A Defence of Poesie and Poems
very precisely, which other languages either cannot do, or will not do so
absolutely. That “cæsura,” or breathing-place, in the midst of the
verse, neither Italian nor Spanish have, the French and we never almost
fail of. Lastly, even the very rhyme itself the Italian cannot put in
the last syllable, by the French named the masculine rhyme, but still in
the next to the last, which the French call the female; or the next
before that, which the Italian calls “sdrucciola:” the example of the
former is, “buono,” “suono;” of the sdrucciola is, “femina,” “semina.”
The French, of the other side, hath both the male, as “bon,” “son,” and
the female, as “plaise,” “taise;” but the “sdrucciola” he hath not; where
the English hath all three, as “due,” “true,” “father,” “rather,”
“motion,” “potion;” with much more which might be said, but that already
I find the trifling of this discourse is much too much enlarged.
So {97} that since the ever praiseworthy poesy is full of virtue,
breeding delightfulness, and void of no gift that ought to be in the
noble name of learning; since the blames laid against it are either false
or feeble; since the cause why it is not esteemed in England is the fault
of poet-apes, not poets; since, lastly, our tongue is most fit to honour
poesy, and to be honoured by poesy; I conjure you all that have had the
evil luck to read this ink-wasting toy of mine, even in the name of the
Nine Muses, no more to scorn the sacred mysteries of poesy; no more to
laugh at the name of poets, as though they were next inheritors to fools;
no more to jest at the reverend title of “a rhymer;” but to believe, with
Aristotle, that they were the ancient treasurers of the Grecian’s
divinity; to believe, with Bembus, that they were the first bringers in
of all civility; to believe, with Scaliger, that no philosopher’s
precepts can sooner make you an honest man, than the reading of Virgil;
to believe, with Clauserus, the translator of Cornutus, that it pleased
the heavenly deity by Hesiod and Homer, under the veil of fables, to give
us all knowledge, logic, rhetoric, philosophy natural and moral, and
“quid non?” to believe, with me, that there are many mysteries contained
in poetry, which of purpose were written darkly, lest by profane wits it
should be abused; to believe, with Landin, that they are so beloved of
the gods that whatsoever they write proceeds of a divine fury. Lastly,
to believe themselves, when they tell you they will make you immortal by
their verses.
Thus doing, your names shall flourish in the printers’ shops: thus doing,
you shall be of kin to many a poetical preface: thus doing, you shall be
most fair, most rich, most wise, most all: you shall dwell upon
superlatives: thus doing, though you be “Libertino patre natus,” you
shall suddenly grow “Herculea proles,”
“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 itself up to look to
the sky of poetry, or rather, by a certain 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 Midas, nor to be driven by a poet’s verses, as
Bubonax was, to hang himself; nor to be rhymed to death, as is said to be
done in Ireland; yet thus much curse I must send you in the behalf of all
poets; that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour, for
lacking skill of a sonnet; and when you die, your memory die from the
earth for want of an epitaph.
POEMS.
TWO PASTORALS,
_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.
Welcome my two to me,
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 joinéd 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 joinéd be.
DISPRAISE OF A COURTLY LIFE.
WALKING in bright Phœbus’ 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 transforméd late,
Once to shepherds’ God retaining,
Now in servile court remaining.
There he wand’ring malecontent,
Up and down perpléxed 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 uséd 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 filléd with contenting,
Void of wishing and repenting.
DIRGE.
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 unmatchéd 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.
STANZAS TO LOVE.
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.
A REMEDY FOR LOVE.
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.