The long love that in my thought doth harbor

Sit Thomas Wyatt

Whoso list to hunt

Sir Thomas Wyatt

They flee from me

Sir Thomas Wyatt

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,

That she (dear She) might take some pleasure of my pain:

Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;

 

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe,

Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain:

Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow

Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burn'd brain.

 

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay,

Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows,

And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.

 

Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes,

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite--

"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart and write."

From Astrophil and Stella - Part 1

Sir Philip Sidney

Not at first sight, nor with a dribbed shot

Love gave the wound, which while I breathe will bleed;

But known worth did in mine of time proceed,

Till by degrees it had full conquest got:

 

I saw and liked, I liked but loved not;

I lov'd, but straight did not what Love decreed.

At length to love's decrees I, forc'd, agreed,

Yet with repining at so partial lot.

 

Now even that footstep of lost liberty

Is gone, and now like slave-born Muscovite

I call it praise to suffer tyranny;

 

And now employ the remnant of my wit

To make myself believe that all is well,

While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.

From Astrophil and Stella - Part 2

Sir Philip Sidney

Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound; fly!

See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,

Who like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie,

Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey.

 

So tyrant he no fitter place could spy,

Nor so fair level in so secret stay,

As that sweet black which veils the heav'nly eye:

There himself with his shot he close doth lay.

 

Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did,

And stayed pleas'd with the prospect of the place,

While that black hue from me the bad guest hid:

 

But straight I saw motions of lightning grace,

And then descried the glist'ring of his dart:

But ere I could fly hence, it pierc'd my heart.

From Astrophil and Stella - Part 20

Sir Philip Sidney

With how sad steps, oh Moon, thou climb'st the skies,

How silently, and with how wan a face.

What, may it be, that even in heav'nly place

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?

 

Sure, if that long with Love acquainted eyes

Can judge of Love, thou feel'st a lover's case;

I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace

To me that feel the like, thy state descries.

 

Then ev'n of fellowship, oh Moon, tell me

Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?

Are beauties there as proud as here thy be?

 

Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that Love doth possess?

Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

From Astrophil and Stella - Part 31

Sir Philip Sidney

When sorrow (using mine own fire's might)

Melts down his lead into my boiling breast;

Through that dark furnace to my heart oppress'd

There shines a joy from thee, my only light;

 

But soon as thought of thee breeds my delight,

And my young soul flutters to thee his nest,

Most rude despair, my daily unbidden guest,

Clips straight my wings, straight wraps me in his night,

 

And makes me then bow down my head and say,

"Ah, what doth Phoebus' gold that wretch avail

Whom iron doors do keep from use of day?"

 

So strangely (alas) thy works in me prevail,

That in my woes for thee thou art my joy,

And in my joys for thee my only annoy.

From Astrophil and Stella - Part 108

Sir Philip Sidney

Thou hast made me, and shall Thy work decay?
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste;
I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday.
I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
Despair behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
Only Thou art above, and when towards Thee
By Thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me
That not one hour myself I can sustain.
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And Thou like adamanto draw mine iron heart.

Holy Sonnet 1

John Donne

I am a little world made cunningly
    Of elements and an angelic sprite,
    But black sin hath betray'd to endless night
    My world's both parts, and oh both parts must die.
    You which beyond that heaven which was most high
    Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write,
    Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
    Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
    Or wash it, if it must be drown'd no more.
    But oh it must be burnt; alas the fire
    Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore,
    And made it fouler; let their flames retire,
    And burn me O Lord, with a fiery zeal
    Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.

Holy Sonnet 5

John Donne

  At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow
    Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
    From death, you numberless infinities
    Of souls, and to your scatter'd bodies go;
    All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,
    All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
    Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you whose eyes
    Shall behold God and never taste death's woe.
    But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space,
    For if above all these my sins abound,
    'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace
    When we are there; here on this lowly ground
    Teach me how to repent; for that's as good
    As if thou'hadst seal'd my pardon with thy blood.

Holy Sonnet 7

John Donne

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree
    Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us,
    If lecherous goats, if serpents envious
    Cannot be damn'd, alas, why should I be?
    Why should intent or reason, born in me,
    Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?
    And mercy being easy, and glorious
    To God, in his stern wrath why threatens he?
    But who am I, that dare dispute with thee,
    O God? Oh, of thine only worthy blood
    And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood,
    And drown in it my sins' black memory.
    That thou remember them, some claim as debt;
    I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

Holy Sonnet 9

John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Holy Sonnet 10

John Donne

What if this present were the world's last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright,
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light,
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite?
No, no; but as in my idolatry
I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty, of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour: so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned,
This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.

Holy Sonnet 13

John Donne

Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Holy Sonnet 14

John Donne

    Show me dear Christ, thy spouse so bright and clear.
    What! is it she which on the other shore
    Goes richly painted? or which, robb'd and tore,
    Laments and mourns in Germany and here?
    Sleeps she a thousand, then peeps up one year?
    Is she self-truth, and errs? now new, now outwore?
    Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore
    On one, on seven, or on no hill appear?
    Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knights
    First travel we to seek, and then make love?
    Betray, kind husband, thy spouse to our sights,
    And let mine amorous soul court thy mild Dove,
    Who is most true and pleasing to thee then
    When she'is embrac'd and open to most men.

Holy Sonnet 18

John Donne

Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one:
Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot
A constant habit; that when I would not
I change in vows, and in devotion.
As humorous is my contrition
As my profane love, and as soon forgot:
As riddlingly distempered, cold and hot,
As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none.
I durst not view heaven yesterday; and today
In prayers and flattering speeches I court God:
Tomorrow I quake with true fear of his rod.
So my devout fits come and go away
Like a fantastic ague; save that here
Those are my best days, when I shake with feare.

Holy Sonnet 19

John Donne

From Pamphilia to Amphilanthus - Part 1

Am I thus conquer'd?  have I lost the powers, 
     That to withstand which joyes to ruine me? 
     Must I bee still, while it my strength devoures, 
     And captive leads me prisoner bound, unfree? 

Love first shall leane mens fant'sies to them free, 
     Desire shall quench loves flames, Spring, hate sweet showers, 
     Love shall loose all his Darts, have sight, and see 
     His shame and wishings, hinder happy houres. 

Why should we not Loves purblinde charmes resist? 
     Must we be servile, doing what he list? 
     No, seeke some host to harbour thee:  I flye 

Thy Babish tricks, and freedome doe professe; 
     But O, my hurt makes my lost heart confesse: 
     I love, and must; so farewell liberty.

From Pamphilia to Amphilanthus - Part 16

False Hope which feeds but to destroy and spill 
     What it first breeds, unnaturall to the birth 
     Of thine owne wombe, conceiving but to kill 
     And plenty gives to make the greater dearth. 

So Tyrants doe, who falsly ruling Earth, 
     Outwardly grace them, and with profits fill, 
     Advance those who appointed are to death; 
     To make their greater fall to please their will. 

Thus shadow they their wicked vile intent, 
     Colouring evill with a show of good: 
     While in faire showes their malice so is spent; 
     Hope kill's the heart, and Tyrants shed the blood. 

For Hope deluding brings us to the pride 
Of our desires the farther downe to slide.

From Pamphilia to Amphilanthus - Part 40

My paine still smother'd in my grieved brest, 
     Seekes for some ease, yet cannot passage finde, 
     To be discharged of this unwelcome guest, 
     When most I strive, more fast his burthens binde. 

Like to a Ship on Goodwins cast by winde, 
     The more shee strive, more deepe in Sand is prest, 
     Till she be lost: so am I in this kind 
     Sunck, and devour'd, and swallow'd by unrest. 

Lost, shipwrackt, spoyld, debar'd of smallest hope, 
     Nothing of pleasure left, save thoughts have scope, 
     Which wander may; goe then my thoughts and cry: 

Hope's perish'd, Love tempest-beaten, Joy lost, 
     Killing Despaire hath all these blessings crost; 
     Yet Faith still cries, Love will not falsifie.

From Pamphilia to Amphilanthus - Part 68

From The Temple - The Altar

George Herbert

Having been tenant long to a rich Lord,

    Not thriving, I resolvèd to be bold,

And make a suit unto him to afford

    A new small-rented lease and cancel th'old.

In Heaven at his manor I him sought.

    They told me there that he was lately gone

About some land which he had dearly bought

    Long since on earth, to take possession,

I straight returned, and knowing his great birth,

    Sought him accordingly in great resorts,

    In cities, theaters, gardens, parks, and courts.

At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth

    Of thieves and murderers; there I him espied,

    Who straight "Your suit is granted," said, and died.

From The Temple - Redemption

George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
   Though foolishly he lost the same,
      Decaying more and more,
        Till he became
           Most poore:
           With  thee
        Oh let me rise
   As larks, harmoniously,
  And sing this day  thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My  tender  age  in  sorrow   did   beginne:
   And still with sicknesses and shame
      Thou  didst  so  punish  sinne,
         That  I  became
           Most thinne.
           With  thee
        Let me combine
      And feel this day thy victorie:
   For,  if  I  imp  my  wing  on  thine
Affliction shall  advance the  flight in  me.

From The Temple - Easter Wings

George Herbert

Who sayes that fictions onely and false hair
Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty?
Is all good structure in a winding stair?
May no lines passe, except they do their dutie
	Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it no verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbours shadow course-spunne lines?
Must purling streams refresh a lovers loves?
Must all be vail’d, while he that reades, divines,
	Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing:
Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime:
I envie no mans nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punish me with losse of rime,
	Who plainly say, My God, My King.

From The Temple - Jordan (I)

When first my lines of heav’nly joyes made mention,
Such was their lustre, they did so excell,
That I sought out quaint words and trim invention;
My thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell,
Curling with metaphors a plain intention,
Decking the sense, as if it were to sell.

Thousands of notions in my brain did runne,
Off’ring their service, if I were not sped:
I often blotted what I had begunne;
This was not quick enough, and that was dead.
Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the sunne,
Much lesse those joyes which trample on his head.

As flames do work and winde, when they ascend,
So did I weave my self into the sense.
But while I bustled, I might heare a friend
Whisper, How wide is all this long pretence!
There is in love a sweetnesse readie penn’d;
Copie out onely that, and save expense.

From The Temple - Jordan (II)

George Herbert

I Struck the board, and cry’d, No more.
I will abroad.
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the rode,
Loose as the winde, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me bloud, and not restore
What I have lost with cordiall fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not. Forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands,
Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away; take heed:
I will abroad.
Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.
But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde
At every word,
Me thoughts I heard one calling, Childe:
And I reply’d, My Lord.

From The Temple - The Collar

George Herbert

When God at first made man,
Having a glasse of blessings standing by;
Let us (said he) poure on him all we can:
Let the worlds riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;
Then beautie flow’d, then wisdome, honour, pleasure:
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that alone of all his treasure
Rest in the bottome lay.

For if I should (said he)
Bestow this jewell also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts in stead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.
	
Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlesnesse:
Let him be rich and wearie, that at least,
If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse
May tosse him to my breast.

From The Temple - The Pulley

George Herbert

How Fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart
Could have recover’d greennesse? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an houre;
Making a chiming of a passing- bell,
  We say amisse,
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we could spell.

O that I once past changing were;
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Offring at heav’n, growing and groning thither:
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring-showre,
My sinnes and I joining together;

But while I grow to a straight line;
Still upwards bent, as if heav’n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? what pole is not the zone,
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my onely light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can finde and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

From The Temple- The Flower

George Herbert

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack’d any thing.

A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkinde, ungratefull?  Ah my deare,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame?
My deare, then I will serve.
You must sit down, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.

From The Temple - Love (III)

George Herbert