Athéisme, and Tyranny, and gaine vniust;
Franticke Ambition, Enuie, shagge-heard Lust;
Both sorts of Ignorance; and Knowledge swell’d;
And ouer these, the ould wolfe Auarice held
A goulden Scourge, that dropt, with blood and vapor;
With which, he whipt them to their endlesse labor.
From vnder heapes, cast from his fruitfull thyes,
(As ground, to all their damn’d Impieties)
The mourneful Goddesse, drew dead Humane Loue;
Nor could they let her entrie, though they stroue;
And furnac’t on her, all their venemous breath;
(For; though all outrage breakes the Peace of death)
She Coffind him; and forth to Funerall
All helpt to beare him: But to sound it all,
My Trumpet fayles; and all my forces shrinke.
Who can enact to life, what kils to thinke?
Nor can the Soules beames bear, through blood & flesh,
Formes of such woe, and height, as now, afresh,
Flow’d from these Obiects: to see Poesie
Prepar’d to doe the speciall obsequie,
And sing the Funerall Oration;
How it did showe, to see her tread vpon
The breast of Death; and on a Furie leane;
How, to her Fist, (as rites of seruice then)
A Cast of Rauens flew; On her shoulders, how
The Foules, that to the Muses Queene we vow,
(The Owle, and Heronshawe) sate, how, for her hayre,
A haplesse Comet, hurld about the Ayre
Her curled Beames: whence sparkes, like falling starres,
Vanisht about her; and with windes aduerse,
Were still blowne back; To which the Phoenix flew;
And (burning on her head) would not renew:
How her diuine Oration did moue,
For th’vnredeemed losse of humane Loue;
Obiect mans future state to reasons eye;
The soules infusion; Immortalitie;
And proue her formes firme, that are here imprest;
How her admirde straines, wrought on euery Beast;
And made the woods cast their Immanitie,
Vp to the Ayre; that did to Citties flye
In Fewell for them: and, in Clowds of smoke,
Euer hang ouer them; cannot be spoke;
Nor how to Humane loue (to Earth now giuen)
A lightening stoop’t, and rauisht him to heauen,
And with him Peace, with all her heauenly seede:
Whose outward Rapture, made me inward bleed;
Nor can I therefore, my Intention keepe;
Since Teares want words, & words want teares to weepe.
COROLLARIVM AD PRINCIPEM.
Thus shooke I this abortiue from my Braine;
Which, with it, laie in this vnworthy paine:
Yet since your HOMER had his worthy hand
In vent’ring this delaie of your Command,
To end his Iliades; deigne (Great Prince of men)
To holde before it your great Shielde; and then
It may, doe seruice, worthy this delaie,
To your more worthy Pleasure; and I maie
Regather the sperst fragments of my spirits,
And march with HOMER through his deathless merits,
To your vndying graces. Nor did he
Vanish with this slight vision; but brought me
Home to my Cabine; and did all the waie
Assure me of your Graces constant staie
To his soules Being, wholly naturalliz’d
And made your Highnesse subiect; which he priz’d,
Past all his honours helde in other Lands;
And that (because a Princes maine state stands
In his owne knowledge, and his powre within)
These works that had chiefe virtue to beginne
Those informations; you would holde most deare;
Since false Ioyes, haue their seasons to appeare
lust as they are; but these delights were euer
Perfect and needefull, and would irke you neuer.
I praying for this happie worke of heauen
In your sweete disposition; the calme Euen
Tooke me to rest; and he with wings of Fire,
To soft Ayres supreame Region did aspire.
By the euer most humbly and truly dedicated
to your most Princely graces,
Geo. Chapman.
PETRARCHS SEVEN PENITENTIALL PSALMS
With other
Philosophicall
POEMS, and a
HYMNE TO CHRIST VPON
THE CROSSE.
TO THE RIGHT
WORTHILY HONORD,
graue, and ingenuous Fauorer of all vertue, Sir Edw. Phillips Knight, Maister of the Rolles, &c.
SIR, though the name of a Poeme beares too light and vaine a Character in his forhead, either to answer my most affectionate desire to do you honour, or deserue your acceptance; yet since the subiect & matter is graue and sacred enough, (how rudely soeuer I haue endeuored to giue it grace and elocution,) I presumed to preferre to your emptiest leisure of reading, this poore Dedication. In the substance and soule of whose humane and diuine obiect, the most wise and religious that euer writ to these purposes, I haue (for so much as this little containes) imitated, and celebrated. Good life, and the true feeling of our humane birth and Being, being the end of it all: and (as I doubt not your iudiciall and noble apprehension will confesse) the chiefe end of whatsoeuer else, in all authoritie and principalitie. Notwithstanding (either for the slendernesse of the volume, or harshnesse of the matter) I haue not dared to submit it (as the rest of my weake labors) to my most gracious and sacred Patron, the Prince; reseruing my thrice humble dutie to his Highnesse, for some much greater labours, to which it hath pleased him to command me. And thus most truly thankfull for all your right free and honorable fauours, I humbly and euer rest
The most unfained and
constant obseruer of
you and yours,
Geo. Chapman.
PSALME I.
Heu mihi Misero.
1
O ME wretch, I haue enrag’d
My Redeemer; and engag’d
My life, on deaths slow foote presuming:
I haue broke his blessed lawes,
Turning with accursed cause,
Sauing loue to wrath consuming.
2
Truths straite way, my will forsooke,
And to wretched bywaies tooke,
Brode, rough, steepe, and full of danger.
Euery way, I labour found,
Anguish, and delights vnsound,
To my iourneyes end a stranger.
3
Rockes past fowles wings, tooke my flights,
All my dayes spent; all my nights;
Toyles and streights though still repelling.
One or other beast I met,
Shunning that for which I swet;
Wild beasts dens were yet my dwelling.
4
Pleasure, that all paine subornes,
Making beds of ease, on thornes,
Made me found with ruine sleeping.
Rest, in Torments armes I sought,
All good talkt, but all ill thought,
Laught, at what deseru’d my weeping.
5
What is now then left to do?
What course can I turne me to?
Danger, such vnscap’t toyles pitching.
All my youths faire glosse is gone,
Like a shipwracke each way blowne,
Yet his pleasures still bewitching.
6
I delay my Hauen to make;
Nor yet safeties true way take;
On her left hand euer erring:
I a little see my course,
Which in me, the warre makes worse,
Th’vse of that small sight deferring.
7
Oft I haue attempted flight,
Th’old yoke casting, but his weight
Thou Nature to my bones impliest.
O that once my necke were easde,
Straight it were; were thy powre pleasd,
O, of all things high, thou highest.
8
O could I my sinne so hate,
I might loue thee yet, though late;
But my hope of that is sterued;
Since mine owne hands make my chaînes:
lust, most iust, I grant my paines;
Labour wrings me most deserued.
9
Mad wretch, how deare haue I bought
Fetters with mine owne hands wrought?
Freely in deaths ambush falling.
I made; and the foe disposde
Nets that neuer will be losde.
More I striue, the more enthralling:
10
I look’t by, and went secure
In paths slipperie, and impure;
In my selfe, my sinne still flattering.
I thought youths flowre still would thriue,
Follow’d as his storme did driue,
With it, all his hemlockes watering:
11
Said; what thinke I of th’extreames
Ere the Meane hath spent his beames?
Each Age hath his proper obiect.
God sees this, and laughs to see.
Pardon soone is got; My knee
When I will repent, is subiect.
12
Custome then his slaue doth claime,
Layes on hands that touch and maime;
Neuer cour’d repented neuer: —
Flight is then, as vaine, as late;
Faith too weake to cast out Fate,
Refuge past my reach is euer.
13
I shall perish then in sinne,
If thy aide Lord, makes not in,
Mending what doth thus depraue me;
Minde thy word then, Lord, and lend
Thy worke thy hand, crowne my end.
From the iawes of Sathan saue me.
14
All glorie to the Father be,
And to the Sonne as great as he:
With the coequall sacred Spirit;
Who all beginnings were before,
Are, and shall be euermore.
Glorie, all glorie to their merit.
PSALME II.
1
Inuocabo quem ojfendi.
I will inuoke whom I inflam’d;
Nor will approch, his fierie throne in feare;
I will recall, nor be asham’d
Whom I cast off, and pierce againe his eare.
Hope, quite euen lost, I will restore,
And dare againe to looke on heauen;
The more I fall, inuoke the more;
Prayre once will speed, where eare is euer giuen.
2
In heauen my deare Redeemer dwels,
His eare yet let downe to our lowest sounds;
His hand can reach the deepest hels;
His hand holds balmes for all our oldest wounds.
I, in my selfe, do often die;
But in him, I as oft reuiue;
My health shines euer in his eye;
That heales in hell, and keepes euen death aliue.
3
Feare all, that would put feare on me;
My sinne most great is, but much more his grace:
Though ill for worse still alterd be:
And I in me, my eagrest foe embrace:
Yet Truth in this hath euer stood,
The blackest spots my sinnes let fall,
One drop of his most precious blood;
Can cleanse and turne, to purest Iuorie all.
4
Strike, Lord, and breake the rockes that grow
In these red seas of thy offence in me:
And cleansing fountaines thence shall flow,
Though of the hardest Adamant they be.
As cleare as siluer, seas shall rore,
Descending to that noysome sinke,
Where euery houre hels horride Bore
Lies plung’d, and drownd, & doth his vomits drinke.
5
Race, Lord, my sinnes inueterate skarres,
And take thy new-built Mansion vp in me:
Though powre fades, see my wils sharpe warres,
And let me please euen while I anger thee.
Let the remembrance of my sinne,
With sighs all night ascend thine eare:
And when the morning light breakes in,
Let health be seene, and all my skies be cleare.
6
Thus though I temper ioyes with cares,
Yet keepe thy mercies constant, as my crimes:
He cherish, with my faith, my prayres,
And looke still sighing vp for better times.
My selfe, I euermore will feare,
But thee, my rest, my hope, still keepe:
Thy darkest clouds, thy lightnings cleare,
Thy thunders rocke me, that breake others sleepe.
7
My purgatorie O Lord make
My bridall chamber, wedded to thy will:
And let my couch still witnesse take,
In teares still steep’t, that I adore thee still.
My body He make pay thee paines,
Hell iawes shall neuer need to ope.
Though all loues faile, thine euer raignes,
Thou art my refuge, last, and onely hope.
All glorie to the Father, &c.
PSALME III.
Miserere Domine.
1
Stay now, O Lord, my bleeding woes,
The veine growes low and drie;
O now enough, and too much flowes,
My sinne is swolne too hie.
2
What rests for the abhorr’d euent?
Time wasts, but not my woe:
Woes me, poore man, my life is spent
In asking what to do.
3
Pale Death stands fixt before mine eyes,
My graue gaspes, and my knell
Rings out in my cold eares the cryes
And gnashed teeth of hell.
4
How long shall this day mocke my hope,
With what the next will be?
When shall I once begin to ope,
My lockt vp way to thee?
5
Ease Lord, my still-increasing smart,
Salue not, but cure my wounds:
Direct the counsels of my heart,
And giue my labours bounds.
6
As in me, thou hast skill infusd,
So will, and action breath:
Lest chidden for thy gifts abusd,
I weepe and pine to death.
7
See, bound beneath the foe I lie,
Rapt to his blasted shore:
O claime thy right, nor let me die,
Let him insult no more.
8
Tell all the ransome I must giue,
Out of my hourely paines:
See how from all the world I liue,
To giue griefe all the raines.
9
What is behind, in this life aske,
And in these members sums:
Before the neuer ending taske,
And bedrid beggerie comes.
10
Shew me thy way, ere thy chiefe light
Downe to the Ocean diues:
O now tis euening, and the night,
Is chiefly friend to theeues.
11
Compell me, if thy Call shall faile,
To make thy straight way, mine:
In any skorn’d state let me wayle,
So my poore soule be thine.
All glorie to the Father be,
And to the Sonne as great as he,
With the coequall sacred Spirit:
Who all beginning
s were before,
Are, and shall be euermore.
Glorie, all glorie to their merit.
PSALME IIII.
Recordari libet.
1
Once let me serue, Lord, my desire,
Thy gifts to me recounting, and their prise,
That shame may set my cheekes on fire,
And iust confusion teare in teares mine eyes.
Since quite forgetting what I am,
Adorn’d so Godlike with thy grace,
I yet neglect to praise thy name,
And make thy image in me, poore and base.
2
Thou hast created, euen for me,
The starres, all heauen, and all the turns of time;
For of what vse are these to thee,
Though euery one distinguisht by his clime?
Thou Sunne and Moone, thou Nights and Dayes,
Thou Light and Darknesse hast disposd:
Wrapt earth in waters nimble wayes,
Her vales, hils, plains, with founts, floods, seas enclosd.
3
Her rich wombe thou hast fruitfull made,
With choyce of seeds, that all wayes varied are:
And euery way, our eyes inuade
With formes and graces, in being common, rare.
In sweete greene herbes thou cloth’st her fields,
Distinguishest her hils with flowres.
Her woods thou mak’st her meadowes shields,
Adorn’d with branches, leaues, and odorous bowres.
4
The wearie thou hast rest prepar’d,
The hote refreshest with coole shades of trees,
Which streames melodious enterlar’d,
For sweet retreats, that none but thy eye sees:
The thirstie, thou giu’st siluer springs;
The hungrie, berries of all kinds;
Herbes wholesome, and a world of things,
To nurse our bodies, and informe our mindes.
5
Now let me cast mine eye, and see
With what choice creatures, strangely form’d and faire
All seas, and lands, are fil’d by thee:
And all the round spread tracts of yeelding aire.
Whose names or numbers who can reach?
With all earths powre, yet in thy span:
All which, thy boundlesse bounties preach,
All laide, O glorie! at the foote of man.
6
Whose body, past all creatures shines,
Such wondrous orders of his parts thou mak’st,
Whose countenance, state, and loue combines:
In him vnmou’d, when all the world thou shak’st.
Whose soule thou giu’st powre, euen of thee,
Ordaining it to leaue the earth,
All heauen, in her discourse to see,
And note how great a wombe, went to her birth.
7
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 22
