human
Can you write a poem for me in the style of Sax Rohmer?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem in the style of Sax Rohmer:
  Philip Sidney was born at Penshurst, in Kent, on the 29th of
November, 1554.  His father, Sir Henry Sidney, had married Mary,
Edmund Spenser and Walter Raleigh were of like age with Philip
Sidney, differing only by about a year, and when Elizabeth became
Grammar School, where he studied for three or four years, and had
counsellor to King James, and friend to Sir Philip Sidney."  Even
Sidney was placed when he was entered to Christ Church in his
Sidney was in his eighteenth year in May, 1572, when he left the
From Paris Sidney travelled on by way of Heidelberg to Frankfort,
eighteen and Languet fifty-five, a French Huguenot, learned and
zealous for the Protestant cause, who had been Professor of Civil
statesman whose character and genius would give him weight in the
cause in Europe.  Sidney travelled on with Hubert Languet from
attendance it the Court of Queen Elizabeth in July, 1575.  Next
month his father was sent to Ireland as Lord Deputy, and Sidney
lived in London with his mother.
build themselves a house of their own a little way outside one of
later that he came to London.
In February, 1577, Philip Sidney, not yet twenty-three years old,
forward a Protestant League among the princes of Germany.  On his
measure of her brother's genius, and was of like noble strain.
Spenser described her as
"The gentlest shepherdess that lives this day,
And most resembling, both in shape and spright,
Her brother dear."
"Underneath this sable herse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd, and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee."
written a long argument to the Queen against the project of her
Your dear self can best witness the manner, being done in loose
sheets of paper, most of it in your presence, the rest by sheets
sent unto you as fast as they were done."  He never meant that it
Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia."
with heroic romance, out of which came presently, in France, a
distinct school of fiction.  But the genius of its author was at
university about the time when the first theatres were built, and
himself wrote verse, he was companion with the poets, and counted
such opinion, Philip Sidney wrote in 1581 this piece, which was
first printed in 1595, nine years after his death, as a separate
publication, entitled "An Apologie for Poetrie."  Three years
private, and not public--have led to grave misapprehension among
Philip Sidney.  But this is not the place for a discussion of
Astrophel and Stella sonnets.
soldier carried past, who eyed it greedily.  At once he gave the
water to the soldier, saying, "Thy necessity is yet greater than
mine."  Sidney lived on, patient in suffering, until the 17th of
October.  When he was speechless before death, one who stood by
asked Philip Sidney for a sign of his continued trust in God.  He
manhood of Elizabethan England passed away.
When the right virtuous Edward Wotton {1} and I were at the
place of an esquire in his stable; and he, according to the
fertileness of the Italian wit, did not only afford us the
both in camps and courts; nay, to so unbelieved a point he
horse.  But thus much, at least, with his no few words, he drove
into me, that self love is better than any gilding, to make that
seem gorgeous wherein ourselves be parties.
something unto you in the defence of that my unelected vocation;
great danger of civil war among the Muses. {2}
At first, truly, to all them that, professing learning, inveigh
against poetry, may justly be objected, that they go very near to
else but poets.  Nay, let any history he brought that can say any
knowledge to posterity, may justly challenge to be called their
fathers in learning.  For not only in time they had this priority
excellent foregoing, others have followed to beautify our mother
tongue, as well in the same kind as other arts.
poets; so Thales, Empedocles, and Parmenides sang their natural
were, and beauty depended most of poetry.  For all stands upon
dialogues; wherein he feigns many honest burgesses of Athens
banquet, the delicacy of a walk, with interlacing mere tiles, as
So that, truly, neither philosopher nor historiographer could, at
their lawgiving divines they have no other writers but poets.  In
childhood, met with this verse -
Arma amens capio, nec sat rationis in armis
and in his age performed it.  Although it were a very vain and
godless superstition; as also it was, to think spirits were
commanded by such verses; whereupon this word charms, derived of
"carmina," cometh, so yet serveth it to show the great reverence
those wits were held in; and altogether not without ground, since
And {10} may not I presume a little farther to show the
applied, deserveth not to be scourged out of the church of God.
stars, and by that he seeth set down what order nature hath taken
speaketh only of the rules of speech; and the rhetorician and
logician, considering what in nature will soonest prove and
But let those things alone, and go to man; {14} for whom as the
other things are, so it seemeth in him her uttermost cunning is
manifest by delivering them forth in such excellency as he had
imagined them; which delivering forth, also, is not wholly
second nature; which in nothing he showeth so much as in poetry;
when, with the force of a divine breath, he bringeth things forth
Poesy, {16} therefore, is an art of imitation; for so Aristotle
speaking picture, with this end, to teach and delight.
Of {17} this have been three general kinds:  the CHIEF, both in
antiquity and excellency, which they that did imitate the
inconceivable excellencies of God; such were David in the Psalms;
Moses and Deborah in their hymns; and the writer of Job; which,
beside others, the learned Emanuel Tremellius and Fr. Junius do
psalms when they are merry; and I know is used with the fruit of
comfort by some, when, in sorrowful pangs of their death-bringing
But because this second sort is wrapped within the fold of the
proposed subject, and takes not the free course of his own
invention; whether they properly be poets or no, let grammarians
dispute, and go to the THIRD, {20} indeed right poets, of whom
excellent, who having no law but wit, bestow that in colours upon
painteth the outward beauty of such a virtue.  For these three be
imitate, borrow nothing of what is, hath been, or shall be; but
range only, reined with learned discretion, into the divine
there not idle tongues to bark at them.
versifiers that need never answer to the name of poets. {22}  For
rhyming and versing that maketh a poet (no more than a long gown
maketh an advocate, who, though he pleaded in armour should be an
indeed, the senate of poets have chosen verse as their fittest
each syllable of each word by just proportion, according to the
dignity of the subject.
Now, {24} therefore, it shall not be amiss, first, to weight this
receive a more favourable sentence.  This purifying of wit, this
others, persuading themselves to be demi-gods, if they knew the
causes of things, became natural and supernatural philosophers.
when, by the balance of experience, it was found that the
astronomer, looking to the stars, might fall in a ditch; that the
horsemanship; so the horseman's to soldiery; and the soldier not
only to have the skill, but to perform the practice of a soldier.
Among {27} whom principally to challenge it, step forth the moral
families, and maintaining of public societies?
greatest authorities are built upon the notable foundation of
hearsay, having much ado to accord differing writers, and to pick
goes than how his own wit runs; curious for antiquities, and
temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magistra vitae, nuncia
confirming story by stories, how much the wisest senators and
princes have been directed by the credit of history, as Brutus,
Now {31} whom shall we find, since the question standeth for the
ought to carry the title from them both, and much more from all
other serving sciences.  Therefore compare we the poet with the
moment, but even for passing each of these in themselves; and for
poenae" than "virtutis amore," or, to say righter, doth not
endeavour to make men good, but that their evil hurt not others,
having no care, so he be a good citizen, how bad a man he be:
therefore, as our wickedness maketh him necessary, and necessity
plant goodness even in the secretest cabinet of our souls.  And
consequence, and therefore a less fruitful doctrine.
Now {32} doth the peerless poet perform both; for whatsoever the
most exquisitely all their shape, colour, bigness, and particular
full beauties, might well make the hearer able to repeat, as it
doubt, the philosopher, with his learned definitions, be it of
virtue or vices, matters of public policy or private government,
replenisheth the memory with many infallible grounds of wisdom,
apparent shining; and, contrarily, the remorse of conscience in
fall lower, the Terentian Gnatho, and our Chaucer's Pandar, so
clearly to see through them?
But even in the most excellent determination of goodness, what
philosophy, hath the more force in teaching.  Wherein, if the
"Mediocribus esse poetis
Non Di, non homines, non concessere columnae," {33})
it is, I say again, not the fault of the art, but that by few men
uncharitableness and humbleness, as the divine narration of Dives
searching wisdom knew the estate of Dives burning in hell, and of
For conclusion, I say the philosopher teacheth, but he teacheth
obscurely, so as the learned only can understand him; that is to
But now may it be alleged, that if this managing of matters be so
poesy considereth in his imposed names; and the particular only
doubt which is to be chosen, no more than whether you had rather
have Vespasian's picture right as he was, or, at the painter's
should be, or as it was? then, certainly, is more doctrinable the
yesterday therefore it should rain to-day; then, indeed, hath it
where the historian in his bare WAS hath many times that which we
poetically.
For, that a feigned example bath as much force to teach as a true
Babylonians, was received; and, for his known valour, so far
credited, that he did find means to deliver them over to Darius.
Much-like matters doth Livy record of Tarquinius and his son.
Xenophon excellently feigned such another stratagem, performed by
shall save your nose by the bargain; for Abradatus did not
must needs be enamoured of her.  Well may you see Ulysses in a
storm, and in other hard plights; but they are but exercises of
patience and magnanimity, to make them shine the more in the near
Dionysius, and I know not how many more of the same kennel, that
speed well enough in their abominable injustice of usurpation.
I conclude, therefore, that he excelleth history, not only in
furnishing the mind with knowledge, but in setting it forward to
moving with the poet.  And that moving is of a higher degree than
hath a free desire to do well, the inward light each mind hath in
Now, {40} therein, of all sciences (I speak still of human and
according to the human conceit), is our poet the monarch.  For he
proportion, either accompanied with, or prepared for, the well-
they be cradled in their graves); glad they will be to hear the
exercise of courtesy, liberality, and especially courage.  Who
"--fugientem haec terra videbit?
Usque adeone mori miserum est?" {42}
Where the philosophers (as they think) scorn to delight, so much
name, and know no other good but "indulgere genio," and therefore
themselves be aware, as if they took a medicine of cherries.
Infinite {43} proofs of the strange effects of this poetical
especially if they were Platonic, they must have learned geometry
ungratefully taken from his bosom.  The application most divinely
filthiness, as that heavenly psalm of mercy well testifieth.
By these, therefore, examples and reasons, I think it may be
manifest that the poet, with that same hand of delight, doth draw
poetry, being the most familiar to teach it, and most princely to
But I am content not only to decipher him by his works (although
works in commendation and dispraise must ever hold a high
blemish.
three kinds; as the tragical and comical, whereupon is risen the
pastoral; but that cometh all to one in this question; for, if
remembered, it shall not be amiss, in a word, to cite the special
Is it, then, the pastoral poem which is misliked? {46}  For,
them that lie lowest from the goodness of them that sit highest?
Sometimes under the pretty tales of wolves and sheep, can include
"Haec memini, et victum frustra contendere Thyrsim.
Ex illo Corydon, Corydon est tempore nobis." {47}
philosopher Heraclitus, the weakness of mankind, and the
rightly pointing out how weak be the passions of wofulness?
Is it the bitter, but wholesome iambic, {49} who rubs the galled
Or the satiric? who,
"Omne vafer vitium ridenti tangit amico;" {50}
who sportingly never leaveth, until he make a man laugh at folly,
"Est Ulubris, animus si nos non deficit aequus." {51}
No, perchance, it is the comic; {52} whom naughty play-makers and
"pistrinum;" {53} although, perchance, the sack of his own faults
comedy will, I think, by nobody be blamed.
timentes, metus in authorem redit."  But how much it can move,
Plutarch yielded a notable testimony of the abominable tyrant
Alexander Pheraeus; from whose eyes a tragedy, well made and
represented, drew abundance of tears, who without all pity had
singing the lauds of the immortal God?  Certainly, I must confess
that Philip of Macedon reckoned a horse-race won at Olympus among
There rests the heroical, {56} whose very name, I think, should
concurreth to the maintaining the heroical, which is not only a
AEneas be worn in the tablet of your memory, how he governeth
himself in the ruin of his country; in the preserving his old
government; and I think, in a mind most prejudiced with a
dispraise.
nation doth despise it, nor barbarous nation is without it; since
prophesying, the other of making, and that indeed that name of
whole parts in it poetical, and that even our Saviour Christ
vouchsafed to use the flowers of it; since all his kinds are not
learnings, honour the poet's triumph.
But {59} because we have ears as well as tongues, and that the
sacred a majesty, but that an itching tongue may rub itself upon
it), so deserve they no other answer, but, instead of laughing at
contrary side, if we will turn Ovid's verse,
"Ut lateat virtus proximitate mali."
"That good lies hid in nearness of the evil," Agrippa will be as
merry in the showing the Vanity of Science, as Erasmus was in the
jesters.
But that which giveth greatest scope to their scorning humour, is
only as a man may say by his forcible quality, but by his best
remembering, memory being the only treasure of knowledge, those
"Percontatorem fugito:  nam garrulus idem est.
Dum sibi quisque placet credula turba sumus." {62}
knowledge, it must be in jest that any man can speak against it.
Now {63} then go we to the most important imputations laid to the
Secondly, that it is the mother of lies.
Thirdly, that it is the nurse of abuse, infecting us with many
commonwealth.  Truly this is much, if there be much truth in it.
To {66} the second, therefore, that they should be the principal
your imagination, to conjure you to believe for true what he
invention; in troth, not labouring to tell you what is or is not,
profitable invention.
under the names of John of the Stile, and John of the Nokes, he
principal if not only abuse I can hear alleged.  They say the
comedies rather teach, than reprehend, amorous conceits; they say
ambitiously climbed.  Alas! Love, I would thou couldst as well
philosophers spent a good deal of their lamp-oil in setting forth
that not only love, but lust, but vanity, but, if they list,
abuseth man's wit, but that man's wit abuseth poetry.  For I will
But, what! shall the abuse of a thing make the right use odious?
Nay, truly, though I yield that poesy may not only be abused, but
being abused, teach poison, the most violent destroyer?  Doth not
They allege herewith, that before poets began to be in price, our
indeed a chain-shot against all learning or bookishness, as they
commonly term it.  Of such mind were certain Goths, of whom it is
library, one hangman, belike fit to execute the fruits of their
"Jubeo stultum esse libenter--" {69}
pattern of Achilles, than by hearing the definition of fortitude.
esteemed most worthy of reverence; and with good reason, since of
boldly examine with what reason he did it.
First, truly, a man might maliciously object that Plato, being a
right discerning of true points of knowledge, they forthwith,
Euripides' verses many Athenians had their lives saved of the
Syracusans, where the Athenians themselves thought many of the
philosophers unworthy to live.  Certain poets, as Simonides and
women.  So, as belike this banishment grew not for effeminate
oracles ceased, of the Divine providence, and see whether the
indeed, I had much rather, since truly I may do it, show their
authority; whom, the wiser a man is, the more just cause he shall
poesy more than myself do, namely, to be a very inspiring of a
become his scholar Plato to put such words in his master's mouth
against poets. But what needs more?  Aristotle writes the "Art of
But I list not to defend poesy with the help of his underling
confirmed, and the low creeping objections so soon trodden down
{74}; it not being an art of lies, but of true doctrine; not of
"Musa, mihi causas memora, quo numine laeso?" {76}
Sweet poesy! that hath anciently had kings, emperors, senators,
teachers as Beza and Melancthon; so learned philosophers as
besides many, but before all, that Hospital {77} of France, than
whom, I think, that realm never brought forth a more accomplished
others' reading:  that poesy, thus embraced in all other places,
laurels than it was accustomed.  For heretofore poets have in
England also flourished; and, which is to be noted, even in those
Truly, even that, as of the one side it giveth great praise to
poesy, which, like Venus (but to better purpose), had rather be
troubled in the net with Mars, than enjoy the homely quiet of
Vulcan; so serveth it for a piece of a reason why they are less
wits undertake it, who think it enough if they can be rewarded of
"Queis meliore luto finxit praecordia Titan," {78}
itself, should seek to know what they do, and how they do,
especially look themselves in an unflattering glass of reason, if
ancient learned affirm it was a divine, and no human skill, since
indeed, we do, but that very forebackwardly; for where we should
"Quicquid conabor dicere, versus erit;" {81}
forgiven in so reverend antiquity.  I account the Mirror of
eclogues, indeed, worthy the reading, if I be not deceived.  That
Sannazaro in Italian, did affect it.  Besides these, I do not
remember to have seen but few (to speak boldly) printed that have
verses be put in prose, and then ask the meaning, and it will be
reason.
Our {83} tragedies and comedies, not without cause, are cried out
But if it be so in Gorboduc, how much more in all the rest? where
hours' space; which, how absurd it is in sense, even sense may
delivered, for safety's sake, with great riches, by his father
should he sail over into Thrace, and so spend I know not how many
Even with the finding of the body; leaving the rest to be told by
decency nor discretion; so as neither the admiration and
commiseration, nor the right sportfulness, is by their mongrel
find, that they never, or very daintily, match horn-pipes and
laughter; but well may one thing breed both together.  Nay, in
themselves, they have, as it were, a kind of contrariety.  For
delight we scarcely do, but in things that have a conveniency to
"Nil habet infelix pauperatas durius in se,
Quam qnod ridiculos, homines facit." {88}
But rather a busy loving courtier, and a heartless threatening
Thraso; a self-wise seeming school-master; a wry-transformed
traveller:  these, if we saw walk in stage names, which we play
naturally, therein were delightful laughter, and teaching
matter; of which we could turn our eyes to nothing, but we should
But, truly, many of such writings as come under the banner of
unresistible love, if I were a mistress, would never persuade me
material point of poesy.
Now {91} for the outside of it, which is words, or (as I may term
another time with coursing of a letter, as if they were bound to
follow the method of a dictionary:  another time with figures and
marvelled, among many scholars, and, which is to be pitied, among
they will be sure to be fine.
Tully, when he was to drive out Catiline, as it were with a
artificially which we see men in choler do naturally.  And we,
which should be the end of their fineness.
Now for similitudes in certain printed discourses, I think all
contrary disputer, but only to explain to a willing hearer:  when
For my part, I do not doubt, when Antonius and Crassus, the great
But what! methinks I deserve to be pounded {94} for straying from
manner:  whereto our language giveth us great occasion, being,
grammar.  Nay, truly, it hath that praise, that it wants not
conceit of the mind, which is the end of speech, that hath it
equally with any other tongue in the world, and is particularly
happy in compositions of two or three words together, near the
Now, {96} of versifying there are two sorts, the one ancient, the
number, with some regard of the accent, the chief life of it
standeth in that like sounding of the words, which we call rhyme.
language, hath not one word that hath his accent in the last
syllable, saving two, called antepenultima; and little more, hath
Now for rhyme, though we do not observe quantity, we observe the
accent very precisely, which other languages either cannot do, or
trifling of this discourse is much too much enlarged.
So {97} that since the ever praiseworthy poesy is full of virtue,
mine, even in the name of the Nine Muses, no more to scorn the
believe, with Bembus, that they were the first bringers in of all
moral, and "quid non?" to believe, with me, that there are many
"Si quid mea Carmina possunt:"
thus doing, your soul shall be placed with Dante's Beatrix, or
Virgil's Anchisis.
But if (fie of such a but!) you be born so near the dull-making
cataract of Nilus, that you cannot hear the planet-like music of
poetry; if you have so earth-creeping a mind, that it cannot lift
rustical disdain, will become such a Mome, as to be a Momus of
poetry; then, though I will not wish unto you the ass's ears of
Ireland; yet thus much curse I must send you in the behalf of all
from the earth for want of an epitaph.
Made by Sir Philip Sidney, upon his meeting with his two worthy
friends and fellow poets, Sir Edward Dyer and M. Fulke Greville.
Join mates in mirth to me,
Grant pleasure to our meeting;
Let Pan, our good god, see
How grateful is our greeting.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Ye hymns and singing skill
Of god Apollo's giving,
Be pressed our reeds to fill
With sound of music living.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Sweet Orpheus' harp, whose sound
The stedfast mountains moved,
Let there thy skill abound,
To join sweet friends beloved.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
My two and I be met,
A happy blessed trinity,
As three more jointly set
In firmest band of unity.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
The number best beloved,
Within my heart you be
In friendship unremoved.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Give leave your flocks to range,
Let us the while be playing;
Within the elmy grange,
Your flocks will not be straying.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Cause all the mirth you can,
Since I am now come hither,
Who never joy, but when
I am with you together.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Like lovers do their love,
So joy I in you seeing:
Let nothing me remove
From always with you being.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
And as the turtle dove
To mate with whom he liveth,
Such comfort fervent love
Of you to my heart giveth.
Join hearts and hands, so let it be,
Make but one mind in bodies three.
Now joined be our hands,
Let them be ne'er asunder,
But link'd in binding bands
By metamorphosed wonder.
So should our severed bodies three
As one for ever joined be.
Walking in bright Phoebus' blaze,
Where with heat oppressed I was,
I got to a shady wood,
Where green leaves did newly bud;
And of grass was plenty dwelling,
Decked with pied flowers sweetly smelling.
In this wood a man I met,
On lamenting wholly set;
Ruing change of wonted state,
Whence he was transformed late,
Once to shepherds' God retaining,
Now in servile court remaining.
There he wand'ring malecontent,
Up and down perplexed went,
Daring not to tell to me,
Spake unto a senseless tree,
One among the rest electing,
These same words, or this affecting:
"My old mates I grieve to see
Void of me in field to be,
Where we once our lovely sheep
Lovingly like friends did keep;
Oft each other's friendship proving,
Never striving, but in loving.
"But may love abiding be
In poor shepherds' base degree?
It belongs to such alone
To whom art of love is known:
Seely shepherds are not witting
What in art of love is fitting.
"Nay, what need the art to those
To whom we our love disclose?
It is to be used then,
When we do but flatter men:
Friendship true, in heart assured,
Is by Nature's gifts procured.
"Therefore shepherds, wanting skill,
Can Love's duties best fulfil;
Since they know not how to feign,
Nor with love to cloak disdain,
Like the wiser sort, whose learning
Hides their inward will of harming.
"Well was I, while under shade
Oaten reeds me music made,
Striving with my mates in song;
Mixing mirth our songs among.
Greater was the shepherd's treasure
Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure.
"Where how many creatures be,
So many puffed in mind I see;
Like to Juno's birds of pride,
Scarce each other can abide:
Friends like to black swans appearing,
Sooner these than those in hearing.
"Therefore, Pan, if thou may'st be
Made to listen unto me,
Grant, I say, if seely man
May make treaty to god Pan,
That I, without thy denying,
May be still to thee relying.
"Only for my two loves' sake,
In whose love I pleasure take;
Only two do me delight
With their ever-pleasing sight;
Of all men to thee retaining,
Grant me with those two remaining.
"So shall I to thee always
With my reeds sound mighty praise:
And first lamb that shall befall,
Yearly deck thine altar shall,
If it please thee to be reflected,
And I from thee not rejected."
So I left him in that place,
Taking pity on his case;
Learning this among the rest,
That the mean estate is best;
Better filled with contenting,
Void of wishing and repenting.
Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread,
For Love is dead:
All Love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain:
Worth, as nought worth, rejected,
And faith fair scorn doth gain.
From so ungrateful fancy;
From such a female frenzy;
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us.
Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not hear it said
That Love is dead:
His death-bed, peacock's folly:
His winding-sheet is shame;
His will, false-seeming holy,
His sole executor, blame.
From so ungrateful fancy;
From such a female frenzy;
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us.
Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read,
For Love is dead:
Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth
My mistress' marble heart;
Which epitaph containeth,
"Her eyes were once his dart."
From so ungrateful fancy;
From such a female frenzy;
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord, deliver us.
Alas! I lie:  rage hath this error bred;
Love is not dead,
Love is not dead, but sleepeth
In her unmatched mind:
Where she his counsel keepeth
Till due deserts she find.
Therefore from so vile fancy,
To call such wit a frenzy:
Who Love can temper thus,
Good Lord, deliver us.
Ah, poor Love, why dost thou live,
Thus to see thy service lost;
If she will no comfort give,
Make an end, yield up the ghost!
That she may, at length, approve
That she hardly long believed,
That the heart will die for love
That is not in time relieved.
Oh, that ever I was born
Service so to be refused;
Faithful love to be forborn!
Never love was so abused.
But, sweet Love, be still awhile;
She that hurt thee, Love, may heal thee;
Sweet!  I see within her smile
More than reason can reveal thee.
For, though she be rich and fair,
Yet she is both wise and kind,
And, therefore, do thou not despair
But thy faith may fancy find.
Yet, although she be a queen
That may such a snake despise,
Yet, with silence all unseen,
Run, and hide thee in her eyes:
Where if she will let thee die,
Yet at latest gasp of breath,
Say that in a lady's eye
Love both took his life and death.
Philoclea and Pamela sweet,
By chance, in one great house did meet;
And meeting, did so join in heart,
That th' one from th' other could not part:
And who indeed (not made of stones)
Would separate such lovely ones?
The one is beautiful, and fair
As orient pearls and rubies are;
And sweet as, after gentle showers,
The breath is of some thousand flowers:
For due proportion, such an air
Circles the other, and so fair,
That it her brownness beautifies,
And doth enchant the wisest eyes.
Have you not seen, on some great day,
Two goodly horses, white and bay,
Which were so beauteous in their pride,
You knew not which to choose or ride?
Such are these two; you scarce can tell,
Which is the daintier bonny belle;
And they are such, as, by my troth,
I had been sick with love of both,
And might have sadly said, 'Good-night
Discretion and good fortune quite;'
But that young Cupid, my old master,
Presented me a sovereign plaster:
Mopsa! ev'n Mopsa! (precious pet)
Whose lips of marble, teeth of jet,
Are spells and charms of strong defence,
To conjure down concupiscence.
How oft have I been reft of sense,
By gazing on their excellence,
But meeting Mopsa in my way,
And looking on her face of clay,
Been healed, and cured, and made as sound,
As though I ne'er had had a wound?
And when in tables of my heart,
Love wrought such things as bred my smart,
Mopsa would come, with face of clout,
And in an instant wipe them out.
And when their faces made me sick,
Mopsa would come, with face of brick,
A little heated in the fire,
And break the neck of my desire.
Now from their face I turn mine eyes,
But (cruel panthers!) they surprise
Me with their breath, that incense sweet,
Which only for the gods is meet,
And jointly from them doth respire,
Like both the Indies set on fire:
Which so o'ercomes man's ravished sense,
That souls, to follow it, fly hence.
No such-like smell you if you range
To th' Stocks, or Cornhill's square Exchange;
There stood I still as any stock,
Till Mopsa, with her puddle dock,
Her compound or electuary,
Made of old ling and young canary,
Bloat-herring, cheese, and voided physic,
Being somewhat troubled with a phthisic,
Did cough, and fetch a sigh so deep,
As did her very bottom sweep:
Whereby to all she did impart,
How love lay rankling at her heart:
Which, when I smelt, desire was slain,
And they breathed forth perfumes in vain.
Their angel voice surprised me now;
But Mopsa, her Too-whit, Too-whoo,
Descending through her oboe nose,
Did that distemper soon compose.
And, therefore, O thou precious owl,
The wise Minerva's only fowl;
What, at thy shrine, shall I devise
To offer up a sacrifice?
Hang AEsculapius, and Apollo,
And Ovid, with his precious shallow.
Mopsa is love's best medicine,
True water to a lover's wine.
Nay, she's the yellow antidote,
Both bred and born to cut Love's throat:
Be but my second, and stand by,
Mopsa, and I'll them both defy;
And all else of those gallant races,
Who wear infection in their faces;
For thy face (that Medusa's shield!)
Will bring me safe out of the field.
To the tune of the Spanish song, "Si tu senora no ducles de mi."
O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee,
In whom all joys so well agree,
Heart and soul do sing in me.
This you hear is not my tongue,
Which once said what I conceived;
For it was of use bereaved,
With a cruel answer stung.
No! though tongue to roof be cleaved,
Fearing lest he chastised be,
Heart and soul do sing in me.
O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee,
In whom all joys so well agree,
Just accord all music makes;
In thee just accord excelleth,
Where each part in such peace dwelleth,
One of other beauty takes.
Since then truth to all minds telleth,
That in thee lives harmony,
Heart and soul do sing in me.
O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee,
In whom all joys so well agree,
They that heaven have known do say,
That whoso that grace obtaineth,
To see what fair sight there reigneth,
Forced are to sing alway:
So then since that heaven remaineth
In thy face, I plainly see,
Heart and soul do sing in me.
O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee,
In whom all joys so well agree,
Sweet, think not I am at ease,
For because my chief part singeth;
This song from death's sorrow springeth:
As to swan in last disease:
Stay to true love's melody:
Heart and soul do sing in me.
You better sure shall live, not evermore
Trying high seas; nor, while sea's rage you flee,
Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.
The golden mean who loves, lives safely free
From filth of foreworn house, and quiet lives,
Released from court, where envy needs must be.
The wind most oft the hugest pine tree grieves:
The stately towers come down with greater fall:
The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves.
Evil haps do fill with hope, good haps appall
With fear of change, the courage well prepared:
Foul winters, as they come, away they shall.
Though present times, and past, with evils be snared,
They shall not last:  with cithern silent Muse,
Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime spared.
In hard estate, with stout shows, valour use,
The same man still, in whom wisdom prevails;
In too full wind draw in thy swelling sails.
Prometheus, when first from heaven high
He brought down fire, till then on earth not seen;
Fond of delight, a satyr, standing by,
Gave it a kiss, as it like sweet had been.
Feeling forthwith the other burning power,
Wood with the smart, with shouts and shrieking shrill,
He sought his ease in river, field, and bower;
But, for the time, his grief went with him still.
So silly I, with that unwonted sight,
In human shape an angel from above,
Feeding mine eyes, th' impression there did light;
That since I run and rest as pleaseth love:
The difference is, the satyr's lips, my heart,
He for a while, I evermore, have smart.
A satyr once did run away for dread,
With sound of horn which he himself did blow:
Fearing and feared, thus from himself he fled,
Deeming strange evil in that he did not know.
Such causeless fears when coward minds do take,
It makes them fly that which they fain would have;
As this poor beast, who did his rest forsake,
Thinking not why, but how, himself to save.
Ev'n thus might I, for doubts which I conceive
Of mine own words, my own good hap betray;
And thus might I, for fear of may be, leave
The sweet pursuit of my desired prey.
Better like I thy satyr, dearest Dyer,
Who burnt his lips to kiss fair shining fire.
My mistress lowers, and saith I do not love:
I do protest, and seek with service due,
In humble mind, a constant faith to prove;
But for all this, I cannot her remove
From deep vain thought that I may not be true.
If oaths might serve, ev'n by the Stygian lake,
Which poets say the gods themselves do fear,
I never did my vowed word forsake:
For why should I, whom free choice slave doth make,
Else-what in face, than in my fancy bear?
My Muse, therefore, for only thou canst tell,
Tell me the cause of this my causeless woe?
Tell, how ill thought disgraced my doing well?
Tell, how my joys and hopes thus foully fell
To so low ebb that wonted were to flow?
O this it is, the knotted straw is found;
In tender hearts, small things engender hate:
A horse's worth laid waste the Trojan ground;
A three-foot stool in Greece made trumpets sound;
An ass's shade e'er now hath bred debate.
If Greeks themselves were moved with so small cause,
To twist those broils, which hardly would untwine:
Should ladies fair be tied to such hard laws,
As in their moods to take a ling'ring pause?
I would it not, their metal is too fine.
My hand doth not bear witness with my heart,
She saith, because I make no woeful lays,
To paint my living death and endless smart:
And so, for one that felt god Cupid's dart,
She thinks I lead and live too merry days.
Are poets then the only lovers true,
Whose hearts are set on measuring a verse?
Who think themselves well blest, if they renew
Some good old dump that Chaucer's mistress knew;
And use but you for matters to rehearse.
Then, good Apollo, do away thy bow:
Take harp and sing in this our versing time,
And in my brain some sacred humour flow,
That all the earth my woes, sighs, tears may know;
And see you not that I fall low to rhyme.
As for my mirth, how could I but be glad,
Whilst that methought I justly made my boast
That only I the only mistress had?
But now, if e'er my face with joy be clad,
Think Hannibal did laugh when Carthage lost.
Sweet lady, as for those whose sullen cheer,
Compared to me, made me in lightness sound;
Who, stoic-like, in cloudy hue appear;
Who silence force to make their words more dear;
Whose eyes seem chaste, because they look on ground:
Believe them not, for physic true doth find,
Choler adust is joyed in woman-kind.
Show that we do not grudge at all when others do rejoice.
With sight made dim with daily tears another's sport to see.
Whoever lambkins saw, yet lambkins love to play,
To play when that their loved dams are stolen or gone astray?
If this in them be true, as true in men think I,
A lustless song forsooth thinks he that hath more lust to cry.
WILL.  A time there is for all, my mother often says,
Now let those lightsome sights we see thy darkness overcome.
That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries.
WILL.  What?  Is thy bagpipe broke, or are thy lambs miswent;
Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost; or thy new raiment-rent?
tell.
Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve;
Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most,
And looks so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost.
WILL.  Who bound thee?
WILL.  What witnesses thereto?
WILL.  What seal?
WILL.  Who made the band so fast?
past.
WILL.  What keepeth safe thy band?
Lock'd fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best.
WILL.  If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?
WILL.  What living get you then?
So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain.
WILL.  What care takes she for thee?
My freedom, with show of her beams, with virtue, my content.
WILL.  God shield us from such dames!  If so our dames be sped,
The shepherds will grow lean I trow, their sheep will be ill-fed.
The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow.
That foxes leave to steal, they find they die therefore.
For nothing can more tedious be than plaint in time of joy.
But hence, even hence, I must needs go; such is my dogged fate.
To the tune of "Wilhelmus van Nassau," &c.
Who hath his fancy pleased,
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On Nature's sweetest light;
A light which doth dissever,
And yet unite the eyes;
A light which, dying, never
Is cause the looker dies.
She never dies, but lasteth
In life of lover's heart;
He ever dies that wasteth
In love his chiefest part.
Thus is her life still guarded,
In never dying faith;
Thus is his death rewarded,
Since she lives in his death.
Look then and die, the pleasure
Doth answer well the pain;
Small loss of mortal treasure,
Who may immortal gain.
Immortal be her graces,
Immortal is her mind;
They, fit for heavenly places,
This heaven in it doth bind.
But eyes these beauties see not,
Nor sense that grace descries;
Yet eyes deprived be not
From sight of her fair eyes:
Which, as of inward glory
They are the outward seal,
So may they live still sorry,
Which die not in that weal.
But who hath fancies pleased,
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On Nature's sweetest light.
Who hath e'er felt the change of love,
And known those pangs that losers prove,
May paint my face without seeing me,
And write the state how my fancies be,
The loathsome buds grown on Sorrow's tree.
But who by hearsay speaks, and hath not fully felt
What kind of fires they be in which those spirits melt,
Shall guess, and fail, what doth displease,
Feeling my pulse, miss my disease.
O no!  O no! trial only shows
The bitter juice of forsaken woes;
Where former bliss, present evils do stain;
Nay, former bliss adds to present pain,
While remembrance doth both states contain.
Come, learners, then to me, the model of mishap,
Ingulphed in despair, slid down from Fortune's lap;
And, as you like my double lot,
Tread in my steps, or follow not.
For me, alas!  I am full resolved
Those bands, alas! shall not be dissolved;
Nor break my word, though reward come late;
Nor fail my faith in my failing fate;
Nor change in change, though change change my state:
But always own myself, with eagle-eyed Truth, to fly
Up to the sun, although the sun my wings do fry;
For if those flames burn my desire,
Yet shall I die in Phoenix' fire.
When, to my deadly pleasure,
When to my lively torment,
Lady, mine eyes remained
Joined, alas! to your beams.
With violence of heavenly
Beauty, tied to virtue;
Reason abashed retired;
Gladly my senses yielded.
Gladly my senses yielding,
Thus to betray my heart's fort,
Left me devoid of all life.
They to the beamy suns went,
Where, by the death of all deaths,
Find to what harm they hastened.
Like to the silly Sylvan,
Burned by the light he best liked,
When with a fire he first met.
Yet, yet, a life to their death,
Lady you have reserved;
Lady the life of all love.
For though my sense be from me,
And I be dead, who want sense,
Yet do we both live in you.
Turned anew, by your means,
Unto the flower that aye turns,
As you, alas! my sun bends.
Thus do I fall to rise thus;
Thus do I die to live thus;
Changed to a change, I change not.
Thus may I not be from you;
Thus be my senses on you;
Thus what I think is of you;
Thus what I seek is in you;
All what I am, it is you.
No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe,
Although with cruel fire,
First thrown on my desire,
She sacks my rendered sprite;
For so fair a flame embraces
All the places,
Where that heat of all heats springeth,
That it bringeth
To my dying heart some pleasure,
Since his treasure
Burneth bright in fairest light.  No, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe,
Although with cruel fire,
First thrown on my desire,
She sacks my rendered sprite;
Since our lives be not immortal,
But to mortal
Fetters tied, do wait the hour
Of death's power,
They have no cause to be sorry
Who with glory
End the way, where all men stay.  No, no, no, no.
No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe,
Although with cruel fire,
First thrown on my desire,
She sacks my rendered sprite;
No man doubts, whom beauty killeth,
Fair death feeleth,
And in whom fair death proceedeth,
Glory breedeth:
So that I, in her beams dying,
Glory trying,
Though in pain, cannot complain.  No, no, no, no.
To the tune of a Neapolitan Villanel.
All my sense thy sweetness gained;
Thy fair hair my heart enchained;
My poor reason thy words moved,
So that thee, like heaven, I loved.
Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan:
Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei:
While to my mind the outside stood,
For messenger of inward good.
Nor thy sweetness sour is deemed;
Thy hair not worth a hair esteemed;
Reason hath thy words removed,
Finding that but words they proved.
Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan,
Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei:
For no fair sign can credit win,
If that the substance fail within.
No more in thy sweetness glory,
For thy knitting hair be sorry;
Use thy words but to bewail thee
That no more thy beams avail thee;
Dan, dan,
Dan, dan,
Lay not thy colours more to view,
Without the picture be found true.
Woe to me, alas, she weepeth!
Fool! in me what folly creepeth?
Was I to blaspheme enraged,
Where my soul I have engaged?
Dan, dan,
Dan, dan,
And wretched I must yield to this;
The fault I blame her chasteness is.
Sweetness! sweetly pardon folly;
Tie me, hair, your captive wholly:
Words!  O words of heavenly knowledge!
Know, my words their faults acknowledge;
Dan, dan,
Dan, dan,
And all my life I will confess,
The less I love, I live the less.
From "La Diana de Monte-Mayor," in Spanish:  where Sireno, a
What changes here, O hair,
I see, since I saw you!
How ill fits you this green to wear,
For hope, the colour due!
Indeed, I well did hope,
Though hope were mixed with fear,
No other shepherd should have scope
Once to approach this hair.
Ah hair! how many days
My Dian made me show,
With thousand pretty childish plays,
If I ware you or no:
Alas, how oft with tears, -
O tears of guileful breast! -
She seemed full of jealous fears,
Whereat I did but jest.
Tell me, O hair of gold,
If I then faulty be,
That trust those killing eyes I would,
Since they did warrant me?
Have you not seen her mood,
What streams of tears she spent,
'Till that I sware my faith so stood,
As her words had it bent?
Who hath such beauty seen
In one that changeth so?
Or where one's love so constant been,
Who ever saw such woe?
Ah, hair! are you not grieved
To come from whence you be,
Seeing how once you saw I lived,
To see me as you see?
On sandy bank of late,
I saw this woman sit;
Where, "Sooner die than change my state,"
She with her finger writ:
Thus my belief was staid,
Behold Love's mighty hand
On things were by a woman said,
And written in the sand.
The same Sireno in "Monte-Mayor," holding his mistress's glass
before her, and looking upon her while she viewed herself, thus
Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined,
No farther debt on me is laid,
Since that in self-same metal coined,
Sweet lady, you remain well paid;
For if my place give me great pleasure,
Having before my nature's treasure,
In face and eyes unmatched being,
You have the same in my hands, seeing
What in your face mine eyes do measure.
Nor think the match unevenly made,
That of those beams in you do tarry,
The glass to you but gives a shade,
To me mine eyes the true shape carry;
For such a thought most highly prized,
Which ever hath Love's yoke despised,
Better than one captived perceiveth,
Though he the lively form receiveth,
The other sees it but disguised.
The dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove,
Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie,
That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love,
Wounded, inflamed, knit to the death, I die.
Hardened and cold, far from affection's snare
Was once my mind, my temper, and my life;
While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare,
Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife.
Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom change
For others' ease, their fruit, or free estate;
So brave a shot, dear fire, and beauty strange,
Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late,
And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I find
A salve, fresh air, and bright contented mind.
Virtue, beauty, and speech, did strike, wound, charm,
My heart, eyes, ears, with wonder, love, delight,
First, second, last, did bind, enforce, and arm,
His works, shows, suits, with wit, grace, and vows' might,
Thus honour, liking, trust, much, far, and deep,
Held, pierced, possessed, my judgment, sense, and will,
Till wrongs, contempt, deceit, did grow, steal, creep,
Bands, favour, faith, to break, defile, and kill,
Then grief, unkindness, proof, took, kindled, taught,
Well-grounded, noble, due, spite, rage, disdain:
But ah, alas! in vain my mind, sight, thought,
Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shun, refrain.
For nothing, time, nor place, can loose, quench, ease
Mine own embraced, sought, knot, fire, disease.
Faint amorist, what, dost thou think
To taste Love's honey, and not drink
One dram of gall? or to devour
A world of sweet, and taste no sour?
Dost thou ever think to enter
Th' Elysian fields, that dar'st not venture
In Charon's barge? a lover's mind
Must use to sail with every wind.
He that loves and fears to try,
Learns his mistress to deny.
Doth she chide thee? 'tis to show it,
That thy coldness makes her do it:
Is she silent? is she mute?
Silence fully grants thy suit:
Doth she pout, and leave the room?
Then she goes to bid thee come:
Is she sick? why then be sure,
She invites thee to the cure:
Doth she cross thy suit with "No?"
Tush, she loves to hear thee woo:
Doth she call the faith of man
In question?  Nay, she loves thee than;
And if e'er she makes a blot,
She's lost if that thou hit'st her not.
He that after ten denials,
Dares attempt no farther trials,
Hath no warrant to acquire
The dainties of his chaste desire.
Since shunning pain, I ease can never find;
Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed;
Since will is won, and stopped ears are charmed;
Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind;
Since loosing long, the faster still I bind;
Since naked sense can conquer reason armed;
Since heart, in chilling fear, with ice is warmed;
In fine, since strife of thought but mars the mind,
I yield, O Love, unto thy loathed yoke,
Yet craving law of arms, whose rule doth teach,
That, hardly used, who ever prison broke,
In justice quit, of honour made no breach:
Whereas, if I a grateful guardian have,
Thou art my lord, and I thy vowed slave.
When Love puffed up with rage of high disdain,
Resolved to make me pattern of his might,
Like foe, whose wits inclined to deadly spite,
Would often kill, to breed more feeling pain;
He would not, armed with beauty, only reign
On those affects which easily yield to sight;
But virtue sets so high, that reason's light,
For all his strife can only bondage gain:
So that I live to pay a mortal fee,
Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts,
Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see,
And can cry help with naught but groans and starts:
Longing to have, having no wit to wish,
To starving minds such is god Cupid's dish.
To the tune of "Non credo gia che piu infelice amante."
The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
And mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth
What grief her breast oppresseth,
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair!  O take some gladness,
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish,
But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken,
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
Full womanlike, complains her will was broken,
But I, who daily craving,
Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair!  O take some gladness,
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
To the tune of "Basciami vita mia."
Sleep, baby mine, Desire's nurse, Beauty, singeth;
Thy cries, O baby, set mine head on aching:
The babe cries, "'Way, thy love doth keep me waking."
Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringeth
Unto my children alway good rest taking:
The babe cries, "Way, thy love doth keep me waking."
Since, baby mine, from me thy watching springeth,
Sleep then a little, pap Content is making;
The babe cries, "Nay, for that abide I waking."
The scourge of life, and death's extreme disgrace;
The smoke of hell, the monster called Pain:
Long shamed to be accursed in every place,
By them who of his rude resort complain;
Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught,
His ugly evil in others' good to hide;
Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought
As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide;
And so by privilege of sacred seat,
A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns,
He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great,
Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains.
Ah, saucy Pain, let not thy terror last,
More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.
Woe! woe to me, on me return the smart:
My burning tongue hath bred my mistress pain?
For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart,
With her due praise did of my state complain.
I praised her eyes, whom never chance doth move;
Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet;
Her milken breasts, the nurse of child-like love;
Her legs, O legs! her aye well-stepping feet:
Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire,
(First sealing up my heart as prey of his)
He flies to her, and, boldened with desire,
Her face, this age's praise, the thief doth kiss.
O Pain!  I now recant the praise I gave,
And swear she is not worthy thee to have.
Thou pain, the only guest of loathed Constraint;
The child of Curse, man's weakness foster-child;
Brother to Woe, and father of Complaint:
Thou Pain, thou hated Pain, from heaven exiled,
How hold'st thou her whose eyes constraint doth fear,
Whom cursed do bless; whose weakness virtues arm;
Who others' woes and plaints can chastely bear:
In whose sweet heaven angels of high thoughts swarm?
What courage strange hath caught thy caitiff heart?
Fear'st not a face that oft whole hearts devours?
Or art thou from above bid play this part,
And so no help 'gainst envy of those powers?
If thus, alas, yet while those parts have woe;
So stay her tongue, that she no more say, "O."
And have I heard her say, "O cruel pain!"
And doth she know what mould her beauty bears?
Mourns she in truth, and thinks that others feign?
Fears she to feel, and feels not others' fears?
Or doth she think all pain the mind forbears?
That heavy earth, not fiery spirits, may plain?
That eyes weep worse than heart in bloody tears?
That sense feels more than what doth sense contain?
No, no, she is too wise, she knows her face
Hath not such pain as it makes others have:
She knows the sickness of that perfect place
Hath yet such health, as it my life can save.
But this, she thinks, our pain high cause excuseth,
Where her, who should rule pain, false pain abuseth.
Like as the dove, which seeled up doth fly,
Is neither freed, nor yet to service bound;
But hopes to gain some help by mounting high,
Till want of force do force her fall to ground:
Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye,
And thence cast off where his sweet hurt he found,
Hath neither leave to live, nor doom to die;
Nor held in evil, nor suffered to be sound.
But with his wings of fancies up he goes,
To high conceits, whose fruits are oft but small;
Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, lose
Both force to fly, and knowledge where to fall:
O happy dove, if she no bondage tried!
More happy I, might I in bondage bide!
In wonted walks, since wonted fancies change,
Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise:
For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range,
Part of my pain, me-seems, engraved lies.
The rocks, which were of constant mind the mark,
In climbing steep, now hard refusal show;
The shading woods seem now my sun to dark,
And stately hills disdain to look so low.
The restful caves now restless visions give;
In dales I see each way a hard ascent:
Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live;
Alas, sweet brooks do in my tears augment:
Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer me;
Infected minds infect each thing they see.
If I could think how these my thoughts to leave,
Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end;
If rebel sense would reason's law receive;
Or reason foiled, would not in vain contend:
Then might I think what thoughts were best to think:
Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink.
If either you would change your cruel heart,
Or, cruel still, time did your beauties stain:
If from my soul this love would once depart,
Or for my love some love I might obtain;
Then might I hope a change, or ease of mind,
By your good help, or in myself, to find.
But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent.
With reason's strife, by senses overthrown;
You fairer still, and still more cruel bent,
I loving still a love that loveth none:
I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain,
Thought, reason, sense, time, You, and I, maintain.
Oft have I mused, but now at length I find
Why those that die, men say, they do depart:
Depart:  a word so gentle to my mind,
Weakly did seem to paint Death's ugly dart.
But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind
Me one to leave, with whom I leave my heart;
I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind,
That parting thus, my chiefest part I part.
Part of my life, the loathed part to me,
Lives to impart my weary clay some breath;
But that good part wherein all comforts be,
Now dead, doth show departure is a death:
Yea, worse than death, death parts both woe and joy,
From joy I part, still living in annoy.
Finding those beams, which I must ever love,
To mar my mind, and with my hurt to please,
I deemed it best, some absence for to prove,
If farther place might further me to ease.
My eyes thence drawn, where lived all their light,
Blinded forthwith in dark despair did lie,
Like to the mole, with want of guiding sight,
Deep plunged in earth, deprived of the sky.
In absence blind, and wearied with that woe,
To greater woes, by presence, I return;
Even as the fly, which to the flame doth go,
Pleased with the light, that his small corse doth burn:
Fair choice I have, either to live or die
A blinded mole, or else a burned fly.
Near Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found,
But so confused, that neither any eye
Can count them just, nor Reason reason try,
What force brought them to so unlikely ground.
To stranger weights my mind's waste soil is bound,
Of passion-hills, reaching to Reason's sky,
From Fancy's earth, passing all number's bound,
Passing all guess, whence into me should fly
So mazed a mass; or, if in me it grows,
A simple soul should breed so mixed woes.
The Bruertons have a lake, which, when the sun
Approaching warms, not else, dead logs up sends
From hideous depth; which tribute, when it ends,
Sore sign it is the lord's last thread is spun.
My lake is Sense, whose still streams never run
But when my sun her shining twins there bends;
Then from his depth with force in her begun,
Long drowned hopes to watery eyes it lends;
But when that fails my dead hopes up to take,
Their master is fair warned his will to make.
We have a fish, by strangers much admired,
Which caught, to cruel search yields his chief part:
With gall cut out, closed up again by art,
Yet lives until his life be new required.
A stranger fish myself, not yet expired,
Tho', rapt with Beauty's hook, I did impart
Myself unto th' anatomy desired,
Instead of gall, leaving to her my heart:
Yet live with thoughts closed up, 'till that she will,
By conquest's right, instead of searching, kill.
Peak hath a cave, whose narrow entries find
Large rooms within where drops distil amain:
Till knit with cold, though there unknown remain,
Deck that poor place with alabaster lined.
Mine eyes the strait, the roomy cave, my mind;
Whose cloudy thoughts let fall an inward rain
Of sorrow's drops, till colder reason bind
Their running fall into a constant vein
Of truth, far more than alabaster pure,
Which, though despised, yet still doth truth endure.
A field there is, where, if a stake oe prest
Deep in the earth, what hath in earth receipt,
Is changed to stone in hardness, cold, and weight,
The wood above doth soon consuming rest.
The earth her ears; the stake is my request;
Of which, how much may pierce to that sweet seat,
To honour turned, doth dwell in honour's nest,
Keeping that form, though void of wonted heat;
But all the rest, which fear durst not apply,
Failing themselves, with withered conscience die.
Of ships by shipwreck cast on Albion's coast,
Which rotting on the rocks, their death to die:
From wooden bones and blood of pitch doth fly
A bird, which gets more life than ship had lost.
My ship, Desire, with wind of Lust long tost,
Brake on fair cliffs of constant Chastity;
Where plagued for rash attempt, gives up his ghost;
So deep in seas of virtue, beauties lie:
But of this death flies up the purest love,
Which seeming less, yet nobler life doth move.
These wonders England breeds; the last remains -
A lady, in despite of Nature, chaste,
On whom all love, in whom no love is placed,
Where Fairness yields to Wisdom's shortest reins.
A humble pride, a scorn that favour stains;
A woman's mould, but like an angel graced;
An angel's mind, but in a woman cased;
A heaven on earth, or earth that heaven contains:
Now thus this wonder to myself I frame;
She is the cause that all the rest I am.
Thou blind man's mark; thou fool's self-chosen snare,
Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scattered thought:
Band of all evils; cradle of causeless care;
Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought:
Desire! Desire!  I have too dearly bought,
With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;
Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought
Who shouldst my mind to higher things prepare;
But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought;
In vain thou mad'st me to vain things aspire;
In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire:
For Virtue hath this better lesson taught,
Within myself to seek my only hire,
Desiring nought but how to kill Desire.
Leave me, O love! which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things:
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine, and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide,
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven, and comes from heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world, thy uttermost I see,
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.
{1}  Edward Wotton, elder brother of Sir Henry Wotton.  He was
knighted by Elizabeth in 1592, and made Comptroller of her
Euphuism, and strictly reasoned.
{2}  Here the introduction ends, and the argument begins with its
{3}  A fable from the "Hetamythium" of Laurentius Abstemius,
vipers, impatient to be born, break through the side of their
mother, and so kill her.
{5}  Part 2.  Borrowed from by Philosophers.
through Solon, by family tradition to Critias.  But first Timaeus
{7}  Plato's "Republic," book ii.
{8}  Part 3.  Borrowed from by Historians.
{10}  Part 5.  And really sacred and prophetic in the Psalms of
{13}  Poets improve Nature.
{14}  And idealize man.
{15}  Here a Second Part of the Essay begins.
{16}  Part 1.  Poetry defined.
{17}  Part 2.  Its kinds.  a. Divine.
{18} Philosophical, which is perhaps too imitative.
{19} Marcus Manilius wrote under Tiberius a metrical treatise on
Astronomy, of which five books on the fixed stars remain.
{21}  Part 3.  Subdivisions of Poetry proper.
{22}  Its essence is in the thought, not in apparelling of verse.
{24}  The Poet's Work and Parts.  Part 1. WORK:  What Poetry does
{25}  Their clay lodgings -
"Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."
{27}  Its advantage herein over Moral Philosophy.
{28}  It's advantage herein over History.
{29}  "All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorising thy trespass with compare."
{30}  "Witness of the times, light of truth, life of memory,
mistress of life, messenger of antiquity."--Cicero, "De Oratore."
{31}  In what manner the Poet goes beyond Philosopher, Historian,
{32}  He is beyond the Philosopher.
{33}  Horace's "Ars Poetica," lines 372-3.  But Horace wrote "Non
admitted mediocrity in poets."
text-book in the days of James I. and Charles I., "Because it is
impossible thus to read through all authors, there are books that
matter."  Frequent resort to the Polyanthea caused many a good
commonly without wit in it.
therefore, to be older than Homer's.
{38}  Quintus Curtius, a Roman historian of uncertain date, who
{39}  Not knowledge but practice.
{41}  In "Love's Labour's Lost" a resemblance has been fancied
between this passage and Rosalind's description of Biron, and the
"Which his fair tongue--conceit's expositor -
Delivers in such apt and gracious words,
That aged ears play truant at his tables,
And younger hearings are quite ravished,
So sweet and voluble is his discourse."
Turnus flying view?
Is it so vile a thing to die?"
(Phaer's Translation .)
{43}  Instances of the power of the Poet's work.
{45}  Part II.  The PARTS of Poetry.
{46}  Can Pastoral be condemned?
"Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico
Tangit, et admissus circum praecordia ludit," &c.
Shrewd Flaccus touches each vice in his laughing friend.  Dryden
thus translated the whole passage:-
"Unlike in method, with concealed design
Did crafty Horace his low numbers join;
And, with a sly insinuating grace
Laughed at his friend, and looked him in the face:
Would raise a blush where secret vice he found;
And tickle, while he gently probed the wound;
With seeming innocence the crowd beguiled,
But made the desperate passes while he smiled."
{51}  From the end of the eleventh of Horace's epistles (Lib. 1):
"Coelum non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt,
Strenua nos exercet inertia; navibus atque
Quadrigis petimus bene vivere.  Quod petis, hic est,
Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit aequus."
With force of ships and four horse teams.  That which you seek is
At Ulubrae, unless your mind fail to be calm and clear.
enfranchisement is even this?  When your ideal world, wherein the
amazement enough, like the Lothario in Wilhelm Meister, that your
miserable hampered actual wherein thou even now standest, here or
that, so the form thou give it be heroic, be poetic?  O thou that
couldest thou only see."
{55}  The old song of Percy and Douglas, Chevy Chase in its first
{58}  Summary of the argument thus far.
{59}  Objections stated and met.
{60}  Cornelius Agrippa's book, "De Incertitudine et Vanitate
Scientiarum et Artium," was first published in 1532; Erasmus's
{61}  The objection to rhyme and metre.
"Conscia mens recti famae mendacia risit:
Sed nos in vitium credula turba sumus."
A mind conscious of right laughs at the falsehoods of fame but
towards vice we are a credulous crowd.
{63}  The chief objections.
{64}  That time might be better spent.
{65}  Beg the question.
{66}  That poetry is the mother of lies.
{67}  That poetry is the nurse of abuse, infecting us with wanton
{68}  Rampire, rampart, the Old French form of "rempart," was
"rempar," from "remparer," to fortify.
libenter."
{70}  That Plato banished poets from his ideal Republic.
{71}  Which authority certain barbarous and insipid writers would
{72}  Ion is a rhapsodist, in dialogue with Socrates, who cannot
expounding Homer is not an art acquired by system and method,
person, who cannot compose verses at all so long as his reason
{73}  Guards, trimmings or facings.
{76}  From the invocation at the opening of Virgil's AEneid (line
great skill in verse.  He died in 1573.
{78}  Whose heart-strings the Titan (Prometheus) fastened with a
"Some sons, indeed, some very few, we see
Who keep themselves from this infection free,
Whom gracious Heaven for nobler ends designed,
Their looks erected, and their clay refined."
{79}  The orator is made, the poet born.
{80}  What you will; the first that comes.
"Sponte sua carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos,
Et quod temptabam dicere, versus erat."
{84}  There was no scenery on the Elizabethan stage.
"Of all the griefs that harass the distrest,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest."
{89}  George Bachanan (who died in 1582, aged seventy-six) had
written in earlier life four Latin tragedies, when Professor of
Humanities at Bordeaux, with Montaigne in his class.
{91}  Defects in Diction.  This being written only a year or two
{92}  Nizolian paper-books, are commonplace books of quotable
dictionary of phrases from Cicero:  "Thesaurus Ciceronianus, sive
{93}  "He lives and wins, nay, comes to the Senate, nay, comes to
{94}  Pounded.  Put in the pound, when found astray.
{97}  Last Summary and playful peroration