Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

SONNET LI.

CARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of the sable Night;
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born:
Relieve my languish, and restore the light;
With dark forgetting of my care, return.
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventur'd youth:
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising Sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain;
And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

SONNET LV.

NONE other fame mine unambitious Muse
Affected ever, but t' eternize thee:
All other honours do my hopes refuse,
Which meaner-priz'd and momentary be.
For God forbid I should my papers blot
With mercenary lines, with servile pen;
Praising virtues in them that have them not,
Basely attending on the hopes of men.
No, no; my verse respects not Thames, nor theatres,
Nor seeks it to be known unto the great:
But Avon, poor in fame, and poor in waters,
Shall have my song; where Delia hath her seat.
Avon shall be my Thames, and she my song;
No other prouder brooks shall hear my wrong.

SONNET LII.

LET others sing of knights and palladines,
In aged accents, and untimely words;
Paint shadows in imaginary lines,

Which well the reach of their high wits records:
But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes;
Authentic shall my verse in time to come;
When yet th' unborn shall say, "Lo where she lies,
Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb."
These are the arks, the trophies I erect,
That fortify thy name against old age;
And these thy sacred virtues must protect,
Against the dark and time's consuming rage.
Though th' errour of my youth in them appear,
Suffice they show I liv'd and lov'd thee dear.

SONNET LVI.

UNHAPPY pen, and ill-accepted lines,
That intimate in vain my chaste desire;
My chaste desire, which from dark sorrow shines,
Enkindl'd by her eyes' celestial fire.
Celestial fire, and unrespecting pow'rs!
Which pity not the wounds made by their might;
Show'd in these lines the work of careful hours,
The sacrifice here offer'd to her sight.

But since she weighs them not, this rests for me;
I'll moan myself, and hide the wrong I have;
And so content me that her frowns should be
To m' infant style, the cradle and the grave.
What though my Muse no honour get thereby?
Each bird sings to herself, and so will I.

SONNET LIII.

As to the Roman that would free his land,
His errour was his honour and renown;
And more the fame of his mistaking band,
Than if he had the tyrant overthrown.
So, Delia, hath mine errour made me known,
And my deceiv'd attempt deserv'd more fame,
Than if I had the victory mine own,
And thy hard heart had yielded up the same.
And so likewise renowned is thy blame,
Thy cruelty, thy glory. O strange case,
That errours should be grac'd, that merit shame;
And sin of frowns bring honour to the face!
Yet happy, Delia, that thou wast unkind; [mind.
Though happier far, if thou would'st change thy

SONNET LVII.

Lo here the impost of a faith entire,

Which love doth pay, and her disdain extorts!
Behold the message of a chaste desire,

Which tells the world how much my grief imports!
These tributary passions, beauty's due,
I send those eyes the cabinets of love;
That cruelty herself might grieve to view
Th' affliction her unkind disdain doth move.
And how I live cast down from off all mirth,
Pensive alone, only but with despair:
My joys abortive perish in their birth;
My griefs long-liv'd, and care succeeding care.
This is my state; and Delia's heart is such :
I say no more-Í fear I said too much.

SONNET LIV.

LIKE as the lute delights, or else dislikes,
As is his art that plays upon the same;
So sounds my Muse, according as she strikes
On my heart-strings high tun'd unto her fame.
Her touch doth cause the warble of the sound,
Which here I yield in lamentable wise;
A wailing descant on the sweetest ground,
Whose due reports give honour to her eyes.
Else harsh my style, untunable my Muse;
Hoarse sounds the voice, that praiseth not her name:
If any pleasing relish here I use,

Then judge the world her beauty gives the same.
For no ground else could make the music such,
Nor other hand could give so true a touch.

AN ODE.

Now each creature joys the other,
Passing happy days and hours;
One bird reports unto another,
In the fall of silver show'rs;
Whilst the Earth, our common mother,
Hath her bosom deck'd with flow'rs.

Whilst the greatest torch of Heaven,

With bright rays warms Flora's lap; Making nights and days both even,

Cheering plants with fresher sap; My field of flowers quite bereaven, Wants refresh of better hap.

[blocks in formation]

Let us neglected base

Live still without thy grace,

And th' use of th' ancient happy ages keep.

Let's love-this life of ours

Can make no truce with Time that all devours.

Let's love-the Sun doth set, and rise again; But when as our short light

With streams of milk, and honey dropp'd from trees; Comes once to set, it makes eternal night. Not that the Earth did gage

[blocks in formation]
[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

TO THE ANGEL SPIRIT OF THE

MOST EXCELLENT SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
To thee, pure spir't, to thee alone address'd
Is this joint-work, by double int'rest thine:
Thine by thine own, and what is done of mine
Inspir'd by thee, thy secret pow'r impress'd.
My Muse with thine itself dar'd to combine,
As mortal staff with that which is divine:
Let thy fair beams give lustre to the rest.

That Israel's king may deign his own transform'd
In substance no, but superficial tire;
And English guis'd in some sort may aspire,
To better grace thee what the vulgar form'd.
His sacred tunes age after age admire ;
Nations grow great in pride and pure desire,
So to excel in holy rites perform'd.

O bad that soul, which honour brought to rest
Too soon, not left, and reft the world of all
What man could show which we perfection call!
This precious piece had sorted with the best.
But, ah! wide-fester'd wounds (that never shall,
Nor must be clos'd) unto fresh bleeding fall.
Ah, Memory! what needs this new artist?

Yet blessed grief that sweetness can impart,
Since thou art bless'd-wrongly do I complain;
Whatever weights my heavy thoughts sustain,
Dear feels my soul for thee-I know my part.
Nor be my weakness to thy rites a stain;
Rites to aright, life, blood, would not refrain.
Assist me then, that life what thine did part.

Time may bring forth what time hath yet suppress'd,
In whom thy loss hath laid to utter waste
The wreck of time, untimely all defac'd,
Remaining as the tomb of life deceas'd:
Where in my heart the highest room thou hast:
There, truly there, thy earthly being is plac'd:
Triumph of death!-In earth bow more than bless'd!

Behold (O that thou were now to behold!)
This finish'd long perfection's part begun ;
The test but piec'd, as left by thee undone.
Pardon, bless'd soul, presumption over bold:
If love and zeal hath to this errour run,
'T is zealous love; love that bath never done,
Nor can enough, though justly here controll'd.

But since it hath no other scope to go,
Nor other purpose but to honour thee;
That thine may shine, where all the graces be:
And that my thoughts (like smallest streams that
Pay to their sea their tributary fee)
Do strive, yet have no means to quit nor free
That mighty debt of infinites I owe.

[flow,

To thy great worth, which time to times enroll,
Wonder of men! sole born! soul of thy kind!
Complete in all-but heav'nly was thy mind,
For wisdom, goodness, sweetness, fairest soul!
Too good to wish; too fair for Earth; refin'd
For Heav'n, where all true glory rests confin'd:
And where but there no life without control?

O when from this account, this cast-up sum,
This reck'ning made the audit of my woe!
Some time of race my swelling passions knowe;
How work my thoughts! My sense is stricken dumb,
That would thee more than words could ever show;
Which all fall short. Who knew thee best to know,
There lives no wit that may thy prayer become:

And rest fair monuments of thy fair fame,
Though not complete. Nor can we reach in thought,
What on that goodly piece Time would have
wrought:

Had divers so spar'd that life (but life) to frame
The rest: alas, such loss! The world hath nought
Can equal it-nor (O) more grievance brought!
Yet what remains, must ever crown thy naine.

Receive these hints; these obsequies receive;
(If any mark of thy secret spirit thou bear)
Made only thine, and no name else must wear.
I can no more, dear soul; I take my leave:
My sorrow strives to mount the highest sphere.

TO THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER...A DEFENCE OF RHYME.

TO THE RIGHT REVEREND FATHER IN GOD,

JAMES MONTAGUE,

LORD BISHOP OF WINCHESTER; DEAN OF THE CHAPEL, AND ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVYCOUNCIL.

ALTHOUGH you have, out of your proper store,
The best munition that may fortify

A noble heart; as no man may have more,
Against the batt'ries of mortality:

Yet, rev'rend lord, vouchsafe me leave to bring
One weapon more unto your furnishment,
That you th' assaults of this close vanquishing,
And secret wasting sickness may prevent:
For that myself have struggled with it too,
And know the worst of all that it can do.
And let me tell you this, you never could
Have found a gentler warring enemy,
And one that with more fair proceeding would
Encounter you without extremity;
Nor give more time to make resistances,
And to repair your breaches, than will this.

For whereas other sicknesses surprise
Our spir'ts at unawares, disweap'ning suddenly
All sense of understanding in such wise,
As that they lay us dead before we die,
Or fire us out of our inflamed fort,
With raving phrensies in a fearful sort :

This comes and steals us by degrees away;
And yet not that without our privity.
They rap us hence, as vultures do their prey,
Confounding us with tortures instantly.
This fairly kills, they fouly murther us,
Trip up our heels before we can discern.
This gives us time of treaty, to discuss
Our suff'ring, and the cause thereof to learn.

Besides, therewith we oftentimes have truce
For many months; sometimes for many years;
And are permitted to enjoy the use
Of study: and although our body wears,
Our wit remains; our speech, our memory
Fail not, or come before ourselves to die.
We part together, and we take our leave
Of friends, of kindred: we dispose our state,
And yield up fairly what we did receive,
And all our buss'nesses accommodate.
So that we cannot say we were thrust out,
But we depart from hence in quiet sort;
The foe with whom we have the battle fought,
Hath not subdued us, but got our fort.
And this disease is held most incident
To the best natures, and most innocent.
And therefore, rev'rend lord, there cannot be
A gentler passage, than there is hereby
Unto that port, wherein we shall be free
From all the storms of worldly misery.
And though it show us daily in our glass,
Our fading leaf turn'd to a yellow hue;
And how it withers as the sap doth pass,
And what we may expect is to ensue.

Yet that I know disquiets not your mind, Who knows the brittle metal of mankind; And have all comforts virtue can beget, And most the conscience of well-acted days: Which all those monuments which you have set On holy ground, to your perpetual praise,

(As things best set) must ever testify And show the worth of noble Montague: And so long as the walls of piety

551

Stand, so long shall stand the memory of you.
And Bath, and Wells, and Winchester shall show
Their fair repairs to all posterity;

And how much bless'd and fortunate they were,
That ever-gracious hand did plant you there.
Besides, you have not only built up wails,
But also (worthier edifices) men;
By whom you shall have the memorials,
And everlasting honour of the pen.

That whensoever you shall come to make
Your exit from this scene, wherein you have
Perform'd so noble parts; you then shall take
Your leave with honour, have a glorious grave!
"For when can men go better to their rest,
Than when they are esteem'd and loved best?"

DEFENCE OF RHYME;

AGAINST A PAMPHLET, ENTITLED OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY ;

WHEREIN IS DEMONSTRATIVELY PROVED, THAT RHYME IS THE FITTEST HARMONY OF WORDS THAT COMPORTS WITH OUR LANGUAGE.

ΤΟ

ALL THE WORTHY LOVERS AND LEARNED PROFESSORS OF RHYME WITHIN HIS MAJESTY'S DOMINIONS.

WORTHY GENTLEMEN,

ABOUT a year since, upon the great reproach given the professors of rhyme, and the use hereof, I wrote a private letter, as a defence of my own undertakings in that kind, to a learned gentleman, a friend of mine, then in court. Which I did, rather to confirm myself in mine own courses, and to hold him from being wou from us, than with any desire to publish the same to the world.

But now, seeing the times to promise a more regard to the present condition of our writings, in respect of our sovereign's' happy inclination this way; whereby we are rather to expect an encouragement to go on with what we do, than that any innovation should check us, with a show of what it would do in another kind, and yet do nothing but deprave: I have now given a greater body to the same argument; and here present it to your view, under the patronage of a noble

King James I.

earl, who in blood and nature is interested to take our part in this cause, with others who can. not, I know, but hold dear the monuments that have been left unto the world in this manner of composition; and who, I trust, will take in good part this my defence, if not as it is my particular, yet in respect of the cause I undertake, which I here invoke you all to protect.

DEFENCE OF RHYME,

ΤΟ

WILLIAM HERBERT,

EARL OF PEMBROKE.

THE general custom and use of rhyme in this kingdom, noble lord, having been so long (as if from a grant of Nature) held unquestionable, made me to imagine that it lay altogether out of the way of contradiction, and was become so natural, as we should never have had a thought to cast it off into reproach, or be made to think that it ill became our language: but, now I see, when there is opposition made to all things in the world by words, we must now at length likewise fall to contend for words themselves, and make a question whether they be right or not. For we are told how that our measures go wrong, all rhyming is gross, vulgar, harbarous: which, if it be so, we have lost much labour to no purpose; and for my own particular, I cannot but blame the fortune of the times, and my own genius, that cast me upon so wrong a course, drawn with the current of custom and an unexamined example. Having been first encou raged and framed thereunto by your most worthy and honourable mother, and received the first notion for the formal ordering of those compositions at Wilton, which I must ever acknowledge to have been my best school, and thereof always am to hold a feeling and grateful memory. Afterward drawn further on by the well-liking and approbation of my worthy lord, the fosterer of me and my Muse, I adventured to bestow all my whole powers therein, perceiving it agree so well, both with the complexion of the times, and my own constitution, as I found not wherein I might better employ me: but yet now, upon the great discovery of these new measures threatening to overthrow the whole state of rhyme in this kingdom, I must either stand out to defend, or else be forced to forsake myself, and give over all; and though irresolution and a self distrust be the most apparent faults of my nature, and that the least check of reprehension, if it favour of reason, will as easily shake my resolution as any man's living; yet in this case I know not how I am grown more resolved, and before I sink, willing to examine what those powers of judgment are, that must bear me down, and beat me off from the station of my profession, which by the law of nature I am set to defend.

And the rather, for that this detractor (whose commendable rhyme, albeit now himself an enemy best notice of his worth) is a man of fair parts, to rhyme, have given heretofore to the world the and good reputation, and therefore the reproach forcibly cast from such a hand, may throw down more at once than the labours of many shall in long time build up again, especially upon the slippery foundation of opinion, and the world's inconstancy, which knows not well what it would have, and

Discit enim citius, meminitque libentinus illud
Quod quis deridet quam quod probat et veneratur.

And he who is thus become our unkind adversary, must pardon us if we be as jealous of our fame and reputation, as he is desirous of credit by his new old art, and must consider that we cannot, in a thing that concerns us so near, but have a feeling of the wrong done, wherein every rhymer in this universal island, as well as myself, stands interested; so that if his charity had equally drawn with his learning, he would have forborn to procure the envy of so powerful a number upon him, from whom he cannot but expect the return of a like measure of blame, and only have made way to his own grace, by the proof of his ability, without the disparaging of us, who would have been glad to have stood quietly by him, and perhaps commended his adventure, seeing that ever more of one science another may be born, and that these sallies, made out of the quarter of our set knowledges, are the gallant proffers only of attemptive spirits, and commendable, though they work no other effect than make a bravado: and I know it were indecens, et morosum nimis, alienæ industriæ modum ponere. We could well have allowed of his numbers, had he not disgraced our rhyme, which both custom and Nature doth most powerfully defend; custom that is before all law, nature that is above all art. Every language hath her proper number or measure fitted to use and delight, which, custom entertaining by the allowance of the ear, doth indenise and make natural. All verse is but a frame of words confined within certain measure, differing from the ordinary speech, and introduced, the better to express men's conceits, both for delight and memory; which frame of words, consisting of rythmus or metrum, number or measure, are disposed into divers fashions, according to the humour of the composer, and the set of the time: and these rhythmi, as Aristotle saith, are familiar amongst all nations, and è naturali et sponte fusa compositione. And they fall as naturally already in our language as ever art can make them, being such as the ear of itself doth marshal in their proper rooms, and they of themselves will not willingly be put out of rank, and that in such a verse as best comports with the nature of our language: and for our rhyme (which is an excellency added to this work of measure, and a harmony far happier than any proportion antiquity could ever show us) doth add more grace, and hath more of delight than ever bare numbers, howsoever they can be forced to run in our slow language, can possibly yield; which, whether it be deriv'd of rhythmus, or of romance, which were songs the Bards and Druids above rhymes used, and therefore were

« ZurückWeiter »