Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
'The Heart asks Pleasure — first'
The Heart asks Pleasure — first —
And then — Excuse from Pain —
And then — those little Anodynes
That deaden suffering —
And then — to go to sleep —
And then — if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor
The privilege to die —
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
'Payne of all payne, the most grevous paine'
Payne of all payne, the most grevous paine
Ys to loue hartelye and cannot be loued againe.
William Blake (1757-1827)
'Never seek to tell thy Love'
Never seek to tell thy Love
Love that never told can be
For the gentle wind does move
Silently invisibly
I told my love I told my love
I told her all my heart
Trembling cold in ghastly fears
Ah she doth depart
Soon as she was gone from me
A traveller came by
Silently invisibly
He took her with a sigh
Walter Davison (c. 1581-1608)
'At her faire hands how haue I grace intreated'
At her faire hands how haue I grace intreated,
With prayers oft repeated,
Yet still my loue is thwarted:
Hart let her goe, for shee'le not be conuarted.
Say, shal shee goe?
Oh no, no, no, no, no.
Shee is most faire, though shee be marble harted.
How often haue my sighs declar'de mine anguish?
Wherein I dayly languish,
Yet doth shee still procure it:
Hart let her goe, for I can not endure it.
Say, shal shee goe?
Oh no, no, no, no, no.
Shee gaue the wound, and shee alone must cure it.
The trickling tears that down my cheeks haue flowed,
My loue haue often showed;
Yet still vnkind I proue her:
Hart, let her goe, for nought I do can moue her.
Say, shal shee goe?
Oh no, no, no, no, no.
Though mee shee hate, I can not chuse but loue her.
But shall I still a true affection owe her,
Which prayers, sighs, teares do shew her;
And shall shee still disdaine mee?
Hart, let her goe, if they no grace can gaine mee.
Say, shal shee goe?
Oh no, no, no, no, no.
Shee made mee hers, and hers shee will retaine mee.
But if the Loue that hath, and still doth burne mee,
No loue at length returne mee,
Out of my thoughts Ile set her:
Hart, let her goe, oh hart, I pray thee let her.
Say, shal shee goe?
Oh no, no, no, no, no.
Fixt in the hart, how can the hart forget her.
But if I weepe and sigh, and often waile mee,
Till teares, sighes, prayers fayle mee,
Shall yet my Loue perseuer?
Hart, let her goe, if shee will right thee neuer.
Say, shal shee goe?
Oh no, no, no, no, no.
Teares, sighs, praiers faile, but true loue lasteth euer.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
'Take, oh take those lips away'
Take, oh take those lips away,
that so sweetly were forsworne,
And those eyes: the breake of day,
lights that doe mislead the Morne;
But my kisses bring againe, bring againe,
Seales of loue, but seal'd in vaine, seal'd in vaine.
William Blake (1757-1827)
Song
My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish'd air,
By love are driv'n away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heav'n,
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was't giv'n,
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love's all worship'd tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding sheet;
When I my grave have made,
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!
Thomas Campion (1567-1620)
'Beauty is but a painted hell'
Beauty is but a painted hell:
Aye me, aye me,
Shee wounds them that admire it,
Shee kils them that desire it.
Give her pride but fuell,
No fire is more cruell.
Pittie from ev'ry heart is fled,
Aye me, aye me;
Since false desire could borrow
Teares of dissembled sorrow,
Constant vowes turne truthlesse,
Love cruell, Beauty ruthlesse.
Sorrow can laugh, and Fury sing,
Aye me, aye me;
My raving griefes discover
I liv'd too true a lover:
The first step to madnesse
Is the excesse of sadnesse.
John Donne (1572-1631)
The Broken Heart
He is starke mad, who ever sayes,
That he hath beene in love an houre,
Yet not that love so soone decayes,
But that it can tenne in lesse space devour;
Who will beleeve mee, if I sweare
That I have had the plague a yeare?
Who would not laugh at mee, if I should say,
I saw a flash of powder burne a day?
Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
If once into loves hands it come!
All other griefes allow a part
To other griefes, and aske themselves but some;
They come to us, but us Love draws,
Hee swallows us, and never chawes:
By him, as by chain-shot, whole rankes doe dye,
He is the tyran Pike, our hearts the Frye.
If'twere not so, what did become
Of my heart, when I first saw thee?
I brought a heart into the roome,
But from the roome, I carried none with mee;
If it had gone to thee, I know
Mine would have taught thy heart to show
More pitty unto mee: but Love, alas,
At one first blow did shiver it as glasse.
Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite,
Therefore I thinke my breast hath all
Those peeces still, though they be not unite;
And now as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
My ragges of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But after one such love, can love no more.
John Donne (1572-1631)
The Triple Foole
I am two fooles, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining Poetry;
But where's that wiseman, that would not be I,
If she would not deny?
Then as th'earths inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea waters fretfull salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my paines,
Through Rimes vexation, I should them allay,
Griefe brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For, he tames it, that fetters it in verse.
But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my paine,
And by delighting many, frees againe
Griefe, which verse did restraine.
To Love, and Griefe tribute of Verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when 'tis read,
Both are increased by such songs:
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fooles, do so grow three;
Who are a little wise, the best fooles bee.
W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
The Sorrow of Love
The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man's image and his cry.
A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;
Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man's image and his cry.
Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)
'Loving in truth, and faine in verse my love to show'
Loving in truth, and faine in verse my love to show,
That the deare She might take some pleasure of my paine:
Pleasure might cause her reade, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pitie winne, and pitie grace obtaine,
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,
Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertaine:
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitfull showers upon my sunne-burn'd braine.
But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay,
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Studie's blowes,
And others' feete still seem'd but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,
Biting my trewand pen, beating my selfe for spite,
"Foole," said my Muse to me, "looke in thy heart and write."
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
'Happy ye leaues when as those lilly hands'
Happy ye leaues when as those lilly hands,
which hold my life in their dead doing might
shall handle you and hold in loues soft bands,
lyke captiues trembling at the victors sight.
And happy lines, on which with starry light,
those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look
and reade the sorrowes of my dying spright,
written with teares in harts close bleeding book.
And happy rymes bath'd in the sacred brooke,
of Helicon whence she deriued is,
when ye behold that Angels blessed looke,
my soules long lacked foode, my heauens blis.
Leaues, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please alone,
whom if ye please, I care for other none.
Thomas Campion (1567-1620)
'Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet'
Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet,
Haste you, sad noates, fall at her flying feete;
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrowe, pitie move,
And tell the ravisher of my soule I perish for her love.
But if she scorns my never-ceasing paine,
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and nere returne againe.
All that I soong still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my songs did end.
Yet she my love and Musicke both doeth flie,
The Musicke that her Eccho is, and beauties simpathie;
Then let my Noates pursue her scornefull flight:
It shall suffice that they were breath'd, and dyed, for her delight.
Anonymous
'The stars stand up in the air'
The stars stand up in the air
The sun and the moon are gone,
The strand of its waters is bare,
And her sway is swept from the swan.
The cuckoo was calling all day,
Hid in the branches above,
How my storin is fled away,
'Tis my grief that I gave her my love!
Three things through love I see —
Sorrow and sin and death —
And my mind reminding me
That this doom I breathe with my breath.
But sweeter than violin or lute
Is my love — and she left me behind.
I wish that all music were mute,
And I to my beauty were blind.
She's more shapely than swan by the strand,
She's more radiant than grass after dew,
She's more fair than the stars where they stand —
'Tis my grief that her ever I knew!
Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
As If a Phantom Caress'd Me
As if a phantom caress'd me,
I thought I was not alone walking here by the shore;
But the one I thought was with me as now I walk by the shore, the one I
loved that caress'd me,
As I lean and look through the glimmering light, that one has utterly
disappear'd.
And those appear that are hateful to me and mock me.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
Fatima
O Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
O sun, that from thy noonday height
Shudderest when I strain my sight,
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light,
Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Lo, parched and withered, deaf and blind,
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.
Last night I wasted hateful hours
Below the city's eastern towers:
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
I rolled among the tender flowers:
I crushed them on my breast, my mouth;
I looked athwart the burning drouth
Of that long desert to the south.
Last night, when some one spoke his name,
From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shivered in my narrow frame.
O Love, O fire! once he drew
With one long kiss my whole soul through
My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly: from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.
In my dry brain my spirit soon,
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
Faints like a dazzled morning moon.
The wind sounds like a silver wire,
And from beyond die noon a fire
Is poured upon the hills, and nigher
The skies stoop down in their desire;
And, isled in sudden seas of light,
My heart, pierced through with fierce delight,
Bursts into blossom in his sight.
My whole soul waiting silently,
All naked in a sultry sky,
Droops blinded with his shining eye:
I will possess him or will die.
I will grow round him in his place,
Grow, live, die looking on his face,
Die, dying clasped in his embrace.
Sappho (fl. 600 BC)
'Like the very gods in my sight is he'
Like the very gods in my sight is he who
sits where he can look in your eyes, who listens
close to you, to hear the soft voice, its sweetness
murmur in love and
laughter, all for him. But it breaks my spirit;
underneath my breast all the heart is shaken.
Let me only glance where you are, the voice dies,
I can say nothing,
but my lips are stricken to silence, under-
neath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses;
nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are
muted in thunder.
And the sweat breaks running upon me, fever
shakes my body, paler I turn than grass is;
I can feel that I have been changed, I feel that
death has come near me.
Henry King (1592-1669)
Sonnet
Tell mee no more how faire shee is;
I have no mind to heare
The Story of that distant Blisse
I never shall come neere.
By sad experience I have found
That Hir perfection is my wound.
And tell mee not how fond I am
To tempt a daring Fate,
From whence no triumph ever came
But to repent too late.
There is some hope ere long I may
In silence dote my self away.
I aske no Pitty (Love!) from thee,
Nor will thy Justice blame;
So that thou wilt not envy mee
The glory of my Flame:
Which crownes my Heart, when e're it dyes,
In that it falles Hir Sacrifice.
Michael Drayton (1563-1631)
To His Coy Loue, A Canzonet
I pray thee leaue, loue me no more,
Call home the Heart you gave me,
I but in vaine that Saint adore,
That can, but will not saue me:
These poore halfe Kisses kill me quite;
Was euer Man thus serued?
Amidst an Ocean of Delight,
For Pleasure to be sterued.
Shew me no more those Snowie Brests,
With Azure Riuerets branched,
Where whilst mine Eye with Plentie feasts,
Yet is my Thirst not stanched.
O TANTALVS, thy Paines ne'r tell,
By me thou art preuented;
'Tis nothing to be plagu'd in Hell,
But thus in Heauen tormented.
Clip me no more in those deare Armes,
Nor thy Life's Comfort call me;
O, these are but too pow'rfull Charmes,
And doe but more inthrall me.
But see how patient I am growne,
In all this coyle about thee;
Come nice Thing, let thy Heart alone,
I cannot liue without thee.
Thomas Carew (1595-1640)
Mediocritie in love rejected
Give me more love, or more disdaine
The Torrid, or the frozen Zone,
Bring equall ease unto my paine;
The temperate affords me none:
Either extreame, of love, or hate,
Is sweeter than a calme estate.
Give me a storme; if it be love,
Like Danae in that golden showre
I swimme in pleasure; if it prove
Disdaine, that torrent will devoure
My Vulture-hopes; and he's possest
Of Heaven, that's but from Hell releast:
Then crowne my joyes, or cure my paine;
Give me more love; or more disdaine.
Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)
'You smiled, you spoke, and I believed'
You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!
W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
A Deep-sworn Vow
Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.
W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
The Lover mourns for the Loss of Love
Pale brows, still hands and dim hair,
I had a beautiful friend
And dreamed that the old despair
Would end in love in the end:
She looked in my heart one day
And saw your image was there;
She has gone weeping away.
Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
A Broken Appointment
You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb. —
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.
You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
— I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love not me?
Thomas Campion (1567-1620)
'When thou must home to shades of under ground'
When thou must home to shades of under ground,
And there ariv'd, a newe admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round,
White Iope, blith Hellen, and the rest,
To heare the stories of thy finisht love,
From that smoothe toong whose musicke hell can move:
Then wilt thou speake of banqueting delights,
Of masks and revels which sweete youth did make,
Of Turnies and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murther me.
Robert Sidney, Earl of Leicester (1563-1626)
'Yow that take pleasure in yowr cruelty'
Yow that take pleasure in yowr cruelty,
and place yowr health in my infections:
yow that add sorrowes to afflictions
and thinck yowr wealth shines in my poverty
Since that there is an inequality
between my wants and yowr perfections
between yowr scorns and my affections
between my bands and yowr soveranity
O love your self: bee yow yowrself yowr care:
Joy in those acts, in which yowr making stood:
Fayre, lovely, good: of these made, these yow are:
pity is fayre, grace lovely, mercy good.
And when Sunn like, yow in yowrself yow show
Let mee the point bee, about which yow goe.
Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)
The Thief
1
Thou rob'st my Days of bus'ness and delights,
Of sleep thou rob'st my Nights;
Ah, lovely Thief what wilt thou do?
What? rob me of Heaven too?
Thou even my prayers dost steal from me.
And I, with wild Idolatry,
Begin, to God, and end them all, to Thee.
2
Is it a Sin to Love, that it should thus,
Like an ill Conscience torture us?
What e're I do, where e're I go,
(None Guiltless e're was haunted so)
Still, still, methinks thy face I view,
And still thy shape does me pursue,
As if, not you Me, but I had murthered You.
3
From Books I strive some remedy to take,
But thy Name all the Letters make;
What e're 'tis writ, I find That there,
Like Points and Comma's every where;
Me blest for this let no man hold;
For I, as Midas did of old,
Perish by turning ev'ry thing to Gold.
4
What do I seek, alas, or why do I
Attempt in vain from thee to fly?
For making thee my Deity,
I gave thee then Ubiquity.
My pains resemble Hell in this;
The Divine presence there too is,
But to torment Men, not to give them bliss.
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
'When first mine eyes did view'
When first mine eyes did view, and marke
Thy faire beawtie to beholde:
And when mine eares listned to hark
The pleasant wordes, that thou me tolde:
I would as then, I had been free
From eares to heare, and eyes to see.
And when my lips gan first to moue,
Wherby my hart to thee was knowne;
And when my tong did talk of loue,
To thee that hast true loue down throwne:
I would my lips, and tong also,
Had then bene dum, no deale to go.
And when my handes haue handled ought,
That thee hath kept in memorie:
And when my fete haue gone and sought
To finde and geat thy company:
I would eche hand a foote had bene,
And I eche foote a hand had sene.
And when in mynde I did consent
To folow this my fansies will:
And when my hart did first relent,
To tast such bayt, my life to spyll:
I would my hart had bene as thyne:
Or els thy hart had bene as mine.
Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)
'In nature apt to like when I did see'
In nature apt to like when I did see
Beauties, which were of manie Carrets fine,
My boiling sprites did thither soone incline,
And, Love, I thought that I was full of thee:
But finding not those restlesse flames in me,
Which others said did make their soules to pine:
I thought those babes of some pinne's hurt did whine,
By my love judging what Love's paine might be.
But while I thus with this yong Lyon plaid;
Mine eyes (shall I say curst or blest) beheld
Stella; now she is nam'd, need more be said?
In her sight I a lesson new have speld,
I now have learn'd Love right, and learn'd even so,
As who by being poisond doth poison know.
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
'What menythe thys when I lye alone?'
What menythe thys when I lye alone?
I tosse, I turne, I syghe, I grone,
My bedd me semys as hard as stone:
What menys thys?
I syghe, I playne contynually;
The clothes that on my bedd do ly
Always methynks they lye awry:
What menys thys?
In slumbers oft for fere I quake;
Ffor hete and cold I burne and shake;
Ffor lake of slepe my hede dothe ake;
What menys thys?
A mornynges then when I do rysse
I torne vnto my wontyd gysse;
All day after muse and devysse:
What menys thys?
And yff perchanse by me there passe
She vnto whome I sue for grace,
The cold blood forsakythe my face:
What menythe thys?
But yff I sytte nere her by,
With lowd voyce my hart dothe cry,
And yet my mowthe ys dome and dry:
What menys thys?
To aske ffor helpe no hart I have
My tong dothe fayle what I shuld crave,
Yet inwardly I Rage and Rave:
What menys thys?
Thus have I passyd many a yere,
And many a day, tho nowght Apere;
But most of that that most I fere:
What menys thys?
Francis Petrarch (1304-1374)
'I find no peace, and I am not at war'
I find no peace, and I am not at war,
I fear and hope, and burn and I am ice;
I fly above the heavens, and lie on earth,
and I grasp nothing, and embrace the world.
One keeps me jailed who neither locks nor opens,
nor keeps me for her own nor frees the noose;
Love does not kill, nor does he loose my chains;
he wants me lifeless but won't loosen me.
I see with no eyes, shout without a tongue;
I yearn to perish, and I beg for help;
I hate myself and love somebody else.
I thrive on pain and laugh with all my tears;
I dislike death as much as I do life:
because of you, lady, I am this way.
Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1343-1400)
Canticus Troili
| If no love is, O God, what fele I so? |
|
| And if love is, what thing and which is he? |
|
| If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo? |
|
| If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me, |
|
| When every torment and adversite |
|
| That cometh of hym may to me savory thinke, |
savory pleasant |
| For ay thurst I, the more that ich it drynke. |
|
|
|
| And if that at myn owen lust I brenne, |
lust pleasure |
| From whennes cometh my waillynge and my pleynte? |
pleynte complaint |
| If harm agree me, wherto pleyne I thenne? |
agree be agreeable to |
| I noot, ne whi unwery that I feynte. |
noot do not know |
| O quike deth, O swete harm so queynte, |
quike living |
| How may of the in me swich quantite, |
|
| But if that I consente that it be? |
|
|
|
| And if that I consente, I wrongfully |
|
| Compleyne, iwis. Thus possed to and fro, |
iwis certainly - possed tossed |
| Al sterelees withinne a boot am I |
sterelees rudderless |
| Amydde the see, bitwixen wyndes two, |
|
| That in contrarie stonden evere mo. |
contrarie stonden opposition stand |
| Allas, what is this wondre maladie? |
|
| For hote of cold, for cold of hote, I dye. |
|
John Dryden (1631-1700)
Song
I feed a flame within which so torments me
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die, then once remove it.
Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it,
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it:
Not a sigh nor a tear my pain discloses,
But they fall silently like dew on Roses.
Thus to prevent my love from being cruel,
My heart's the sacrifice as 'tis the fuel:
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
While I conceal my love, no frown can fright me:
To be more happy I dare not aspire;
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
Michael Drayton (1563-1631)
'An euill spirit your beautie haunts Me still'
An euill spirit your beautie haunts Me still,
Where with (alas) I haue beene long possest,
Which ceaseth not to tempt Me to each Ill,
Nor giues Me once, but one poore minutes rest:
In Me it speakes, whether I Sleepe or Wake,
And when by Meanes, to driue it out I try,
With greater Torments, then it Me doth take,
And tortures Me in most extremity;
Before my Face, it layes downe my Despaires,
And hastes Me on vnto a sudden Death;
Now tempting Me, to drowne my Selfe in teares,
And then in sighing, to giue vp my breath;
Thus am I still prouok'd, to euery Euill,
By this good wicked Spirit, sweet Angell Deuill.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Sonnet 147
My loue is as a feauer, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserue the ill,
Th'vncertaine sicklie appetite to please:
| My reason, the Phisition to my loue, |
Phisition physician |
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approoue,
| Desire is death, which Phisick did except. |
Phisick physic |
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantick madde with euer-more vnrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as mad mens are,
| At randon from the truth vainely exprest. |
randon random |
For I haue sworne thee faire, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as darke as night.
Mark Alexander Boyd (1563-1601)
Sonet
Fra banc to banc fra wod to wod I rin
| Ourhailit with my feble fantasie |
Ourhailit overwhelmed |
Lyc til a leif that fallis from a trie
Or til a reid ourblawin with the wind.
| Twa gods gyds me the ane of tham is blind, |
Two gods guides me: the one ... |
| Ye and a bairn brocht up in vanitie. |
bairn child |
| The nixt a wyf ingenrit of the se, |
ingenrit engendered - se sea |
| And lichter nor a dauphin with hir fin. |
nor than |
Unhappie is the man for evirmaire
| That teils the sand and sawis in the aire, |
teils tills - sawis sows |
Bot twyse unhappier is he I lairn
That feidis in his hairt a mad desyre,
And follows on a woman throw the fyre
| Led be a blind and teichit be a bairn |
teichit tought |
Samuel Daniel (1562-1619)
'If this be loue, to drawe a weary breath'
If this be loue, to drawe a weary breath,
Painte on flowdes, till the shore, crye to th'ayre:
With downward lookes, still reading on the earth;
The sad memorials of my loues despaire.
If this be loue, to warre against my soule,
Lye downe to waile, rise vp to sigh and grieue me:
The neuer-resting stone of care to roule,
Still to complaine my greifes, and none releiue me.
If this be loue, to cloath me with darke thoughts,
Haunting vntroden pathes to waile apart;
My pleasures horror, Musique tragicke notes,
Teares in my eyes, and sorrowe at my hart.
If this be loue, to liue a liuing death;
O then loue I, and drawe this weary breath.
Henry Constable (1562-1613)
'To liue in hell, and heauen to behold'
To liue in hell, and heauen to behold,
to welcome life, and die a liuing death,
to sweat with heate, and yet be freezing cold,
to graspe at starres, and lye the earth beneath;
To tread a Maze that neuer shall haue end,
to burne in sighes, and starue in daily teares,
to clime a hill, and neuer to discend,
Gyants to kill, and quake at childish feares;
To pyne for foode, and watch Thesperian tree,
to thirst for drinke, and Nectar still to draw,
to liue accurst, whom men hold blest to be,
and weepe those wrongs which neuer creature saw,
If this be loue, if loue in these be founded,
My hart is loue, for these in it are grounded.
John Clare (1793-1864)
Love's Pains
1
This love, I canna' bear it,
It cheats me night and day;
This love, I canna' wear it,
It takes my peace away.
2
This love, wa' once a flower;
But now it is a thorn, —
The joy o' evening hour,
Turn'd to a pain e're morn.
3
This love, it wa' a bud,
And a secret known to me;
Like a flower within a wood;
Like a nest within a tree.
4
This love, wrong understood,
Oft' turned my joy to pain;
I tried to throw away the bud,
But the blossom would remain.
Catullus (c. 84-54 BC)
'I hate & love'
I hate & love. And if you should ask how I can do both,
I couldn't say; but I feel it, and it shivers me.
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
'My hungry eyes, through greedy couetize'
My hungry eyes, through greedy couetize,
still to behold the obiect of their paine:
with no contentment can themselues suffize,
but hauing pine and hauing not complaine.
For lacking it they cannot lyfe sustayne,
and hauing it they gaze on it the more:
in their amazement lyke Narcissus vaine
whose eyes him staru'd: so plenty makes me poore.
Yet are mine eyes so filled with the store
of that faire sight, that nothing else they brooke,
but lothe the things which they did like before,
and can no more endure on them to looke.
All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me,
and all their shewes but shadowes sauing she.
Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)
'When sorrow (using mine owne fier's might)'
When sorrow (using mine owne fier's might)
Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,
Through that darke fornace to my hart opprest,
There shines a joy from thee my only light;
But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,
And my yong soule flutters to thee his nest,
Most rude dispaire my daily unbidden guest,
Clips streight my wings, streight wraps me in his night,
And makes me then bow downe my head, and say,
Ah what doth Phœbus' gold that wretch availe,
Whom iron doores do keepe from use of day?
So strangely (alas) thy works in me prevaile,
That in my woes for thee thou art my joy,
And in my joyes for thee my only annoy.
Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)
The Change
1
Love in her Sunny Eyes does basking play;
Love walks the pleasant Mazes of her Hair;
Love does on both her Lips for ever stray;
And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there.
In all her outward parts Love's always seen;
But, oh, He never went within.
2
Within Love's foes, his greatest foes abide,
Malice, Inconstancy, and Pride.
So the Earth's face, Trees, Herbs, and Flowers do dress,
With other beauties numberless:
But at the Center, Darkness is, and Hell;
There wicked Spirits, and there the Damned dwell.
3
With me alas, quite contrary it fares;
Darkness and Death lies in my weeping eyes,
Despair and Paleness in my face appears,
And Grief, and Fear, Love's greatest Enemies;
But, like the Persian-Tyrant, Love within
Keeps his proud Court, and ne're is seen.
4
Oh take my Heart, and by that means you'll prove
Within, too stor'd enough of Love:
Give me but Yours, I'll by that change so thrive,
That Love in all my parts shall live.
So powerful is this change, it render can,
My outside Woman, and your inside Man.
Francis Petrarch (1304-1374)
'Love, that doth reign and live within my thought'
Love, that doth reign and live within my thought,
And built his seat within my captive breast,
Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.
But she that taught me love and suffer pain,
My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire
With shamefast look to shadow and refrain,
Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.
And coward Love then to the heart apace
Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and plain,
His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.
For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pain,
Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:
Sweet is the death that taketh end by love.
John Clare (1793-1864)
First Love
I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete
My face turned pale as deadly pale
My legs refused to walk away
And when she looked what could I ail
My life and all seemed turned to clay
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noon day
I could not see a single thing
Words from my eyes did start
They spoke as chords do from the string
And blood burnt round my heart
Are flowers the winters choice
Is love's bed always snow
She seemed to hear my silent voice
Not loves appeals to know
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before
My heart has left its dwelling place
And can return no more —
Emily Brontë (1818-1848)
'Had there been falshood in my breast'
Had there been falshood in my breast
No thorns had mared my road
This Spirit had not lost its rest
These tears had never flowed
Anonymous
'Love is a secret feeding fire'
Love is a secret feeding fire that gives all creatures being,
Life to the dead, speech to the dumb, and to the blind man seeing.
And yet in me he contradicts all these his sacred graces,
Sears up my lips, my eyes, my life, and from me ever flying,
Leads me in paths untracked, ungone, and many uncouth places,
Where in despair I beauty curse, curse love and all fair faces.
Aphra Behn (1640-1689)
Song. Love Arm'd
Love in Fantastique Triumph satt,
Whilst Bleeding Hearts a round him flow'd,
For whom Fresh paines he did Create,
And strange Tyranick power he show'd;
From thy Bright Eyes he took his fire,
Which round about, in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine, he took desire,
Enough to undo the Amorous World.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his Pride and Crueltie;
From me his Languishments and Feares,
And every Killing Dart from thee;
Thus thou and I, the God have arm'd,
And sett him up a Deity;
But my poor Heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the Victor is, and free.
John Lyly (c. 1554-1606)
'Cupid and my Campaspe playd'
Cupid and my Campaspe playd
At Cardes for kisses, Cupid payd;
He stakes his Quiuer, Bow, & Arrows,
His Mothers doues, & teeme of sparows;
Looses them too; then, downe he throwes
The corrall of his lippe, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),
With these, the cristall of his Brow,
And then the dimple of his chinne:
All these did my Campaspe winne.
At last, hee set her both his eyes;
Shee won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Loue! has shee done this to Thee?
What shall (Alas!) become of mee?
Thomas Lodge (1558-1625)
'Loue in my bosome like a Bee'
Loue in my bosome like a Bee,
dooth suck his sweete:
Now with his wings he playes with me,
now with his feete.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender brest,
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah wanton will ye?
And if I sleepe, then pearcheth he,
with prettie flight:
And makes his pillow of my knee,
the liue-long night.
Strike I my Lute, he tunes the string,
He musique playes if so I sing,
He lends me euery louely thing,
Yet cruell he my hart dooth sting.
Whist wanton, still ye.
Else I with Roses euery day
will whip you hence:
And binde you when you long to play,
for your offence.
Ile shut mine eyes to keepe you in,
Ile make you fast it for your sinne,
Ile count your power not woorth a pin.
Ahlas, what heereby shall I winne
If he gaine-say me?
What if I beate the wanton boy
with many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
because a God.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosome be:
Lurke in mine eyes, I like of thee.
O Cupid, so thou pitty me,
Spare not, but play thee.
Henry Constable (1562-1613)
'Deere to my soule, then leaue me not forsaken'
Deere to my soule, then leaue me not forsaken,
flie not, my hart within thy bosome sleepeth:
euen from my selfe and sense I haue betaken
mee vnto thee, for whom my spirit weepeth.
And on the shoare of that salt tearie sea,
couch' d in a bed of vnseene seeming pleasure,
where, in imaginarie thoughts thy faire selfe lay,
but being wakt, robd of my liues best treasure,
I call the heauens, ayre, earth, & seas, to heare
my loue, my trueth, and black disdaind estate:
beating the rocks with bellowings of dispaire,
which stil with plaints my words reuerbarate.
Sighing, alas, what shall become of me?
Whilst Eccho cryes, what shal become of me.
Patrick MacDonogh (1902-1961)
She Walked Unaware
Oh, she walked unaware of her own increasing beauty
That was holding men's thoughts from market or plough,
As she passed by intent on her womanly duties
And she passed without leisure to be wayward or proud;
Or if she had pride then it was not in her thinking
But thoughtless in her body like a flower of good breeding.
The first time I saw her spreading coloured linen
Beyond the green willow she gave me gentle greeting
With no more intention than the leaning willow tree.
Though she smiled without intention yet from that day forward
Her beauty filled like water the four corners of my being,
And she rested in my heart like a hare in the form
That is shaped to herself. And I that would be singing
Or whistling at all times went silently then,
Till I drew her aside among the straight stems of beeches
When the blackbird was sleeping and she promised that never
The fields would be ripe but I'd gather all the sweetness,
A red moon of August would rise on our wedding.
October is spreading bright flame along the stripped willows,
Low fires of the dogwood burn down to grey water, —
God pity me now and all desolate sinners
Demented with beauty! I have blackened my thought
In drouths of bad longing, and all brightness goes shrouded
Since he came with his rapture of wild words that mirrored
Her beauty and made her ungentle and proud.
Tonight she will spread her brown hair on his pillow,
But I shall be hearing the harsh cries of wild fowl.
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
'Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay'
Of this worlds Theatre in which we stay,
My loue lyke the Spectator ydly sits
beholding me that all the pageants play,
disguysing diuersly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion fits,
and mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy:
soone after when my ioy to sorrow flits,
I waile and make my woes a Tragedy.
Yet she beholding me with constant eye,
delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:
but when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry
she laughes, and hardens euermore her hart.
What then can moue her? if nor merth nor mone,
she is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547)
'The soote season, that bud and blome furth bringes'
The soote season, that bud and blome furth bringes,
With grene hath clad the hill and eke the vale:
The nightingale with fethers new she singes:
The turtle to her make hath tolde her tale:
Somer is come, for euery spray nowe springes,
The hart hath hong his olde hed on the pale:
The buck in brake his winter cote he flinges:
The fishes flote with newe repaired scale:
The adder all her sloughe awaye she slinges:
The swift swalow pursueth the flyes smale:
The busy bee her honye now she minges:
Winter is worne that was the flowers bale:
And thus I see among these pleasant thinges
Eche care decayes, and yet my sorow springes.
A.E. Housman (1859-1936)
'When I was one-and-twenty'
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
"Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free."
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.
When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
"The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue."
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.
W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
Down by the Salley Gardens
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.
In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
No Second Troy
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
Robert Graves (1895-1985)
Love Without Hope
Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire's own daughter,
So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
Singing about her head, as she rode by.
John Donne (1572-1631)
Loves Deitie
I long to talke with some old lovers ghost,
Who dyed before the god of Love was borne:
I cannot thinke that hee, who then lov'd most,
Sunke so low, as to love one which did scorne.
But since this god produc'd a destinie,
And that vice-nature, custome, lets it be;
I must love her, that loves not mee.
Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much:
Nor he, in his young godhead practis'd it.
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives: Correspondencie
Only his subject was. It cannot bee
Love, till I love her, that loves mee.
But every moderne god will now extend
His vast prerogative, as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlewe of the God of Love.
Oh were wee wak'ned by this Tyrannie
To'ungod this child againe, it could not bee
That I should love, who loves not mee.
Rebell and Atheist too, why murmure I,
As though I felt the worst that love could doe?
Love might make me leave loving, or might trie
A deeper plague, to make her love mee too,
Which, since she loves before, I'am loth to see;
Falshood is worse then hate; and that must bee,
If shee whom I love, should love mee.
Ben Jonson (1572-1637)
My Picture left in Scotland
I now thinke, Love is rather deafe, then blind,
For else it could not be,
That she,
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
And cast my love behind:
I'm sure my language to her, was as sweet,
And every close did meet
In sentence, of as subtile feet,
As hath the youngest Hee,
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
Oh, but my conscious feares,
That flie my thoughts betweene,
Tell me that she hath seene
My hundred of gray haires,
Told seven and fortie years,
Read so much wast, as she cannot imbrace
My mountaine belly, and my rockie face,
And all these through her eyes, have stopt her eares.
W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
A Drinking Song
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)
Without Her
What of her glass without her? The blank grey
There where the pool is blind of the moon's face.
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.
Her paths without her? Day's appointed sway
Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place
Without her? Tears, ah me! for love's good grace,
And cold forgetfulness of night or day.
What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,
Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,
Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,
Where the long cloud, the long wood's counterpart,
Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.
William Blake (1757-1827)
The Garden of Love
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not. writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.
Samuel Daniel (1562-1619)
'Behold what happe Pigmaleon had to frame'
Behold what happe Pigmaleon had to frame,
And carue his proper griefe vpon a stone:
My heauie fortune is much like the same,
I worke on Flint, and that's the cause I mone.
For haples loe euen with mine owne desires,
I figured on the table of my harte,
The fayrest forme, the worldes eye admires,
And so did perish by my proper arte.
And still I toile, to chaunge the marble brest
Of her, whose sweetest grace I doe adore:
Yet cannot finde her breathe vnto my rest,
Hard is her hart and woe is me therefore.
O happie he that ioy'd his stone and arte,
Vnhappy I to loue a stony harte.
Alexander Scott (c. 1515-1583)
'To luve unluvit it is ane pane'
To luve unluvit it is ane pane
For scho that is my soverane
Sum wantoun man so he hes set hir
That I can get no lufe agane
Bot brekis my hairt and nocht the bettir
Quhen that I went with that sweit may
To dance to sing To sport and pley
And oft tymes in my armis plet hir
I do now murne both nycht and day
And brekis my hart and nocht the bettir
Quhair I wes wont to se hir go
Rycht trymly passand to and fro
With cumly smylis quhen that I met hir
And now I leif in pane and wo
And brekis my hart and nocht the bettir
Quhattane ane glaikit fule am I
To slay my self with malancoly
Sen weill I ken I may nocht get hir
Or quhat suld be the caus and quhy
To brek my hart and nocht the bettir
My hairt sen thou may nocht hir pleis
Adew as gud lufe cumis as gais
Go chus ane udir and foryet hir
God gif him dolour and diseis
That brekis thair hairt and nocht the bettir
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
'So sweete a kisse the golden Sunne giues not'
So sweete a kisse the golden Sunne giues not
To those fresh morning drops vpon the Rose,
As thy eye beames, when their fresh rayse haue smot
The night of dew that on my cheekes downe flowes.
Nor shines the siluer Moone one halfe so bright
Through the transparent bosome of the deepe
As doth thy face through teares of mine giue light:
Thou shin'st in euery teare that I doe weepe,
No drop, but as a Coach doth carry thee:
So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.
Do but behold the teares that swell in me,
And they thy glory through my griefe will show:
But doe not loue thy selfe, then thou will keepe
My teares for glasses, and still make me weepe.
O Queene of Queenes, how farre dost thou excell,
No thought can thinke, nor tongue of mortall tell.
John Fletcher (1579-1625)
Song
How long shall I pine for love?
How long shall I sue in vain?
How long like the Turtle-Dove
Shall I heavily thus complain?
Shall the sayls of my love stand still?
Shall the grists of my hopes be unground?
Oh fie, oh fie, oh fie,
Let the Mill, let the Mill go round.
W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
The Folly of being Comforted
One that is ever kind said yesterday:
"Your well-belovèd's hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise
Though now it seems impossible, and so
All that you need is patience."
Heart cries, "No,
I have not a crumb of comfort, not a grain.
Time can but make her beauty over again:
Because of that great nobleness of hers
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs,
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways
When all the wild summer was in her gaze."
O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head,
You'd know the folly of being comforted.
John Keats (1795-1821)
La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad
1
O what can ail thee, knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
2
O what can ail thee, knight at arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
3
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
4
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a fairy's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
5
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
6
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A fairy's song.
7
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said —
I love thee true.
8
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
9
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream'd — Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill's side.
10
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death pale were they all;
They cried — "La belle dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
11
I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.
12
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
William Cowper (1731-1800)
[Crazy Kate]
There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of sattin trimm'd
With lace, and hat with splendid ribband bound.
A serving maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea and died.
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves
To distant shores, and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers; fancy too
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death,
And never smil'd again. And now she roams
The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,
Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier cloaths,
Though pinch'd with cold, asks never. — Kate is craz'd.
William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863)
Sorrows of Werther
Werther had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread-and-butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sighed and pined and ogled,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread-and-butter.
Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)
The Fair Singer
1
To make a final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet an Enemy,
In whom both Beauties to my death agree,
Joyning themselves in fatal Harmony;
That while she with her Eyes my Heart does bind,
She with her Voice might captivate my Mind.
2
I could have fled from One but singly fair:
My dis-intangled Soul it self might save,
Breaking the curled trammels of her hair.
But how should I avoid to be her Slave,
Whose subtile Art invisibly can wreath
My Fetters of the very Air I breath?
3
It had been easie fighting in some plain,
Where Victory might hang in equal choice.
But all resistance against her is vain,
Who has th' advantage both of Eyes and Voice.
And all my Forces needs must be undone,
She having gained both the Wind and Sun.
Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)
'Who is it that this darke night'
"Who is it that this darke night,
Underneath my window playneth?"
It is one who from thy sight,
Being (ah) exild, disdayneth
Every other vulgar light.
"Why alas, and are you he?
Be not yet those fancies changed?"
Deere when you find change in me,
Though from me you be estranged,
Let my chaunge to ruine be.
"Well in absence this will dy,
Leave to see, and leave to wonder."
Absence sure will helpe, if I
Can learne, how my selfe to sunder
From what in my hart doth ly.
"But time will these thoughts remove:
Time doth worke what no man knoweth."
Time doth as the subject prove,
With time still th' affection groweth
In the faithfull Turtle dove.
"What if you new beauties see,
Will not they stir new affection?"
I will thinke theye pictures be,
(Image like of Saints' perfection)
Poorely counterfeting thee.
"But your reason's purest light,
Bids you leave such minds to nourish."
Deere, do reason no such spite,
Never doth thy beauty florish
More then in my reason's sight.
"But the wrongs love beares, will make
Love at length leave undertaking."
No, the more fooles it do shake,
In a ground of so firme making,
Deeper still they drive the stake.
"Peace, I thinke that some give eare:
Come no more, least I get anger."
Blisse, I will my blisse forbeare,
Fearing (sweete) you to endanger,
But my soule shall harbour there.
"Well, be gone, be gone I say,
Lest that Argus eyes perceive you."
O unjustest fortune's sway,
Which can make me thus to leave you,
And from lowts to run away.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547)
'Alas so all thinges nowe doe holde their peace'
Alas so all thinges nowe doe holde their peace.
Heauen and earth disturbed in nothing:
The beastes, the ayer, the birdes their song doe cease:
The nightes chare the starres aboute dothe bring:
Calme is the Sea, the waues worke lesse and lesse:
So am not I, whom loue alas doth wring,
Bringing before my face the great encrease
Of my desires, whereat I wepe and syng,
In ioye and wo, as in a doutfull ease.
For my swete thoughtes sometyme doe pleasure bring:
But by and by the cause of my disease
Geues me a pang, that inwardly dothe sting,
When that I thinke what griefe it is againe,
To liue and lacke the thing should ridde my paine.
Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)
The Mower to the Glo-Worms
1
Ye living Lamps, by whose dear light
The Nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the Summer-night,
Her matchless Songs does meditate;
2
Ye Country Comets, that portend
No War, nor Princes funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Than to presage the Grasses fall;
3
Ye Glo-worms, whose officious Flame
To wandring Mowers shows the way.
That in the Night have lost their aim,
And after foolish Fires do stray;
4
Your courteous Lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come,
For She my Mind hath so displac'd
That I shall never find my home.
Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)
'With how sad steps, ô Moone, thou climb'st the skies'
With how sad steps, ô Moone, thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wanne a face,
What, may it be that even in heav'nly place
That busie archer his sharpe arrowes tries?
Sure, if that long with Love acquainted eyes
Can judge of Love, thou feel'st a Lover's case;
I reade it in thy lookes, thy languisht grace,
To me that feele the like, thy state descries.
Then ev'n of fellowship, ô Moone, tell me
Is constant Love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are Beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet
Those Lovers scorne whom that Love doth possesse?
Do they call Vertue there ungratefulnesse?
A.E. Housman (1859-1936)
'The rainy Pleiads wester'
The rainy Pleiads wester,
Orion plunges prone,
The stroke of midnight ceases,
And I lie down alone.
The rainy Pleiads wester
And seek beyond the sea
The head that I shall dream of,
And 'twill not dream of me.
Samuel Daniel (1562-1619)
'Care-charmer sleepe, sonne of the Sable night'
Care-charmer sleepe, sonne of the Sable night,
Brother to death, in silent darknes borne:
Relieue my languish, and restore the light,
With darke forgetting of my cares returne.
And let the day be time enough to morne,
The shipwrack of my ill-aduentred youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to wayle theyr scorne,
Without the torment of the nights vntruth.
Cease dreames, th'ymagery of our day desires,
To modell foorth the passions of the morrow:
Neuer let rysing Sunne approue you lyers,
To adde more griefe to aggrauat my sorrow.
Still let me sleepe, imbracing clowdes in vaine;
And neuer wake, to feele the dayes disdayne.
Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)
'Come sleepe, ô sleepe, the certaine knot of peace'
Come sleepe, ô sleepe, the certaine knot of peace,
The baiting place of wit, the balme of woe,
The poore man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th'indifferent Judge betweene the high and low;
With shield of proofe shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts, dispaire at me doth throw:
O make in me those civill warres to cease;
I will good tribute pay if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillowes, sweetest bed,
A chamber deafe to noise, and blind to light:
A rosie garland, and a wearie hed:
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier then else-where, Stella's image see.
Alice Meynell (1847-1922)
Renouncement
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the thought that lurks in all delight —
The thought of thee — and in the blue Heaven's height,
And in the sweetest passage of a song.
O just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away, —
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
The Indian Girl's Song
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sleep of night —
The winds are breathing low
And the stars are burning bright.
I arise from dreams of thee —
And a spirit in my feet
Has borne me — Who knows how?
To thy chamber window, sweet! —
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark silent stream —
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint —
It dies upon her heart —
As I must die on thine
O beloved as thou art!
O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast.
Oh press it close to thine again
Where it will break at last.
William Blake (1757-1827)
The Sick Rose
O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke (1554-1628)
'I with whose colors Myra drest her head'
I with whose colors Myra drest her head,
I, that ware posies of her owne hand making,
I, that mine owne name in the chimnies read
By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:
Must I looke on, in hope time comming may
With change bring backe my turne againe to play?
I, that on Sunday at the Church-stile found,
A Garland sweet, with true-loue knots in flowers,
Which I to weare about mine arme was bound,
That each of vs might know that all was ours:
Must I now lead an idle life in wishes?
And follow Cupid for his loaues, and fishes?
I, that did weare the ring her Mother left,
I, for whose loue she gloried to be blamed,
I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,
I, who did make her blush when I was named;
Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft and go naked,
Watching with sighs, till dead loue be awaked?
I, that when drowsie Argus fell asleep,
Like Iealousie o'rewatched with desire,
Was euen warned modestie to keepe,
While her breath, speaking, kindled Natures fire:
Must I looke on a-cold, while others warme them?
Doe Vulcans brothers in such fine nets arme them?
Was it for this that I might Myra see
Washing the water with her beauties, white?
Yet would she neuer write her loue to me;
Thinks wit of change while thoughts are in delight?
Mad Girles must safely loue, as they may leaue,
No man can print a kisse, lines may deceiue.
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
'Fforget not yet'
Fforget not yet the tryde entent
Of suche a truthe as I haue ment,
My gret travayle so gladly spent
Fforget not yet.
Fforget not yet when fyrst began
The wery lyffe ye know syns whan,
The sute, the seruys none tell can,
Fforgett not yet.
Fforget not yet the gret assays,
The cruell wrong, the skornfull ways,
| The paynfull pacyence in denays, |
denays denials |
Fforgett not yet.
Fforget not yet, forget not thys,
How long ago hathe bene and ys
The mynd that neuer ment amys,
Fforget not yet.
Fforget not then thyn owne aprovyd
The whyche so long hathe the so louyd,
Whose stedfast faythe yet neuer movyd,
Fforget not thys.
Sir Walter Ralegh (1552-1618)
'Like to a Hermite poore'
Like to a Hermite poore in place obscure,
I meane to spend my daies of endles doubt,
To waile such woes as time cannot recure,
Where none but Loue shall euer finde me out.
My foode shall be of care and sorow made,
My drink nought else but teares falne from mine eies,
And for my light in such obscured shade,
The flames shall serue, which from my hart arise.
A gowne of graie, my bodie shall attire,
My staffe of broken hope whereon Ile staie,
Of late repentance linckt with long desire,
The couch is fram'de whereon my limbes Ile lay,
And at my gate dispaire shall linger still,
To let in death when Loue and Fortune will.
Heinrich von Morungen (c. 1150-1222)
The Wound of Love
She has wounded me
in my innermost soul,
within the mortal core,
when I told her
that I was raving and anguished
in desire for her glorious lips.
Once I bade my own lips
to commend me to her service,
and to steal me
a tender kiss of hers,
that I might for ever be well.
How I begin to hate
her rose-red lips,
which I never yet forgot!
It troubles me still,
that they once refused me
with such vehemence.
Thus I have grown so weak
that I would far rather — alive —
burn in the abyss
of hell than serve her still,
not knowing to what end.
Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)
'Ring out your belles'
Ring out your belles, let mourning shewes be spread,
For love is dead:
All Love is dead, infected
With plague of deepe disdaine:
Worth as nought worth rejected,
And Faith faire scorne doth gaine.
From so ungratefull fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.
Weepe neighbours, weepe, do you not heare it said,
That Love is dead?
His death-bed peacock's follie,
His winding sheete is shame,
His will false-seeming holie,
His sole exec'tour blame.
From so ungratefull fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
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 tombe ordaineth,
My mistresse' Marble hart,
Which Epitaph containeth,
"Her eyes were once his dart".
From so ungratefull fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that use men thus,
Good Lord deliver us.
Alas, I lie: rage hath this errour bred,
Love is not dead.
Love is not dead, but sleepeth
In her unmatched mind:
Where she his counsell keepeth,
Till due desert she find.
Therefore from so vile fancie,
To call such wit a franzie,
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