Gay Love Poetry

by Neil Powell (ed)

  Pan taught to join with wax unequal reeds;

  Pan loves the shepherds, and their flocks he feeds.

  Nor scorn the pipe: Amyntas, to be taught,

  With all his kisses would my skill have bought.

  Of seven smooth joints a mellow pipe I have,

  Which with his dying breath Damoetas gave,

  And said, ‘This, Corydon, I leave to thee;

  For only thou deservst it after me.’

  His eyes Amyntas durst not upward lift;

  For much he grudged the praise, but more the gift.

  Besides, two kids, that in the valley strayed,

  I found by chance, and to my fold conveyed;

  They drain two bagging udders every day;

  And these shall be companions of thy play;

  Both, flecked with white, the true Arcadian strain,

  Which Thestylis had often begged in vain:

  And she shall have them, if again she sues,

  Since you the giver and the gift refuse.

  Come to my longing arms, my lovely care!

  And take the presents which the nymphs prepare.

  White lilies in full canisters they bring,

  With all the glories of the purple spring.

  The daughters of the flood have searched the mead

  For violets pale, and cropped the poppy’s head,

  The short narcissus and fair daffodil,

  Pansies to please the sight, and cassia sweet to smell:

  And set soft hyacinths with iron-blue,

  To shade marsh marigolds of shining hue;

  Some bound in order, others loosely strewed,

  To dress thy bower, and trim thy new abode.

  Myself will search our planted grounds at home,

  For downy peaches and the glossy plum;

  And thrash the chestnuts in the neighbouring grove,

  Such as my Amaryllis used to love.

  The laurel and the myrtle sweets agree;

  And both in nosegays shall be bound for thee.

  Ah, Corydon! ah, poor unhappy swain!

  Alexis will thy homely gifts disdain;

  Nor, shouldst thou offer all thy little store,

  Will rich Iolas yield, but offer more.

  What have I done, to name that wealthy swain!

  So powerful are his presents, mine so mean!

  The board amidst my crystal streams I bring:

  And southern winds to blast my flowery spring.

  Ah, cruel creature! whom dost thou despise?

  The gods, to live in woods, have left the skies:

  And godlike Paris, in the Idaean grove,

  To Priam’s wealth preferred Oenone’s love.

  In cities, which she built, let Pallas reign;

  Towers are for gods, but forests for the swain.

  The greedy lioness the wolf pursues,

  The wolf the kid, the wanton kid the browse;

  Alexis, thou art chased by Corydon:

  All follow several games, and each his own.

  See, from afar the fields no longer smoke;

  The sweating steers, unharnessed from the yoke,

  Bring, as in triumph, back the crooked plough;

  The shadows lengthen as the sun goes low;

  Cool breezes now the raging heats remove;

  Ah! cruel heaven, that made no cure for love!

  I wish for balmy sleep, but wish in vain:

  Love has no bounds in pleasure, or in pain.

  What frenzy, shepherd, has thy soul possessed?

  The vineyard lies half-pruned, and half-undressed

  Quench, Corydon, thy long-unanswered fire,

  Mind what the common wants of life require:

  On willow twigs employ thy weaving care;

  And find an easier love, though not so fair.

  VIRGIL

  Translated, by John Dryden

  from Pastoral VIII

  Now take your turns, ye muses, to rehearse

  His friend’s complaints, and mighty magic verse.

  ‘Bring running water: bind those altars round

  With fillets, and with vervain strew the ground:

  Make fat with frankincense the sacred fires,

  To reinflame my Daphnis with desires.

  ’Tis done; we want but verse. Restore, my charms,

  My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms.

  Pale Phoebe, drawn by verse, from heaven descends;

  And Circe changed with charms Ulysses’ friends.

  Verse breaks the ground, and penetrates the brake,

  And in the winding cavern splits the snake.

  Verse fires the frozen veins. Restore, my charms,

  My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms.

  Around his waxen image first I wind

  Three woollen fillets, of three colours joined;

  Thrice bind about his thrice-devoted head,

  Which round the sacred altar thrice is led.

  Unequal numbers please the gods. My charms,

  Restore my Daphnis to my longing arms.

  Knit with three knots the fillets: knit them strait;

  Then say, ‘These knots to Love I consecrate!’

  Haste, Amaryllis, haste! Restore, my charms,

  My lovely Daphnis to my longing arms.

  As fire this figure hardens, made of clay,

  And this of wax with fire consumes away;

  Such let the soul of cruel Daphnis be —

  Hard to the rest of women, soft to me.

  Crumble the sacred mole of salt and corn:

  Next in the fire the bays with brimstone burn

  And, while it crackles in the sulphur, say,

  ‘This I For Daphnis burnt; thus Daphnis burnt away!

  This laurel is his fate.’ Restore, my charms My lovely Daphnis to my longing arms.

  As when the raging heifer, through the grove,

  Stung with desire, pursues her wandering love;

  Faint at the last, she seeks the weedy pools,

  To quench her thirst, and on the rushes rolls,

  Careless of night, unmindful to return;

  Such fruitless fires perfidious Daphnis bum,

  While I so scorn his love! Restore, my charms,

  My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms.

  These garments once were his, and left to me,

  The pledges of his promised loyalty,

  Which underneath my threshold I bestow.

  These pawns, O sacred earth! to me my Daphnis owe,

  As these were his, so mine is he. My charms,

  Restore their lingering lord to my deluded arms.

  These poisonous plants, for magic use designed

  (The noblest and the best of all the baneful kind),

  Old Moeris brought me from the Pontic strand,

  And culled the mischief of a bounteous land.

  Smeared with those powerful juices, on the plain

  He howls a wolf among the hungry train;

  And oft the might necromancer boasts,

  With these to call from tombs the stalking ghosts,

  And from the roots to tear the standing corn,

  Which, whirled aloft, to distant fields is borne:

  Such is the strength of spells. Restore, my charms,

  My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms.

  Bear out these ashes; cast them in the brook;

  Cast backwards o’er your head; nor turn your look:

  Since neither gods nor godlike verse can move,

  Break out, ye smothered fires, and kindle smothered love.

  Exert your utmost power, my lingering charms;

  And force my Daphnis to my longing arms.

  See, while my last endeavours I delay,

  The waking ashes rise, and round our altars play!

  Run to the threshold, Amaryllis — hark!

  Our Hylax opens, and begins to bark.

  Good heaven! may lovers what they wish believe?

  Or dream their wishes,
and those dreams deceive?

  No more! my Daphnis comes! no more, my charms!

  He comes, he runs, he leaps to my desiring arms.’

  [87-159]

  SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

  ‘My true love hath my heart, and I have his ... ’

  My true love hath my heart, and I have his,

  By just exchange one for the other given.

  I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss:

  There never was a better bargain driven.

  His heart in me keeps me and him in one;

  My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;

  He loves my heart, for once it was his own;

  I cherish his, because in me it bides.

  His heart his wound received from my sight;

  My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;

  For as from me on him his hurt did light,

  So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart;

  Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:

  My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

  CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

  from Hero and Leander

  O none but gods have power their love to hide,

  Affection by the count’nance is descried.

  The light of hidden fire itself discovers,

  And love that is concealed betrays poor lovers.

  His secret flame apparently was seen,

  Leander’s father knew where he had been,

  And for the same mildly rebuked his son,

  Thinking to quench the sparkles new begun.

  But love resisted once grows passionate,

  And nothing more than counsel lovers hate.

  For as a hot proud horse highly disdains

  To have his head controlled, but breaks the reins,

  Spits forth the ringled bit, and with his hooves

  Checks the submissive ground: so he that loves,

  The more he is restrained, the worse he fares.

  What is it now, but mad Leander dares?

  ‘O Hero, Hero!’ thus he cried full oft,

  And then he got him to a rock aloft,

  Where having spied her tower, long stared he on’t,

  And prayed the narrow toiling Hellespont

  To part in twain, that he might come and go,

  But still the rising billows answered ‘No.’

  With that he stripped him to the ivory skin,

  And crying, ‘Love, I come,’ leapt lively in.

  Whereat the sapphire-visaged god grew proud,

  And made his capering Triton sound aloud,

  Imagining that Ganymede, displeased,

  Had left the heavens; therefore on him he seized.

  Leander strived, the waves about him wound,

  And pulled him to the bottom, where the ground

  Was strewed with pearl, and in low coral groves

  Sweet singing mermaids sported with their loves

  On heaps of heavy gold, and took great pleasure

  To spurn in careless sort the shipwrack treasure.

  For here the stately azure palace stood

  Where kingly Neptune and his train abode.

  The lusty god embraced him, called him love,

  And swore he never should return to Jove.

  But when he knew it was not Ganymede,

  For under water he was almost dead,

  He heaved him up, and looking on his face,

  Beat down the bold waves with his triple mace,

  Which mounted up, intending to have kissed him,

  And fell in drops like tears because they missed him.

  Leander, being up, began to swim,

  And, looking back, saw Neptune follow him;

  Whereat aghast, the poor soul ’gan to cry,

  ‘O let me visit Hero ere I die!’

  The god put Helle’s bracelet on his arm,

  And swore the sea should never do him harm.

  He clapped his plump cheeks, with his tresses played,

  And smiling wantonly, his love betrayed.

  He watched his arms, and as they opened wide

  At every stroke, betwixt them would he slide

  And steal a kiss, and then run out and dance,

  And as he turned, cast many a lustful glance,

  And threw him gaudy toys to please his eye,

  And dive into the water, and there pry

  Upon his breast, his thighs, and every limb,

  And up again, and close beside him swim,

  And talk of love. Leander made reply,

  ‘You are deceived, I am no woman, I.’

  Thereat smiled Neptune, and then told a tale,

  How that a shepherd, sitting in a vale,

  Played with a boy so lovely fair and kind,

  As for his love both earth and heaven pined;

  That of the cooling river durst not drink,

  Lest water-nymphs should pull him from the brink;

  And when he sported in the fragrant lawns,

  Goat-footed satyrs and up-staring fauns

  Would steal him thence. Ere half this tale was done,

  ‘Aye me,’ Leander cried, ‘th’enamoured sun,

  That now should shine on Thetis’ glassy bower,

  Descends upon my radiant Hero’s tower.

  O! that these tardy arms of mine were wings!’

  And as he spake, upon the waves he springs.

  Neptune was angry that he gave no ear,

  And in his heart revenging malice bare:

  He flung at him his mace, but as it went,

  He called it in, for love made him repent.

  The mace returning back, his own hand hit,

  As meaning to be venged for darting it.

  When this fresh bleeding wound Leander viewed,

  His colour went and came, as if he rued

  The grief which Neptune felt. In gentle breasts

  Relenting thoughts, remorse and pity rests.

  And who have hard hearts and obdurate minds,

  But vicious, harebrained, and illit’rate hinds?

  The god, seeing him with pity to be movèd,

  Thereon concluded that he was belovèd.

  (Love is too full of faith, too credulous,

  With folly and false hope deluding us.)

  Wherefore Leander’s fancy to surprise,

  To the rich Ocean for gifts he flies.

  ’Tis wisdom to give much, a gift prevails

  When deep persuading oratory fails.

  [11.131-226]

  CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

  from Dido Queen of Carthage

  Here the curtains draw. There is discovered Jupiter dandling Ganymede upon his knee, and Mercury lying asleep.

  CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

  The Passionate Shepherd to his Love

  Come live with me, and be my love,

  And we will all the pleasures prove

  That valleys, groves, hills and fields,

  Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

  And we will sit upon the rocks,

  Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks

  By shallow rivers, to whose falls

  Melodious birds sing madrigals.

  And I will make thee beds of roses,

  And a thousand fragrant posies,

  A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

  Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

  A gown made of the finest wool

  Which from our pretty lambs we pull,

  Fair lined slippers for the cold

  With buckles of the purest gold.

  A belt of straw and ivy-buds,

  With coral clasps and amber studs,

  And if these pleasures may thee move,

  Come live with me, and be my love.

  The shepherd swains shall dance and sing

  For thy delight each May morning.

  If these delights thy mind may move,

  Then live with me, and be my love.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  So
nnet 99

  The forward violet thus did I chide:

  Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells

  If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride

  Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells

  In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.

  The lily I condemned for thy hand,

  And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair.

  The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,

  One blushing shame, another white despair;

  A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both,

  And to his robb’ry had annexed thy breath;

  But for his theft, in pride of all his growth

  A vengeful canker eat him up to death.

  More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,

  But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  from As You Like It

  [V:II:82-111]

  RICHARD BARNFIELD

  The Affectionate Shepherd

  Scarce had the morning star hid from the light

  Heavens crimson canopy with stars bespangled,

  But I began to rue th’unhappy sight

  Of that fair boy that had my heart entangled;

  Cursing the time, the place, the sense, the sin;

  I came, I saw, I viewed, I slipped in.

  If it be sin to love a sweet-faced boy

  (Whose amber locks trussed up in golden trammels

  Dangle adown his lovely cheeks with joy,

  When pearl and flowers his fair hair enamels)

  If it be sin to love a lovely lad,

  On then sin I, for whom my soul is sad.

  His ivory-white and alabaster skin

  Is stained throughout with rare vermillion red,

  Whose twinkling starry lights do never blin

  To shine on lovely Venus, beauty’s bed;

  But as the lily and the blushing rose,

  So white and red on him in order grows.

  Upon a time the nymphs bestirred themselves

  To try who could his beauty soonest win;

  But he accounted them but all as elves,

  Except it were the fair Queen Gwendolen:

  Her he embraced, of her was he beloved,