IV
‘My litle flocke, whom earst I lov’d so well,
And wont to feede with finest grasse that grew, 345
Feede ye hencefoorth on bitter astrofell,
And stinking smallage, and unsaverie rew;
And when your mawes are with those weeds corrupted,
Be ye the pray of wolves: ne will I rew
That with your carkasses wild beasts be glutted. 350
‘Ne worse to you, my sillie sheepe, I pray,
Ne sorer vengeance wish on you to fall
Than to my selfe, for whose confusde decay
To carelesse heavens I doo daylie call:
But heavens refuse to heare a wretches cry; 355
And cruell Death doth scorne to come at call,
Or graunt his boone that most desires to dye.
‘The good and righteous he away doth take,
To plague th’ unrighteous which alive remaine:
But the ungodly ones he doth forsake, 360
By living long to multiplie their paine:
Els surely death should be no punishment,
As the great Judge at first did it ordaine,
But rather riddance from long languishment.
‘Therefore my Daphne they have tane away; 365
For worthie of a better place was she:
But me unworthie willed here to stay,
That with her lacke I might tormented be.
Sith then they so have ordred, I will pay
Penance to her according their decree, 370
And to her ghost doo service day by day.
‘For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage,
Throughout the world from one to other end,
And in affliction wast my better age:
My bread shall be the anguish of my mind, 375
My drink the teares which fro mine eyes do raine,
My bed the ground that hardest I may fynd:
So will I wilfully increase my paine.
‘And she, my love that was, my saint that is,
When she beholds from her celestiall throne 380
(In which shee joyeth in eternall blis)
My bitter penance, will my case bemone,
And pitie me that living thus doo die:
For heavenly spirits have compassion
On mortall men, and rue their miserie. 385
‘So when I have with sorrowe satisfide
Th’ importune Fates, which vengeance on me seeke,
And th’ heavens with long languor pacifide,
She, for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke,
Will send for me; for which I daylie long, 390
And will till then my painfull penance eeke.
Weep, shepheard, weep, to make my under song.
V
‘Hencefoorth I hate what ever Nature made,
And in her workmanship no pleasure finde:
For they be all but vaine, and quickly fade, 395
So soone as on them blowes the northern winde;
They tarrie not, but flit and fall away,
Leaving behind them nought but griefe of minde,
And mocking such as thinke they long will stay.
‘I hate the heaven, because it doth withhold 400
Me from my love, and eke my love from me;
I hate the earth, because it is the mold
Of fleshly slime and fraile mortalitie;
I hate the fire, because to nought it flyes,
I hate the ayre, because sighes of it be, 405
I hate the sea, because it teares supplyes.
‘I hate the day, because it lendeth light
To see all things, and not my love to see;
I hate the darknesse and the drery night,
Because they breed sad balefulnesse in mee; 410
I hate all times, because all times doo fly
So fast away, and may not stayed bee,
But as a speedie post that passeth by.
‘I hate to speake, my voyce is spent with crying:
I hate to heare, lowd plaints have duld mine eares: 415
I hate to tast, for food withholds my dying:
I hate to see, mine eyes are dimd with teares:
I hate to smell, no sweet on earth is left:
I hate to feele, my flesh is numbd with feares:
So all my senses from me are bereft. 420
‘I hate all men, and shun all womankinde;
The one, because as I they wretched are,
The other, for because I doo not finde
My love with them, that wont to be their starre:
And life I hate, because it will not last, 425
And death I hate, because it life doth marre,
And all I hate, that is to come or past.
‘So all the world, and all in it I hate,
Because it changeth ever too and fro,
And never standeth in one certaine state, 430
But still unstedfast round about doth goe,
Like a mill wheele, in midst of miserie,
Driven with streames of wretchednesse and woe,
That dying lives, and living still does dye.
‘So doo I live, so doo I daylie die, 435
And pine away in selfe-consuming paine:
Sith she that did my vitall powres supplie,
And feeble spirits in their force maintaine,
Is fetcht fro me, why seeke I to prolong
My wearie daies in dolor and disdaine? 440
Weep, shepheard, weep, to make my undersong.
VI
‘Why doo I longer live in lifes despight,
And doo not dye then in despight of death?
Why doo I longer see this loathsome light,
And doo in darknesse not abridge my breath, 445
Sith all my sorrow should have end thereby,
And cares finde quiet? Is it so uneath
To leave this life, or dolorous to dye?
‘To live I finde it deadly dolorous;
For life drawes care, and care continuall woe: 450
Therefore to dye must needes be joyeous,
And wishfull thing this sad life to forgoe.
But I must stay; I may it not amend;
My Daphne hence departing bad me so;
She bad me stay, till she for me did send. 455
‘Yet, whilest I in this wretched vale doo stay,
My wearie feete shall ever wandring be,
That still I may be readie on my way,
When as her messenger doth come for me:
Ne will I rest my feete for feeblenesse, 460
Ne will I rest my limmes for fraïltie,
Ne will I rest mine eyes for heavinesse.
‘But, as the mother of the gods, that sought
For faire Euridyce, her daughter deere,
Throghout the world, with wofull heavie thought, 465
So will I travell whilest I tarrie heere,
Ne will I lodge, ne will I ever lin,
Ne when as drouping Titan draweth neere
To loose his teeme, will I take up my inne.
‘Ne sleepe (the harbenger of wearie wights) 470
Shall ever lodge upon mine ey-lids more,
Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights,
Nor failing force to former strength restore:
But I will wake and sorrow all the night
With Philumene, my fortune to deplore, 475
With Philumene, the partner of my plight.
‘And ever as I see the starres to fall,
And under ground to goe, to give them light
Which dwell in darknes, I to minde will call
How my faire starre (that shinde on me so bright) 480
Fell sodainly and faded under ground;
Since whose departure, day is turnd to night,
And night without a Venus starre is found.
‘But soone as day doth shew his deawie face,
And calls foorth men unto their toylsome trade, 485
Or some deepe cave, or solitarie shade;
There will I sigh and sorrow all day long,
And the huge burden of my cares unlade.
Weep, shepheard, weep, to make my undersong. 490
VII
‘Hence foorth mine eyes shall never more behold
Faire thing on earth, ne feed on false delight
Of ought that framed is of mortall moulde,
Sith that my fairest flower is faded quight:
For all I see is vaine and transitorie, 495
Ne will be helde in anie stedfast plight,
But in a moment loose their grace and glorie.
‘And ye, fond men, on Fortunes wheele that ride,
Or in ought under heaven repose assurance,
Be it riches, beautie, or honors pride, 500
Be sure that they shall have no long endurance,
But ere ye be aware will flit away;
For nought of them is yours, but th’ onely usance
Of a small time, which none ascertaine may.
‘And ye, true lovers, whom desastrous chaunce 505
Hath farre exiled from your ladies grace,
To mourne in sorrow and sad sufferaunce,
When ye doo heare me in that desert place
Lamenting lowde my Daphnes elegie,
Helpe me to wayle my miserable case, 510
And when life parts, vouchsafe to close mine eye.
‘And ye, more happie lovers, which enjoy
The presence of your dearest loves delight,
When ye doo heare my sorrowfull annoy,
Yet pittie me in your empassiond spright, 515
And thinke that such mishap as chaunst to me
May happen unto the most happiest wight;
For all mens states alike unstedfast be.
‘And ye, my fellow shepheards, which do feed
Your carelesse flocks on hils and open plaines, 520
With better fortune than did me succeed,
Remember yet my undeserved paines;
And when ye heare that I am dead or slaine,
Lament my lot, and tell your fellow swaines
That sad Alcyon dyde in lifes disdaine. 525
‘And ye, faire damsels, shepheards dere delights,
That with your loves do their rude hearts possesse,
When as my hearse shall happen to your sightes,
Vouchsafe to deck the same with cyparesse;
And ever sprinckle brackish teares among, 530
In pitie of my undeserv’d distresse,
The which I, wretch, endured have thus long.
‘And ye, poore pilgrims, that with restlesse toyle
Wearie your selves in wandring desert wayes,
Till that you come where ye your vowes assoyle, 535
When passing by ye read these wofull layes
On my grave written, rue my Daphnes wrong,
And mourne for me that languish out my dayes.
Cease, shepheard, cease, and end thy undersong.’
Thus when he ended had his heavie plaint, 540
The heaviest plaint that ever I heard sound,
His cheekes wext pale, and sprights began to faint,
As if againe he would have fallen to ground;
Which when I saw, I (stepping to him light)
Amooved him out of his stonie swound, 545
And gan him to recomfort as I might.
But he no waie recomforted would be,
Nor suffer solace to approach him nie,
But casting up a sdeinfull eie at me,
That in his traunce I would not let him lie, 550
Did rend his haire, and beat his blubbred face,
As one disposed wilfullie to die,
That I sore griev’d to see his wretched case.
Tho when the pang was somewhat overpast,
And the outragious passion nigh appeased, 555
I him desirde, sith daie was overcast
And darke night fast approched, to be pleased
To turne aside unto my cabinet,
And staie with me, till he were better eased
Of that strong stownd which him so sore beset. 560
But by no meanes I could him win there-to,
Ne longer him intreate with me to staie,
But without taking leave he foorth did goe
With staggring pace and dismall lookes dismay,
As if that Death he in the face had seene, 565
Or hellish hags had met upon the way:
But what of him became I cannot weene.
Amoretti and Epithalamion
The Amoretti is a sonnet cycle concerning Spenser’s courtship to Elizabeth Boyle, a well-born Anglo Irish woman, who eventually married the poet on June 11, 1594. First published in 1595 by William Ponsonby, the sonnet cycle was printed as part of a volume entitled Amoretti and Epithalamion. The cycle contains a sequence of 89 sonnets, along with a series of short poems called Anacreontics (after the Ancient Greek poet Anacreon) and an Epithalamion, a public poetic celebration of marriage.
The sonnets draw heavily on the tradition set by the Italian poet Petrarch, featuring an unattainable woman, a distraught lover and a metaphorical conceit that is the focus of each poem. Petrarch developed the Italian sonnet pattern, which is known to this day as the ‘Petrarchan sonnet’. Due to the structure of Italian, the rhyme scheme of the Petrarchan sonnet is more easily fulfilled in that language than in English. The original Italian sonnet form divides the poem’s 14 lines into two parts, an octave (first eight lines) and a sestet (last six lines).
Although often overlooked by scholars as being derivative, when compared to the sonnet cycles of Shakespeare and Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser’s sonnets in Amoretti are innovative in their expression of a range of tones and emotions, as well as in the realistic result they accomplished: Spenser’s marriage to Elizabeth. This actual result is something particularly missing from Shakespeare’ sonnets, with the identity of the ‘Dark lady’ remaining a mystery to this day.
Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374), known in English as Petrarch, was an Italian scholar, poet, and one of the earliest humanists. Petrarch’s sonnets were admired and imitated throughout Europe during the Renaissance and became a model for lyrical poetry.
CONTENTS
G. W. SENIOR, TO THE AUTHOR
Amoretti
Amoretti I
Amoretti II
Amoretti III
Amoretti IV
Amoretti V
Amoretti VI
Amoretti VII
Amoretti VIII
Amoretti IX
Amoretti X
Amoretti XI
Amoretti XII
Amoretti XIII
Amoretti XIV
Amoretti XV
Amoretti XVI
Amoretti XVII
Amoretti XVIII
Amoretti XIX
Amoretti XX
Amoretti XXI
Amoretti XXII
Amoretti XXIII
Amoretti XXIV
Amoretti XXV
Amoretti XXVI
Amoretti XXVII
Amoretti XXVIII
Amoretti XXIX
Amoretti XXX
Amoretti XXXI
Amoretti XXXII
Amoretti XXXIII
Amoretti XXXIV
Amoretti XXXV
Amoretti XXXVI
Amoretti XXXVII
Amoretti XXXVIII
Amoretti XXXIX
Amoretti XL
Amoretti XLI
Amoretti XLII
Amoretti XLIII
Amoretti XLIV
Amoretti XLV
Amoretti XLVI
Amoretti XLVII
Amoretti XLVIII
Amoretti XLIX
Amoretti L
Amoretti LI
Amoretti LII
Amoretti LIII
Amoretti LIV
Amoretti LV
Amoretti LVI
Amoretti LVII
Amoretti LVIII
Amoretti LIX
Amoretti LX
Amoretti LXI
Amoretti LXII
Amoretti LXIII
Amoretti LXIV
Amoretti LXV
Amoretti LXVI
Amoretti LXVII
Amoretti LXVIII
Amoretti LXIX
Amoretti LXX
Amoretti LXXI
Amoretti LXXII
Amoretti LXXIII
Amoretti LXXIV
Amoretti LXXV
Amoretti LXXVI
Amoretti LXXVII
Amoretti LXXVIII
Amoretti LXXIX
Amoretti LXXX
Amoretti LXXXI
Amoretti LXXXII
Amoretti LXXXIII
Amoretti LXXXIV
Amoretti LXXXV
Amoretti LXXXVI
Amoretti LXXXVII
Amoretti LXXXVIII
Anacreontics
Anacreontic I
Anacreontic II
Anacreontic III
Anacreontic IV
Epithalamion
AMORETTI AND EPITHALAMION
WRITTEN NOT LONG SINCE BY EDMUNDE SPENSER
PRINTED FOR WILLIAM PONSONBY, 1595
TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFULL SIR ROBART NEEDHAM, KNIGHT
SIR, to gratulate your safe return from Ireland, I had nothing so readie, nor thought any thing so meete, as these sweete conceited sonets, the deede of that weldeserving gentleman, Maister Edmond Spenser: whose name sufficiently warranting the worthinesse of the work, I do more confidently presume to publish it in his absence, under your name, to whom (in my poore opinion) the patronage therof doth in some respectes properly appertaine. For, besides your judgement and delighte in learned poesie, this gentle Muse, for her former perfection long wished for in Englande, nowe at length crossing the seas in your happy companye, (though to your selfe unknowne) seemeth to make choyse of you, as meetest to give her deserved countenaunce, after her retourne: entertaine her, then, (right worshipfull) in sorte best beseeming your gentle minde, and her merite, and take in worth my good will herein, who seeke no more, but to shew my selfe yours in all dutifull affection.
W. P.
G. W. SENIOR, TO THE AUTHOR
DARKE is the day, when Phœbus face is shrowded,
And weaker sights may wander soone astray:
But when they see his glorious raies unclowded,
With steddy steps they keepe the perfect way:
So while this Muse in forraine landes doth stay, 5
Invention weepes, and pens are cast aside,
The time, like night, depriv’d of chearefull day,
And few do write, but ah! too soone may slide.
Then, hie thee home, that art our perfect guide,
Complete Works of Edmund Spenser Page 144
