A Defence of Poesie and Poems
_Will_. If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?
_Dick_. Tear’s drink, sorrow’s meat, wherewith not I, but in me my
death lives.
_Will_. What living get you then?
_Dick_. Disdain; but just disdain;
So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain.
_Will_. What care takes she for thee?
_Dick_. Her care is to prevent
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.
But Dick, my counsel mark: run from the place of woo:
The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow.
_Dick_. Good Will, I cannot take thy good advice; before
That foxes leave to steal, they find they die therefore.
_Will_. Then, Dick, let us go hence lest we great folks annoy:
For nothing can more tedious be than plaint in time of joy.
_Dick_. Oh hence! O cruel word! which even dogs do hate:
But hence, even hence, I must needs go; such is my dogged fate.
SONG.
_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 deprivéd 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 pleaséd,
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raiséd
On Nature’s sweetest light.
THE SMOKES OF MELANCHOLY.
I.
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.
II.
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,
Ingulphéd in despair, slid down from Fortune’s lap;
And, as you like my double lot,
Tread in my steps, or follow not.
III.
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.
ODE.
WHEN, to my deadly pleasure,
When to my lively torment,
Lady, mine eyes remainéd
Joinéd, alas! to your beams.
With violence of heavenly
Beauty, tied to virtue;
Reason abashed retiréd;
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 reservéd;
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.
Turnéd 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.
VERSES.
_To the tune of a Neapolitan song_, _which beginneth_, “_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;
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.
SONG.
_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.
TRANSLATION.
_From_ “_La Diana de Monte-Mayor_,” _in Spanish_: _where Sireno_, _a
shepherd_, _whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him_, _pulling out
a little of her hair_, _wrapped about with green silk_, _to the hair he
thus bewailed himself_.
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 seeméd 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
sang_:—
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 unmatchéd 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.
SONNETS.
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 embracéd, sought, knot, fire, disease.
WOOING-STUFF.