The Map and the Clock

by Carol Ann Duffy

  When I Was Fair and Young

  When I was fair and young, then favour graced me.

  Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.

  But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:

  Go, go, go, seek some other where; importune me no more.

  How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,

  How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,

  But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:

  Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

  Then spake fair Venus’ son, that proud victorious boy,

  Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,

  I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:

  Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

  As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breast

  That neither night nor day I could take any rest.

  Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:

  Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

  QUEEN ELIZABETH I

  To Queen Elizabeth

  Lo thus in brief (most sacred Majesty)

  I have set down whence all these Sibyls were

  What they foretold, or saw, we see, and hear

  And profit reap by all their prophesy

  Would God I wear a Sibyl to divine

  In worthy verse your lasting happiness

  Then only I should be characteress

  Of that, which worlds with wonder might define

  But what need I to wish, when you are such,

  Of whose perfections none can write too much.

  JANE SEAGER

  A Communication Which the Author Had to London, Before She Made Her Will

  The time is come, I must depart

  from thee, ah famous city;

  I never yet to rue my smart,

  did find that thou had’st pity.

  Wherefore small cause there is, that I

  should grieve from thee to go;

  But many women foolishly,

  like me, and other moe,

  Do such a fixèd fancy set,

  on those which least deserve,

  That long it is ere wit we get

  away from them to swerve.

  But time with pity oft will tell

  to those that will her try,

  Whether it best be more to mell,

  or utterly defy.

  And now hath time me put in mind

  of thy great cruelness,

  That never once a help would find,

  to ease me in distress.

  Thou never yet would’st credit give

  to board me for a year;

  Nor with apparel me relieve,

  except thou payèd were.

  No, no, thou never did’st me good,

  nor ever wilt, I know.

  Yet am I in no angry mood,

  but will, or ere I go,

  In perfect love and charity,

  my testament here write,

  And leave to thee such treasury,

  as I in it recite.

  Now stand aside and give me leave

  to write my latest will;

  And see that none you do deceive

  of that I leave them till.

  ISABELLA WHITNEY

  Verses in Italian and French, written by the Queen of Scots to the Queen of England

  A single thought which benefits and harms me

  Bitter and sweet alternate endlessly in my heart.

  Between hope and fear this thought weighs down on me

  So much that peace and rest flee from me

  So, dear sister, if this paper reiterates

  My pressing desire to see you;

  It is because I see in pain and sorrow

  The immediate outcome if this request should fail.

  I have seen the ship blown by contrary winds

  On the high seas, near to the harbour mouth

  And the calm turning to troubled water

  Likewise [sister] I live in fear and terror

  Not on account of you, but because there are times

  When Fortune can destroy sail and rigging at once.

  MARY STUART, QUEEN OF SCOTS

  God send euerie Preist ane wyfe

  God send euerie Preist ane wyfe.

  And euerie Nunne ane man.

  That thay mycht leue that haly lyfe

  As first the Kirk began

  Sanet Peter, quhome nane can reprufe,

  His lyfe in Mariage led

  All guide Preistis, quhome God did lufe

  Thair maryit wyffis had

  Greit causis than, I grant, had thay

  Fra wyffis to refraine

  Bot greiter causis half thay may,

  Now wyffis to wed againe

  For than suld nocht sa mony hure

  Be vp and downe this land:

  Nor zit sa mony beggeris pure,

  In Kirk and mercat stand

  And nocht sa mekle bastard seid,

  Throw out this cuntrie sawin:

  Nor gude men vncouth fry suld feid,

  And all the suitli war knawin

  Sen Christis law, and commoun law.

  And Doctouris will admit,

  That Prestis in that zock suld draw,

  Quha dar say contrair it?

  JAMES, JOHN AND ROBERT WEDDERBURN

  from The Faerie Queene

  So forth issued the Seasons of the year;

  First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers

  That freshly budded, and new blooms did bear,

  In which a thousand birds had built their bowers,

  That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;

  And in his hand a javelin he did bear,

  And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)

  A gilt engraven morion he did wear,

  That as some did him love, so others did him fear.

  Then came the jolly Summer, being dight

  In a thin silken cassock, coloured green,

  That was unlined all, to be more light,

  And on his head a garland well beseen,

  He wore, from which, as he had chauffed been,

  The sweat did drop, and in his hand he bore

  A bow and shafts, as he in forest green

  Had hunted late the libbard or the boar,

  And now would bathe his limbs with labour heated sore.

  Then came the Autumn, all in yellow clad,

  As though he joyed in his plenteous store,

  Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad

  That he had banished Hunger, which to-fore

  Had by the belly oft him pinched sore;

  Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll’d

  With ears of corn of every sort, he bore,

  And in his hand a sickle he did hold,

  To reap the ripen’d fruits the which the earth had yold.

  Lastly came Winter, clothed all in frieze,

  Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill,

  Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,

  And the dull drops that from his purpled bill

  As from a limbeck did adown distill;

  In his right hand a tipped staff he held

  With which his feeble steps he stayed still,

  For he was faint with cold and weak with eld,

  That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld.

  These, marching; softly, thus in order went,

  And after them the Months all riding came;

  First sturdy March, with brows full sternly bent,

  And armed strongly, rode upon a Ram,

  The same which over Hellespontus swam;

  Yet in his hand a spade be also hent,

  And in a bag all sorts of seeds ysame,

  Which on the earth he strewed as he went,

  And fill’d her womb with fruitful hope of nourishment.

  Next came fresh Ap
ril, full of lustyhed,

  And wanton as a kid, whose horn new buds;

  Upon a Bull he rode, the same which led

  Europa floating through the Argolic floods;

  His horns were gilden all with golden studs.

  And garnished with garlands goodly dight

  Of all the fairest flowers and freshest buds

  Which th’earth brings forth, and wet he seemed in sight

  With waves, through which he waded for his love’s delight.

  Then came fair May, the fairest maid on ground

  Decked all with dainties of her season’s pride,

  And throwing flowers out of her lap around;

  Upon two brethren’s shoulders she did ride

  The Twins of Leda, which on either side

  Supported her like to their sovereign queen;

  Lord! how all creatures laugh’d when her they spied,

  And leaped and danced as they had ravished been!

  And Cupid’s self about her fluttered all in green.

  And after her came jolly June, arrayed

  All in green leaves, as he a player were,

  Yet in his time he wrought as well as played

  That by his plough-irons might right well appear;

  Upon a Crab he rode, that did him bear

  With crooked crawling steps an uncouth pace,

  And backward yode, as bargemen wont to fare,

  Bending their force contrary to their face;

  Like that ungracious crew which feigns demurest grace.

  Then came hot July, boiling like to fire,

  That all his garments he had cast away;

  Upon a Lion, raging; yet with ire,

  He boldly rode, and made him to obey;

  It was the beast that whilome did forray

  The Nemæan forest, till th’ Amphytrionide

  Him slew, and with his hide did him array;

  Behind his back a scythe, and by his side,

  Under his belt, he bore a sickle circling wide.

  The sixth was August, being rich arrayed

  In garment all of gold down to the ground;

  Yet rode he not, but led a lovely maid

  Forth by the lily hand, the which was crowned

  With ears of corn, and full her hand was found;

  That was the righteous Virgin, which of old

  Lived here on earth, and plenty made abound,

  But after wrong was loved, and justice sold,

  She left the unrighteous world, and was to heaven extolled.

  Next him September marched, eke on foot;

  Yet was he heavy laden with the spoil

  Of harvest’s riches, which he made his boot,

  And him enriched with bounty of the soil;

  In his one hand, as fit for harvest’s toil,

  He held a knife-hook, and in the other hand

  A pair of Weights, with which he did assoyle

  Both more and less, where it in doubt did stand,

  And equal gave to each, as justice duly scanned.

  Then came October, full of merry glee,

  For yet his noule was totty of the must,

  Which he was treading in the wine-fat’s see,

  And of the joyous ale, whose gentle gust

  Made him so frolick, and so full of lust;

  Upon a dreadful Scorpion he did ride,

  The same which, by Diana’s doom unjust,

  Slew great Orion; and eke by his side

  He had his ploughing-share and coulter ready tied.

  Next was November; he full gross and fat,

  As fed with lard, and that right well might seem,

  For he had been a fatting hogs of late,

  That yet his brows with sweat did reek and steem,

  And yet the season was full sharp and breem;

  In planting eke he took no small delight:

  Whereon he rode, not easy was to deem,

  For it a dreadful Centaur was in sight,

  The seed of Saturn and fair Nais, Chiron hight.

  And after him came next the chill December,

  Yet he, through merry feasting which he made,

  And great boofires, did not the cold remember,

  His Saviour’s birth his mind so much did glad;

  Upon a shaggy, bearded Goat he rode,

  The same wherewith Dan Jove in tender years,

  They say, was nourished by the Iæan maid;

  And in his hand a broad deep bowl he bears,

  Of which he freely drinks a health to all his peers.

  Then came old January, wrapped well

  In many weeds, to keep the cold away,

  Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell,

  And blow his nails to warm them if he may,

  For they were numb’d with holding all the day

  A hatchet keen, with which he felled wood,

  And from the trees did lop the needless spray;

  Upon a huge great earth-pot steane he stood,

  From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Roman flood.

  And lastly came old February, sitting

  In an old waggon, for he could not ride,

  Drawn of two Fishes, for the season fitting,

  Which through the flood before did softly slide

  And swim away; yet had he by his side

  His plough and harness fit to till the ground,

  And tools to prune the trees, before the pride

  Of hasting prime did make them burgeon round;

  So passed the Twelve Months forth, and their due places found.

  EDMUND SPENSER

  Echo

  Fair rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace? Peace.

  Peace! what bars me my tongue? who is it that comes me so nigh? I.

  Oh, I do know what guest I have met, it is Echo. ’Tis Echo.

  Well met, Echo, approach; then tell me thy will too. I will too.

  Echo, what do I get yielding my sprite to my grieves? Grieves.

  What medicine may I find for a grief that draws me to death? Death.

  O poisonous medicine! what worse to me can be than it? It.

  In what state was I then, when I took this deadly disease? Ease.

  And what manner a mind which had to that humour a vein? Vain.

  Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove? Prove.

  Oft prove I: but what salve, when reason seeks to be gone? One.

  Oh, what is it? what is it that may be a salve to my love? Love.

  What do lovers seek for, long seeking for to enjoy? Joy.

  What be the joys which for to enjoy they went to the pains? Pains.

  Then to an earnest love what doth best victory lend? End.

  End! but I can never end, Love will not give me leave? Leave.

  How be the minds dispos’d that cannot taste thy physick? Sick.

  Yet say again thy advice for the evils that I told thee? I told thee.

  Doth the infected wretch of his harm the extremity know? No.

  But if he know not his harms, what guides hath he whilst he be blind? Blind.

  What blind guides can he have that leans to a fancy? A fancy.

  Can fancies want eyes, or he fall that steppeth aloft? Oft.

  What causes first made these torments on me to light? Light.

  Can then a cause be so light that forceth a man to go die? Ay.

  Yet tell what light thing I had in me to draw me to die? Eye.

  Eyesight made me to yield; but what first pierced to my eyes? Eyes.

  Eyes hurters, eyes hurt; but what from them to me falls? Falls.

  But when I first did fall, what brought most fall to my heart? Art.

  Art I what can be that art that thou dost mean by thy speech? Speech.

  What be the fruits of speaking art? what grows by the words? Words.

  O, much more than words: those words served more me to bless. Less.

  Oh, when shall I be known where most to be known I d
o long? Long.

  Long be thy woes for such news; but how recks she my thoughts? Oughts.

  Then, then, what do I gain, since unto her will I do wind? Wind.

  Wind, tempests, and storms, yet in end what gives she desire? Ire.

  Silly reward! yet among women hath she of virtue the most. Most.

  What great name may I give to so heav’nly a woman? A wo-man.

  Woe but seems to me joy, that agrees to my thought so. I thought so.

  Think so, for of my desirèd bliss it is only the course. Curse.

  Curs’d be thyself for cursing that which leads me to joys. Toys.

  What be the sweet creatures where lowly demands be not heard? Hard.

  What makes them be unkind? speak, for thou hast narrowly pried? Pride.

  Whence can pride come there, since springs of beauty be thence? Thence.

  Horrible is this blasphemy unto the most holy. O lie.

  Thou liest, false Echo! their minds as virtue be just. Just.

  Mock’st thou those diamonds which only be matcht by the gods? Odds.

  Odds! what an odds is there! since them to the heavens I prefer. Err.

  Tell yet again me the names of these fair form’d to do evils? Devils.

  Devils! if in hell such devils do abide, to the hell I do go. Go.

  SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

  ‘Sweet kiss, thy sweets I fain would sweetly indite’

  Sweet kiss, thy sweets I fa in would sweetly indite

  Which even of sweetness sweetest sweetener art,

  Pleasingst consort, where each sense holds a part,

  Which, coupling doves, guides Venus’ chariot right;

  Best charge and bravest retrait in Cupid’s fight,

  A double key which opens to the heart,

  Most rich when most his riches it impart;

  Nest of young joys, schoolmaster of delight,

  Teaching the means at once to take and give;

  The friendly fray, where blows both wound and heal,