Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 23

LOVE is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries-- Heigh ho!

Love is a torment of the mind, A tempest everlasting; And Jove hath made it of a kind Not well, nor full nor fasting.

Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies; If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries-- Heigh ho!

Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619

112. Ulysses and the Siren

Siren. COME, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come, Possess these sh.o.r.es with me: The winds and seas are troublesome, And here we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toil That travail in the deep, And joy the day in mirth the while, And spend the night in sleep.

Ulysses. Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were To be attain'd with ease, Then would I come and rest me there, And leave such toils as these.

But here it dwells, and here must I With danger seek it forth: To spend the time luxuriously Becomes not men of worth.

Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceived With that unreal name; This honour is a thing conceived, And rests on others' fame: Begotten only to molest Our peace, and to beguile The best thing of our life--our rest, And give us up to toil.

Ulysses. Delicious Nymph, suppose there were No honour nor report, Yet manliness would scorn to wear The time in idle sport: For toil doth give a better touch To make us feel our joy, And ease finds tediousness as much As labour yields annoy.

Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the sh.o.r.e Whereto tends all your toil, Which you forgo to make it more, And perish oft the while.

Who may disport them diversely Find never tedious day, And ease may have variety As well as action may.

Ulysses. But natures of the n.o.blest frame These toils and dangers please; And they take comfort in the same As much as you in ease; And with the thought of actions past Are recreated still: When Pleasure leaves a touch at last To show that it was ill.

Siren. That doth Opinion only cause That 's out of Custom bred, Which makes us many other laws Than ever Nature did.

No widows wail for our delights, Our sports are without blood; The world we see by warlike wights Receives more hurt than good.

Ulysses. But yet the state of things require These motions of unrest: And these great Spirits of high desire Seem born to turn them best: To purge the mischiefs that increase And all good order mar: For oft we see a wicked peace To be well changed for war.

Siren. Well, well, Ulysses, then I see I shall not have thee here: And therefore I will come to thee, And take my fortune there.

I must be won, that cannot win, Yet lost were I not won; For beauty hath created been T' undo, or be undone.

Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619

113. Beauty, Time, and Love Sonnets.

I FAIR is my Love and cruel as she 's fair; Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny.

Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair, And her disdains are gall, her favours honey: A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour, Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, Sacred on earth, design'd a Saint above.

Chast.i.ty and Beauty, which were deadly foes, Live reconciled friends within her brow; And had she Pity to conjoin with those, Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?

For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

II My spotless love hovers with purest wings, About the temple of the proudest frame, Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things, Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.

My ambitious thoughts, confined in her face, Affect no honour but what she can give; My hopes do rest in limits of her grace; I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.

For she, that can my heart imparadise, Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is; My Fortune's wheel 's the circle of her eyes, Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.

All my life's sweet consists in her alone; So much I love the most Unloving one.

III And yet I cannot reprehend the flight Or blame th' attempt presuming so to soar; The mounting venture for a high delight Did make the honour of the fall the more.

For who gets wealth, that puts not from the sh.o.r.e?

Danger hath honour, great designs their fame; Glory doth follow, courage goes before; And though th' event oft answers not the same-- Suffice that high attempts have never shame.

The mean observer, whom base safety keeps, Lives without honour, dies without a name, And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.-- And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blot To have attempted, tho' attain'd thee not.

IV When men shall find thy flow'r, thy glory, pa.s.s, And thou with careful brow, sitting alone, Received hast this message from thy gla.s.s, That tells the truth and says that All is gone; Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad'st, Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining: I that have loved thee thus before thou fad'st-- My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.

The world shall find this miracle in me, That fire can burn when all the matter 's spent: Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see, And that thou wast unkind thou may'st repent.-- Thou may'st repent that thou hast scorn'd my tears, When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.

V Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon the tender green Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show, And straight 'tis gone as it had never been.

Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish, Short is the glory of the blus.h.i.+ng rose; The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.

When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth; And that, in Beauty's Lease expired, appears The Date of Age, the Calends of our Death-- But ah, no more!--this must not be foretold, For women grieve to think they must be old.

VI I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile; Flowers have time before they come to seed, And she is young, and now must sport the while.

And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years, And learn to gather flowers before they wither; And where the sweetest blossom first appears, Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither.

Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; Pity and smiles do best become the fair; Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.

Make me to say when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!

VII Let others sing of Knights and Paladines In aged accents and untimely words, Paint shadows in imaginary lines, Which well the reach of their high wit 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 arcs, 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' error of my youth in them appear, Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.

Mark Alexander Boyd. 1563-1601

114. Sonet

FRA bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin, Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie; Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree, Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.

Twa G.o.ds guides me: the ane of tham is blin, Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie; The next a wife ingenrit of the sea, And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.

Unhappy is the man for evermair That tills the sand and sawis in the air; But twice unhappier is he, I lairn, That feidis in his hairt a mad desire, And follows on a woman throw the fire, Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.

Joshua Sylvester. 1563-1618

115. Ubique

WERE I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.

Were I as high as heaven above the plain, And you, my Love, as humble and as low As are the deepest bottoms of the main, Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, My love should s.h.i.+ne on you like to the Sun, And look upon you with ten thousand eyes, Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.

Wheresoe'er I am,--below, or else above you-- Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

Michael Drayton. 1563-1631