A Defence of Poesie and Poems [37]
can only bondage gain: So that I live to pay a mortal fee, Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts, Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see, And can cry help with naught but groans and starts: Longing to have, having no wit to wish, To starving minds such is god Cupid's dish.
POEM: SONG
To the tune of "Non credo gia che piu infelice amante."
The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
II.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish, But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, But I, who daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
POEM: SONG
To the tune of "Basciami vita mia."
Sleep, baby mine, Desire's nurse, Beauty, singeth; Thy cries, O baby, set mine head on aching: The babe cries, "'Way, thy love doth keep me waking."
Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringeth Unto my children alway good rest taking: The babe cries, "Way, thy love doth keep me waking."
Since, baby mine, from me thy watching springeth, Sleep then a little, pap Content is making; The babe cries, "Nay, for that abide I waking."
I.
The scourge of life, and death's extreme disgrace; The smoke of hell, the monster called Pain: Long shamed to be accursed in every place, By them who of his rude resort complain; Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught, His ugly evil in others' good to hide; Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide; And so by privilege of sacred seat, A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns, He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great, Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains. Ah, saucy Pain, let not thy terror last, More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.
II.
Woe! woe to me, on me return the smart: My burning tongue hath bred my mistress pain? For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart, With her due praise did of my state complain. I praised her eyes, whom never chance doth move; Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet; Her milken breasts, the nurse of child-like love; Her legs, O legs! her aye well-stepping feet: Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire, (First sealing up my heart as prey of his) He flies to her, and, boldened with desire, Her face, this age's praise, the thief doth kiss. O Pain! I now recant the praise I gave, And swear she is not worthy thee to have.
III.
Thou pain, the only guest of loathed Constraint; The child of Curse, man's weakness foster-child; Brother to Woe, and father of Complaint: Thou Pain, thou hated Pain, from heaven exiled, How hold'st thou her whose eyes constraint doth fear, Whom cursed do bless; whose weakness virtues arm; Who others' woes and plaints can chastely bear: In whose sweet heaven angels of high thoughts swarm? What courage strange hath caught thy caitiff heart? Fear'st not a face that oft whole hearts devours? Or art thou from above bid play this part, And so no help 'gainst envy of those powers? If thus, alas, yet while those parts have woe; So stay her tongue, that she no more say, "O."
IV.
And have I heard her say, "O cruel pain!" And doth she know what mould her beauty bears? Mourns she in truth, and thinks that others feign? Fears she to feel, and feels not others' fears? Or doth she think all pain the mind forbears? That heavy
POEM: SONG
To the tune of "Non credo gia che piu infelice amante."
The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
II.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish, But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, But I, who daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
POEM: SONG
To the tune of "Basciami vita mia."
Sleep, baby mine, Desire's nurse, Beauty, singeth; Thy cries, O baby, set mine head on aching: The babe cries, "'Way, thy love doth keep me waking."
Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringeth Unto my children alway good rest taking: The babe cries, "Way, thy love doth keep me waking."
Since, baby mine, from me thy watching springeth, Sleep then a little, pap Content is making; The babe cries, "Nay, for that abide I waking."
I.
The scourge of life, and death's extreme disgrace; The smoke of hell, the monster called Pain: Long shamed to be accursed in every place, By them who of his rude resort complain; Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught, His ugly evil in others' good to hide; Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide; And so by privilege of sacred seat, A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns, He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great, Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains. Ah, saucy Pain, let not thy terror last, More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.
II.
Woe! woe to me, on me return the smart: My burning tongue hath bred my mistress pain? For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart, With her due praise did of my state complain. I praised her eyes, whom never chance doth move; Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet; Her milken breasts, the nurse of child-like love; Her legs, O legs! her aye well-stepping feet: Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire, (First sealing up my heart as prey of his) He flies to her, and, boldened with desire, Her face, this age's praise, the thief doth kiss. O Pain! I now recant the praise I gave, And swear she is not worthy thee to have.
III.
Thou pain, the only guest of loathed Constraint; The child of Curse, man's weakness foster-child; Brother to Woe, and father of Complaint: Thou Pain, thou hated Pain, from heaven exiled, How hold'st thou her whose eyes constraint doth fear, Whom cursed do bless; whose weakness virtues arm; Who others' woes and plaints can chastely bear: In whose sweet heaven angels of high thoughts swarm? What courage strange hath caught thy caitiff heart? Fear'st not a face that oft whole hearts devours? Or art thou from above bid play this part, And so no help 'gainst envy of those powers? If thus, alas, yet while those parts have woe; So stay her tongue, that she no more say, "O."
IV.
And have I heard her say, "O cruel pain!" And doth she know what mould her beauty bears? Mourns she in truth, and thinks that others feign? Fears she to feel, and feels not others' fears? Or doth she think all pain the mind forbears? That heavy