A History of Elizabethan Literature Part 8

_ae._ My love can pipe, my love can sing, My love can many a pretty thing, And of his lovely praises ring My merry, merry roundelays.

Amen to Cupid's curse, They that do change, etc."

PEELE.

"His golden locks time hath to silver turned; O time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!

His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen.

Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

"His helmet now shall make a hive for bees, And lovers' songs be turned to holy psalms; A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are old age's alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

"And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He'll teach his swains this carol for a song: 'Blessed be the hearts that wish my Sovereign well, Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong.'

G.o.ddess allow this aged man his right, To be your beadsman now that was your knight."

PEELE.

"Fain would I change that note To which fond love hath charm'd me, Long, long to sing by rote Fancying that that harm'd me: Yet when this thought doth come, 'Love is the perfect sum Of all delight!'

I have no other choice Either for pen or voice To sing or write.

"O Love, they wrong thee much That say thy sweet is bitter, When thy rich fruit is such As nothing can be sweeter.

Fair house of joy and bliss Where truest pleasure is, I do adore thee; I know thee what thou art.

I serve thee with my heart And fall before thee.

_Anon. in_ BULLEN.

"Turn all thy thoughts to eyes, Turn all thy hairs to ears, Change all thy friends to spies, And all thy joys to fears: True love will yet be free In spite of jealousy.

"Turn darkness into day, Conjectures into truth, Believe what th' curious say, Let age interpret youth: True love will yet be free In spite of jealousy.

"Wrest every word and look, Rack every hidden thought; Or fish with golden hook, True love cannot be caught: For that will still be free In spite of jealousy."

CAMPION _in_ BULLEN.

"Come, O come, my life's delight!

Let me not in languor pine!

Love loves no delay; thy sight The more enjoyed, the more divine.

O come, and take from me The pain of being deprived of thee!

"Thou all sweetness dost enclose Like a little world of bliss; Beauty guards thy looks, the rose In them pure and eternal is: Come, then, and make thy flight As swift to me as heavenly light!"

CAMPION.

"Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!

Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!

There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love.

But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again.

"All that I sang still to her praise did tend, Still she was first, still she my songs did end; Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy: Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!

It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight."

CAMPION.

"What if a day, or a month, or a year, Crown thy delights with a thousand sweet contentings!

Cannot a chance of a night or an hour Cross thy desires with as many sad tormentings?

Fortune, Honour, Beauty, Youth, are but blossoms dying, Wanton Pleasure, doating Love, are but shadows flying.

All our joys are but toys! idle thoughts deceiving: None have power, of an hour, in their lives bereaving.

"Earth's but a point to the world, and a man Is but a point to the world's compared centre!

Shall then a point of a point be so vain As to triumph in a silly point's adventure?

All is hazard that we have, there is nothing biding; Days of pleasure are like streams through fair meadows gliding.

Weal and woe, time doth go! time is never turning; Secret fates guide our states, both in mirth and mourning."

CAMPION.

"'Twas I that paid for all things, 'Twas others drank the wine, I cannot now recall things; Live but a fool, to pine.

'Twas I that beat the bush, The bird to others flew; For she, alas, hath left me.

Falero! lero! loo!

"If ever that Dame Nature (For this false lover's sake) Another pleasing creature Like unto her would make; Let her remember this, To make the other true!

For this, alas! hath left me.

Falero! lero! loo!

"No riches now can raise me, No want makes me despair, No misery amaze me, Nor yet for want I care: I have lost a World itself, My earthly Heaven, adieu!

Since she, alas! hath left me.

Falero! lero! loo!"

_Anon. in_ ARBER.

Beside these collections, which were in their origin and inception chiefly musical, and literary, as it were, only by parergon, there are successors of the earlier Miscellanies in which, as in _England's Helicon_ and the celebrated _Pa.s.sionate Pilgrim_, there is some of the most exquisite of our verse. And, yet again, a crowd of individual writers, of few of whom is much known, contributed, not in all cases their mites by any means, but often very respectable sums, to the vast treasury of English poetry. There is Sir Edward Dyer, the friend of Raleigh and Sidney, who has been immortalised by the famous "My mind to me a kingdom is," and who wrote other pieces not much inferior. There is Raleigh, to whom the glorious preparatory sonnet to _The Faerie Queene_ would sufficiently justify the ascription of "a vein most lofty, insolent, and pa.s.sionate," if a very considerable body of verse (independent of the fragmentary _Cynthia_) did not justify this many times over, as two brief quotations in addition to the sonnet will show:--

"Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, Within that temple where the vestal flame Was wont to burn: and, pa.s.sing by that way To see that buried dust of living fame, Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen, At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept; And from henceforth those graces were not seen, For they this Queen attended; in whose stead Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hea.r.s.e.

Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce: Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief, And curse the access of that celestial thief."

"Three things there be that prosper all apace, And flourish while they are asunder far; But on a day they meet all in a place, And when they meet they one another mar.

"And they be these--the Wood, the Weed, the Wag: The Wood is that that makes the gallows tree; The Weed is that that strings the hangman's bag; The Wag, my pretty knave, betokens thee.

"Now mark, dear boy--while these a.s.semble not, Green springs the tree, hemp grows, the Wag is wild; But when they meet, it makes the timber rot, It frets the halter, and it chokes the child.

"G.o.d bless the Child!"

"Give me my scallop-sh.e.l.l of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

"Blood must be my body's balmer; No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of heaven; Over the silver mountains Where spring the nectar fountains: There will I kiss The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill.

My soul will be a-dry before, But after it will thirst no more."