A Defence of Poesie and Poems [35]
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.
POEM: 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.
POEM: 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.
POEM: 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 seemed 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
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.
POEM: 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.
POEM: 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.
POEM: 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 seemed 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