man scarse can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.
Pardon free truth, and let thy modestie,
Which conquers all, be once over-come by thee.
Many of thine this better could, then I,
But for their powers, accept my pietie.
XLV On My First Sonne
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sinne was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy,
Seven yeeres tho’wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I loose all father, now. For why
Will man lament the state he should envie?
To have so soone scap’d worlds, and fleshes rage,
And, if no other miserie, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask’d, say here doth lye
BEN. JONSON his best piece of poetrie.
For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.
LIX On Spies
Spies, you are lights in state, but of base stuffe,
Who, when you’have burnt your selves downe to the snuffe,
Stinke, and are throwne away. End faire enough.
CI Inviting a Friend to Supper
To night, grave sir, both my poore house, and I
Doe equally desire your companie:
Not that we thinke us worthy such a ghest,
But that your worth will dignifie our feast,
With those that come; whose grace may make that seeme
Something, which, else, could hope for no esteeme.
It is the faire acceptance, Sir, creates
The entertaynment perfect: not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectifie your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better sallade
Ushring the mutton; with a short-leg’d hen,
If we can get her, full of egs, and then,
Limons, and wine for sauce: to these, a coney
Is not to be despair’d of, for our money;
And, though fowle, now, be scarce, yet there are clarkes,
The skie not falling, thinke we may have larkes.
Ile tell you of more, and lye, so you will come:
Of partrich, pheasant, wood-cock, of which some
May yet be there; and godwit, if we can:
Knat, raile, and ruffe too. How so ere, my man
Shall reade a piece of VIRGIL, TACITUS,
LIVIE, or of some better booke to us,
Of which wee’ll speake our minds, amidst our meate;
And Ile professe no verses to repeate:
To this, if ought appeare, which I not know of,
That will the pastrie, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will bee;
But that, which most doth take my Muse, and mee,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary-wine,
Which is the Mermaids, now, but shall be mine:
Of which had HORACE, or ANACREON tasted,
Their lives, as doe their lines, till now had lasted.
Tabacco, Nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but LUTHERS beere, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooly’, or Parrot by;
Nor shall our cups make any guiltie men:
But, at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple word,
That shall be utter’d at our mirthfull boord,
Shall make us sad next morning: or affright
The libertie, that wee’ll enjoy to night.
CXVIII On Gut
Gut eates all day, and lechers all the night,
So all his meate he tasteth over, twise:
And, striving so to double his delight,
He makes himselfe a thorough-fare of vice.
Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin,
Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.
BEN JONSON from The Forrest
To Heaven
Good, and great GOD, can I not thinke of thee,
But it must, straight, my melancholy bee?
Is it interpreted in me disease,
That, laden with my sinnes, I seeke for ease?
O, be thou witnesse, that the reynes dost know,
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,
And judge me after: if I dare pretend
To ought but grace, or ayme at other end.
As thou art all, so be thou all to mee,
First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;
My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state,
My judge, my witnesse, and my advocate.
Where have I beene this while exil’d from thee?
And whither rap’d, now thou but stoup’st to mee?
Dwell, dwell here still: O, being every-where,
How can I doubt to finde thee ever, here?
I know my state, both full of shame, and scorne,
Conceiv’d in sinne, and unto labour borne,
Standing with feare, and must with horror fall,
And destin’d unto judgement, after all.
I feele my griefes too, and there scarce is ground,
Upon my flesh to’inflict another wound.
Yet dare I not complaine, or wish for death
With holy PAUL, lest it be thought the breath
Of discontent; or that these prayers bee
For wearinesse of life, not love of thee.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN Sonnet
How many times Nights silent Queene her Face
Hath hid, how oft with Starres in silver Maske
In Heavens great Hall shee hath begunne her Taske,
And chear’d the waking Eye in lower Place:
How oft the Sunne hath made by Heavens swift Race
The happie Lover to forsake the Brest
Of his deare Ladie, wishing in the West
His golden Coach to runne had larger Space:
I ever count, and number, since alas
I bade Farewell to my Hearts dearest Guest,
The Miles I compasse, and in Minde I chase
The Flouds and Mountaines holde mee from my Rest:
But (woe is mee) long count and
count may I,
Ere I see Her whose Absence makes mee die.
WILLIAM BROWNE from Britannia’s Pastorals
[The Golden Age: Flower-weaving]
The Pansie, Thistle, all with prickles set,
The Cowslip, Honisuckle, Violet,
And many hundreds more that grac’d the Meades,
Gardens and Groves, (where beauteous Flora treads)
Were by the Shepheards Daughters (as yet are
Us’d in our Cotes) brought home with speciall care:
For bruising them they not alone would quell
But rot the rest, and spoile their pleasing smell.
Much like a Lad, who in his tender prime
Sent from his friends to learne the use of time,
As are his mates, or good or bad, so he
Thrives to the world, and such his actions be.
As in the Rainbowes many coloured hewe
Here see wee watchet deepned with a blewe,
There a darke tawny with a purple mixt,
Yealow and flame, with streakes of greene betwixt,
A bloudy streame into a blushing run
And ends still with the colour which begun,
Drawing the deeper to a lighter staine,
Bringing the lightest to the deep’st againe,
With such rare Art each mingleth with his fellow,
The blewe with watchet, greene and red with yealow;
Like to the changes which we daily see
About the Doves necke with varietie,
Where none can say (though he it strict attends)
Here one begins; and there the other ends:
So did the Maidens with their various flowres
Decke up their windowes, and make neate their bowres:
Using such cunning as they did dispose
The ruddy Piny with the lighter Rose,
The Moncks-hood with the Buglosse, and intwine
The white, the blewe, the flesh-like Columbine
With Pinckes, Sweet-williams; that farre off the eye
Could not the manner of their mixtures spye.
Then with those flowres they most of all did prise,
(With all their skill and in most curious wise
On tufts of Hearbs or Rushes) would they frame
A daintie border round their Shepheards name.
Or Poesies make, so quaint, so apt, so rare,
As if the Muses onely lived there:
And that the after world should strive in vaine
What they then did to counterfeit againe.
Nor will the Needle nor the Loome e’re be
So perfect in their best embroderie,
Nor such composures make of silke and gold,
As theirs, when Nature all her cunning told.
THOMAS CAMPION
There is a Garden in her face,
Where Roses and white Lillies grow;
A heav’nly paradice is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
There Cherries grow which none may buy
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
Of Orient Pearle a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter showes,
They look like Rose-buds fill’d with snow.
Yet them nor Peere, nor Prince can buy,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;
Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,
Threatning with piercing frownes to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred Cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
THOMAS CAMPION
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their houres,
And clouds their stormes discharge
Upon the ayrie towres,
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o’erflow with wine:
Let well-tun’d words amaze
With harmonie divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall waite on hunny Love,
While youthfull Revels, Masks, and Courtly sights,
Sleepes leaden spels remove.
This time doth well dispence
With lovers long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All doe not all things well;
Some measures comely tread;
Some knotted Ridles tell;
Some Poems smoothly read.
The Summer hath his joyes,
And Winter his delights;
Though Love and all his pleasures are but toyes,
They shorten tedious nights.
SIR WALTER RALEGH [Sir Walter Ralegh to his Sonne] 1618
Three thinges there bee that prosper up apace
And flourish, whilest they growe asunder farr,
But on a day, they meet all in one place,
And when they meet, they one another marr;
And they bee theise: the wood, the weede, the wagg.
The wood is that, which makes the Gallow tree,
The weed is that, which stringes the Hangmans bagg,
The wagg my pritty knave betokeneth thee.
Marke well deare boy whilest theise assemble not,
Green springs the tree, hempe growes, the wagg is wilde,
But when they meet, it makes the timber rott,
It fretts the halter, and it choakes the childe.
Then bless thee, and beware, and lett us praye,
Wee part not with the at this meeting day.
(1870)
SIR WALTER RALEGH from The Ocean to Scinthia
Butt stay my thoughts, make end, geve fortune way
harshe is the voice of woe and sorrows sounde
cumplaynts cure not, and teares do butt allay
greifs for a tyme, which after more abounde
to seeke for moysture in th’arabien sande
is butt a losse of labor, and of rest
the lincks which tyme did break of harty bands
words cannot knytt, or waylings make a new,
seeke not the soonn in cloudes, when it is sett…
On highest mountaynes wher thos Sedars grew
agaynst whose bancks, the trobled ocean bett
and weare the markes to finde thy hoped port
into a soyle farr of them sealves remove
on Sestus shore, Leanders late resorte
