A Defence of Poesie and Poems [38]
earth, not fiery spirits, may plain? That eyes weep worse than heart in bloody tears? That sense feels more than what doth sense contain? No, no, she is too wise, she knows her face Hath not such pain as it makes others have: She knows the sickness of that perfect place Hath yet such health, as it my life can save. But this, she thinks, our pain high cause excuseth, Where her, who should rule pain, false pain abuseth.
* * *
Like as the dove, which seeled up doth fly, Is neither freed, nor yet to service bound; But hopes to gain some help by mounting high, Till want of force do force her fall to ground: Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye, And thence cast off where his sweet hurt he found, Hath neither leave to live, nor doom to die; Nor held in evil, nor suffered to be sound. But with his wings of fancies up he goes, To high conceits, whose fruits are oft but small; Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, lose Both force to fly, and knowledge where to fall: O happy dove, if she no bondage tried! More happy I, might I in bondage bide!
* * *
In wonted walks, since wonted fancies change, Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise: For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range, Part of my pain, me-seems, engraved lies. The rocks, which were of constant mind the mark, In climbing steep, now hard refusal show; The shading woods seem now my sun to dark, And stately hills disdain to look so low. The restful caves now restless visions give; In dales I see each way a hard ascent: Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live; Alas, sweet brooks do in my tears augment: Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer me; Infected minds infect each thing they see. If I could think how these my thoughts to leave, Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end; If rebel sense would reason's law receive; Or reason foiled, would not in vain contend: Then might I think what thoughts were best to think: Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink.
If either you would change your cruel heart, Or, cruel still, time did your beauties stain: If from my soul this love would once depart, Or for my love some love I might obtain; Then might I hope a change, or ease of mind, By your good help, or in myself, to find.
But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent. With reason's strife, by senses overthrown; You fairer still, and still more cruel bent, I loving still a love that loveth none: I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain, Thought, reason, sense, time, You, and I, maintain.
POEM: A FAREWELL
Oft have I mused, but now at length I find Why those that die, men say, they do depart: Depart: a word so gentle to my mind, Weakly did seem to paint Death's ugly dart.
But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind Me one to leave, with whom I leave my heart; I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind, That parting thus, my chiefest part I part.
Part of my life, the loathed part to me, Lives to impart my weary clay some breath; But that good part wherein all comforts be, Now dead, doth show departure is a death:
Yea, worse than death, death parts both woe and joy, From joy I part, still living in annoy.
* * *
Finding those beams, which I must ever love, To mar my mind, and with my hurt to please, I deemed it best, some absence for to prove, If farther place might further me to ease.
My eyes thence drawn, where lived all their light, Blinded forthwith in dark despair did lie, Like to the mole, with want of guiding sight, Deep plunged in earth, deprived of the sky.
In absence blind, and wearied with that woe, To greater woes, by presence, I return; Even as the fly, which to the flame doth go, Pleased with the light, that his small corse doth burn:
Fair choice I have, either to live or die A blinded mole, or else a burned fly.
POEM: THE SEVEN WONDERS OF ENGLAND
I.
Near Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found, But so confused, that neither any eye Can count them just, nor Reason reason try, What force brought them to so unlikely ground.
* * *
Like as the dove, which seeled up doth fly, Is neither freed, nor yet to service bound; But hopes to gain some help by mounting high, Till want of force do force her fall to ground: Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye, And thence cast off where his sweet hurt he found, Hath neither leave to live, nor doom to die; Nor held in evil, nor suffered to be sound. But with his wings of fancies up he goes, To high conceits, whose fruits are oft but small; Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, lose Both force to fly, and knowledge where to fall: O happy dove, if she no bondage tried! More happy I, might I in bondage bide!
* * *
In wonted walks, since wonted fancies change, Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise: For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range, Part of my pain, me-seems, engraved lies. The rocks, which were of constant mind the mark, In climbing steep, now hard refusal show; The shading woods seem now my sun to dark, And stately hills disdain to look so low. The restful caves now restless visions give; In dales I see each way a hard ascent: Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live; Alas, sweet brooks do in my tears augment: Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer me; Infected minds infect each thing they see. If I could think how these my thoughts to leave, Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end; If rebel sense would reason's law receive; Or reason foiled, would not in vain contend: Then might I think what thoughts were best to think: Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink.
If either you would change your cruel heart, Or, cruel still, time did your beauties stain: If from my soul this love would once depart, Or for my love some love I might obtain; Then might I hope a change, or ease of mind, By your good help, or in myself, to find.
But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent. With reason's strife, by senses overthrown; You fairer still, and still more cruel bent, I loving still a love that loveth none: I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain, Thought, reason, sense, time, You, and I, maintain.
POEM: A FAREWELL
Oft have I mused, but now at length I find Why those that die, men say, they do depart: Depart: a word so gentle to my mind, Weakly did seem to paint Death's ugly dart.
But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind Me one to leave, with whom I leave my heart; I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind, That parting thus, my chiefest part I part.
Part of my life, the loathed part to me, Lives to impart my weary clay some breath; But that good part wherein all comforts be, Now dead, doth show departure is a death:
Yea, worse than death, death parts both woe and joy, From joy I part, still living in annoy.
* * *
Finding those beams, which I must ever love, To mar my mind, and with my hurt to please, I deemed it best, some absence for to prove, If farther place might further me to ease.
My eyes thence drawn, where lived all their light, Blinded forthwith in dark despair did lie, Like to the mole, with want of guiding sight, Deep plunged in earth, deprived of the sky.
In absence blind, and wearied with that woe, To greater woes, by presence, I return; Even as the fly, which to the flame doth go, Pleased with the light, that his small corse doth burn:
Fair choice I have, either to live or die A blinded mole, or else a burned fly.
POEM: THE SEVEN WONDERS OF ENGLAND
I.
Near Wilton sweet, huge heaps of stones are found, But so confused, that neither any eye Can count them just, nor Reason reason try, What force brought them to so unlikely ground.