Our song shall keep time with our flails,- When Ceres sings, none lours, lours, lours. She it is whose godhood hallows Growing fields as well as fallows.
FROM The Rape of Lucrece, 1630
[Come list, and hark]
Come list, and hark! The bell doth toll
For some but new
And was not that
Some ominous fowlThe bat, the night
Crow, or screech-owl?
To these I hear
The wild wolf howl In this black night That seems to scowl. All these my black- Book shall enroll, For hark! still, still The bell doth toll
For some but now
Departing soul.
[Pack, clouds, away]
Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day! With night we banish sorrow. Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my love good-morrow. Wings from the wind, to please her mind, Notes from the lark, I'll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing, To give my love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each bill let music shrill Give my fair love good-morrow. Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow Sing, birds, in every furrow.
FROM A Maidenhead Well Lost, 1634
Hence with passion, sighs, and tears, Disasters, sorrows, cares, and fears!
See, my love, my love appears,
That thought himself exiled. Whence might all these loud joys grow, Whence might mirth and banquets flow, But that he's come, he's come, I know! Fair fortune, thou hast smiled!
Give to these blind windows eyes, Daze the stars and mock the skies, And let us two, us two, devise
To lavish our best treasures; Crown our wishes with content, Meet our souls in sweet consent, And let this night, this night, be spent In all abundant pleasures.
FROM The Hierarchy of the blessed Angels, 1635 [Our modern poets]
Our modern poets to that pass are driven, Those names are curtailed which they first had given; And, as we wished to have their memories drowned, We scarcely can afford them half their sound.
Greene, who had in both academies ta'en
Degree of master, yet could never gain To be called more than Robin; who, had he Professed aught save the muse, served and been free After a seven-years prenticeship, might have (With credit too) gone Robert to his grave. Marlowe, renowned for his rare art and wit, Could ne'er attain beyond the name of Kit, Although his Hero and Leander did
Merit addition rather. Famous Kyd
Was called but Tom. Tom Watson, though he wrote
Able to make Apollo's self to dote
Upon his muse, for all that he could strive, Yet never could to his full name arrive.
Tom Nashe, in his time of no small esteem, Could not a second syllable redeem. Excellent Beaumont, in the foremost rank Of the rar'st wits, was never more than Frank. Mellifluous Shakespeare, whose enchanting quill Commanded mirth or passion, was but Will. And famous Jonson, though his learned pen Be dipped in Castaly, is still but Ben.
Fletcher and Webster, of that learned pack None of the mean'st, yet neither was but Jack. Dekker's but Tom; nor May, nor Middleton; And he's now but Jack Ford, that once were John.
Nor speak I this that any here expressed Should think themselves less worthy than the rest, Whose names have their full syllable and sound; Or that Frank, Kit, or Jack are the least wound Unto their fame and merit. I for my part (Think others what they please) accept that heart Which courts my love in most familiar phrase, And that it takes not from my pains or praise If anyone to me so bluntly come, -
I hold he loves me best that calls me Tom.
The Introduction and Notes are at page 999 FROM Additional Ms. 24195
The first verses that ever the king made Since thought is free, think what thou will, O troubled heart, to ease thy pain; Thought unrevealed can do no evil, But words past out comes not again; Be careful aye for to invent The way to get thy own intent.
To please thyself with thy conceit, And let none know what thou does mean, Hope aye at last, though it be late, To thy intent for to attain;
Thought whiles it brake forth in effect, Yet aye let wit thy will correct.
Since fool-haste comes not greatest speed, I would thou should learn for to know How to make virtue of a need, Since that necessity hath no law;
With patience then see thou attend, And hope to vanquish in the end.
Life is myself, I keep the life of all; Without my help all living things they die; Small, great, poor, rich, obey unto my call, Fierce lions, fowls, and whales into the sea. With meat and drink the hungry I supply; Dead drunken, all I quicken new again; Dearer to kings nor crowns and scepters high; Unto the rich, nor all their wealth and gain. I am not nice; the poor I'll not disdain, Poor wretches more than kings may me command. Where I come in, all senses man refrain; Softer nor silk, and sadder nor the sand,
I hurt, I help, I slay, and cure the same; Sleep, and advise, and pense well what I am.
An epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney
Thou mighty Mars, the god of soldiers brave, And thou, Minerva, that does in wit excel, And thou, Apollo, that does knowledge have Of every art that from Parnassus fell, With all the sisters that thereon do dwell, Lament for him who duly served you all, Whom-in you wisely all your arts did mell,- Bewail, I say, his unexpected fall. I need not in remembrance for to call
His youth, his race, the hope had of him aye, Since that in him doth cruel death appal Both manhood, wit, and learning every way. Now in the bed of honor doth he rest, And evermore of him shall live the best.
A sonnet on Sir William Alexander's harsh verses after the English fashion
Hold, hold your hand, hold; mercy, mercy, spare Those sacred Nine that nursed you many a year. Full oft, alas, with comfort and with care We bathed you in Castalia's fountain clear. Then on our wings aloft we did you bear, And set you on our stately forkëd hill Where you our heavenly harmonies did hear, The rocks resounding with their echoes still. Although your neighbors have conspired to spill
That art which did the laurel crown obtain, And borrowing from the raven their ragg'd quill, Bewray their harsh, hard, trotting, tumbling wain; Such hammering hard the metals hard require; Our songs are filed with smoothly flowing fire.
FROM Basilikon Doron, 1599 The argument of the book
God gives not kings the style of gods in vain, For on his throne his scepter do they sway; And as their subjects ought them to obey, So kings should fear and serve their God again. If then ye would enjoy a happy reign, Observe the statutes of your heavenly king, And from his law make all your laws to spring; Since his lieutenant here ye should remain, Reward the just, be steadfast, true, and plain, Repress the proud, maintaining aye the right, Walk always so, as ever in his sight
Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane; And so ye shall in princely virtues shine, Resembling right your mighty king divine.
SIR JOHN BEAUMONT
The Introduction and Notes are at page 1000 FROM Bosworth Field, with a taste of the variety of Other Poems, 1629
To his late Majesty, concerning the true form of English
Great king, the sov'reign ruler of this land, By whose grave care our hopes securely stand, Since you descending from that spacious reach Vouchsafe to be our master, and to teach Your English poets to direct their lines, To mix their colors, and express their signs; Forgive my boldness that I here present The life of muses yielding true content In pondered numbers, which with ease I tried When your judicious rules have been my guide.
He makes sweet music who, in serious lines, Light dancing tunes and heavy prose declines;
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