The Map and the Clock
Page 9
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some
May yet be there; and godwit, if we can:
Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe’er, my man
Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or of some better hook to us,
Of which we’ll speak our minds, amidst our meat;
And I’ll profess no verses to repeat:
To this, if aught appear, which I not know of,
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;
But that, which most doth take my muse, and me,
Is a pure cup of rich canary wine,
Which is the Mermaid’s, now, but shall be mine:
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted.
Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but Luther’s beer, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooly, or Parrot by;
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men:
But, at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple word,
That shall be uttered at our mirthful board,
Shall make us sad next morning: or affright
The liberty, that we’ll enjoy tonight.
BEN JONSON
To the Memory of My Beloved, the Author Mr William Shakespeare: And What He Hath Left Us
To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame:
While I confess thy writings to be such,
As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much.
Tis true, and all men’s suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise:
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne’er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice, might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd, or whore,
Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and indeed
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument, without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses;
I mean with great, but disproportioned muses:
For, if I thought my judgement were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell, how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe’s mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names; but call forth thundering Aeschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage: or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone, for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the muses still were in their prime,
When like Apollo he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated, and deserted lie
As they were not of nature’s family.
Yet must I not give nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet’s matter, nature be,
His art doth give the fashion. And, that he,
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the muses’ anvil: turn the same,
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn,
For a good poet’s made, as well as bom.
And such wert thou. Look how the father’s face
Lives in his issue, even so, the race
Of Shakespeare’s mind, and manners brightly shines
In his well-turned, and true-filéd lines:
In each of which, he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet swan of Avon, what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage;
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night.
And despairs day, but for thy volume’s light .
BEN JONSON
Song to Celia
Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
BEN JONSON
The Flea
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deny’st me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea, our two bloods mingled be;
Confess it, this cannot be said
A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, nay more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, we’are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to this, self murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
In what could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph
’st, and say’st that thou
Find’st not thyself, nor me the weaker now;
’Tis true, then learn how false, fears be;
Just so much honour, when thou yield’st to me,
Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
JOHN DONNE
The Sun Rising
Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys, and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
Thy beams, so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th’Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left’st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.
She’is all states, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour’s mimic; all wealth alchemy.
Thou sun art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.
JOHN DONNE
Elegy: To his Mistress Going to Bed
Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing though they never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th’ eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you, that now ’tis your bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th’ hill’s shadow steals.
Off with that wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow;
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love’s hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes heaven’s angels used to be
Received by men; thou angel bring’st with thee
A heaven like Mahomet’s paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
License my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America, my new found land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery,
How blessed am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness, all joys are due to thee.
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be,
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,
That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made
For laymen, are all women thus arrayed;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
Whom their imputed grace will dignify
Must see revealed. Then since I may know,
As liberally, as to a midwife, show
Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
Here is no penance, much less innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first, why then
What needst thou have more covering than a man.
JOHN DONNE
Lady Greensleeves
Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight:
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but Lady Greensleeves.
Alas, my love, ye do me wrong,
To cast me off discourteously:
And I have loved you so long,
Delighting in your company.
I have been ready at your hand,
To grant whatever you would crave.
I have both wagered life and land,
Your love and good will for to have.
I bought thee kerchiefs to thy head,
That were wrought fine and gallantly:
I kept thee both at board and bed,
Which cost my purse well favouredly.
I bought thee petticoats of the best,
The cloth so fine as fine might be:
I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee.
Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,
With gold embroidered gorgeously:
Thy petticoat of Sendall right:
And thus I bought thee gladly.
Thy girdle of gold so red,
With pearls bedecked sumptuously:
The like no other lasses had,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
Thy purse and eke thy gay guilt knives,
Thy pincase gallant to the eye:
No better wore the Burgesse wives,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
Thy crimson stockings all of silk,
With gold all wrought above the knee,
Thy pumps as white as was the milk,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
Thy gown was of the grossie green,
Thy sleeves of Satin hanging by:
Which made thee be our harvest Queen,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
Thy garters fringed with the gold,
And silver aglets hanging by,
Which made thee blithe for to behold,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
My gayest gelding I thee gave,
To ride where ever liked thee,
No lady ever was so brave,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
My men were clothed all in green,
And they did ever wait on thee:
All this was gallant to be seen,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
They set thee up, they took thee down,
They served thee with humility,
Thy foot might not once touch the ground,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
For every morning when thou rose,
I sent thee dainties orderly:
To cheer thy stomach from all woes,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
Thou couldst desire no earthly thing.
But still thou hadst it readily:
Thy music still to play and sing,
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
And who did pay for all this gear,
That thou didst spend when pleased thee?
Even I that am rejected here,
And thou disdainst to love me.
Well, I wil pray to God on high,
That thou my constancy maist see:
And that yet once before I die,
Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.
Greensleeves now farewell adieu,
God I pray to prosper thee:
For I am stil thy lover true,
Come once again and love me.
ANON
‘Love like a juggler comes to play his prize’
Love like a juggler comes to play his prize,
And all minds draw his wonders to admire,
To see how cunningly he (wanting eyes)
Can yet deceive the best sight of desire.
The wanton child, how can he fain his fire
So prettily, as none sees his disguise,
How finely do his tricks; while we fools hire
The badge, and office of his tyrannies.
For in the end such juggling he doth make,
As he our hearts instead of eyes doth take;
For men can only by their flights abuse
The sight with nimble, and delightful skill,
But if he play, his gain is our lost will,
Yet childlike we cannot his sports refuse.
LADY MARY WROTH
‘Come, darkest night, becoming sorrow best’
Come, darkest night, becoming sorrow best;
Light, leave thy light, fit for a lightsome soul;
Darkness doth truly suit with me oppressed,
Whom absence’ power doth from mirth control:
The very trees with hanging heads condole
Sweet summer’s parting, and of leaves distressed
In dying colours make a grief-ful roll,
So much, alas, to sorrow are they pressed.
Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpet’s made:
Their fall, their branches, all their mournings prove,
With leafless, naked bodies, whose hues vade
From hopeful green, to wither in their love:
If trees and leaves for absence mourners be,
No marvel that I grieve, who like want see.