The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  They’are ours, though they’are not wee, Wee are

  Th’intelligences, they the spheare.

  We owe them thankes, because they thus,

  Did us, to us, at first convay,

  Yeelded their forces, sense, to us,

  Nor are drosse to us, but allay.

  On man heavens influence workes not so,

  But that it first imprints the ayre,

  Soe soule into the soule may flow,

  Though it to body first repaire.

  As our blood labours to beget

  Spirits, as like soules as it can,

  Because such fingers need to knit

  That subtile knot, which makes us man:

  So must pure lovers soules descend

  T’affections, and to faculties,

  Which sense may reach and apprehend,

  Else a great Prince in prison lies.

  To’our bodies turne wee then, that so

  Weake men on love reveal’d may looke;

  Loves mysteries in soules doe grow,

  But yet the body is his booke.

  And if some lover, such as wee,

  Have heard this dialogue of one,

  Let him still marke us, he shall see

  Small change, when we’are to bodies gone.

  (1633)

  JOHN DONNE from Holy Sonnets

  VII

  At the round earths imagin’d corners, blow

  Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise

  From death, you numberlesse infinities

  Of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe,

  All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,

  All whom warre, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,

  Despaire, law, chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes,

  Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe.

  But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,

  For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,

  ’Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,

  When wee are there; here on this lowly ground,

  Teach mee how to repent; for that’s as good

  As if thou’hadst seal’d my pardon, with thy blood.

  X

  Death be not proud, though some have called thee

  Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,

  For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

  Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee;

  From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

  Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

  And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

  Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

  Thou’art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

  And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

  And poppie,’or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

  And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?

  One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

  And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die.

  XIV

  Batter my heart, three person’d God; for, you

  As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;

  That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow mee,’ and bend

  Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.

  I, like an usurpt towne, to’another due,

  Labour to’admit you, but Oh, to no end,

  Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,

  But is captiv’d, and proves weake or untrue,

  Yet dearely’I love you, and would be lov’d faine,

  But am betroth’d unto your enemie,

  Divorce mee,’untie, or breake that knot againe,

  Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I

  Except you’enthrall mee, never shall be free,

  Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

  (1633)

  JOHN DONNE A Hymne to Christ, at the Authors Last Going into Germany

  In what tome ship soever I embarke,

  That ship shall be my embleme of thy Arke;

  What sea soever swallow mee, that flood

  Shall be to mee an embleme of thy blood;

  Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise

  Thy face; yet through that maske I know those eyes,

  Which, though they turne away sometimes,

  They never will despise.

  I sacrifice this Iland unto thee,

  And all whom I lov’d there, and who lov’d mee;

  When I have put our seas twixt them and mee,

  Put thou thy sea betwixt my sinnes and thee.

  As the trees sap doth seeke the root below

  In winter, in my winter now I goe,

  Where none but thee, th’Eternall root

  Of true love I may know.

  Nor thou nor thy religion dost controule,

  The amorousnesse of an harmonious Soule,

  But thou would’st have that love thy selfe: As thou

  Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now,

  Thou lov’st not, till from loving more, thou free

  My soule: Who ever gives, takes libertie:

  O, if thou car’st not whom I love,

  Alas, thou lov’st not mee.

  Seale then this bill of my Divorce to All,

  On whom those fainter beames of love did fall;

  Marry those loves, which in youth scatter’d bee

  On Fame, Wit, Hopes (false mistresses) to thee.

  Churches are best for Prayer, that have least light:

  To see God only, I goe out of sight:

  And to scape stormy dayes, I chuse

  An everlasting night.

  (1633)

  JOHN DONNE A Hymne to God the Father

  Wilt thou forgive that sinne where I begunne,

  Which is my sin, though it were done before?

  Wilt thou forgive that sinne; through which I runne,

  And do run still: though still I doe deplore?

  When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

  For, I have more.

  Wilt thou forgive that sinne which I’have wonne

  Others to sinne? and, made my sinne their doore?

  Wilt thou forgive that sinne which I did shunne

  A yeare, or two: but wallow’d in, a score?

  When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

  For, I have more.

  I have a sinne of feare, that when I’have spunne

  My last thred, I shall perish on the shore;

  Sweare by thy selfe, that at my death thy Sonne

  Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;

  And, having done that, Thou hast done,

  I feare no more.

  (1633)

  1621

  KATHERINE, LADY DYER [Epitaph on Sir William Dyer]

  My dearest dust could not thy hasty day

  Afford thy drowzy patience leave to stay

  One hower longer; so that we might either

  Sate up, or gone to bedd together?

  But since thy finisht labor hath possest

  Thy weary limbs with early rest,

  Enjoy it sweetly; and thy widdowe bride

  Shall soone repose her by thy slumbring side;

  Whose business, now is only to prepare

  My nightly dress, and call to prayre:

  Mine eyes wax heavy and the day growes old

  The dew falls thick, my bloud growes cold;

  Draw, draw the closed curtaynes: and make roome;

  My deare, my dearest dust; I come, I come.

  LADY MARY WROTH from Pamphilia to Amphilanthus

  77

  In this strang labourinth how shall I turne?

  wayes are on all sids while the way I miss:

  if to the right hand, ther, in love I burne;

  lett mee goe forward, therein danger is;

  If to the left, suspition hinders bliss,

  lett mee turne back, shame
cries I ought returne

  nor fainte though crosses with my fortunes kiss;

  stand still is harder, allthough sure to mourne;

  Thus lett mee take the right, or left hand way;

  goe forward, or stand still, or back retire;

  I must thes doubts indure with out allay

  or help, butt traveile find for my best hire;

  Yett that which most my troubled sence doth move

  is to leave all, and take the thread of love.

  96

  Late in the Forest I did Cupid see

  colde, wett, and crying hee had lost his way,

  and beeing blind was farder like to stray:

  which sight a kind compassion bred in mee,

  I kindly tooke, and dride him, while that hee

  poore child complain’d hee sterved was with stay,

  and pin’de for want of his accustom’d pray,

  for non in that wilde place his hoste would bee,

  I glad was of his finding, thinking sure

  this service should my freedome still procure,

  and in my armes I tooke him then unharmde,

  Carrying him safe unto a Mirtle bowre

  butt in the way hee made mee feele his powre,

  burning my hart who had him kindly warmd.

  WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN [For the Baptiste] 1623

  The last and greatest Herauld of Heavens King,

  Girt with rough Skinnes, hyes to the Desarts wilde,

  Among that savage brood the Woods foorth bring,

  Which hee than Man more harmlesse found and milde:

  His food was Blossomes, and what yong doth spring,

  With Honey that from virgine Hives distil’d;

  Parcht Bodie, hollow Eyes, some uncouth thing

  Made him appeare, long since from Earth exilde.

  There burst hee foorth; All yee, whose Hopes relye

  On GOD, with mee amidst these Desarts mourne,

  Repent, repent, and from olde errours turne.

  Who listned to his voyce, obey’d his crye?

  Onelie the Ecchoes which hee made relent,

  Rung from their Marble Caves, repent, repent.

  WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN [Content and Resolute]

  As when it hapneth that some lovely Towne

  Unto a barbarous Besieger falles,

  Who there by Sword and Flame himselfe enstalles,

  And (Cruell) it in Teares and Blood doth drowne;

  Her Beauty spoyl’d, her Citizens made Thralles,

  His spight yet so cannot her all throw downe,

  But that some Statue, Arch, Phan of renowne,

  Yet lurkes unmaym’d within her weeping walles:

  So after all the Spoile, Disgrace, and Wrake,

  That Time, the World, and Death could bring combind,

  Amidst that Masse of Ruines they did make,

  Safe and all scarre-lesse yet remaines my Minde:

  From this so high transcending Rapture springes,

  That I, all else defac’d, not envie Kinges.

  WILLIAM BROWNE On the Countesse Dowager of Pembroke

  Underneth this Marble Hearse;

  Lyes the subject of all verse,

  Sidneys sister; Pembrookes mother,

  Death, ere thou hast kill’d another,

  Faire, and learn’d, and good as shee,

  Time shall throw a dart at thee.

  Marble Pyles let no man rayse

  To her name; for after dayes;

  Some kinde woman borne as she

  Reading this; (Like Niobe,)

  Shall turne Marble, and become

  Both her mourner and her Tombe.

  SIR HENRY WOTTON On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 1624

  You meaner Beauties of the Night,

  That poorly satisfie our Eyes

  More by your number, than your light,

  You Common people of the Skies;

  What are you when the Sun shall rise?

  You curious Chanters of the Wood,

  That warble forth Dame Natures layes,

  Thinking your Voices understood

  By your weak accents; what’s your praise

  When Philomel her voice shall raise?

  You Violets, that first appear,

  By your pure purple mantles known,

  Like the proud Virgins of the year,

  As if the Spring were all your own;

  What are you when the Rose is blown?

  So, when my Mistress shall be seen

  In Form and Beauty of her mind,

  By Vertue first, then Choice a Queen,

  Tell me, if she were not design’d

  Th’ Eclipse and Glory of her kind?

  GEORGE SANDYS from the Latin of Ausonius Echo1626

  Fond Painter, why woulds’t thou my picture draw?

  An unknowne Goddesse, whom none ever saw,

  Daughter of aire and tongue: of judgment blind

  The mother I; a voice without a mind.

  I only with anothers language sport,

  And but the last of dying speech retort.

  Lowd Ecchos mansion in the eare is found:

  If therefore thou wilt paint me, paint a sound.

  1627 BEN JONSON My Picture left in Scotland

  I now thinke, Love is rather deafe, then blind,

  For else it could not be,

  That she,

  Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,

  And cast my love behind:

  I’m sure my language to her, was as sweet,

  And every close did meet

  In sentence, of as subtile feet,

  As hath the youngest Hee,

  That sits in shadow of Apollo’s tree.

  Oh, but my conscious feares,

  That flie my thoughts betweene,

  Tell me that she hath seene

  My hundred of gray haires,

  Told seven and fortie years,

  Read so much wast, as she cannot imbrace

  My mountaine belly, and my rockie face,

  And all these through her eyes, have stopt her eares.

  (1640)

  BEN JONSON An Ode. To Himselfe

  Where do’st thou carelesse lie,

  Buried in ease and sloth?

  Knowledge, that sleepes, doth die;

  And this Securitie,

  It is the common Moath,

  That eats on wits, and Arts, and oft destroyes them both.

  Are all th’ Aonian springs