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Doth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower,
So ended she; and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong, 11 o Which said, their bridale daye should not be long. And gentle Eccho from the neighbour
ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous birdes did passe
along, Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low, 115
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
At length they all to mery London came,
An house of auncient fame.
'dwell, Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case: 140
But ah! here fits not well
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer, 145
Great Englands glory and the worlds wide wonder, Whose dreadfull name late through all
Spaine did thunder, And Hercules two pillors standing neere Did make to quake and feare. Faire branch of honor, flower of chevalrie, That fillest England with thy triumphes
fame, 151 Joy have thou of thy noble victorie, And endlesse happinesse of thine owne
name That promiseth the same: That through thy prowesse and victorious
armes 155 Thy country may be freed from forraine
harmes; And great Elisaes glorious name may ring Through al the world, fil'd with thy wide alarmes,
Which some brave Muse may sing
I'pon the brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song.
From those high towers this noble lord issuing,
Which, at th' appointed tyde,
long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 180
ELIZABETHAN SONNETEERS SIR THOMAS WYATT (1603P-1542)
THE LOVER COMPARETH HIS STATE TO A SHIP IN PERILOUS STORM TOSSED ON THE SEA
My galley, charged with forgetfulness, Thorough sharp seas, in winter nights
'doth pass, Tween rock and rock; and eke mine
enemy, alas, That is my lord, steereth with cruelness; And every oar, a thought in readiness, 5 As though that death were light in such a
case; An endless wind doth tear the sail apace Of forced sighs and trusty tearfulness;
A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain, Hath done the wearied cords great hinderance; 10 Wreathed with error and eke with ignorance,
The stars be hid that led me to this pain; Drowned is Reason, that should me comfort; And I remain, despairing of the port.
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF
DESCRIPTION OF SPRING, WHERE-
The soote1 season that bud and bloom
forth brings, With green hath clad the hill and eke the
vale; The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her make2 hath told her tale: Summer is come, for every spray now
springs; 5 The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; The fishes flete3 with new repaired scale; The adder all her slough away she slings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; The busy bee her honey now she mings.4 n Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale: And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1564-1586) From ASTROPHEL AND STELLA
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,—
1 sweet, 'float.
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, 5
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburned brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay; Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows; 10 And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself
for spite; "Fool," said my Muse to me, " look in thy heart, and write!"
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou
climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a
face! What, may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted
eyes 5 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's
case; I read it in thy looks: thy languished grace To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? 10
Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot <
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low; With shield of proof shield me from out the prease1 Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
bed, A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, A rosy garland and a weary head: 11
And if these things, as being thine in right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see.
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well that I obtained the prize, Both by the judgment of the English
eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance, 5
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in
this, 10 Think Nature me a man-at-arms did
make. How far they shot awry! the true cause is, Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
EDMUND SPENSER (1662?-1699)
When I behold that beauty's wonderment,
be, 11 For all their faults with which they did
offend. But since ye are my scourge, I will intreat That for my faults ye will me gently
Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide By conduct of some star doth make her way, Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide, Out of her course doth wander far astray; So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray 5 Me to direct, with clouds is overcast, Do wander now in darkness and dismay, Through hidden perils round about me
placed. Yet hope I well, that when this storm is past, My Helice, the lodestar of my life, 10 Will shine again, and look on me at last, With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief; Till then I wander careful, comfortless, In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness.
After long storms and tempests' sad assay,
With which my silly bark was tossed sore,
with store Of all that dear and dainty is alive. Most happy he that can at last achieve The joyous safety of so sweet a rest; 1 o Whose least delight sufficeth to deprive Remembrance of all pains which him oppressed. All pains are nothing in respect of this, All sorrows short that gain eternal bliss.
LXX Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty
king, • In whose coat-armor richly are displayed All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring, In goodly colors gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid,5 Yet in her winter's bower not well awake; Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed, Unless she do him by the forelock take; Bid her therefore herself soon ready make To wait on Love amongst his lovely
crew; 10 Where everyone that misseth then her
make1 Shall be by him amerced2 with penance due. Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst
it is prime; For none can call again the passed
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away; Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide and made my pains his prey. "Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay 5 A mortal thing so to immortalize: For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise." "Not so," quoth I, "let baser things devise
1 mate. * punished.
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: 10
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name. Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew."
Men call you fair, and you do credit it,
SAMUEL DANIEL (1662-1619) CARE-CHARMER SLEEP
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631) SINCE THERE'S NO HELP
Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part! Nay, I have done, you get no more of
me; And I am glad, yea, glad, with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our
vows; 5 And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows, That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest
breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; 10
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes,— Now, if thou wouldst, when all have
given him over, From death to life thou might'st him
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair1 from fair sometime de-
ow'st;2 10 Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in
his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
1 beauty. * ownest.