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THE    ENGLISH    POETS 

T.  H.   WARD. 
VOL.  I. 

EARLY   POETRY: 

CHAUCER   TO  DONNE. 


VOL.  L 


THE 

ENGLISH     POETS 

SELECTIONS 

WITH    CRITICAL    INTRODUCTIONS 

BY    VARIOUS    WRITERS 

AND    A    GENERAL    INTRODUCTION    BY 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

EDITED   BY 


THOMAS    HUMPHRY    WARD,    M.A. 

Late  Fellow  of  Biasenose  College,  Oxford 


VOL.    I 
CHAUCER  to  DONNE 


MACMILLAN     AND     CO. 
1880 

\_All  rights  resei-vsJI 


OXFORD: 

BY   E.  PICKARD    HALL,  M.A.,  AND   J.  H.  STACY, 
PRINTERS  TO   THE    UNIVERSITY. 


THE    ENGLISH    POETS 

T.  H.   WARD. 

EARLY    POETRY: 

CHAUCER   TO  DONNE. 


/  . 


THE 

ENGLISH     POETS 

SELECTIONS 

WITH    CRITICAL    INTRODUCTIONS 

BY    VARIOUS     WRITERS 

AND    A    GENERAL    INTRODUCTION    BY 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

EDITED   BY 

THOMAS    HUMPHRY    WARD,    M.A. 

Late  Fellow  of  Brasenose  College,  Oxford 

CHAUCEE,   to   DONNE 

MACMILLAN     AND    CO. 
1880 

\_All  rights,  reservsd] 


OXFORD: 

nV    p..  PICKARD    HALL,  M.A.,  AND  J.  H.  STACY, 
PRINTERS   TO   THE   UNIVERSITY. 


PREFACE. 

The  aim  of  this  book  is  to  supply  an  admitted  want — that 
of  an  anthology  which  may  adequately  represent  the  vast  and 
varied  field  of  English  Poetry. 

Nothing  of  the  kind  at  present  exists.  There  are  great 
collections  of  tKe  whole  works  of  the  poets,  like  that  of 
Chalmers  ;  there  are  innumerable  volumes  of  '  Beauties '  of 
a  more  or  less  unsatisfactory  kind ;  there  are  Selections  from 
single  poets ;  there  are  a  few  admirable  volumes,  like  that  of 
Mr.  Palgrave,  which  deal  with  special  departments  of  our 
poetical  literature.  The  only  book  which  attempts  to  cover 
the  whole  ground  and  to  select  on  a  large  scale  is  Campbell's; 
and  Campbell's,  though  the  work  of  a  true  poet  and,  according 
to  the  standard  of  his  time,  a  critic  of  authority,  can  no 
longer  be  regarded  as  sufficient.  It  is  indeed  impossible  that 
a  selection  of  the  kind  should  be  really  well  done,  should  be 
done  with  an  approach  to  finality,  if  it  is  the  work  of  one  critic 
alone.  The  history  of  English  poetry  is  so  wide,  its  various 
sections  and  stages  have  become  the  objects  of  so  special  a 
study,  that  a  book  which  aims  at  selecting  the  best  from  the 
whole  field  and  pronouncing  its  judgments  with  some  degree 
of  authority,  must  not  be  the  work  of  one  writer,  but  of  many. 
It  was  on  this  plan  that  M.  Crepet's  excellent  book,  Les  pocks 
/ran^ais,  was  constructed  twenty  years  ago;  and  what  he 
there  did  for  French  poetry  we  here  wish  to  do  for  English 


VI  PREFACE. 

poetry — to  present  a  collection  of  what  is  best  in  it,  chosen 
and  judged  by  those  whose  tastes  and  studies  specially  qualify 
them  for  the  several  tasks  they  have  undertaken. 

Our  design  has  not  been  to  present  a  complete  collection 
of  all  that  may  fairly  be  called  masterpieces — if  it  had  been 
so,  the  volumes  would  of  necessity  have  been  three  times  as 
many  as  they  are.  Still  less  has  it  been  to  give  a  complete 
history  of  English  poetry — if  it  had  been  so,  many  names  that 
we  have  passed  over  would  have  been  admitted.  It  has  been, 
to  collect  as  many  of  the  best  and  most  characteristic  of  their 
writings  as  should  fully  represent  the  great  poets,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  omit  no  one  who  is  poetically  considerable. 
There  are  writers  who  were  famous  in  their  day  and  who 
played  a  great  part  in  the  history  of  English  literature,  but 
who  have  faded  from  public  notice  and  are  no  longer  gene- 
rally read;  men  like  Sidney,  and  Cowley,  and  Waller.  Again, 
there  are  writers  who  never  were  well  known,  but  who  wrote 
a  few  beautiful  poems  as  it  were  by  accident ;  men  like  some 
of  the  minor  Elizabethans,  or  Lovelace,  or  Christopher  Smart. 
We  have  endeavoured  to  do  justice  to  both  these  classes ; 
to  gather  from  the  former  what  may  serve  to  explain  why  they 
were  famous,  and  from  the  latter  whatever  they  wrote  that  is  of 
real  poetical  excellence. 

We  have  not  included  the  writings  of  living  poets,  nor  the 
drama,  properly  so  called.  Had  we  admitted  the  drama  we 
should  have  been  compelled  to  double  our  space;  besides,  in 
spite  of  Charles  Lamb,  we  may  venture  to  say  that  by  the 
nature  of  the  case  a  play  lends  itself  to  selection  less  than  any 
other  form  of  literature.  But  where  a  play  is  only  a  play  in 
name,  like  Comus  or  the  Gcnlle  Shepherd,  we  have  not  excluded 
it ;  and  songs  from  the  dramatists  have  of  course  been 
admitted. 


PREFACE.  vii 

Two  points  seem  to  require  a  word  of  notice — the  order  and 
the  orthography.  The  first  is  approximately  chronological; 
for  in  this  matter  it  was  found  impossible  to  follow  any  rigid 
rule.  To  go  uniformly  by  the  date,  either  of  birth  or  pub- 
lication, would  be  in  many  cases  misleading  ;  for  we  often  find 
a  poet  not  beginning  to  write  till  after  the  death  of  some 
younger  contemporary,  and  oftener  still  we  find  his  poems  only 
posthumously  collected.  A  vague  floruit  circa  is  the  only  date 
that  is  often  possible  in  literary  history.  With  regard  to  the 
orthography,  the  principle  adopted  has  been,  to  print  accord- 
ing to  contemporary  spelling  up  to  the  time  of  Wyatt  and 
Surrey — the  time  ^of  the  Renascence — and  since  that  date  to 
adopt  the  uniform  modern  spelling.  The  exceptions  that  we 
have  made  are  in  the  case  of  the  Scotch  poets  (though  with 
them  it  is  a  matter  rather  of  language  than  of  orthography), 
and  of  Spenser,  who  is  so  intentionally  archaic  that  his  spelling 
is  peculiar,  and  is  a  part  of  himself.  Spenser  accordingly  we 
have  printed  from  Dr.  INIorris's  text. 

It  remains  for  the  Editor  to  express  his  cordial  thanks  to 
those  who  have  so  kindly  co-operated  with  him ;  and  he  may 
be  permitted  to  mention  specially  the  names  of  Professor  Skeat, 
who  has  revised  the  whole  of  the  text  of  the  poets  down  to 
Douglas ;  of  Mr.  Edmund  W.  Gosse,  whose  great  knowledge 
of  English  poetry,  especially  of  that  of  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries,  has  been  of  the  greatest  service  to  the 
book ;  and  of  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold,  who,  besides  his  direct 
contributions,  has  from  time  to  time  given  most  valuable 
advice. 


CONTENTS. 

PACK 

General  Introduction Matthew  Arnold  xvii 

Geoffrey  Chaucer  (i34Q;-i40o) The  Editor  i 

Extracts  from  The  Boke  of  the  Duchesse iS 

„          ,,      Troylus  and  Criseyde ^^ 

,,          ,,      The  Parlement  of  Foules 3^ 

„      The  Hous  of  Fame 40 

,,          ,,      Prologue  to  the  Legende  of  Goode  Women         .        •  42 

,,           ,,      Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales        .         .         .         ■  A^ 

,,     The  Tale  of  the  Man  of  Lawe 5^ 

,,      The  Clerkes  Tale 61 

,,          ,,      The  FrankelejTies  Tale 62 

,,      The  Knightes  Tale 72 

Good  Counseil  of  Chaucer ^o 

Poems  commonly  attributed  to  Chaucer      .        .        The  Editor  82 

Extracts  from  The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose 82 

,,          ,,      The  Flower  and  the  Leaf 85 

,,          ,,      The  Court  of  Love 88 

Wh.LIAM  Langley  or  Langland  (born  about  1332)    .        Fro/.  Skeat  91 
Extracts  from  The  Vision  of  Piers  the  Plow.uan        .         .        .         .96 

John  Gower  (1330-1408) T.  Arnold  102 

Extracts  from  Cinkante  Balades io7 

,,  ,,      Confessio  Amantis : 

Prologue         ....••••  107 

Alexander  and  the  Robber io9 

The  Story  of  Constance 110 

John  Lydgate  (1370-1440) T.  Arnold  114 

Extracts  from  London  Lickpenny 119 

,,      The  Dietary 121 

,,  ,,      Falls  of  Princes  : 

Description  of  the  Golden  Age        ,         .         .         .  122 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Thomas  Occleve  (13657-1450?) T.  Arnold  124 

Extracts  from  De  Regimine  Principum 127 

James  the  First  of  Scotland  (1394-1437)        .        .       The  Editor  129 

Extract  from  The  King's  Quair 132 

Poem  from  The  Gude  and  Godhe  Ballates 136 

Robert  Henryson  (i425?-i48o?)           ;        .        .        .  W.  E.  Henley  137 

The  Garmond  of  Fair  Ladies 140 

The  Taill  of  the  Lyoun  and  the  Mous        ...:..  141 

William  Dunbar  (i45o?-i5i3?) Prof.  Nichol  147 

Extracts  from  The  Thrissill  and  the  Rois 151 

„      The  Goldyn  Targe 152 

„          ,,      The  Dance  of  the  Sevin  Deidly  Synnis         .        .        .  153 

„          ,,      The  Lament  for  the  Makaris 157 

Gawain  Douglas  (1474-1522) A  Lang  159 

Extracts  from  The  Palice  of  Honour  : 

A  Desert  Terrible 163 

The  F6te  Champetre 166 

A  Ballade  in  Commendation  of  Honour 167 

Extracts  from  the  Aeneid  : 

A  Scottish  Winter  Landscape 164 

The  Ghost  of  Creusa 168 

Dido's  Hunting 170 

Sleep 171 

Spring 172 

The  Tribes  of  the  Dead 173 

The  Destiny  of  Rome 173 

Stephen  Hawes  (d.  1530?) J.  Churto7i  Collins  175 

Extracts  from  The  Pastime  of  Pleasure  : 

Dialogue  between  Graunde  Amoure  and  La  Pucel      ...  178 

Amoure  laments  the  absence  of  La  Pucel 179 

The  Character  of  a  True  Knight 181 

Description  of  La  Belle  Pucel 182 

John  Skelton  (1460  ?-iS29)           .        .        .        .J.  Churion  Collins  184 

A  Lullabye         .        .         : 186 

Extract  from  The  Bowge  of  Court : 

Picture  of  Riot 187 

Extract  from  The  Garlande  of  Laurell : 

To  Maystress  Margaret  Hussey 187 

Extract  from  Colyn  Cloute 188 

Sir  David  Lyndesay  (1490  P-issB)        ....     Prof.  Nichol  192 

Extracts  from  The  Dreme 196 

,,          ,,     The  Testament  and  Complnynt  of  the  Papingo   .        .  198 

.,      Ane  Satire  of  the  Thru!  Estaitis i99 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

Extracts  from  The  Monarchic .  201 

The  Hope  of  Immortality     .....  202 

Ballads a.  Lattg  203 

Historical  Ballads  : 

Sir  Patrick  Spans        .........  210 

Edom  O'Gordon 213 

Romantic  Ballads  : 

Glasgerion 218 

The  Douglas  Tragedy 221 

The  Twa  Corbies        .........  224 

Waly  Waly          .....          .....  225 

Supernatural  Ballads  : 

Clerk  Saunders    ..........  226 

The  Wife  of  Usher's  Well 230 

A  Lyke-Wake  Dirge' 232 

Ballads  of  the  Marches  : 

Kinmont  Willie           .........  233 

Robin  Hood  Ballads  : 

Robin  Hood  rescuing  the  Widow's  Three  Sons  ....  239 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial 243 

Domestic  Ballads  : 

The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington     .        .         .        .  ■       .         .  246 

Sir  THOJLA.S  Wyatt  (1503-1542)    .         .        .         .J.  Churton  Collins  248 

Extracts  from  Songs  and  Sonnets 251 

,,           ,,      Satires           .........  253 

The  Earl  of  Surrey  (i5I7?-i547)       .        .         .J.  Churton  Collins  255 

Descriptipn  of  Spring 257 

A  Complaint  by  Night  of  the  Lover  not  beloved        ....  257 

Lines  wTitten  in  imprisonment  at  Windsor          .....  258 

The  Means  to  attain  Happy  Life        .......  259 

A  Praise  of  his  Love 260 

An  Epitaph  on  Clere 261 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt 261 

George  G.-vscoigne  (i536?-i577)            ....       Prof.  Hales  263 

The  Arraignment  of  a  Lover      ........  265 

A  Strange  Passion  of  a  Lover 266 

Extracts  from  The  Steel  Glass  : 

Piers  Ploughman 267 

Epilogus 268 

Thomas  Sackville,   Lord  Buckhurst  (1536-1608). 

The  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  270 

Extract  from  The  Induction 271 

Complaint  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham 273 

Sleep 274 


xu  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Edmund  Spenser  (1552-1598)        .        .        .     The  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  275 

Extracts  from  The  Shepheard's  Calender  : 

Fable  of  the  Oak  and  the  Briar ,        .  284 

Chase  after  Love 287 

Description  of  Maying         .         , 289 

The  Complaint  of  Age         ........  290 

Extracts  from  The  Faerie  Queene  : 

The  Red  Cross  Knight  and  Una 293 

The  House  of  Pride 296 

Una's  Marriage   ..........  298 

Phaedria  and  the  Idle  Lake 300 

The  Cave  of  Mammon        ........  305 

The  Bower  of  Bliss 313 

The  Gardens  of  Venus 315 

Wooing  of  Amoret       .,.,.....  317 

The  Quelling  of  the  Blatant  Beast       ......  322 

Claims  of  Mutability  pleaded  before  Nature        ....  326 

Extract  from  the  Teares  of  the  Muses  : 

Complaint  of  Thaha  (Comedy) 330 

Sonnets ...  331 

Epithalamion     ...........  333 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  (1554-1586)      ....        Mary  A.  Ward  341 

Sonnets  from  Astrophel  and  Stella      .......  348 

Songs  from  the  Same 359 

Philomela .  361 

A  Dirge 362 

Two  Sonnets       ...........  363 

Poems  from  The  Arcadia 364 

FULKE  Greville,  Lord  Brooke  (1554-1628)       .        Mary  A.  Ward  365 

Extracts  from  Mustapha  : 

Chorus  of  Tartars        ....         .         :         .         .         .  369 

Choms  of  Priests .  370 

Chorus  from  Alaham 371 

Extracts  from  Caelica : 

Seed-time  and  Harvest 372 

Elizabetha  Regina 373 

Sonnet 373 

An  Elegy  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney 374 

SiK  Edward  Dyer  (is5o?-i6o7)    ....        Mary  A.  Ward  376 

My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is 377 

To  Phillis  the  Fair  Shepherdess 378 

Extracts  from  Sixe  Idillia  : 

Helen's  Epithalamion          .        .     ' 379 

The  Prayer  of  Theocritus  for  Syracuse 380 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

PAGE 

Henry  Constable  (1555-1615?) A.  Lang  381 

A  Pastoral  Song 382 

The  Shepherd's  Song  of  Venus  and  Adonis 384 

Sonnet  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Soul 388 

Thomas  Watson  (i557?-i592?) The  Editor  389 

Extracts  from  The  Hecatompathia  : 

Passion  II 391 

Passion  XL 392 

Passion  LXV 393 

John  Lyly  (1554-1606) W.  Minto  394 

Songs  from  Plays  : 

Sappho's  Song  (from  Sappho  and  Phao) 396 

Apelles'  Song  (from  Alexander  and  Campaspe)  ....  396 

Pan's  Song  (from  Midas) 397 

George  Peele  (i558?-i592?) W.  Minto  398 

A  Farewell  to  Sir  John  Norris  and  Sir  Francis  Drake         .         ,         .  400 

Robert  Greene  (i56o?-i592)         ....    Edmund  IV.  Gosse  402 

Sephestia's  Song  to  her  Child 405 

Samela 406 

Fawnia ,         .  406 

The  Palmer's  Ode  in  Never  too  I>ate 407 

Song 408 

Philomela's  Ode 409 

Orpheus'  Song 410 

Christopher  Marlowe  (1564-1593)     .        .        .        .  A.  C.  Bradley  411 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love 418 

A  Fragment 418 

Extracts  from  the  First  Sestiad  of  Hero  and  Leander         .        .        .  419 

Thomas  Lodge  (15567-1625)          ....  Edmund    W.  Gosse  424 

Rosalynd's  Madrigal 427 

Rosader's  description  of  Rosalynd      .......  428 

The  Harmony  of  Love 429 

Phillis'  Sickness 429 

Love's  Wantonness 430 

William  Warner  (i55o?-i6o9) G.  Saintsbicry  431 

Extract  froni  Albion's  England  : 

Before  the  Battle  of  Hastings 433 

William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616)      ....   Prof.  Dowden  431; 

Extracts  from  Venus  and  Adonis 442 

,,          ,,      Lucrece 446 

Sonnets      ............  450 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Songs  from  Plays : 

A  Morning  Song  for  Imogen  (from  Cymbeline)   ....  462 
Silvia  (from  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona)        .         .         .         .462 

Sigh  no  more,  Ladies  (from  Much  Ado  about  Nothing)      .        .  4^3 

A  Lover's  Lament  (from  Twelfth  Night) 463 

Ariel's  Song  (from  The  Tempest) 4^4 

A  Sea  Dirge  (from  The  Tempest) 4^4 

In  the  Greenwood  (from  As  You  Like  It) 4^5 

Winter  (from  Love's  Labour 's  Lost) 4^5 

Song  of  Autolycus  (from  The  Winter's  Tale)       ....  4^6 

Samuel  Daniel  (1562-1619) G.  Sainishury  467 

Sonnet  to  Delia 4^9 

Extracts  from  The  History  of  the  Civil  War  : 

The  Death  of  Talbot 469 

To  the  Lady  Margaret,  Countess  of  Cumberland       ....  471 

Extract  from  Hymen's  Triumph 473 

Richard  Barnfield  (1574-1627) The  Editor  474 

Sonnet  from  Cynthia 476 

Extracts  from  Poems  in  Divers  Humors  : 

Sonnet  to  his  friend  Maister  R.  L 476 

An  Ode 477 

Robert  Southwell  (15627-1594)          ....       Prof.  Hales  479 

Times  go  by  Turns 482 

Loss  in  Delay     ...........  482 

The  Burning  Babe      .         .         .        .        .        .        .        .        «        •  484 

Extract  from  St.  Peter's  Complaint ,  484 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552-1618)        ....       Prof.  Hales  486 

A  Vision  upon  this  Conceit  of  The  Fairy  Queen         .         .         .         .  489 

Reply  to  Marlowe's  '  The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love '     .        .  489 

The  Lie 490 

His  Pilgrimage 492 

■Verses  found  in  his  Bible  at  the  Gate-House  at  Westminster     .         .  494 

Elizabethan  Miscellanies  .  .  .  .  .  The  Editor  495 
From  The  Paradyse  of  Dainty  Devises : 

Amantium  Irae  [R.  Edwards) 498 

From  A  Handefull  of  Pleasant  Dclites  : 

A  Proper  Sonnet  {Anon.) 498 

From  The  Arbor  of  Amorous  Devises  : 

A  Sweet  Lullaby  (Anon.) 500 

From  England's  Helicon  : 

A  V.iWnodi:  (Edmund  Bolton)      .......  501 

Pliillida  and  Corydon  (Nicolas  Breton)        .....  502 


C0.\  TEXTS.  XV 

PAGE 

To  Colin  Qout  [Shepherd  Tonic) 503 

Phillida's  Lx)ve-call  to  her  Corydon,  and  his  Replying  (Ignoto)  .  503 
From  Davison's  Poetical  Rapsody: 

A  Fiction  :  how  Cupid  made  a  N)Tnph  wound  herself  with  his 

Arrows  (Anon.,  but  attributed  to  A.  W,)     .        .        .        .505 

A  Sonnet  to  the  Moon  (Charles  Best) S°7 

Sonnet  (J.  Sylvester) S°7 

A  Hymn  in  Praise  of  Neptime  ( T.  Campion)      ....  508 

Of  Corinna's  Singing  (T*.  Caw?/?o«) 508 

Madrigals 5^9 

George  Chapman  {1557?  i559?-i634) A.  Lang  510 

The  Thames  (from  0\-id's  Banquet  of  Sense) 516 

The  Spirit  of  Homer  (from  The  Tears  of  Peace)        ....  516 

The  Procession  of  Time     .         ._ 517 

Helen  on  the  Rampart  (from  lUad  III) 518 

The  Camp  at  Night  (from  Iliad  VIII) 519 

The  grief  of  Achilles  for  the  slajing  of  Patroclus,  Menoetius'  Son 

(from  Iliad  XVIII) 520 

Hermes  in  Cal>-pso's  Island  (from  Odyssey  V) 521 

Odysseus'  Speech  to  Nausicaa  (from  Odyssey  VI)      ....  522 

The  Song  the  Sirens  sung  (from  Odyssey  XII) 524 

Odysseus  reveals  himself  to  his  Father  (from  Odyssey  XXIV)    .         .  524 

Michael  Drayton  (1463-1631) G.  Saintsbury  526 

Queen  Margaret  to  William  de  la  Pool,  Duke  of  Suffolk    .         .        .  529 

To  the  Cambro-Britons  and  their  Harp,  his  BaUad  of  Agincourt       .  530 

The  Arming  of  Pigwiggen  (from  NjTnphidia)     .....  534 

Extract  from  Polyolbion 535 

Joseph  Hall  (1574-1656) J.  Churton  Collins  537 

The  Golden  Age 540 

Hollow  Hospitahty 541 

A  Coxcomb 542 

A  Deserted  Mansion 542 

Advice  to  Marry  betimes 543 

John  Marston  (    ?   -   ?  ) W.  Minto  544 

To  Detraction 546 

To  Everlasting  Oblivion 546 

Sir  John  Davies  (d.  1626) Mary  A,  Ward  548 

Extracts  from  Nosce  Teipsiun  : 

The  Soul  compared  to  a  River 551 

The  Soul  compared  to  a  Virgin  wooed  in  Marriage     .        .        .  552 

Extract  from  Orchestra,  or  A  Poeme  of  Dauncing : 

Antinous  praises  dancing  before  Queen  Penelope        .         .         .  553 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

From  Hymnes  of  Astrea,  in  Acrostic  Verse  : 

To  the  Spring 556 

To  the  Nightingale 556 

To  the  Month  of  September 557 

John  Donne  {1573-1631) Prof.  Hales  558 

Song 361 

A  Valediction  forbidding  Mourning 561 

Song 563 

From  Verses  to  Sir  Henry  Wootton 564 

The  Will 565 


INTRODUCTION. 

'  The  future  of  poetry  is  immense,  because  in  poetry,  where 
it  is  wortliy  of  its  high  destinigs,  our  race,  as  time  goes  on, 
will  find  an  ever  surer  and  surer  stay.  There  is  not  a  creed 
which  is  not  shaken,  not  an  accredited  dogma  which  is  not 
shown  to  be  questionable,  not  a  received  tradition  which  does 
not  threaten  to  dissolve.  Our  religion  has  materialised  itself 
in  the  fact,  in  the  supposed  fact;  it  has  attached  its  emotion 
to  the  fact,  and  now  the  iact  is  failing  it.  But  for  poetry 
the  idea  is  everything ;  the  rest  is  a  world  of  illusion,  of 
divine  illusion.  Poetry  attaches  its  emotion  to  the  idea;  the 
idea  is  the  £ict.  The  strongest  part  of  our  religion  to-day  is 
its  unconscious  poetry.' 

Let  me  be  permitted  to  quote  these  words  of  my  own,  as 
uttering  the  thought  which  should,  in  my  opinion,  go  with 
us  and  govern  us  in  all  our  study  of  poetry.  In  the  present 
work  it  is  the  course  of  one  great  contributory  stream  to  the 
world-river  of  poetry  that  we  are  invited  to  follow.  We  are 
here  invited  to  trace  the  stream  of  English  poetry.  But 
whether  we  set  ourselves,  as  here,  to  follow  only  one  of  the 
several  streams  that  make  the  mighty  river  of  poetry,  or 
whether  we  seek  to  know  them  all,  our  governing  thought 
should  be  the  same.  We  should  conceive  of  poetry  worthily, 
and  more  highly  than  it  has  been  the  custom  to  conceive  of 
it.     We  should  conceive  of  it  as  capable  of  higher  uses,  and 

vol..  I.  b 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


called  to  higher  destinies,  than  those  which  in  general  men 
have  assigned  to  it  hitherto.  IMore  and  more  mankind  will 
discover  that  we  have  to  turn  to  poetry  to  interpret  life  for 
us,  to  console  us,  to  sustain  us.  Without  poetry,  our  science 
will  appear  incomplete ;  and  most  of  what  now  passes  with 
us  for  religion  and  philosophy  will  be  replaced  by  poetry. 
Science,  I  say,  will  appear  incomplete  without  it.  For  finely 
and  truly  does  Wordsworth  call  poetry  '  the  impassioned  ex- 
pression which  is  in  the  countenance  of  all  science ; '  and 
what  is  a  countenance  without  its  expression .?  Again,  Words- 
worth finely  and  truly  calls  poetry  '  the  breath  and  finer  spirit 
of  all  knowledge : '  our  religion,  parading  evidences  such  as 
those  on  which  the  popular  mind  relies  now ;  our  philosophy, 
pluming  itself  on  its  reasonings  about  causation  and  finite 
and  infinite  being ;  what  are  they  but  the  shadows  and  dreams 
and  false  shows  of  knowledge.''  The  day  will  come  when 
we  shall  wonder  at  ourselves  for  having  trusted  to  them,  for 
having  taken  them  seriously ;  and  the  more  we  perceive  their 
hollowness,  the  more  we  shall  prize  '  the  breath  and  finer  spirit 
of  knowledge '  off"ered  to  us  by  poetry. 

But  if  we  conceive  thus  highly  of  the  destinies  of  poetry, 
we  must  also  set  our  standard  for  poetry  high,  since  poetry, 
to  be  capable  of  fulfilling  such  high  destinies,  must  be  poetry 
of  a  high  order  of  excellence.  We  must  accustom  ourselves 
to  a  high  standard  and  to  a  strict  judgment.  Sainte-Beuve 
relates  that  Napoleon  one  day  said,  when  somebody  was  spoken 
of  in  his  presence  as  a  charlatan :  *  Charlatan  as  much  as  you 
please  ;  but  where  is  there  not  charlatanism  ? '  '  Yes,'  answers 
Sainte-Beuve,  '  in  politics,  in  the  art  of  governing  mankind, 
that  is  perhaps  true.  But  in  the  order  of  thought,  in  art,  the 
glory,  the  eternal  honour  is  that  charlatanism  shall  find  no 
entrance ;  herein  lies  the  inviolablcncss  of  that  noble  portion  of 


INTRODUCTION. 


man's  being.'  It  is  admirably  said,  and  let  us  hold  fast  to  it. 
In  poetry,  which  is  thought  and  art  in  one,  it  is  the  glory,  the 
eternal  honour,  that  charlatanism  shall  find  no  entrance ;  that 
this  noble  sphere  be  kept  inviolate  and  inviolable.  Charlatan- 
ism is  for  confusing  or  obliterating  the  distinctions  between 
excellent  and  inferior,  sound  and  unsound  or  only  half-sound, 
true  and  untrue  or  only  half-true.  It  is  charlatanism,  conscious 
or  unconscious,  whenever  we  confuse  or  obliterate  these.  And 
in  poetry,  more  than  anywhere  else,  it  is  unpermissible  to  con- 
fuse or  obliterate  them.  For  in  poetry  the  distinction  between 
excellent  and  inferior,  sound  and  unsound  or  only  half-sound, 
true  and  untrue  or  only  half-true,  is  of  paramount  importance. 
It  is  of  paramount  importance  because  of  the  high  destinies  of 
poetry.  In  poetry,  as  a  criticism  of  life  under  the  conditions 
fixed  for  such  a  criticism  by  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic 
beauty,  the  spirit  of  our  race  will  find,  we  have  said,  as  time 
goes  on  and  as  other  helps  fail,  its  consolation  and  stay.  But 
the  consolation  and  stay  will  be  of  power  in  proportion  to  the 
power  of  the  criticism  of  life.  And  the  criticism  of  life  will  be 
of  power  in  proportion  as  the  poetry  conveying  it  is  excellent 
rather  than  inferior,  sound  rather  than  unsound  or  half-sound, 
true  rather  than  untrue  or  half-true. 

The  best  poetry  is  what  we  want;  the  best  poetry  will  be 
found  to  have  a  power  of  forming,  sustaining,  and  delighting 
us,  as  nothing  else  can.  A  clearer,  deeper  sense  of  the  best 
in  poetry,  and  of  the  strength  and  joy  to  be  drawn  from  it, 
is  the  most  precious  benefit  which  we  can  gather  from  a 
poetical  collection  such  as  the  present.  And  yet  in  the  very 
nature  and  conduct  of  such  a  collection  there  is  inevitably 
something  which  tends  to  obscure  in  us  the  consciousness  of 
what  our  benefit  should  be,  and  to  distract  us  from  the  pursuit 
of  it.     We  should  therefore  steadily  set  it   before  our  minds 

b2 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


at  the  outset,  and  should  compel  ourselves  to  revert  constantly 
to  the  thought  of  it  as  we  proceed. 

Yes ;  constantly,  in  reading  poetry,  a  sense  for  the  best,  the 
really  excellent,  and  of  the  strength  and  joy  to  be  drawn  from 
it,  should  be  present  in  our  minds  and  should  govern  our 
estimate  of  what  we  read.  But  this  real  estimate,  the  only 
true  one,  is  liable  to  be  superseded,  if  we  are  not  watchful, 
by  two  other  kinds  of  estimate,  the  historic  estimate  and  the 
personal  estimate,  both  of  which  are  fallacious.  A  poet  or 
a  poem  may  count  to  us  historically,  they  may  count  to  us  on 
grounds  personal  to  ourselves,  and  they  may  count  to  us  really. 
They  may  count  to  us  historically.  The  course  of  develop- 
ment of  a  nation's  language,  thought,  and  poetry,  is  profoundly 
interesting;  and  by  regarding  a  poet's  work  as  a  stage  in  this 
course  of  development  we  may  easily  bring  ourselves  to  make 
it  of  more  importance  as  poetry  than  in  itself  it  really  is,  we 
may  come  to  use  a  language  of  quite  exaggerated  praise  in 
criticising  it ;  in  short,  to  over-rate  it.  So  arises  in  our  poetic 
judgments  the  fallacy  caused  by  the  estimate  which  we  may  call 
historic.  Then,  again,  a  poet  or  a  poem  may  count  to  us  on 
grounds  personal  to  ourselves.  Our  personal  affinities,  likings, 
and  circumstances,  have  great  power  to  sway  our  estimate  of 
this  or  that  poet's  work,  and  to  make  us  attach  more  import- 
ance to  it  as  poetry  than  in  itself  it  really  possesses,  because 
to  us  it  is,  or  has  been,  of  high  importance.  Here  also  we 
over-rate  the  object  of  our  interest,  and  apply  to  it  a  language 
of  praise  which  is  quite  exaggerated.  And  thus  we  get  the 
source  of  a  second  fallacy  in  our  poetic  judgments, —  the  fallacy 
caused  by  an  estimate  which  we  may  call  personal. 

Both  fallacies  are  natural.  It  is  evident  how  naturally  the 
study  of  the  history  and  development  of  a  poetry  may  incline 
a  man  to  pause  over  reputations  and  works  once  conspicuous 


INTJWDUCTION. 


but  now  obscure,  and  to  quarrel  with  a  careless  public  for 
skipping,  in  obedience  to  mere  tradition  and  habit,  from  one 
famous  name  or  work  in  its  national  poetry  to  another,  igno- 
rant of  what  it  misses,  and  of  the  reason  for  keeping  what  it 
keeps,  and  of  the  whole  process  of  growth  in  its  poetry.  The 
French  have  become  diligent  students  of  their  own  early  poetry, 
which  they  long  neglected ;  the  study  makes  many  of  them 
dissatisfied  with  their  so-called  classical  poetry,  the  court- 
tragedy  of  the  seventeenth  century,  a  poetry  which  Pellisson 
long  ago  reproached  with  its  want  of  the  true  poetic  stamp, 
with  its  politesse  sterile  et  rampante,  but  which  nevertheless  has 
reigned  in  France  as  absolutely  as  if  it  had  been  the  perfec- 
tion of  classical  poetry  indeed.  Tlie  dissatisfaction  is  natural ; 
yet  a  lively  and  accomplished  critic,  M.  Charles  d'Hericault,  the 
editor  of  Clement  INIarot,  goes  too  far  when  he  says  that  '  the 
cloud  of  glory  playing  round  a  classic  is  a  mist  as  dangerous 
to  the  future  of  .a  literature  as  it  is  intolerable  for  the  purposes 
of  history.'  *  It  hinders,'  he  goes  on,  '  it  hinders  us  from  seeing 
more  than  one  single  point,  the  culminating  and  exceptional 
point;  the  summary,  fictitious  and  arbitrary,  of  a  thought  and 
of  a  work.  It  substitutes  a  halo  for  a  physiognomy,  it  puts 
a  statue  where  there  was  once  a  man,  and  hiding  from  us  all 
trace  of  the  labour,  the  attempts,  the  weaknesses,  the  failures, 
it  claims  not  study  but  veneration ;  it  does  not  show  us  how 
the  thing  is  done,  it  imposes  upon  us  a  model.  Above  all,  for 
the  historian  this  creation  of  classic  personages  is  inadmissible ; 
for  it  withdraws  the  poet  from  his  time,  from  his  proper  life, 
it  breaks  historical  relationships,  it  blinds  criticism  by  con- 
ventional admiration,  and  renders  the  investigation  of  literary 
origins  unacceptable.  It  gives  us  a  human  personage  no 
longer,  but  a  God  seated  immovable  amidst  his  perfect  work, 
like  Jupiter  on  Olympus;    and  hardly  will  it  be  possible  for 


THE  ENGLISH  rOETS. 


the  young  student,  to  whom  such  work  is  exhibited  at  such 
a  distance  from  him,  to  believe  that  it  did  not  issue  ready 
made  from  that  divine  head.' 

All  this  is  brilliantly  and  tellingly  said,  but  we  must  plead 
for  a  distinction.  Everything  depends  on  the  reality  of  a 
poet's  classic  character.  If  he  is  a  dubious  classic,  let  us  sift 
him;  if  he  is  a  false  classic,  let  us  explode  him.  But  if  he 
is  a  real  classic,  if  his  work  belongs  to  the  class  of  the  very 
best  (for  this  is  the  true  and  right  meaning  of  the  word  classic, 
classical),  then  the  great  thing  for  us  is  to  feel  and  enjoy  his 
work  as  deeply  as  ever  we  can,  and  to  appreciate  the  wide  dif- 
ference between  it  and  all  work  which  has  not  the  same  high 
character.  This  is  what  is  salutary,  this  is  what  is  formative ; 
this  is  the  great  benefit  to  be  got  from  the  study  of  poetry. 
Everything  which  interferes  with  it,  which  hinders  it,  is  injurious. 
True,  we  must  read  our  classic  with  open  eyes,  and  not  with 
eyes  blinded  with  superstition ;  we  must  perceive  when  his  work 
comes  short,  when  it  drops  out  of  the  class  of  the  very  best,  and 
we  must  rate  it,  in  such  cases,  at  its  proper  value.  But  the 
use  of  this  negative  criticism  is  not  in  itself,  it  is  entirely  in  its 
enabling  us  to  have  a  clearer  sense  and  a  deeper  enjoyment  of 
what  is  truly  excellent.  To  trace  the  labour,  the  attempts, 
the  weaknesses,  the  failures  of  a  genuine  classic,  to  acquaint 
oneself  with  his  time  and  his  life  and  his  historical  relation- 
ships, is  mere  literary  dilettantism  unless  it  has  that  clear  sense 
and  deeper  enjoyment  for  its  end.  It  may  be  said  that  the 
more  we  know  about  a  classic  the  better  we  shall  enjoy  him; 
and,  if  we  lived  as  long  as  INIethuselah  and  had  all  of  us  heads 
of  perfect  clearness  and  wills  of  perfect  steadfastness,  this  might 
be  true  in  fact  as  it  is  plausible  in  theory.  But  the  case  here  is 
much  the  same  as  the  case  with  the  Greek  and  Latin  studies  of 
our  schoolboys.     The  elaborate  philological  groundwork  which 


INTR  on  L  ^C  TION. 


we  require  them  to  lay  is  in  theory  an  admirable  preparation 
for  appreciating  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors  worthily.  The 
more  thoroughly  we  lay  the  groundwork,  the  better  we  shall  be 
able,  it  may  be  said,  to  enjoy  the  authors.  True,  if  time  were 
not  so  short,  and  schoolboys'  wits  not  so  soon  tired  and  their 
power  of  attention  exhausted ;  only,  as  it  is,  the  elaborate 
philological  preparation  goes  on,  but  the  authors  are  little 
known  and  less  enjoyed.  So  with  the  investigator  of  '  historic 
origins'  in  poetry.  He  ought  to  enjoy  the  true  classic  all  the 
better  for  his  investigations ;  he  often  is  distracted  from  the 
enjoyment  of  the  best,  and  with  the  less  good  he  overbusies 
himself,  and  is  prone  to  overrate  it  in  proportion  to  the  trouble 
which  it  has  cost  him. 

The  idea  of  tracing  historic  origins  and  historical  relation- 
ships cannot  be  absent  from  a  compilation  like  the  present. 
And  naturally  the  poets  to  be  exhibited  in  it  will  be  assigned  to 
those  persons  for  exhibition  who  are  known  to  prize  them 
highly,  rather  than  to  those  who  have  no  special  inclination 
towards  them.  IMoreover  the  very  occupation  with  an  author, 
and  the  business  of  exhibiting  him,  disposes  us  to  affirm  and 
amplify  his  importance.  In  the  present  work,  therefore,  we  are 
sure  of  frequent  temptation  to  adopt  the  historic  estimate,  or 
the  personal  estimate,  and  to  forget  the  real  estimate;  which 
latter,  nevertheless,  we  must  employ  if  we  are  to  make  poetry 
yield  us  its  full  benefit.  So  high  is  that  benefit,  the  benefit 
of  clearly  feeling  and  of  deeply  enjoying  the  really  excellent, 
the  truly  classic  in  poetry,  that  we  do  well,  I  say,  to  set  it 
fixedly  before  our  minds  as  our  object  in  studying  poets  and 
poetry,  and  to  make  the  desire  of  attaining  it  the  one  prin- 
ciple to  which,  as  the  Imilation  says,  whatever  we  may  read 
or  come  to  know,  we  always  return.  Cum  multa  legen's  et 
cogjiovcris,  ad  tiniim  semper  oporiei  redire  principium. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The    historic    estimate    is    likely   in    especial    to    affect    our 
judgment  and  our  language  when  we  are  dealing  with  ancient 
poets  ;  the  personal  estimate  when  we  are  dealing  with  poets 
our  contemporaries,  or  at  any  rate  modern.     The  exaggerations 
due  to  the  historic  estimate  are  not  in  themselves,  perhaps,  of 
very  much  gravity.     Their  report  hardly  enters  the  general  ear; 
probably  they  do  not  always  impose  even  on  the  literary  men 
who  adopt  them.     But  they  lead  to  a  dangerous  abuse  of  lan- 
guage.    So  we  hear  Csedmon,  amongst  our  own  poets,  com- 
pared to  IMilton.      I   have  already  noticed  the   enthusiasm  of 
one  accomplished  French  critic  for  '  historic  origins.'     Another 
eminent  French  critic,  ~Si.  Vitet,  comments  upon  that  famous 
document  of  the   early  poetry   of  his  nation,  the   Chanson  de 
Rola7id.      It   is  indeed   a   most   interesting   document.      The 
joculaior  or  jongleur  Taillefer,  who  was  with  William  the  Con- 
queror's army  at  Hastings,  marched  before  the  Norman  troops, 
so  said  the  tradition,  singing  '  of  Charlemagne  and  of  Roland 
and  of  Oliver,  and  of  the  vassals  who  died  at  Roncevaux ; ' 
and   it   is   suggested   that  in  the    Chanson  de  Roland  by  one 
Turoldus   or  Theroulde,   a   poem   preserved   in    a    manuscript 
of  the  twelfth  century  in  the  Bodleian  Library  at  Oxford,  we 
have  certainly  the  matter,  perhaps  even  some  of  the  words,  of 
the  chaunt  which  Taillefer  sang.     The  poem  has  vigour  and 
freshness ;    it   is   not   without   pathos.      But   M.  Vitet  is    not 
satisfied  with  seeing  in  it  a  document  of  some  poetic  value, 
and  of  st\y  high  historic  and  linguistic  value;    he  sees  in  it 
a  grand  and  beautiful  work,  a  monument  of  epic  genius.     In  its 
general  design  he  finds  the  grandiose  conception,  in  its  details 
he  finds  the  constant  union  of  simplicity  with  greatness,  which 
are  the  marks,  he  truly  says,  of  the  genuine  epic,  and  distinguish 
it  from  the  artificial  epic  of  literary  ages.    One  thinks  of  Homer; 
this  is  the  sort  of  praise  which  is  given  to  Homer,  and  justly 


INTRODUCTION. 


given.  Higher  praise  there  cannot  well  be,  and  it  is  the  praise 
due  to  epic  poetry  of  the  highest  order  only,  and  to  no  other. 
Let  us  try,  then,  the  Chamon  de  Roland  at  its  best.  Roland, 
mortally  wounded,  lays  himself  down  under  a  pine-tree,  with  his 
face  turned  towards  Spain  and  the  enemy  :— 

'De  plusurs  choses  a  remembrer  li  prist, 
De  tantes  teres  ciime  li  bers  cunquist, 
De  dulce  France,  des  humes  de  sun  lign, 
De  Carleriiagne  sun  seignor  Id  Tnurrit '.' 

That  is  primidve  work,  I  repeat,  with  an  undeniable  poetic 
quality  of  its  own.  It  deserves  such  praise,  and  such  praise 
is  sufficient  for  it.   .  But  now  turn  to  Homer  :— 

*ns  <pkTo-  Tois  S'  ■7S7?  KaTix^y  cpvai^oos  aTa 
kv  ^aKi5aiflovl  av9i,  (piXy   «"  -^arpih  70177 '^ 

We  are  here  in  another  world,  another  order  of  poetry  alto- 
creiher  ■  here  is  righdy  due  such  supreme  praise  as  that  which 
M  Vitet  gives  to  the  C/ianson  de  Roland.  If  our  words  are 
to  have  any  meaning,  if  our  judgments  are  to  have  any  solidity, 
we  must  not  heap  that  supreme  praise  upon  poetry  of  an  order 
immeasurably  inferior. 

Indeed  there  can  be  no  more  useful  help  for  discovering 
what  poetry  belongs  to  the  class  of  the  truly  excellent,  and  can 
therefore  do  us  most  good,  than  to  have  always  in  one's  mmd 
lines  and  expressions  of  the  great  masters,  and  to  apply  them 
as  a  touchstone  to  other  poetry.  Of  course  we  are  not  to 
require  this  other  poetry   to   resemble   them;    it  may  be  very 

>  'Then  be-an  lie  to  call  many  things  to  remembrance,-aU  the  lands 
which  his  valour  conquered,  and  pleasant  France  and  the  men  of  h.s 
lineage,  and  Charlemagne  h.s  liege  lord  who  nourished  h.m.  -Lhan.on  de 

Roland,  iii.  9.^9-942-  . 

■^    'So  said  she;  they  long  since  in  Earth's  soft  arms  were  reposing, 
There   in  their  own  dear  land,  their  father  land,  Lacedccmon. 

Iliad,  iii.  243-4  (translated  by  Dr.  Ilawtrcy). 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


dissimilar.  But  if  we  have  any  tact  we  sliall  find  thenm,  when 
we  have  lodged  them  well  in  our  minds,  an  infallible  touch- 
stone for  detecting  the  presence  or  absence  of  high  poetic 
quality,  and  also  the  degree  of  this  quality,  in  all  other  poetry 
which  we  may  place  beside  them.  Short  passages,  even  single 
lines,  will  serve  our  turn  quite  sufficiently.  Take  the  two  lines 
which  I  have  just  quoted  from  Homer,  the  poet's  comment  on 
Helen's  mention  of  her  brothers  ; — or  take  his 

'^A  SeiXw,  Tt  cr^cDi"  Su/Jec  II?;\^i'  avaitri 
Ovi]rZ\    vixits  S'  karov  dyi'jpQj  t    aOavaro}  re. 
^  iVa  hvarr]Voiai-  [liT    dvSpdaiv  a\ye'  (xt^tov'; 

the  address  of  Zeus  to  the  horses  of  Peleus  ; — or,  take  finally,  his 

Kal  ere,  ycpov,  t6  Ttplv  filv  aKovofiiv  oK^iov  ilvai^' 

the  words  of  Achilles  to  Priam,  a  suppliant  before  him.  Take 
that  incomparable  line  and  a  half  of  Dante,  Ugolino's  tre- 
mendous words : — 

*  lo  no  piangeva ;   si  dentro  impietrai. 
Piangevan  elli  .  .  .^  ' 

take  the  lovely  words  of  Beatrice  to  Virgil: — 

'  lo  son  fatta  da  Dio,  sua  merce,  tale, 
Che  la  vostra  miseria  non  mi  tange, 
Ne  fiamma  d' esto  incendio  non  m' assale  .  .  .*' 

take  the  simple,  but  perfect,  single  line : — 
'  In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace  '.* 

*  'Ah,  unhappy  pair,  why  gave  we  you  to  King  Peleus,  to  a  mortal? 
but  ye  are  without  old  age,  and  immortal.  Was  it  that  with  men  born  to 
misery  ye  might  have  sorrow?' — Iliad,  xvii.  443-5. 

"^  '  Nay,  and  Ihou  too,  old  man,  in  former  days  wast,  as  we  hear,  happy.' 
— Iliad,  xxiv.  543. 

^  'I  wailed  not,  so  of  stone  grew  I  within; — they  wailed.' — Inferno, 
xxxiii.  39,  40. 

*  'Of  such  sort  hath  God,  thanked  be  his  mercy,  made  me,  that  your 
misery  touchcth  me  not,  neither  doth  the  flame  of  this  fire  strike  me.' — 
Inferno,  ii.  91-3. 

*  'In  Ills  will  is  our  peace.' — Paradiso,  iii.  85. 


introduction:  xxvu 


Take  of  Shakespeare  a  line  or  two  of  Henry  the   Fourth's 
expostulation  with  sleep  : — 

'  Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge  .  .  .' 

and  take,  as  well,  Hamlet's  dying  request  to  Horatio : — 

'  If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain 
To  tell  my  story  .  .  .' 

Take  of  JMilton  that  INIiltonic  passage  : — 

'  Darken'd  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  the  arch- angel;  but  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrench'd,  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek  .  .  .' 

add  two  such  lines  as  :— 

'  And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yie'd 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome  .  .  .' 

and  finish  with  the  exquisite  close  to  the  loss  of  Proserpine, 

the  loss 

• which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain 

To  seek  her  through  the  world.' 

These  few  lines,  if  we  have  tact  and  can  use  them,  are  enough 
even  of  themselves  to  keep  clear  and  sound  our  judgments 
about  poetry,  to  save  us  from  fallacious  estimates  of  it,  to 
conduct  us  to  a  real  estimate. 

The  specimens  I  have  quoted  differ  widely  from  one  another, 
but  they  have  in  common  this :  the  possession  of  the  very 
highest  poetical  quality.  If  we  are  thoroughly  penetrated  by 
their  power,  we  shall  find  that  we  have  acquired  a  sense  en- 
abling us,  whatever  poetry  may  be  laid  before  us,  to  feel  the 
degree  in  which  a  high  poetical  quality  is  present  or  wanting 
there.     Critics  give  themselves  great  labour  to  draw  out  what 


THE  EXGLISII  POETS. 


in  the  abstract  constitutes  the  characters  of  a  high  quality  of 
poetry.  It  is  much  better  simply  to  have  recourse  to  concrete 
examples ; — to  take  specimens  of  poetry  of  the  high,  the  very 
highest  quaUty,  and  to  say  :  The  characters  of  a  high  quality 
of  poetry  are  what  is  expressed  there.  They  are  far  better 
recognised  by  being  felt  in  the  verse  of  the  master,  than  by 
being  perused  in  the  prose  of  the  critic.  Nevertheless  if  we 
are  urgently  pressed  to  give  some  critical  account  of  them,  we 
may  safely,  perhaps,  venture  on  laying  down,  not  indeed  how 
and  why  the  characters  arise,  but  where  and  in  what  they  arise. 
They  are  in  the  matter  and  substance  of  the  poetry,  and  they 
are  in  its  manner  and  style.  Both  of  these,  the  substance  and 
matter  on  the  one  hand,  the  style  and  manner  on  the  other, 
have  a  mark,  an  accent,  of  high  beauty,  worth,  and  power. 
But  if  we  are  asked  to  define  this  mark  and  accent  in  the 
abstract,  our  answer  must  be :  No,  for  we  should  thereby  be 
darkening  the  question,  not  clearing  it.  The  mark  and  accent 
are  as  given  by  the  substance  and  matter  of  that  poetry,  by  the 
style  and  manner  of  that  poetry,  and  of  all  other  poetry  which 
is  akin  to  it  in  quality. 

Only  one  thing  we  may  add  as  to  the  substance  and  matter 
of  poetry,  guiding  ourselves  by  Aristotle's  profound  observation 
that  the  superiority  of  poetry  over  history  consists  in  its  possess- 
ing a  higher  truth  and  a  higher  seriousness  {(pi\o(To(pu)Tfpov  Koi 
(TTTovdaiuTfpov).  Let  us  add,  therefore,  to  what  we  have  said, 
this  :  that  the  substance  and  matter  of  the  best  poetry  acquire 
their  special  character  from  possessing,  in  an  eminent  degree, 
truth  and  seriousness.  We  may  add  yet  further,  what  is  in 
itself  evident,  that  to  the  style  and  manner  of  the  best  poetry 
their  special  character,  their  accent,  is  given  by  their  diction,  and, 
even  yet  more,  by  their  movement.  And  though  we  distinguish 
between  the  two  characters,  the  two  accents,  of  superiority,  yet 


IN7R0DUCTI0X. 


they  are  nevertheless  vitally  connected  one  with  the  other. 
The  superior  character  of  truth  and  seriousness,  in  the  matter 
and  substance  of  the  best  poetry,  is  inseparable  from  the  supe- 
riority of  diction  and  movement  marking  its  style  and  manner. 
The  two  superiorities  are  closely  related,  and  are  in  steadfast 
proportion  one  to  the  other.  So  far  as  high  poetic  truth  and 
seriousness  are  wanting  to  a  poet's  matter  and  substance,  so 
far  also,  we  may  be  sure,  will  a  high  poetic  stamp  of  diction 
and  movement  be  wanting  to  his  style  and  manner.  In  propor- 
tion as  this  high  stamp  of  diction  and  movement,  again,  is 
absent  from  a  poet's  style  and  manner,  we  shall  find,  also,  that 
high  poetic  truth  and  seriousness  are  absent  from  his  substance 
and  matter. 

So  stated,  these  are  but  dry  generalities ;  their  whole  force 
lies  in  their  application.  And  I  could  wish  every  student  of 
poetry  to  make  the  application  of  them  for  himself.  Made  by 
himself,  the  application  would  impress  itself  upon  his  mind 
far  more  deeply  than  made  by  me.  Neither  will  my  limits 
allow  me  to  make  any  full  application  of  the  generalities  above 
propounded  ;  but  in  the  hope  of  bringing  out,  at  any  rate, 
some  significance  in  them,  and  of  establishing  an  important 
principle  more  firmly  by  their  means,  I  will,  in  the  space  which 
remains  to  me,  follow  rapidly  fiom  the  commencement  the 
course  of  our  English  poetry  with  them  in  my  view. 

Once  more  I  return  to  the  early  poetry  of  France,  with  which 
our  own  poetry,  in  its  origins,  is  indissolubly  connected.  In 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  that  seed-time  of  all  modern 
language  and  literature,  the  poetry  of  France  had  a  clear  pre- 
dominance in  Europe.  Of  the  two  divisions  of  that  poetry, 
its  productions  in  the  languc  d'oil  and  its  productions  in  the 
hwgne  d'oc,  the  poetry  of  the  langue  d'oc,  of  southern  France, 
of  the  troubadours,  is  of  importance  because  of  its  effect  on 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Italian  literature; — the  first  literature  of  modern  Europe  to 
strike  the  true  and  grand  note,  and  to  bring  forth,  as  in  Dante 
and  Petrarch  it  brought  forth,  classics.  But  the  predominance 
of  French  poetry  in  Europe,  during  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries,  is  due  to  its  poetry  of  the  langiie  d'oil,  the  poetry  of 
northern  France  and  of  the  tongue  which  is  now  the  French 
language.  In  the  twelfth  century  the  bloom  of  this  romance- 
poetry  was  earlier  and  stronger  in  England,  at  the  court  of 
our  Anglo-Norman  kings,  than  in  France  itself.  But  it  was 
a  bloom  of  French  poetry;  and  as  our  native  poetry  formed 
itself,  it  formed  itself  out  of  this.  The  romance-poems  which 
took  possession  of  the  heart  and  imagination  of  Europe  in 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  are  French ;  '  they  are,'  as 
Southey  justly  says,  '  the  pride  of  French  literature,  nor  have 
we  anything  which  can  be  placed  in  competition  with  them.' 
Themes  were  supplied  from  all  quarters ;  but  the  romance- 
setting  which  was  common  to  them  all,  and  which  gained  the 
ear  of  Europe,  was  French.  This  constituted  for  the  French 
poetry,  literature  and  language,  at  the  height  of  the  Middle  Age, 
an  unchallenged  predominance.  The  Italian  Brunetto  Latini, 
the  master  of  Dante,  wrote  his  Treasure  in  French  because, 
he  says,  '  la  parleure  en  est  plus  delitable  et  plus  commune 
a  toutes  gens.'  In  the  same  century,  the  thirteenth,  the  French 
romance-writer.  Christian  of  Troyes,  formulates  the  claims,  in 
chivalry  and  letters,  of  France,  his  native  country,  as  follows: — 

•  Or  vous  eit  par  ce  livre  apris, 
Que  Gresse  ot  cle  chevalcrie 
Le  premier  los  et  cle  clcrgie; 
Puis  vint  chevalcrie  i  Rome, 
Et  cle  la  clergie  la  some, 
Qui  ore  est  en  Prance  venue. 
Diex  (loinst  qu'ele  i  soit  rctenue, 
i;t  (luc  li  lius  li  abelisse 
'J'aiit  cjue  cle  France  n'isse 
L'onor  qui  s'i  est  arcstcel' 


INTRODUCTION. 


'  Now  by  this  book  you  will  learn  that  first  Greece  had  the 
renown  for  chivalry  and  letters ;  then  chivalry  and  the  primacy 
in  letters  passed  to  Rome,  and  now  it  is  come  to  France. 
God  grant  it  may  be  kept  there;  and  that  the  place  may 
please  it  so  well,  that  the  honour  which  has  come  to  make 
stay  in  France  may  never  depart  thence ! ' 

Yet  it  is  now  all  gone,  this  French  romance-poetry,  of  which 
the  weight  of  substance  and  the  power  of  style  are  not  unfairly 
represented  by  this  extract  from  Christian  of  Troyes.  Only 
by  means  of  the  historic  estimate  can  we  persuade  om-selves 
now  to  think  that  any  of  it  is  of  poetical  importance. 

But  in  the  fourteenth  century  there  comes  an  Englishman 
nourished  on  this  poetry,  taught  his  trade  by  this  poetry,  getting 
words,  rhyme,  metre  from  this,  poetry ;  for  even  of  that  stanza 
which  the  Italians  used,  and  which  Chaucer  derived  immediately 
from  the  Italians,  the  basis  and  suggestion  was  probably  given 
in  France.  Chaucer  (I  have  already  named  him)  fascinated  his 
contemporaries,  but  so  too  did  Christian  of  Troyes  and  Wolfram 
of  Eschenbach.  Chaucer's  power  of  fascination,  however,  is 
enduring ;  his  poetical  importance  does  not  need  the  assistance 
of  the  historic  estimate,  it  is  real.  He  is  a  genuine  source  of  joy 
and  strength  which  is  flowing  still  for  us  and  will  flow  always. 
He  will  be  read,  as  time  goes  on,  far  more  generally  than 
he  is  read  now.  His  language  is  a  cause  of  difliculty  for  us ; 
but  so  also,  and  I  think  in  quite  as  great  a  degree,  is  the 
language  of  Burns.  In  Chaucer's  case,  as  in  that  of  Burns, 
it  is  a  difficulty  to  be  unhesitatingly  accepted  and  overcome. 

If  we  ask  ourselves  wherein  consists  the  immense  superiority 
of  Chaucer's  poetry  over  the  romance-poetry,  why  it  is  that 
in  passing  from  this  to  Chaucer  we  suddenly  feel  ourselves 
to  be  in  another  world,  we  shall  find  that  his  superiority  is  both 
in  the  substance  of  his  poetry  and  in  the  style  of  his  poetry. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


His  superiority  in  substance  is  given  by  his  large,  free,  simple, 
clear  yet  kindly  view  of  human  life, — so  unlike  the  total  want,  in 
the  romance-poets,  of  all  intelligent  command  of  it.  Chaucer 
has  not  their  helplessness ;  he  has  gained  the  power  to  survey 
the  world  from  a  central,  a  truly  human  point  of  view.  We  have 
only  to  call  to  mind  the  Prologue  to  The  Canterbury  Tales. 
The  right  comment  upon  it  is  Dryden's  :  '  It  is  sufficient  to  say, 
according  to  the  proverb,  that  here  is  God's  plenly!  And 
again:  '  He  is  a  perpetual  fountain  of  good  sense.'  It  is  by 
a  large,  free,  sound  representation  of  things,  that  poetry,  this 
high  criticism  of  life,  has  truth  of  substance ;  and  Chaucer's 
poetry  has  truth  of  substance. 

Of  his  style  and  manner,  if  we  think  first  of  the  romance- 
poetry  and  then  of  Chaucer's  divine  liquidness  of  diction,  his 
divine  fluidity  of  movement,  it  is  difficult  to  speak  temperately. 
They  are  irresistible,  and  justify  all  the  rapture  with  which  his 
successors  speak  of  his  '  gold  dew-drops  of  speech.'  Johnson 
misses  the  point  entirely  when  he  finds  fault  with  Dryden 
for  ascribing  to  Chaucer  the  first  refinement  of  our  numbers, 
and  says  that  Gower  also  can  show  smooth  numbers  and  easy 
rhymes.  The  refinement  of  our  numbers  means  something  far 
more  than  this.  A  nation  may  have  versifiers  with  smooth 
numbers  and  easy  rhymes,  and  yet  may  have  no  real  poetry 
at  all.  Chaucer  is  the  father  of  our  splendid  English  poetry,  he 
is  our  '  well  of  English  undefiled,'  because  by  the  lovely  charm 
of  his  diction,  the  lovely  charm  of  his  movement,  he  makes  an 
epoch  and  founds  a  tradition.  In  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  Milton, 
Keats,  we  can  follow  the  tradition  of  the  liquid  diction,  the  fluid 
movement,  of  Chaucer ;  at  one  time  it  is  his  liquid  diction  of 
which  in  these  poets  we  feel  the  virtue,  and  at  another  time  it  is 
his  fluid  movement.     And  the  virtue  is  irresistible. 

Bounded  as  is  my  space,  I  must  yel  find  room  for  an  example 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXUl 


of  Chaucer's  virtue,  as  I  have  given  examples  to  show  the  virtue 

of  the  great  classics.    I  feel  disposed  to  say  that  a  single  line  is 

enough  to  show  the  charm  of  Chaucer's  verse ;  that  merely  one 

line  like  this : 

'  O  mart}T  souded  ^  in  virginitee  ! ' 

has  a  virtue  of  manner  and  movement  such  as  we  shall  not  find 
in  all  the  verse  of  romance-poetry ; — but  this  is  saying  nothing. 
The  virtue  is  such  as  we  shall  not  find,  perhaps,  in  all  English 
poetry,  outside  the  poets  whom  I  have  named  as  the  special 
inheritors  of  Chaucer's  tradition.  A  single  line,  however,  is  too 
little  if  we  have  not  the  strain  of  Chaucer's  verse  well  in  our 
memory ;  let  us  take  a  stanza.  It  is  from  The  Prioress's  Tale, 
the  story  of  the  Christian  child  murdered  in  a  Jewry : — 

'  My  throte  is  cut  unto  my  nekke-bone 
Saide  this  child,  and  as  by  way  of  kinde 
I  should  have  deyd,  yea,  longe  time  agone; 
But  Jesu  Christ,  as  ye  in  bookes  finde. 
Will  that  his  glory  last  and  be  in  minde, 
And  for  the  worship  of  his  mother  dere 
Yet  may  I  sing  O  Alma  loud  and  clere.' 

Wordsworth  has  modernised  this  Tale,  and  to  feel  how  delicate 
and  evanescent  is  the  charm  of  verse,  we  have  only  to  read 
Wordsworth's  first  three  lines  of  this  stanza  after  Chaucer's : — 

'  My  throat  is  cut  unto  the  bone,  I  trow. 
Said  this  young  child,  and  by  the  law  of  kind 
I  should  have  died,  yea,  many  hours  ago.' 

The  charm  is  departed.  It  is  often  said  that  the  power  of  liquid- 
ness  and  fluidity  in  Chaucer's  verse  was  dependent  upon  a  free, 
a  licentious  dealing  with  language,  such  as  is  now  impossible  ; 
upon  a  liberty,  such  as  Burns  too  enjoyed,  of  making  words 
like  neck,  bird,  into  a  dissyllable  by  adding  to  them,  and  words 

*  The  French  sonde;  soldered,  fixed  fast. 
VOL.   I.  C 


xxxiv  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

like  cause,  rhyme,  into  a  dissyllable  by  sounding  the  e  mute.  It  is 
true  that  Chaucer's  fluidity  is  conjoined  with  this  liberty,  and  is 
admirably  served  by  it;  but  we  ought  not  to  say  that  it  was 
dependent  upon  it.  It  was  dependent  upon  his  talent.  Other 
poets  with  a  like  liberty  do  not  attain  to  the  fluidity  of  Chaucer; 
Burns  himself  does  not  attain  to  it.  Poets  again,  who  have  a 
talent  akin  to  Chaucer's,  such  as  Shakespeare  or  Keats,  have 
known  how  to  attain  to  his  fluidity  without  the  like  liberty. 

And  yet  Chaucer  is  not  one  of  the  great  classics.  His  poetry 
transcends  and  effaces,  easily  and  without  efi'ort,  all  the  romance- 
poetry  of  Catholic  Christendom ;  it  transcends  and  effaces  all 
the  English  poetry  contemporary  with  it,  it  transcends  and 
effaces  all  the  English  poetry  subsequent  to  it  down  to  the 
age  of  Elizabeth.  Of  such  avail  is  poetic  truth  of  substance, 
in  its  natural  and  necessary  union  with  poetic  truth  of  style. 
And  yet,  I  say,  Chaucer  is  not  one  of  the  great  classics.  He 
has  not  their  accent.  What  is  wanting  to  him  is  suggested 
by  the  mere  mention  of  the  name  of  the  first  great  classic 
of  Christendom,  the  immortal  poet  who  died  eighty  years 
before  Chaucer, — Dante.     The  accent  of  such  verse  as 

'In  la  sua  volontade  e  nostra  pace  ..." 

is  altogether  beyond  Chaucer's  reach;  we  praise  him,  but  we 
feel  that  this  accent  is  out  of  the  question  for  him.  It  may 
be  said  that  it  was  necessarily  out  of  the  reacli  of  any  poet 
in  the  England  of  that  stage  of  growth.  Possibly;  but  we  are 
to  adopt  a  real,  not  a  historic,  estimate  of  poetry.  Plowever  we 
may  account  for  its  absence,  something  is  wanting,  then,  to 
the  poetry  of  Chaucer,  which  poetry  must  have  before  it  can  be 
placed  in  the  glorious  class  of  the  best.  And  there  is  no  doubt 
what  that  something  is.  It  is  the  <n\ovhai6rr\^,  the  high  and 
excellent  seriousness,   which   Aristotle    assigns   as  one  of  the 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxv 


grand  virtues  of  poetry.  The  substance  of  Chaucer's 
poetry,  his  view  of  things  and  his  criticism  of  Ufe,  has  largeness, 
freedom,  shrewdness,  benignity;  but  it  has  not  this  high 
seriousness.  Homer's  criticism  of  Ufe  has  it,  Dante's  has  it, 
Shakespeare's  has  it.  It  is  this  chiefly  which  gives  to  our  spirits 
what  they  can  rest  upon ;  and  with  the  increasing  demands  of 
our  modern  ages  upon  poetry,  this  virtue  of  giving  us  what  we 
can  rest  upon  will  be  more  and  more  highly  esteemed.  A  voice 
from  the  slums  of  Paris,  fifty  or  sixty  years  after  Chaucer,  the 
voice  of  poor  Villon  out  of  his  life  of  riot  and  crime,  has  at  its 
happy  moments  (as,  for  instance,  in  the  last  stanza  of  La  Belle 
Heaiilmiere^)  more  of  this  important  poetic  virtue  of  serious- 
ness than  all  the  productions  of  Chaucer.  But  its  apparition  in 
Villon,  and  in  men  like  Villon,  is  fitful ;  the  greatness  of  the 
great  poets,  the  power  of  their  criticism  of  life,  is  that  their 
virtue  is  sustained. 

To  our  praise,  therefore,  of  Chaucer  as  a  poet  there  must  be 
this  limitation;  he  lacks  the  high  seriousness  of  the  great 
classics,  and  therewith  an  important  part  of  their  virtue.     Still, 

*  The  name  BeanlmVere  is  said  to  be  derived  from  a  head-dress  (helm) 
worn  as  a  mark  by  courtesans.  In  Villon's  ballad,  a  poor  old  creature  of 
this  class  laments  her  days  of  youth  and  beauty.  The.  last  stanza  of  the 
ballad  runs  thus  : — 

'Ainsi  le  bon  temps  regretons 
Entre  nous,  pauvres  vieilles  sottes, 
Assises  bas,  a  croppetons, 
Tout  en  ung  tas  comme  pelottes; 
A  petit  feu  de  chenevottes 
Tost  allumees,  tost  estainctes. 
Et  jadis  fusmes  si  mignottes ! 
Ainsi  en  prend  a  maintz  et  maintes.' 
'  Thus  amongst  ourselves  we  regret  the  good  time,  poor  silly  old  things, 
low-seated  on  our  heels,  all  in  a  heap  like  so  many  balls ;  by  a  little  fire  of 
hemp-stalks,  soon  lighted,  soon  spent.     And  once  we  were  such  darlings ! 
So  fares  it  with  many  and  many  a  one.' 

C  2 


xxxvi  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

the  main  fact  for  us  to  bear  in  mind  about  Chaucer  is  his 
sterling  value  according  to  that  real  estimate  which  we  firmly 
adopt  for  all  poets.  He  has  poetic  truth  of  substance,  though 
he  has  not  high  poetic  seriousness,  and  corresponding  to  his 
truth  of  substance  he  has  an  exquisite  virtue  of  style  and 
manner.     With  him  is  born  our  real  poetry. 

But  for  my  present  purpose  I  need  not  dwell  on  our  Eliza- 
bethan poetry,  or  on  the  continuation  and  close  of  this  poetry 
in  Milton.  We  all  of  us  profess  to  be  agreed  in  the  estimate 
of  this  poetry ;  we  all  of  us  recognise  it  as  great  poetry,  our 
greatest,  and  Shakespeare  and  Milton  as  our  poetical  classics. 
The  real  estimate,  here,  has  universal  currency.  With  the  next 
age  of  our  poetry  divergency  and  difficulty  begin.  An  historic 
estimate  of  that  poetry  has  established  itself;  and  the  question 
is,  whether  it  will  be  found  to  coincide  with  the  real  estimate. 

The  age  of  Dryden,  together  with  our  whole  eighteenth  cen- 
tury which  followed  it,  sincerely  believed  itself  to  have  produced 
poetical  classics  of  its  own,  and  even  to  have  made  advance,  in 
poetry,  beyond  all  its  predecessors.  Dryden  regards  as  not 
seriously  disputable  the  opinion  '  that  the  sweetness  of  English 
verse  was  never  understood  or  practised  by  our  fathers.'  Cowley 
could  see  nothing  at  all  in  Chaucer's  poetry.  Dryden  heartily 
admired  it,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  praised  its  matter  admirably; 
but  of  its  exquisite  manner  and  movement  all  he  can  find  to 
say  is  that  '  there  is  the  rude  sweetness  of  a  Scotch  tune  in  it, 
which  is  natural  and  pleasing,  though  not  perfect.'  Addison, 
wishing  to  praise  Chaucer's  numbers,  compares  them  with 
Dryden's  own.  And  all  through  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
down  even  into  our  own  times,  the  stereotyped  phrase  of  appro- 
bation for  good  verse  found  in  oiu"  early  poetry  has  been,  that 
it  even  approached  the  verse  of  Dryckn,  Addison,  Pope,  and 
Johnson. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Are  Dryden  and  Pope  poetical  classics?  Is  the  historic 
estimate,  which  represents  them  as  such,  and  which  has  been  so 
long  established  that  it  cannot  easily  give  way,  the  real  estimate  ? 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  as  is  well  known,  denied  it;  but 
the  authority  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  does  not  weigh 
much  with  the  young  generation,  and  there  are  many  signs  to 
show  that  the  eighteenth  century  and  its  judgments  are  coming 
into  favour  again.  Are  the  favourite  poets  of  the  eighteenth 
century  classics  ? 

It  is  impossible  within  my  present  limits  to  discuss  the 
question  fully.  And  what  man  of  letters  would  not  shrink 
from  seeming  to  dispose  dictatorially  of  the  claims  of  two  men 
who  are,  at  any  rate,  such  masters  in  letters  as  Dryden  and 
Pope ;  two  men  of  such  admirable  talent,  both  of  them,  and 
one  of  them,  Dryden,  a  man,  on  all  sides,  of  such  energetic 
and  genial  power  ?  And  yet,  if  we  are  to  gain  the  full  benefit 
from  poetry,  we  must  have  the  real  estimate  of  it.  I  cast  about 
for  some  mode  of  arriving,  in  the  present  case,  at  such  an 
estimate  without  offence.  And  perhaps  the  best  way  is  to 
begin,  as  it  is  easy  to  begin,  with  cordial  praise.  ^ 

When  we  find  Chapman,  the  Elizabethan  translator  of 
Homer,  expressing  himself  in  his  preface  thus :  '  Though  truth 
in  her  very  nakedness  sits  in  so  deep  a  pit,  that  from  Gades  to 
Aurora  and  Ganges  few  eyes  can  sound  her,  I  hope  yet  those 
few  here  will  so  discover  and  confirm,  that,  the  date  being  out 
of  her  darkness  in  this  morning  of  our  poet,  he  shall  now  gird 
his  temples  with  the  sun,' — we  pronounce  that  such  a  prose  is 
intolerable.  When  we  find  Milton  writing  :  '  And  long  it  was 
not  after,  when  I  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  that  he,  who 
would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in 
laudable  things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem,' — we  pro- 
nounce that  such  a  prose  has  its  own   grandeur,  but   that  it 


xxxviii  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

is  obsolete  and  inconvenient.  But  when  we  find  Dryden  telling 
us :  '  What  Virgil  wrote  in  the  vigour  of  his  age,  in  plenty  and 
at  ease,  I  have  undertaken  to  translate  in  my  declining  years ; 
struggling  with  wants,  oppressed  with  sickness,  curbed  in  my 
genius,  liable  to  be  misconstrued  in  all  I  write,' — then  we 
exclaim  that  here  at  last  we  have  the  true  English  prose,  a 
prose  such  as  we  would  all  gladly  use  if  we  only  knew  how. 
Yet  Dryden  was  Milton's  contemporary. 

But  after  the  Restoration  the  time  had  come  when  our  nation 
felt  the  imperious  need  of  a  fit  prose.  So,  too,  the  time  had 
likewise  come  when  our  nation  felt  the  imperious  need  of  freeing 
itself  from  the  absorbing  preoccupation  which  religion  in  the 
Puritan  age  had  exercised.  It  was  impossible  that  this  freedom 
should  be  brought  about  without  some  negative  excess,  without 
some  neglect  and  impairment  of  the  religious  Ufe  of  the  soul ; 
and  the  spiritual  history  of  the  eighteenth  century  shows  us  that 
the  freedom  was  not  achieved  without  them.  Still,  the  freedom 
was  achieved ;  the  preoccupation,  an  undoubtedly  baneful  and 
retarding  one  if  it  had  continued,  was  got  rid  of.  And  as  with 
religion  amongst  us  at  that  period,  so  it  was  also  with  letters.  A 
fit  prose  was  a  necessity;  but  it  was  impossible  that  a  fit  prose 
should  establish  itself  amongst  us  without  some  touch  of  frost 
to  the  imaginative  life  of  the  soul.  The  needful  qualities  for 
a  fit  prose  arc  regularity,  uniformity,  precision,  balance.  The 
men  of  letters,  whose  destiny  it  may  be  to  bring  their  nation 
to  the  attainment  of  a  fit  prose,  must  of  necessity,  whether  they 
work  in  prose  or  in  verse,  give  a  predominating,  an  almost 
exclusive  attention  to  the  qualities  of  regularity,  uniformity, 
precision,  balance.  But  an  almost  exclusive  attention  to  these 
qualities  involves  some  repression  and  silencing  of  poetry. 

We  are  to  regard  Dryden  as  the  puissant  and  glorious 
founder,  Pope  as  the  splendid  high-priest,  of  our  age  of  prose 


INTRODUCTIOiV. 


and  reason,  of  our  excellent  and  indispensable  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. For  the  purposes  of  their  mission  and  destiny  their 
poetry,  like  their  prose,  is  admirable.  Do  you  ask  me  whether 
Dryden's  verse,  take  it  almost  where  you  will,  is  not  good } 

'  A  milk-white  Hind,  immortal  and  unchanged, 
Fed  on  the  lawns  and  in  the  forest  ranged.' 

I  answer :  Admirable  for  the  purposes  of  the  inaugurator  of  an 
age  of  prose  and  reason.  Do  you  ask  me  whether  Pope's 
verse,  take  it  almost  where  you  will,  is  not  good } 

'  To  Hounslow  Heath  I  point,  and  Banstead  Down ; 
Thence  comes  your  mutton,  and  these  chicks  my  own.' 

I  answer :  Admirable  for  the  purposes  of  the  high-priest  of 
an  age  of  prose  and  reason.  But  do  you  ask  me  whether  such 
verse  proceeds  from  men  with  an  adequate  poetic  criticism  of 
life,  from  men  whose  criticism  of  hfe  has  a  high  seriousness, 
or  even,  without  that  high  seriousness,  has  poetic  largeness, 
freedom,  insight,  benignity .?  Do  you  ask  me  whether  the  ap- 
plication of  ideas  to  Hfe  in  the  verse  of  these  men,  often  a 
powerful  appHcation,  no  doubt,  is  a  powerful  poetic  application  ^ 
Do  you  ask  me  whether  the  poetry  of  these  men  has  either  the 
matter  or  the  inseparable  manner  of  such  an  adequate  poetic 
criticism ;  whether  it  has  the  accent  of 


or  of 
or  of 


'  Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile  .  .  .' 

•  And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome  .  .  .* 

'  O  martyr  souded  in  virginitee  !' 


I  answer :  It  has  not  and  cannot  have  them ;  it  is  the  poetry  of 
the  builders  of  an  age  of  prose  and  reason.  Though  they  may 
write  in  verse,  though  they  may  in  a  certain  sense  be  masters  of 


xl  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

the  art  of  versification,  Dryden  and  Pope  are  not  classics  of  our 
poetry,  they  are  classics  of  our  prose. 

Gray  is  our  poetical  classic  of  that  literature  and  age ;  the 
position  of  Gray  is  singular,  and  demands  a  word  of  notice 
here.  He  has  not  the  volume  or  the  power  of  poets  who, 
coming  in  times  more  favourable,  have  attained  to  an  inde- 
pendent criticism  of  life.  But  he  lived  with  the  great  poets, 
he  lived,  above  all,  with  the  Greeks,  through  perpetually  study- 
ing and  enjoying  them;  and  he  caught  their  poetic  point  of 
view  for  regarding  life,  caught  their  poetic  manner.  The  point 
of  view  and  the  manner  are  not  self-sprung  in  him,  he  caught 
them  of  others ;  and  he  had  not  the  free  and  abundant  use 
of  them.  But  whereas  Addison  and  Pope  never  had  the  use  of 
them,  Gray  had  the  use  of  them  at  times.  He  is  the  scantiest 
and  frailest  of  classics  in  our  poetry,  but  he  is  a  classic. 

And  now,  after  Gray,  we  are  met,  as  we  draw  towards  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  we  are  met  by  the  great  name  of 
Burns.  We  enter  now  on  times  where  the  personal  estimate  of 
poets  begins  to  be  rife,  and  where  the  real  estimate  of  them 
is  not  reached  without  difficulty.  But  in  spite  of  the  disturbing 
pressures  of  personal  partiality,  of  national  partiality,  let  us  try 
to  reach  a  real  estimate  of  the  poetry  of  Burns. 

By  his  English  poetry  Burns  in  general  belongs  to  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  has  little  importance  for  us. 

'  Mark  ruffian  Violence,  distain'd  with  crimes, 
Rousing  elate  in  these  degenerate  times ; 
View  unsuspecting  Innocence  a  piey. 
As  guileful  Fraud  points  out  the  erring  way; 
While  subtle  Litigation's  pliant  tongue 
The  life-blood  equal  sucks  of  Right  and  Wrong  1' 

Evidently  this  is  not  the  real  Burns,  or  his  name  and  fame 
would  have  disappeared  long  ago.     Nor  is  Clarindu's  love-poet, 


INTRODUCTION.  xli 


Sylvander,  the  real  Burns  either.  But  he  tells  us  himself: 
'  These  English  songs  gravel  me  to  death.  I  have  not  the 
command  of  the  language  that  I  have  of  my  native  tongue. 
In  fact,  I  think  that  my  ideas  are  more  barren  in  English  than 
in  Scotch.  I  have  been  at  Duncan  Gray  to  dress  it  in  English, 
but  all  I  can  do  is  desperately  stupid.'  We  English  turn  natu- 
rally, in  Burns,  to  the  poems  in  our  own  language,  because  we 
can  read  them  easily;  but  in  those  poems  we  have  not  the  real 
Burns. 

The  real  Burns  is  of  course  in  his  Scotch  poems.  Let  us 
boldly  say  that  of  much  of  this  poetry,  a  poetry  dealing  per- 
petually with  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  manners, 
a  Scotchman's  estimate  is  apt  to  be  personal.  A  Scotchman  is 
used  to  this  world  of  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch 
manners ;  he  has  a  tenderness  for  it ;  he  meets  its  poet  half  way. 
In  this  tender  mood  he  reads  pieces  like  the  Holy  Fair  or 
Halloween.  But  this  world  of  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion, 
and  Scotch  manners  is  against  a  poet,  not  for  him,  when  it 
is  not  a  partial  countryman  who  reads  him;  for  in  itself  it 
is  not  a  beautiful  world,  and  no  one  can  deny  that  it  is  of 
advantage  to  a  poet  to  deal  with  a  beautiful  world.  Burns's 
world  of  Scotch  drink,  Scotch  religion,  and  Scotch  manners, 
is  often  a  harsh,  a  sordid,  a  repulsive  world ;  even  the  world  of 
his  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  is  not  a  beautiful  world.  No  doubt 
a  poet's  criticism  of  life  may  have  such  truth  and  power  that  it 
triumphs  over  its  world  and  delights  us.  Burns  may  triumph 
over  his  world,  often  he  does  triumph  over  his  world,  but  let  us 
observe  how  and  where.  Burns  is  the  first  case  we  have  had 
where  the  bias  of  the  personal  estimate  tends  to  mislead ;  let  us 
look  at  him  closely,  he  can  bear  it. 

Many  of  his  admirers  will  tell  us  that  we  have  Burns,  con- 
vivial, genuine,  delightful,  here  : — 


xlii  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


'  Leeze  me  on  drink !  it  gies  us  mair 

Than  either  school  or  college; 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lair, 

It  pangs  us  fou  o'  knowledge. 
Be  't  whisky  gill  or  penny  wheep 

Or  ony  stronger  potion, 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep. 
To  kittle  up  our  notion 

By  night  or  day.' 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  Burns,  and  it  is 
unsatisfactory,  not  because  it  is  bacchanalian  poetry,  but  because 
it  has  not  that  accent  of  sincerity  which  bacchanalian  poetry, 
to  do  it  justice,  very  often  has.  There  is  something  in  it  of 
bravado,  something  which  makes  us  feel  that  we  have  not 
the  man  speaking  to  us  with  his  real  voice;  something,  there- 
fore, poetically  unsound. 

With  still  more  confidence  will  his  admirers  tell  us  that  we 
have  the  genuine  Burns,  the  great  poet,  when  his  strain  asserts 
the  independence,  equality,  dignity,  of  men,  as  in  the  famous 
song  For  a  that  and  a  that : — 

'  A  prince  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 
A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth. 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that.' 

Here  they  find  his  grand,  genuine  touches ;  and  still  more,  when 
this  puissant  genius,  who  so  often  set  morality  at  defiance,  falls 
moralising : — 

'  The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love 
Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 
The'  naething  should  divulge  it. 


INTRODUCTION.  xliii 


I  waive  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  o'  concealing, 
But  och !  it  hardens  a'  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling.' 

Or  in  a  higher  strain : — 

*  Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us ; 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone; 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias. 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute. 

But  know  not  what's  resisted.' 

Or  in  a  better  strain  yet,  a  strain,  his  admirers  will  say,  unsur- 
passable : — 

'  To  make  a  happy  fire-side  clime 
To  weans  and  wife. 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life.' 

There  is  criticism  of  life  for  you,  the  admirers  of  Burns  will 
say  to  us;  there  is  the  application  of  ideas  to  life!  There 
is,  undoubtedly.  The  doctrine  of  the  last-quoted  lines  coincides 
almost  exactly  with  what  was  the  aim  and  end,  Xenophon 
tells  us,  of  all  the  teaching  of  Socrates.  And  the  application 
is  a  powerful  one ;  made  by  a  man  of  vigorous  understanding, 
and  (need  I  say  ?)  a  master  of  language. 

But  for  supreme  poetical  success  more  is  required  than  the 
powerful  application  of  ideas  to  life ;  it  must  be  an  application 
under  the  conditions  fixed  by  the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and 
poetic  beauty.  Those  laws  fix  as  an  essential  condition,  in  the 
poet's  treatment  of  such  matters  as  are  here  in  question,  high 
seriousness ; — the  high  seriousness  which  comes  from  absolute 
sincerity.  The  accent  of  high  seriousness,  born  of  absolute 
sincerity,  is  what  gives  to  such  verse  as 

'  In  la  sua  volontade  h.  nostra  pace  ,  . .' 


xliv  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

to  such  criticism  of  life  as  Dante's,  its  power.  Is  this  accent 
felt  in  the  passages  which  I  have  been  quoting  from  Burns  ? 
Surely  not ;  surely,  if  our  sense  is  quick,  we  must  perceive  that 
we  have  not  in  those  passages  a  voice  from  the  very  inmost  soul 
of  the  genuine  Burns ;  he  is  not  speaking  to  us  from  these 
depths,  he  is  more  or  less  preaching.  And  the  compensation 
for  admiring  such  passages  less,  from  missing  the  perfect  poetic 
accent  in  them,  will  be  that  we  shall  admire  more  the  poetry 
where  that  accent  is  found. 

No;  Burns,  like  Chaucer,  comes  short  of  the  high  seriousness 
of  the  great  classics,  and  the  virtue  of  matter  and  manner  which 
goes  with  that  high  seriousness  is  wanting  to  his  work.  At 
moments  he  touches  it  in  a  profound  and  passionate  melan- 
choly, as  in  those  four  immortal  lines  taken  by  Byron  as  a 
motto  for  The  Giaour,  but  which  have  in  them  a  depth  of  poetic 
quality  such  as  resides  in  no  verse  of  Byron's  own : — 

'  Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met,  or  never  parted. 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted.' 

But  a  whole  poem  of  that  quality  Burns  cannot  make ;  the  rest, 
in  the  Farewell  to  Nancy,  is  verbiage. 

We  arrive  best  at  the  real  estimate  of  Burns,  I  think,  by  con- 
ceiving his  work  as  having  truth  of  matter  and  truth  of  manner, 
but  not  the  accent  or  the  poetic  virtue  of  the  highest  masters. 
His  genuine  criticism  of  life,  when  the  sheer  poet  in  him  speaks, 
is  ironic;  it  is  not: 

'  Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 
These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 
Here  firm  I  rest,  they  must  be  best 
Because  they  are  Thy  will!' 

It  is  far  rather  :  Whistle  owre  the  lave  oil    Yet  we  may  say  of  him 

as  of  Chaucer,  that  of  life  and  the  world,  as  they  come  before  him, 


INTRODUCTION.  xlv 


his  view  is  large,  free,  shrewd,  benignant, — truly  poetic,  there- 
fore ;  and  his  manner  of  rendering  what  he  sees  is  to  match. 
But  we  must  note,  at  the  same  time,  his  great  di (Terence  from 
Chaucer.  The  freedom  of  Chaucer  is  heightened,  in  Burns,  by 
a  fiery,  reckless  energy ;  the  benignity  of  Chaucer  deepens,  in 
Burns,  into  an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  pathos  of  things ; — of 
the  pathos  of  human  nature,  ihe  pathos,  also,  of  non-human 
nature.  Instead  of  the  fluidity  of  Chaucer's  manner,  the  manner 
of  Burns  has  spring,  bounding  swiftness.  Burns  is  by  far  the 
greater  force,  though  he  has  perhaps  less  charm.  The  world  of 
Chaucer  is  fairer,  richer,  more  significant  than  that  of  Burns ; 
but  when  the  largeness  and  freedom  of  Burns  get  full  sweep,  as 
in  Tarn  o'  Shan/er,  or  still  more  in  that  puissant  and  splendid 
production,  The  Jolly  Beggars,  his  world  may  be  what  it  will, 
his  poetic  genius  triumphs  over  it.  In  the  world  of  the  Jolly 
Beggars  there  is  more  than  hideousness  and  squalor,  there 
is  bestiality ;  yet  the  piece  is  a  superb  poetic  success.  It  has 
a  breadth,  truth,  and  power  which  make  the  famous  scene  in 
Auerbach's  Cellar,  of  Goethe's  Faust,  seem  artificial  and  tame 
beside  it,  and  which  are  only  matched  by  Shakespeare  and 
Aristophanes. 

Here,  where  his  largeness  and  freedom  serve  him  so  admi- 
rably, and  also  in  those  poems  and  songs,  where  to  shrewdness 
he  adds  infinite  archness  and  wit,  and  to  benignity  infinite 
pathos,  where  his  manner  is  flawless,  ard  a  perfect  poetic  whole 
is  the  result, — in  things  like  the  address  to  the  IMouse  whose 
home  he  had  ruined,  in  things  like  Duncan  Gray,  Tarn  Glen, 
Whistle  arid  Til  come  to  you,  my  lad,  Auld  lang  syne  (the  list  might 
be  made  much  longer), — here  we  have  the  genuine  Burns,  of 
whom  the  real  estimate  must  be  high  indeed.  Not  a  classic, 
nor  with  the  excellent  o-77ov5aiorr;r  of  the  great  classics,  nor  with 
a  verse  rising  to  a  criticism  of  life  and  a  virtue  like  theirs; 


xlvi  .      THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

but  a  poet  with  thorough  truth  of  substance  and  an  answer- 
ing truth  of  style,  giving  us  a  poetry  sound  to  the  core.  We 
all  of  us  have  a  leaning  towards  the  pathetic,  and  may  be 
inclined  perhaps  to  prize  Burns  most  for  his  touches  of  piercing, 
sometimes  almost  intolerable,  pathos ;  for  verse  like : 

'  We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  bum 
From  momin'  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roai'd 
Sin  auld  lang  syne  .  .  .' 

where  he  is  as  lovely  as  he  is  sound.  But  perhaps  it  is  by  the 
perfection  of  soundness  of  his  lighter  and  archer  master-pieces 
that  he  is  poetically  most  wholesome  for  us.  For  the  votary 
misled  by  a  personal  estimate  of  Shelley,  as  so  many  of  us  have 
been,  are,  and  will  be, — of  that  beautiful  spirit  building  his 
many- coloured  haze  of  words  and  images 

'  Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane ' — 

no  contact  can  be  wholesomer  than  the  contact  with  Burns  at 
his  archest  and  soundest.     Side  by  side  with  the 

'  On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire, 
But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  warning 
That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than  fire  .  .  .' 

of  Prometheus   Unbound,    how  salutary,  how  very  salutary,  to 

place  this  from  Tarn  Glen : — 

'  My  minnie  does  constantly  dcavc  me 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men; 
They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me ; 
But  wha  can  think  sac  o'  Tam  Glen?' 

But  we  enter  on  burning  ground  as  we  approach  the  poetry 
of  times  so  near  to  us,  poetry  like  that  of  Byron,  Shelley,  and 
Wordsworth,  of  which  the  estimates  are  so  often  not  only  per- 
sonal, but  personal  with  passion.     For  my  purpose,  it  is  enough 


IXTRODUCTION.  xlvii 


to  have  taken  the  single  case  of  Burns,  the  first  poet  we  come 
to  of  whose  work  the  estimate  formed  is  evidently  apt  to  be 
personal,  and  to  have  suggested  how  we  may  proceed,  using 
the  poetry  of  the  great  classics  as  a  sort  of  touchstone,  to 
correct  this  estimate,  as  we  had  previously  corrected  by  the 
same  means  the  historic  estimate  where  we  met  with  it.  A 
collection  like  the  present,  with  its  succession  of  celebrated 
names  and  celebrated  poems,  offers  a  good  opportunity  to  us 
for  resolutely  endeavouring  to  make  our  estimates  of  poetry 
real.  I  have  sought  to  point  out  a  method  which  will  help 
us  in  making  them  so,  and  to  exhibit  it  in  use  so  far  as  to 
put  any  one  who  likes  in  a  way  of  applying  it  for  himself. 

At  any  rate  the  end  to  which  the  method  and  the  estimate  are 
designed  to  lead,  and  from  leading  to  which,  if  they  do  lead  to 
it,  they  get  their  whole  value, — the  benefit  of  being  able  clearly 
to  feel  and  deeply  to  enjoy  the  best,  the  truly  classic,  in  poetry, — 
is  an  end,  let  me  say  it  once  more  at  parting,  of  supreme  im- 
portance. We  are  often  told  that  an  era  is  opening  in  which 
we  are  to  see  multitudes  of  a  common  sort  of  readers,  and 
masses  of  a  common  sort  of  literature  ;  that  such  readers  do  not 
want  and  could  not  relish  anything  better  than  such  literature, 
and  that  to  provide  it  is  becoming  a  vast  and  profitable  industry. 
Even  if  good  literature  entirely  lost  currency  with  the  world,  it 
would  still  be  abundantly  worth  while  to  continue  to  enjoy  it  by 
oneself.  But  it  never  will  lose  currency  with  the  world,  in  spite 
of  momentary  appearances  ;  it  never  will  lose  supremacy.  Cur- 
rency and  supremacy  are  insured  to  it,  not  indeed  by  the 
world's  deliberate  and  conscious  choice,  but  by  something  far 
deeper, — by  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  in  humanity. 

IM.vTTHEw  Arnold. 


CHAUCER. 


[Geoffrey  Chaucer,  bom  in  London  probably  about  1340,  died  at  West- 
minster in  1400.  He  was  the  son  of  a  vintner  ;  was  page  in  Prince  Lionel's 
household,  served  in  the  army,  was  taken  prisoner  in  France.  He  was 
afterwards  valet  and  squire  to  Edward  III,  and  went  as  king's  commissioner 
to  Italy  in  1372,  and  later.  He  was  Controller  of  the  Customs  in  the  port 
of  London  from  1381  to  1386,  was  M.  P.  for  Kent  in  13S6,  Clerk  of  the 
King's  Works  at  Windsor  in  1389,  and  died  poor.  Mr.  Fumivall  divides, 
his  poetical  history  into  four  periods:  (i)  up  to  1371,  including  the  early 
poems,  viz  the  A.  B.  C,  the  Compleynte  to  Pile,  the  Boke  of  the  Dtichesse,  and 
the  Compleynte  of  Mars  ;  (2)  from  1372  to  1381,  including  the  Troyliis  and 
Criseyde,  Anelida,  and  the  Former  Age;  (3)  the  best  period,  from  1381  to 
1389,  including  the  Parlement  of  Foides,  the  Hous  of  Fame,  the  Legende  of 
Goode  Women,  and  the  chief  of  the  Canterbury  Tales  ;  (4)  from  1390  to  1400, 
including  the  latest  Canterbury  Tales,  and  the  Ballades  and  Poems  of  Reflec- 
tion and  later  age,  of  which  the  last  few,  like  the  Steadfastness,  show  failing 
power.] 

It  is  natural  that  a  book  which  aims  at  including  the  best  that 
has  been  done  in  English  verse  should  begin  with  Chaucer,  to 
whom  no  one  has  ever  seriously  denied  the  name  which  Dryden 
gave  him,  of  the  Father  of  English  poetry.  The  poems  of  an 
earlier  date,  the  Brut  and  the  Ormithiin,  the  Romances  and  the 
Homilies,  have  indeed  an  interest  of  their  own  ;  but  it  is  a  purely 
antiquarian  interest,  and  even  under  that  aspect  it  does  not  exist 
for  the  reader  of  Chaucer,  who  cannot  in  any  sense  be  said  to  have 
been  inspired  by  them.  English  poetry,  distinguished  on  the  one 
hand  from  the  '  rym  dogerel'  of  the  romancers,  which  is  not  poetry, 
and  on  the  other  from  Beowulf,  which  is  poetry  but  not,  in  the 
ordinary  sense,  Enghsh,  begins  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III,  with 
Chaucer  and  his  lesser  contemporaries.      In  them  we  see  at  a 

VOL.  I.  B 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


glance  that  the  step  has  been  taken  which  separates  the  rhymer 
from  the  poet,  the  '  maker,'  who  has  something  new  to  say,  and 
has  found  the  art  of  saying  it  beautifully.  The  poet,  says  an 
Elizabethan  critic,  '  can  express  the  true  and  lively  of  everything 
which  is  set  before  him,  and  which  he  taketh  in  hand  to  describe' — 
words  that  exactly  meet  Chaucer's  case,  and  draw  the  line  between 
himself  and  his  predecessors.  In  the  half  century  before  Chaucer 
there  had  indeed  been  isolated  poems — a  lyric  or  two  of  real 
freshness  and  beauty — but  not  till  that  time  of  heightened  national 
life,  of  wider  culture,  and  of  more  harmonised  society  into  which 
he  was  born,  was  there  a  sufficiency  either  of  ideas  or  of  accessible 
poetical  material  on  English  ground  to  shape  and  furnish  an 
imaginative  development  like  his.  To  him  first  among  the  writers 
of  English  it  was  given  to  catch  and  to  express  '  the  true  and 
lively 'throughout  a  broad  life  of  human  range  and  feeling.  Before 
him  there  had  been  stoiy-telling,  there  had  been  stray  notes  of 
poetry :  but  in  Chaucer  England  brought  forth  her  first  poet,  as 
modern  times  count  poetry  ;  her  first  skilled  and  conscious  work- 
man, who,  coming  in  upon  the  stores  of  natural  fact  open  to  all 
alike,  was  enabled  to  communicate  to  whatever  he  touched  that 
colour,  that  force,  that  distinction,  in  virtue  of  which  common  life 
and  common  feelings  turn  to  poetry.  And  having  found  her  poet, 
she  did  not  fail  to  recognise  him.  Very  soon,  as  Gower's  'Venus' 
says  of  him  in  the  often-quoted  lines, 

'  Of  dites  and  of  songes  glad 
The  whiche  he  for  my  sake  made 
The  land  fulfilled  is  over  al.' 

The  themes  of  his  books  run  glibly  from  the  tongue  of  his  own 
'Sergeaunt  of  Lawe,'  like  matter  familiar  to  all.  His  literary 
contemporaries  felt  and  confessed  in  him  the  Poet's  mysterious 
gifts,  and  his  height  above  themselves.  The  best  English 
poetical  opinion,  in  the  mouth  of  Spenser,  Sidney,  Milton,  Dry- 
den,  has  continuously  acknowledged  him  ;  while  the  more  our 
later  world  turns  back  to  him,  and  learns  to  read  and  under- 
stand him,  the  stronger  grows  his  claim  in  even  our  critical 
modern  eyes,  not  only  to  the  antiquarian  charm  of  the  story- 
teller and  the  '  translateur,'  but  to  the  influence  and  honours  of 
the  poet. 

Chaucer  then  is  for  us  the  first  English  poet,  and  as  such  has  all 
the  interest  that  attaches  to  a  great  original  figure.     But  he  makes 


CHAUCER. 


no  parade  of  his  originality  ;  on  the  contrary,  Hke  all  medieval 
writers,  he  translates,  and  borrows,  and  is  anxious  to  reveal  his 
authorities,  lest  he  should  be  thought  to  be  palming  off  mere  frivolous 
inventions  of  his  own.  Other  men's  work  is  to  him  an  ever  open 
storehouse  to  be  freely  used,  now  for  foundation,  now  for  ornament. 
Hence  with  a  wTiter  like  Chaucer  the  examination  of  his  sources  is 
at  once  more  possible  and  more  fruitful  than  is  the  case  with  a 
later  poet.  We  know  that  every  writer  is  in  a  great  measure  the 
creation  of  the  books  he  has  read  and  the  times  he  has  lived  in  ; 
but  with  a  modem  writer,  or  one  like  Virgil,  it  is  impossible  to 
disengage  these  influences  with  any  real  success.  Not  so  with 
Chaucer  and  the  poets  of  a  young,  unformed  civilisation  ;  they 
bear  on  their  foreheads  the  traces  of  their  origin.  They  reflect 
simply  and  readily  the  influence  of  the  moment  ;  happiness  or 
sorrow,  success  or  failure,  this  book  or  that — each  has  its  instant 
effect  on  their  work,  so  that  it  becomes  a  matter  of  real  importance 
for  him  who  would  appreciate  an  early  poet  to  know  what  he  read 
and  how  he  lived.  Accordingly,  from  very  early  times,  from  the 
time  of  Stowe,  Speght,  and  the  Thynnes,  those  who  have  cared  for 
Chaucer  have  shown  a  curiosity  about  the  influences  that  formed  him. 
A  century  ago,  Tyrwhitt  did  as  much  as  one  man  could  to  set  the 
study  of  these  influences  on  a  sound  footing,  and  in  our  own  day  the 
labours  of  the  Chaucer  Society  and  of  Professor  Ten  Brink  and  other 
Germans  have  furnished  us  with  a  nearly  complete  apparatus  for 
conducting  it.  With  infinite  industry,  such  as  is  sho\vn  in  Mr. 
Furnivall's  Six-Text  edition  of  the  poet,  they  have  given  us  what 
materials  exist  for  settling  Chaucer's  text ;  they  have  separated,  on 
evidence  both  internal  and  derived  from  the  circumstances  of  his 
life  and  times,  his  genuine  work  from  the  spurious  pieces  that 
tradition  had  thrust  upon  him  ;  and  they  have  skilfully  tracked  his 
poems  to  their  sources.  On  ground  so  prepared  we  may  tread 
firmly,  and  even  in  a  short  sketch  like  the  present,  which  attempts 
no  more  than  to  present  results  that  are  generally  agreed  upon,  it 
is  possible  to  speak  with  some  approach  to  certainty. 

Chaucer  was  a  great  reader,  and  in  more  than  one  well-known 
passage  he  tells  us  what  he  felt  for  books. 

'  On  bookes  for  to  rede  I  me  delyte, 
And  to  hem  yive  I  feyth  and  ful  credence,' 

he  says,  in  the  prologue  to  the  Legende  of  Goode  Women.  Books 
arc  to  him  the  soil  from  which  knowledge  springs  : — 

B  2 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


'  For  out  of  olde  feldes,  as  men  saith, 
Cometh  al  this  newe  com  from  yeer  to  yere, 
And  out  of  olde  bokes,  in  good  faith, 
Cometh  al  this  newe  science  that  men  lere.' 

He  reads  'the  longe  day  ful  fast'  ;  and  it  is  no  vain  fancy  which 
would  discover  in  the  book-loving  '  Gierke  of  Oxenford'  some  traits 
that  the  poet  has  transferred  from  his  own  character.  He  knew 
Latin,  French,  and  Italian,  and  was  familiar  with  the  best  that  had 
been  written  in  those  languages.  His  Latin  studies  included 
Boethius,  whose  book  De  Cotisolatione  Philosophiae  he  translated 
into  English  ;  Macrobius,  as  far  as  the  Somnium  Scipiotiis  is  con- 
cerned ;  Livy  and  others  of  the  great  Roman  prose  writers,  and 
many  of  the  poets,  '  Ovide,  Lucan,  Stace,'  with  Virgil  and  probably 
Claudian.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  read  Latin  not  as 
we  read  it,  but  as  we  read  a  modern  foreign  language,  rapidly  rather 
than  exactly,  with  more  desire  to  come  by  a  rough  and  ready  way 
to  the  sense  than  to  be  clear  about  the  structure  of  the  sentences. 
He  cared  very  little  either  for  grammar  or  for  prosody ;  he  talks  of 
^neas  and  Anchises,  and  some  would  believe  that  he  makes  of 
LoUius,  the  correspondent  of  Horace,  '  myn  auctour  Lollius,'  a 
historian  of  the  Trojan  war.-^  In  the  same  way,  of  the  historical 
study  of  Latin  literature,  of  the  conscious  attempt  to  realise  the 
life  of  classical  times,  there  is  no  trace  in  Chaucer.  His  favourite 
Latin  writers  were  unquestionably  Boethius  and  Ovid,  as  they 
were  the  favourites  of  the  middle  ages  in  general ;  Boethius,  of 
whom  a  recent  editor  has  counted  nineteen  imitations  before  the 
end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  Ovid,  whose  Ars  Amaiidi  and 
Metamorphoses  were  the  storehouse  of  the  mediceval  love-poet 
and  story-teller.  Nothing,  on  the  other  hand,  shows  more  clearly 
the  limitations  of  Chaucer's  genius  than  his  attitude  towards  Virgil. 

*  Horace  to  Lollius,  Epp.  i.  2.  i — 

'  Trojani  belli  scriptorcm,  maxime  Lolli, 
Dum  tu  declamas  Romae,  Praeneste  relegi.' 
Dr.  Latham  supposes  that  Chaucer  mistook  the  name  of  the  person  ad- 
dressed for  the  historian,  and  Prof.  Ten  Brink  suggests  that  he  read — 
'  Trojani  belli  scriptor?/;«  maxime,  Lolli, 
Dum  lu  declamas  Romac,  Praeneste  le  legi.' 
The  false  quantity  would  be  no  argument  against  this  ingenious  suppo- 
sition ;  but  what  is  more  to  the  point  is  that  the  context  shows  Horace  to 
be  writing  about  a  tiiird  person.     Besides,  it  is  not  certain  that  Chaucer 
had  read  Horace. 


CHA  UCER. 


No  'long  study  and  great  love'  had  made  him  search  the  volume 
of  that  'honour  and  light  of  other  poets'  as  Dante  was  made  to 
search  it  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  prefers  the  romantic  exaggerations 
of  Statius,  and  it  is  for  the  rhetorical  Lucan  that  he  reserves  the 
epithet  of  'the  gret  poete.'  Among  the  Good  Women  of  the 
Legende  comes  Dido,  it  is  true,  and  her  story  is  taken  more  from 
the  ^neid  than  from  the  Heroides.  But  what  a  change  has 
passed  over  the  tale  since  the  religious  Roman,  charged  with  the 
sense  of  destiny,  called  away  his  hero  from  the  embraces  of  the 
love-lorn  queen  to  the  work  of  founding  the  empire  of  the  world  ! 

'  The  fresshe  lady,  of  the  citee  queene, 
Stood  in  the  temple,  in  her  estat  royalle. 
So  richely,  and  eke  so  faire  withalle, 
So  yong,  so  lusty,  with  her  eighen  glade, 
That  yf  the  God  that  heven  and  erthe  made 
"Wolde  han  a  love,  for  beaute  and  goodnesse, 
And  womanhode,  and  trouthe,  and  seml}Tiesse, 
Whom  sholde  he  loven  but  this  lady  swete? 
Ther  nys  no  woman  to  him  half  so  mete.' 

Such  is  Dido  ;  while  the  grave  Trojan,  for  whom  in  Virgil  the 
gods  are  contending,  becomes  in  Chaucer's  hands  a  m_ere  vulgar 
deceiver,  a  '  grete  gentilman '  indeed  to  outward  seeming,  that  has 
the  gifts  of  pleasing,  and  can 

'  Wei  doon  al  his  obeysaunce 
To  hire  at  festeynges  and  at  daunce,' 

but  hollow  at  heart,  false  in  his  oaths  and  in  his  tears  ;  in  a  word, 
a  cool,  unscrupulous  seeker  of  bonnes  forttines.  And  again,  at  the 
central  point  of  all,  what  has  become  of  the  'conscious  heaven' 
and  '  pronuba  Juno'  ? 

'  For  ther  hath  j^neas  yknyled  soo, 
And  tolde  her  al  his  herte  and  al  his  woo ; 
And  sworn  so  depe  to  hire  to  be  trewe 
For  wele  or  woo,  and  chaunge  for  noo  newe. 
And  as  a  fals  lover  so  wel  kan  pleyne 
That  sely  Dido  rewed  on  his  peyne, 
And  toke  him  for  housbonde,  and  was  his  wife 
For  evermor,  whil  that  hem  laste  lyfe.' 

Chaucer,  in  fact,  is  purely  mediaeval  in  his  rendering  of  antiquity, 
and  among  the  ancient  writers  he  turns  with  the  greatest  sympathy 
to  those  in  whom  the  romantic  clement  is  strongest.     The  spirit 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


of  the  Renascence  is  stirring  within  him,  but  it  is  not  in  his 
relation  to  the  ancients  that  we  detect  it  ;  it  is  rather  in  his 
'humanism' — in  his  openness  of  mind,  in  his  fresh  delight  in 
visible  and  sensible  things,  in  his  sense  of  the  variety  of  human 
character  and  motive,  and  of  the  pity  of  human  fate. 

French  poetry  plays  a  far  larger  part  in  Chaucer's  work  than  do 
the  classical  writers.  Whether  or  not  his  name  implies  that  he 
was  partly  French  in  blood,  he  certainly  spent  some  time  in 
France,  first  as  a  prisoner  of  war  (a.d.  1359)  and  afterwards  on  the 
king's  business.  He  began  life  as  a  page  in  the  household  of  the 
Duke  of  Clarence,  where  French  was  no  doubt  spoken  as  much  as 
English  ;  and  his  attention  was  early  drawn  to  that  trouvfere- 
literature  which  in  the  days  of  his  youth  formed  the  chief  reading 
of  the  court  circles.  In  point  of  fact,  all  his  writings  up  to  1372 
(the  date  of  his  first  visit  to  Italy)  are  either  translations  or 
imitations,  more  or  less  close,  of  French  poems  ;  and  even  after  he 
had  returned,  impressed  with  the  ineffaceable  charm  of  Italy,  he 
still  looked  to  France  for  much  of  his  material.  One  of  his 
earliest  and  one  of  his  very  latest  poems,  the  A.  B.  C.  and  the 
Compleynte  of  Venus,  are  translations  from  De  Deguileville  and 
Gransson  ;  the  Boke  of  the  Duchesse  derives  much  from  a  poem 
of  Machault ;  the  Ballads  and  Roundels,  of  which  a  few  remain 
to  us,  probably  out  of  very  many,  are  French  in  form  ;  and  it  is 
in  a  poem  of  Eustache  Deschamps  that  we  find  what  appears 
to  be  the  first  model  of  the  ten-syllabled  rhyming  couplet  which 
Chaucer  made  his  own,  and  which  has  since  become  one  of  the 
most  distinctive  forms  of  English  verse.  The  comic  stories  in  the 
Canterbury  Tales  are  mostly  based  on  the  fabliaux,  a  department 
of  literature  which  has  always  seemed  to  belong  pre-eminently  to 
the  countrymen  of  la  Fontaine.  But  among  French  poems,  that 
which  made  the  deepest  mark  on  him  was  the  '  Roman  de  la 
Rose,'  the  first  and  principal  specimen  of  what  M.  Sandras,  Chau- 
cer's French  critic,  has  happily  called  the  psychological  epic. 
This  poem,  as  is  well  known,  was  begun  by  Guillaume  de  Lorris 
under  Louis  IX,  and  continued  at  immense  length  by  Jean  de 
Meung  forty  years  later,  under  Philip  the  Fair  ;  the  former  poet's 
work  being  an  elaborate  and  thrice-refined  love  allegoiy,  and  that 
of  the  latter  being  a  fierce  satire  against  all  that  the  Middle  Age 
was  accustomed  to  reverence — women,  nobles,  priests.  The  two 
parts  of  the  poem,  however,  agreed  in  form  ;  that  is,  they  sub- 
stituted for  the  heroic  romances  of  the  preceding  centuries  those 


CHAUCER. 


allegorical  abstractions,  those  '  indirect  crook'd  ways,'  with  which 
scholasticism  had  infected  European  thought.  L'Amant,  in  his 
search  for  the  Rose  of  Beauty,  Ddduit,  Papelardie,  I'Oiseuse, 
Faux-Semblant,  are,  as  a  French  critic  puts  it,  '  members  of  the 
family  of  Entities  and  Quiddities  that  were  born  to  the  realist 
doctors.'  The  vogue  of  the  'Roman'  was  immense,  and  Chaucer, 
that  '  grant  translateur,'  translated  it,  as  the  Prologue  to  the 
Legefide  bears  witness,  and  as  Lydgate  also  affirms  in  his  cata- 
logue of  the  master's  works.  The  most  recent  critics,  with  Mr. 
Bradshaw  and  Professor  Ten  Brink  at  their  head,  have  indeed 
denied  Chaucer's  claim  to  that  version  of  the  Roinaunt  which  till 
lately  has  always  passed  for  his  ;  and  in  obedience  to  their  opinion 
we  have  separated  from  the  body  of  Chaucer's  acknowledged 
writings  the  passage  of  that  poem  that  we  are  able  to  quote  ;  but 
the  question  is  one  which,  as  far  as  Chaucer's  debt  to  French 
literature  is  concerned,  is  of  little  importance.  Translate  the 
Ro7naunt  he  certainly  did,  and  the  impression  it  made  upon  him 
was  deep  and  lasting.  On  the  one  hand  it  furnished  him  with 
a  whole  allegorical  mytholog)',  as  well  as  with  his  stock  landscape, 
his  stock  device  of  the  Dream,  and  even  (we  may  at  least  imagine) 
confirmed  him  in  the  choice  of  the  flowing  eight-syllabled  couplet 
for  the  Hous  of  Fame  ;  and  on  the  other,  it  furnished  him  with 
those  weapons  of  satire  which  he  used  with  such  effect  in  the 
Pardoners  prologue  and  elsewhere. 

Twenty  years  ago  a  vigorous  attempt  was  made  in  M.  Sandras' 
itude  sur  Chaucer  to  show  that  the  English  poet,  though  a  man 
of  original  genius,  was  in  point  of  matter,  from  first  to  last,  an 
imitator  of  the  trouveres.  A  more  rational  criticism  has  since 
then  put  the  case  in  a  truer  light,  and  shown  not  only  the  bold 
independence  of  his  models  which  Chaucer  exhibited  from  the 
beginning,  but  the  fact  that  it  was  only  in  early  life  that  he  got  his 
chief  models  from  France.  The  great  event  of  his  life  was 
undoubtedly  his  first  Italian  journey,  during  which,  if  we  are  to 
trust  an  old  tradition  that  has  never  been  disproved,  he  met 
Petrarch  at  Padua.  From  this  time  onward  he  ^vrote  with  a 
firmer  pen  and  with  a  closer  adherence  to  truth,  and  the  foreign 
examples  that  he  henceforth  followed  were  not  French  but  Italian, 
not  Guillaume  de  Lorris  and  Machault,  but  Dante,  Boccaccio,  and, 
to  a  certain  extent,  Petrarch.  He  does  not,  it  is  true,  altogether 
depart  from  his  old  methods  ;  the  dream  of  the  Romaunt  re- 
appears in  the  Parlcment  and  in  the  Hous  of  Fame  \   the  May 


8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

morning  and  the  daisy  introduce  the  Legende.  But  there  is  no 
comparison  between  the  workmanship  of  the  two  periods,  and 
whereas  that  of  the  first  is  loose  and  disjointed,  that  of  the 
second — except  perhaps  in  the  case  of  the  Hous  of  Fame,  which 
is  more  than  half  comic,  a  sort  of  travesty  of  the  Divina  Corn- 
media,  and  therefore  not  to  be  judged  by  strict  rules — that  of  the 
second  is  compact,  well-ordered,  and  guided  by  the  true  artist's 
mastery  over  his  materials.  Italy  in  fact  gave  to  Chaucer  at 
precisely  the  right  moment  just  that  stimulus  and  that  external 
standard  which  he  required  for  the  true  completion  of  his  work  ; 
and  rendered  him  in  its  own  way  the  same  service  that  the  study 
of  Greek  rendered  to  Europe  in  general  a  century  later.  His  debt 
to  Italy  was  both  direct  and  indirect.  From  Dante,  whose  genius 
was  so  wholly  unlike  his  own,  he  took  a  great  number  of  isolated 
passages  (the  Troyhts  and  the  Parlefiient  especially  are  full  of 
reminiscences  of  the  great  Florentine)  ;  and  he  took  also,  as  we 
said,  the  hint  for  the  Hotis  of  Fame,  that  most  notable  burlesque 
poem,  where  the  serious  meaning  lies  so  near  to  the  humorous 
outside.     From  Petrarch, 

'  Whos  rethoryke  sweete 
Enlnmined  al  Itaille  of  poetrj-e,' 

he  took,  besides  minor  borrowings,  the  Clerkes  Tale,  almost 
exactly  translating  it  from  the  laureate's  Latin  rendering  of  Boc- 
caccio's story.  From  Boccaccio,  whom  by  a  strange  irony  of 
literary  fortune  he  seems  not  to  have  known  by  name,  he  freely 
translated  his  two  longest  and,  in  a  sense,  greatest  poems,  Troylus 
and  Criseyde  and  The  Knightes  Tale  ;  and  it  is  possible,  though 
by  no  means  certain,  that  the  framework  of  the  Canterbury  Tales 
was  suggested  by  the  Decameron.  But  more  important  than  this 
direct  debt  was  what  he  indirectly  owed  to  these  great  writers. 
He  first  learnt  from  them  the  art  of  constructing  a  story,  that  art 
which,  as  he  afterwards  developed  it,  has  made  of  him  unquestion- 
ably our  chief  narrative  poet.  It  was  from  them — for,  strange  to 
say,  he  had  read  Virgil  without  learning  it — that  he  first  learnt  the 
necessity  of  self-criticism  ;  of  that  severe  process,  so  foreign  to  the 
mediaeval  mind,  which  deliberates,  sifts,  tests,  rejects,  and  alters, 
before  a  work  is  sent  out  into  the  world. 

So  much  for  Chaucer's  books  and  their  effect  on  him.  Were 
there  however  no  more  in  him  than  what  his  books  put  into  him, 
he  would  be  of  no  greater  importance  to  us  than  Gower  or 
Lydgate.      It   takes   more   than   learning,   more   than   a  gift   for 


CHAUCER. 


selection  and  adaptation,  to  make  a  poet.  Those  intimate  verses 
which  we  have  quoted  from  the  Legende  themselves,  proceed  to 
tell  us  of  a  passion  which  is  stronger  in  him  than  the  passion  for 
reading.     '  I  reverence  my  books,'  he  says, 

'So  hertely  that  there  is  game  noon 
That  fro  my  bokes  maketh  me  to  goon 
But  yt  be  seldom  on  the  holy  day, 
Save  certeynly  whan  that  the  moneth  of  May 
Is  comen,  and  that  I  here  the  foules  synge, 
And  that  the  floures  gynnen  for  to  springe, 
Farewel  my  boke,  and  my  devocioun ! ' 

What  he  here  calls  May,  with  its  birds  and  flowers,  really  means 
Nature  as  a  whole  ;  not  external  nature  only,  but  the  world  with 
its  rich  variety  of  sights  and  sounds  and  situations,  especially  its 
most  varied  product,  Man.  As  to  his  feeling  for  external  nature, 
indeed,  it  might  be  called  limited  ;  it  is  only  to  the  birds  and  the 
flowers,  the  '  schowres  swote '  and  the  other  genial  gifts  of  spring 
that  it  seems  to  extend.  Not  only  is  there  no  trace  in  him  of 
that  'religion  of  Nature'  which  is  so  powerful  a  factor  in  modern 
poetry,  but  there  is  nothing  that  in  the  least  resembles  those 
elaborate  backgrounds  in  which  the  genius  of  Spenser  takes  such 
delight.  Nay,  in  the  poet  to  whom  we  owe  the  immortal  group 
of  pilgrims,  there  is  little  even  of  that  minute  local  observation 
of  places  and  their  features,  that  memory  for  the  grave-covered 
plains  of  Aries  or  the  shattered  banks  of  the  Adige,  which  made 
a  part  of  Dante's  genius,  and  gives  such  vividness  to  the  phantom 
landscape  of  his  poem.  While  the  Inferno  has  been  mapped  out 
for  centuries,  it  is  only  to-day,  after  long  discussion,  that  our 
scholars  are  able  to  make  a  map  of  the  pilgrimage  to  Canterbury. 
But  although  the  distinctive  sense  of  landscape  is  for  the  most 
part  absent,  how  keen  is  the  poet's  eye  for  colour,  for  effective 
detail !  Who  but  Chaucer,  while  avoiding  altogether  the  inven- 
tory style  of  the  ordinary  romancer,  a  style  on  which  he  himself 
poured  ridicule  in  his  Sir  Thopas,  could  have  brought  such 
a  glittering  barbaric  presence  before  us  as  this  of  the  King  of 
Inde  ?— 

*  The  gret  Emetrius,  the  King  of  Inde, 

Upon  a  stede  bay  trapped  in  stele 

Covered  with  cloth  of  gold  diapred  wele. 

Came  riding .  like  the  god  of  armes,  Mars. 

His  cote-armure  was  of  a  cloth  of  Tars 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Couched  with  perles  white  and  round  and  grete  j 

His  sadel  was  of  brent  gold  new  ybete  ; 

His  mantelet  upon  his  shouldre  hanging 

Bret-ful  of  rubies  red  as  fyr  sparkling  ; 

His  crispe  heer  like  ringes  was  yronne, 

And  that  was  yelwe  and  glitered  as  the  Sonne  . .  . 

And  as  a  leon  he  his  looking'  cast.' 

Or  such  a  sketch   in   black  and  white   as   this  first   glimpse  of 
Creseide  ? — 

'  Among  these  other  foike  was  Creseide 

In  widowes  habit  blak:  but  natheles 

Right  as  our  firste  lettre  is  now  an  A 

In  beautee  first  so  stood  she  makeles*; 

Her  goodly  looking  gladed  all  the  prees'. 

Nas  never  seen  thing  to  be  praised  derre, 

Nor  under  cloude  blak  so  bright  a  sterre. 

As  was  Creseide,  they  sayden  everichone 

That  her  behelden  in  her  blakke  wede.' 

Or  such   an   intense    and   concentrated   piece    of  colour   as   his 
Chanticlere  ? — 

'  His  comb  was  redder  than  the  fyn  coral 
And  batayled  as  it  were  a  castel  wal ; 
His  bil  was  blak  and  as  the  geet  •*  it  schon  ; 
Like  asure  were  his  legges  and  his  ton  * ; 
His  nayles  whiter  than  the  lily  flour, 
And  like  the  burnischt  gold  was  his  colour.' 

As  for  the  world  of  man  and  human  character,  it  is  here 
admittedly  that  Chaucer's  triumphs  have  been  greatest.  In  this 
respect  his  fame  is  so  well  established  that  there  is  little  need  to 
dwell  on  qualities  with  which  he  makes  his  first  and  deepest 
impression,  and  which  moreover  will  be  abundantly  illlustrated  by 
the  extracts  which  follow.  In  his  treatment  of  external  nature,  there 
are  limits  beyond  which  Chaucer  cannot  go — the  limits  of  his  time, 
of  a  more  certain,  a  more  easily  satisfied  age  than  ours.  But  in 
his  sympathy  with  man,  with  human  action  and  human  feeling, 
his  range  is  very  great  and  his  handling  infinitely  varied.  The 
popular  opinion  of  centuries  has  fixed  upon  the  Prologue  to  the 
Canterbury  Talcs  as  his  masterpiece,  because  it  is  there  that  this 
dramatic  power  of  his,  this  realistic  gift  which  can  grasp  at  will 

'  without  mate  or  peer,  '■'  crowd.  '  jet.  *  toes. 


CHAUCER. 


almost  any  phase  of  character  or  incident,  noble  or  trivial,  pas- 
sionate or  grotesque,  finds  its  fullest  scope.  Other  fourteenth- 
century  writers  can  tell  a  story  (though  none  indeed  so  well  as  he), 
can  be  tragic,  pathetic,  amusing  ;  but  none  else  of  that  day  can 
bring  the  actual  world  of  men  and  women  before  us  with  the  move- 
ment of  a  Florentine  procession-picture  and  with  a  colour  and  a 
truth  of  detail  that  anticipate  the  great  Dutch  masters  of  painting. 
To  pass  from  the  framework  of  other  mediaeval  collections,  even 
from  the  villa  and  gardens  of  the  Dccatneron,  to  Chaucer's  group 
of  pilgrims,  is  to  pass  from  convention  to  reality.  To  reality ;  for, 
as  Dryden  says  in  that  Preface  which  shows  how  high  he  stood 
above  the  critical  level  of  his  age,  in  the  Prologue  'we  have  our 
forefathers  and  great-grandames  all  before  us,  as  they  were  in 
Chaucer's  days  ;  their  general  characters  are  still  remaining  in 
mankind,  and  even  in  England,  though  they  are  called  by  other 
names  than  those  of  Monks  and  Friars,  and  Canons,  and  Lady 
Abbesses,  and  Nuns  :  for  mankind  is  ever  the  same,  and  nothing 
lost  out  of  nature,  though  everything  is  altered.' 

It  is  not  enough  for  a  poet  to  observe,  however :  what  he 
observes  must  first  be  transformed  by  feeling  before  it  can  become 
matter  for  poetry.  What  distinguishes  Chaucer  is  that  he  not 
only  observes  truly  and  feels  keenly,  but  that  he  keeps  his  feeling 
fresh  and  unspoiled  by  his  knowledge  of  books  and  of  affairs.  As 
the  times  went  he  was  really  learned,  and  he  passed  a  varied 
active  existence  in  the  Court,  in  the  London  custom-house,  and  in 
foreign  missions  on  the  king's  service.  From  his  life  his  poetry 
only  gained  ;  the  Knight,  the  Friar,  the  Shipman — nay,  even  young 
Troylus  and  Constance  and  '  Emilye  the  schene,' — are  what  they 
are  by  virtue  of  his  experience  of  actual  human  beings.  But  it  is 
even  more  notable  that  the  study  of  books,  in  an  age  when  study 
so  often  led  to  pedantry^,  left  him  as  free  and  human  as  it  found 
him  ;  and  that  his  joy  in  other  men's  poetry,  and  his  wish  to 
reproduce  it  for  his  countrymen,  still  gave  way  to  the  desire  to 
render  it  more  beautiful  and  more  true.  Translator  and  imitator 
as  he  was,  what  strikes  us  in  his  work  from  the  very  earliest  date 
is  his  independence  of  his  models.  Even  when  he  wrote  the  Boke 
of  the  Duchcsse,  at  a  time  when  he  was  a  mere  novice  in  literature, 
he  could  rise  and  did  rise  above  his  material,  so  that  one  enthu- 
siastic Chaucerian,  in  his  desire  to  repel  M.  Sandras'  charge  of 
'  imitation  servile,'  flatly  refuses  to  believe  that  Chaucer  ever  read 
Machault's  '  Dit '  at  all.    This  indeed  is  too  patriotic  criticism  ;  but 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


it  is  certainly  true  to  say  that  Chaucer  worked  up  Machault  and 
Ovid  in  this  poem,  as  he  worked  up  his  French  and  ItaHan 
materials  generally,  so  as  thoroughly  to  subordinate  them  to  his 
own  purpose.  The  most  striking  instance  of  this  free  treatment  of 
his  model  is,  of  course,  his  rendering  of  the  Troyhis  and  the 
Knightes  Tale  from  Boccaccio.  The  story  of  Palamon  and  Arcite 
possessed  a  great  fascination  for  Chaucer,  and  it  seems  certain 
that  he  wrote  it  twice,  in  two  quite  distinct  forms.  With  the 
earlier,  in  stanzas,  which  has  perished  except  for  what  he  has 
embodied  in  one  or  two  other  writings,  we  are  not  concerned  ;  but 
it  is  open  to  any  one  to  compare  the  Knightes  Tale,  in  the  final 
shape  in  which  Chaucer's  mature  hand  has  left  it  to  us,  with  the 
immense  romantic  epic  of  Boccaccio.  Tyrwhitt's  blunt  common- 
sense  long  since  pointed  out  the  ethical  inferiority  of  the  Teseide ; 
and  we  may  point  in  the  same  way  to  the  judgment  that  Chaucer 
has  shown  in  stripping  off  episodes,  in  retrenching  Boccaccio's 
mythological  exuberance,  in  avoiding  frigid  personifications,  and  in 
heightening  the  interest  of  the  end  by  the  touches  which  he  adds 
in  his  magnificent  description  of  the  Temple  of  Mars.  In  the 
'  Troylus '  the  difference  between  the  two  poets  is  even  deeper,  for 
it  is  a  difference  as  much  moral  as  artistic.  Compare  those  young 
Florentine  worldlings — for  such  they  are — Troilo  and  Pandaro, 
with  the  boyish,  single-minded,  enthusiastic,  pitiable  Troylus,  and 
his  older  friend  who  stands  by  to  check  his  passionate  excesses 
with  a  proverb  and  again  a  proverb,  like  Sancho  by  the  side  of  the 
Knight  of  la  Mancha  ;  worldly  experience  controlling  romance  ! 
Compare  Griseida,  that  light-o'-love,  that  heroine  of  the  Decaineron, 
with  the  fragile,  tender-hearted  and  remorseful  Cryseyde,  who 
yields  through  sheer  weakness  to  the  pleading  and  the  sorrow  of 
'  this  sodcyn  Diomede '  as  she  has  yielded  to  her  Trojan  lover ! 

'  Ne  me  ne  list  this  sely  womman  chyde 
Farther  than  the  storie  wol  devyse ; 
Hire  name,  alias !   is  published  so  wyde, 
That  for  hire  giltc  it  ought  ynough  suffise; 
And  if  I  mighte  excuse  her  any  wyse, 
For  she  so  sory  was  for  her  luitrouthe, 
Ywis  I  wolde  excuse  hire  yet  for  routhe.' 

'  Routhe  '  indeed,  pity  for  inevitable  sorrow,  is  a  note  of  Chaucer's 
mind  which  for  ever  distinguishes  him  from  Boccaccio,  and  marks 
him  out  as  the  true  forerunner  of  the  poet  of  Hamlet  and  Othello. 


CHAUCER.  13 


To  him  the  world  and  human  character  are  no  simple  things,  nor 
are  actions  to  be  judged  as  the  fruit  of  one  motive  alone.  Who 
can  wonder  if,  possessed  with  this  new  sense  of  the  complexity  of 
human  destiny,  he  should  sometimes  have  failed  to  render  it  with 
the  clearness  of  an  artist  dealing  with  a  simpler  theme  ?  Those 
critics  are  probably  right  who  pronounce  the  Troylus  inferior  to 
the  Filostrato  in  point  of  literary  form  ;  but  their  criticism,  to  be 
complete,  should  add  that  it  is  far  more  interesting  in  the  history 
of  poetry. 

The  first  of  a  poet's  gifts  is  to  feel  ;  the  second  is  to  express. 
Chaucer  possesses  this  second  gift  as  abundantly  as  he  possesses 
the  first.  The  point  which  contemporary  and  later  poets  almost 
invariably  note  in  him  is,  not  his  power  of  telling  a  story,  not  his 
tragedy,  his  humour,  or  his  character-drawing,  but  his  language. 
To  Lydgate  he  is 

'The  noble  rethor  poete  of  Britayne;' 
his  great  achievement  has  been 

'  Out  of  our  tongue  to  avoyde  all  rudenesse. 
And  to  reform  it  with  colours  of  swetenesse.' 

To  Occleve  he  was  '  the  floure  of  eloquence,' 

'  The  firste  fynder  of  our  faire  langage.' 

Dunbar,  at  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  speaks  of  his  '  fresh 
enamel'd  termes  celical'  ;  and  long  afterwards  Spenser  gave  him 
the  immortal  epithet  of  '  the  well  of  English  undefiled.'  Chaucer, 
like  Dante,  had  the  rare  fortune  of  coming  in  upon  an  unformed 
language,  and,  so  far  as  one  man  could,  of  forming  it.  He  grew 
up  among  the  last  generation  in  England  that  used  French  as  an 
official  tongue.  It  was  in  1362,  when  Chaucer  was  just  entering 
manhood,  that  the  session  of  the  House  of  Commons  was  first 
opened  with  an  EngHsh  speech.  Hence  it  is  easy  to  see  the 
hollowness  of  the  charge,  so  often  brought  against  him  since 
Verstegan  first  made  it,  that  '  he  was  a  great  mingler  of  English 
with  French.'  that  '  he  corrupted  our  language  with  French  words.' 
Tyrwhitt  long  since  refuted  this  charge ;  and  if  it  wanted  further 
refutation,  we  might  point  to  Piers  Plowinan^s  Visioti.,  the  work 
of  a  poet  of  the  people,  written  for  the  people  in  their  own 
speech,  but  containing  a  greater  proportion  of  French  words  than 
Chaucer's  writings  contain.  And  yet  Chaucer  is  a  courtier,  a 
Londoner,  perhaps  partly  French  by  extraction ;  above  all,  he  is 


14-  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

a  translator,  and  some  influence  from  the  language  he  is  translating 
passes  into  his  own  verse.  The  truth  is  that  in  his  hands  for  the 
first  time  our  language  appears  as  it  is ;  in  structure  of  course 
purely  Germanic,  but  rich,  assimilative,  bold  in  its  borrowings, 
adopting  and  adapting  at  its  pleasure  any  words  of  any  language 
that  might  come  in  its  way.  How  Chaucer  used  this  noble  instru- 
ment is  not  to  be  demonstrated ;  it  is  to  be  felt.  De  sensibus  non 
est  disputandi0n ;  it  is  vain  to  discuss  matters  of  personal  experience, 
to  point  to  qualities  in  a  poet's  verse  which  must  really  be  judged 
by  the  individual  ear.  Otherwise  we  might  dwell  on  Chaucer's 
use  of  his  metre,  which  varies  in  such  subtle  response  to  his 
subject  and  his  mood ;  or  on  his  skill  in  rhyming,  though,  as  he 
says,  '  ryme  in  Englisch  hath  such  skarsete ' ;  or  on  the  '  linked 
sweetness'  of  the  love-passages  in  the  Troylus  ;  or  on  the  grandeur 
of  his  tragic  descriptions,  where  the  sound  gives  so  solemn  an 
echo  to  the  sense  : — 

'  First  on  the  wal  was  peynted  a  forest, 
In  which  ther  dwelleth  neither  man  ne  best, 
With  knotty  knarry  bareyne  trees  olde 
Of  stubbes  scharpe  and  hidous  to  byholde 
In  which  ther  ran  a  swymbel  in  a  swough.' 

These  qualities  come  into  view  at  a  first  reading  of  Chaucer; 
and  why  should  the  pleasure  to  be  gained  from  them  be  kept  for 
the  few  ?  '  How  few  there  are  who  can  read  Chaucer  so  as  to 
understand  him  perfectly,'  says  Dryden,  apologising  for  'trans- 
lating' him.  In  our  day,  with  the  wider  spread  of  historical  study, 
with  the  numerous  helps  to  old  English  that  the  care  of  scholars 
has  produced  for  us,  with  the  purification  that  Chaucer's  text  has 
undergone,  this  saying  of  Dryden's  ought  not  to  be  true.  It  ought 
to  be  not  only  possible,  but  easy,  for  an  educated  reader  to  learn 
the  few  essentials  of  Chaucerian  grammar,  and  for  an  ear  at  all 
trained  to  poetry  to  tune  itself  to  the  unfamiliar  harmonies.  For 
those  who  make  the  attempt  the  reward  is  certain.  They  will  gain 
the  knowledge,  not  only  of  the  great  poet  and  creative  genius  that 
these  pages  have  endeavoured  to  sketch,  but  of  the  master  who 
uses  our  language  with  a  power,  a  freedom,  a  variety,  a  rhythmic 
beauty,  that,  in  five  centuries,  not  ten  of  his  successors  have  been 
found  able  to  rival. 

Editor. 


CHAUCER.  15 


The  Boke  of  the  Duchesse. 

[The  following  passage  is  given  as  a  specimen  of  Chaucer's  earliest  or 
French  period.     The  date  is  1369.] 

Me  thoghte  thus,  that  hyt  was  May, 
And  in  the  dawnynge,  ther  I  lay, 
Me  mette^  thus  in  my  bed  al  naked, 
And  loked  forth,  for  I  was  waked 
With  smale  foules,  a  grete  hepe, 
That  had  afrayed  me  out  of  slepe, 
Thorgh  noyse  and  swetnesse  of  her  songe. 
And  as  me  mette,  they  sate  amonge 
Upon  my  chambre  roof  wythoute, 
Upon  the  tyles  al  aboute  ; 
And  songen  everych  in  hys  wyse 
The  moste  solempne  servise 
By  noote,  that  ever  man,  Y  trowe, 

Had  herd.      For  somme  of  hem  songe  lowe, 

Somme  high,  and  al  of  oon  acorde. 

To  telle  shortly  at  00  word, 

Was  never  herd  so  swete  a  Steven, 

But  hyt  hadde  be  a  thyng  of  heven, 

So  mery  a  soun,  so  swete  entewnes. 

That,  certes,  for  the  toune  of  Tewnes, 

I  nolde  but  I  had  herd  hem  synge, 

For  al  my  chambre  gan  to  rynge, 

Thorgh  syngynge  of  her  armonye  ; 

For  instrument  nor  melodye 

Was  no-vv'her  herd  yet  half  so  swete, 

Nor  of  acorde  ne  half  so  mete. 

For  ther  was  noon  of  hem  that  feynede 

To  synge,  for  eche  of  hem  hym  peynede'^ 

1  I  dreamed.  "  took  trouble. 


1 6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

To  fynde  out  mery  crafty  notys  ; 
They  ne  sparede  not  her  throtys. 
And,  sooth  to  seyn,  my  chambre  was 
Ful  wel  depeynted,  and  with  glas 
Were  alle  the  wyndowes  wel  yglased 
Ful  clere,  and  nat  an  hoole  ycrased, 
That  to  beholde  hyt  was  grete  joye. 
For  holy  al  the  story  of  Troye 
Was  in  the  glasynge  ywrought  thus  ; 
Of  Ector,  and  of  kyng  Priamus, 
Of  Achilles,  and  of  kyng  Lamedon, 
And  eke  of  Medea  and  of  Jason, 
Of  Paris,  Eleyne,  and  of  Lavyne  ; 
And  alle  the  walles,  with  coloures  fyne 
Were  peynted,  bothe  text  and  glose, 
And  al  the  Romaunce  of  the  Rose. 
My  vvindowes  were  shet  echon, 
And  throgh  the  glas  the  sonne  shon 
Upon  my  bed  with  bryghte  bemys, 
With  many  glade,  gilde  stremys  ; 
And  eke  the  welken  was  so  faire, 
Blewe,  bryghte,  clere  was  the  ayre. 
And  ful  atempre,  for  sothe,  hyt  was  ; 
For  nother  to  cold  nor  hoote  yt  nas, 
Ne  in  al  the  welkene  was  a  clowde. 


Troylus  and  Criseyde. 

[Troylus  sees  Criseyde  in  the  Temple,  and  loves  her  at  first  sight.] 

But  though  that  Grektis  hem  of  Troye  in  shetten\ 

And  hire  citd  beseged  al  aboute. 

Hire  olde  usages  woldc  thai  noght  letten, 

As  for  to  honoure  hire  goddes  ful  devoute, 

But  aldermost  in  honour,  out  of  doute, 

They  had  a  relyk  hight  Palladioun, 

That  was  hire  trist  abovcn  evcrichoun. 

«  shut. 


CHAUCER.  "17 

And  so  byfel,  whan  comen  was  the  tyme 
Of  Aperil,  whan  clothed  is  the  mede 
With  newe  grene,  of  lusty  Veer  the  prime, 
And  swote  smellen  floures,  white  and  rede ; 
In  sondry  wise  schewed,  as  I  rede, 
The  folk  of  Troye  hire  observaunces  olde, 
Palladyones  feste  for  to  holde. 

And  to  the  temple,  in  alle  hire  beste  wise, 

In  general  ther  wentii  many  a  wyght 

To  herken  of  Palladyoun  servise, 

And  namely  so  mony  a  lusty  knyght, 

So  many  a  lady  fresshe,  and  niayden  bryght, 

Ful  wele  araied,  bothe  moste  and  leste, 

Ye,  bothe  for  the  seson  and  the  feeste. 

Among  thise  other  folk  was  Criseyda, 
In  wydewes  habit  blak ;  but  nathtfles. 
Right  as  oure  firste  lettre  is  now  an  A, 
In  beaut^  first  so  stood  sche  makiiles  ' ; 
Hire  goodly  lokyng  gladded  al  the  prees : 
Nas  nevere  seyn  thyng  to  ben  preysed  derre". 
Nor  under  cloude  blak  so  bright  a  sterre. 

As  was  Criseyde,  as  folk  seyde  everychon, 
That  hire  byhelden  in  hire  blake  wede ; 
And  yet  sche  stood  ful  low  and  stille  allone 
Byhynden  other  folk  in  litel  brede  ^, 
And  neygh  the  dore,  ay  under  schames  drede, 
Symple  of  atyre,  and  debonair  of  cheere, 
Wyth  ful  asseured  lokynge  and  manere. 

This  Troylus,  as  he  was  wont  to  gyde 
His  yonge  knyhtes,  ladde  hem  up  and  down, 
In  thilke  large  temple  on  every  syde, 
Byholdynge  ay  the  ladies  of  the  town ; 
Now  here  now  ther,  for  no  devocioun 


'  malchlcss.  2  d^^aier.  ^  a  little  wny. 

VOL.  I.  C 


THE   ENGLISH  POETS. 


Hadde  he  to  non  to  reven^  him  his  reste, 

But  gan  to  preyse  and  lakken'*  whom  him  lestc. 

And  in  his  walk  ful  fast  he  gan  to  wayten, 

If  knyght  or  sqwyer  of  his  compaynye 

Gan  for  to  sigh,  or  lete  his  eyen  bayten  ^ 

On  any  woman  that  he  koude  aspye ; 

He  wolde  smyle,  and  holden  it  folye, 

And  seye  him  thus  : — '  God  wot  sche  slepeth  softe 

For  love  of  the,  whan  thow  tumest  ful  ofte. 

'  I  have  herd  telle,  pardieux,  of  your  lyvynge, 
Ye  lovers,  and  youre  lewde*  observaunces. 
And  which  a^  labour  folk  han  in  wynnynge 
Of  love,  and  in  the  kepynge  which  doutaunces ; 
And  when  your  preye  is  lost,  wo  and  penaunces; 
O,  verrey  fooles  !  nice  and  blynde  be  ye ; 
Ther  is  not  oon  kan  war  by  other  be.' 

And  with  that  worde  he  gan  caste  up  his  browe, 
Ascaunces ",  lo  !  is  this  nought  wysly  spoken  ? 
At  whiche  the  God  of  Love  gan  loken  rowe' 
Right  for  despit,  and  shoop  for  to  ben  wroken^. 
He  kydde  ^  anon  his  bowe  nas  not  broken : 
For,  sodenly  he  hitte  him  atte  fulle, 
And  yet  as  proude  a  pacok  can  he  pulle. 

O  blynde  world  !     O  blynd  intencioun  ! 

How  often  falleth  al  the  effecte  contraire 

Of  surquidrye '"  and  foul  presumpcioun, 

For  kaught  is  proud,  and  kaught  is  debonaire  ! 

This  Troylus  is  clomben  on  the  staire, 

And  litel  weneth  that  he  schal  descenden ; 

But  alday"  fayleth  thinge  that  fooles  wenden. 

*  <lcpiivc.  ^  criticise.  '  feast.  *  unlcan\c<l.  foolish. 

•''  what.  "  as  much  as  to  say.  '  stern.  '  aimed  at  vengeance. 

•  shewed,  '"  arrogance.  "  every  day. 


CHAUCER.  19 

As  proude  Bayard^  g^Tineth  for  to  skyppe 
Out  of  the  wey,  so  priketh  him  his  com, 
Til  he  a  lassch  have  of  the  longe  whippe, 
Than  thynketh  he,  'Thogh  I  praunce  al  byforn 
First  in  the  trayse,  ful  fat  and  newe  shorn, 
Yet  am  I  but  an  hors,  and  horses  lawe 
I  mote  endure,  and  with  my  feeres  -  drawe.' 

So  ferd  it  by  this  fiers  and  proude  knyght. 
Though  he  a  worthi  k)-nges  sonne  were. 
And  wende  no  thinge  had  had  swiche  myght, 
Ayeins  his  wille,  that  scholde  his  herte  stere ' ; 
That  with  a  look  his  herte  wex  a  feere, 
That,  he  that  now  was  moost  in  pride  above, 
Wex  sodeynly  most  subgit  unto  love. 

Forthy*  ensaumple  taketh  of  this  man, 
Ye  wise,  proude,  and  worthy  folkes  alle. 
To  scomen  Love,  whiche  that  so  soone  kan 
The  fredom  of  youre  hertes  to  him  thralle  ; 
For  evere  was,  and  evere  schal  befalle. 
That  Love  is  he  that  alle  thing  may  bynde  ; 
For  may  no  man  fordon  the  lawe  of  kynde  ^ 

That  this  be  soth  hath  proved  and  doth  yit  ; 
For  this  trowe  I  ye  knowen  alle  and  some. 
Men  reden  not  that  folk  han  gretter  wit 
Than  thei  that  hath  ben  most  wth  love  ynome  ^ ; 
And  strengest  folk  ben  therwith  overcome, 
The  worthiest  and  the  grettest  of  degree  ; 
This  was  and  is,  and  yit  men  schal  it  see. 

And  treweliche  it  sit  wel  to  be  so. 

For  alderwysest  han  therwith  ben  plesed, 

And  thai  that  han  ben  aldermost  in  wo. 

With  love  han  ben  conforted  most  and  esed  ; 

And  oft  it  hath  the  cruel  herte  apesed, 

And  worthi  folk  made  worthier  of  name, 

And  causeth  most  to  dreden  vice  and  schame. 

'  'Bay,'  a  common  name  for  a  horse.  ^  fellows. 

'  steer.  *  therefore.  ^  nature.  *  taken  prisoners. 

C  2 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


And  sith  it  may  not  godely  ben  withstonde, 
And  is  a  thing  so  vertuous  in  kynde, 
Refuseth  not  to  Love  for  to  ben  bonde, 
Syn,  as  him  selven  Hst,  he  may  yow  bynde, 
The  yerde  ^  is  bet  that  bowen  wol  and  wynde 
Than  that  that  brest  ^ ;  and  therfor  I  yow  rede 
To  folowen  him  that  so  wel  kan  yow  lede. 


[Pandarus,  the  uncle  of  Criseyde  and  the  friend  of  Troylus,  has  told  her  of 
Tioylus'  love.     She  is  left  alone,  and  sees  him  returning  from  battle.] 

With  this   he  tok  his  leve,  and  home  he  wente  ; 
A,  Lord  !  so  he  was  glad,  and  wel  bygon  ! 
Criseyde  aros,  no  longer  she  ne  stente, 
But  streght  into  hire  closet  wente  anon, 
And  set  hire  down,  as  stille  as  any  ston, 
And  every  word  gon  up  and  down  to  wynde, 
That  he  hadde  seyde,  as  it  come  hire  to  mynde, 

And  wex  somdeP  astoned  in  hire  thought, 

Right  for  the  newe  cas  ;  but  when  that  she 

Was  ful  avysed,  tho  fond  she  right  nought 

Of  peril,  why  she  aught  aferiid  be  : 

For  man  may  love  of  possibility 

A  woman  so,  his  herte  may  to-breste*, 

And  she  nought  love  ayeyn,  but  if  hire  leste. 

But  as  she  sat  allon  and  thoughte  thus, 

Ascry  aroos  at  scarmich  °  al  withoute, 

And  men  cried  in  the  street,  '  Se  Troilus 

Hath  right  now  put  to  flyght  the  Grekcs  route.' 

With  that  gan  al  hire  meynd "  for  to  shoute : 

'  A  !  go  we  sc,  caste  up  the  yatcs  wide. 

For  thorwgh  this  strcte  he  moot  to  palcys  ryde;' 

'  wand.  '•'  hursts,  lireaks.  ^  soniowliat. 

•  Ijicak.  ''  a  hallle  cry  arose.  "  allcndants. 


CHAUCER. 

For  oother  way  is  to  the  gates  noon, 
Of  Dardanus,  ther^  open  is  the  cheyne  : 
With  that  come  he,  and  alle  his  folk  anon. 
An  esy  pace  rydynge,  in  routes  tweyne, 
Right  as  his  happy  day  was  ^,  sothe  to  seyne  : 
For  which  men  seyn  may  nought  distourbed  be 
That  shal  bytyden  of  necessite. 

This  Troilus  sat  on  his  baye  stede 

Al  armed  save  his  hed  ful  richely, 

And  wonded  was  his  hors,  and  gan  to^  blede, 

On  whiche  he  rood  a  paas  ^  ful  softely  : 

But  swiche  a  knyghtly  sighte  trewely 

As  was  on  hym.,  was  nought,  withouten  faile, 

To  loke  on  Mars,  that  god  is  of  batayle. 

So  like  a  man  of  armes  and  a  knyght. 
He  was  to  sen,  fulfild  of  heigh  prowesse  ; 
For  bothe  he  hadde  a  body,  and  a  myght 
To  don  that  thyng,  as  wele  as  hardynesse  ; 
And  ek  to  sen  hym  in  his  gere  hym  dresse, 
So  fressh,  so  yong,  so  weldy  semed  he, 
It  was  an  heven  upon  hym  for  to  se. 

His  helm  to-hewen  was  in  twenty  places, 

That  by  a  tyssew  heng  his  bak  byhynde. 

His  shelde  to-dasshed  was  with  swerdes  and  maces, 

In  which   men  myghte  many  an  arwe  fynde, 

That  thyrled  hadde  horn,  and  nerf,  and  rynde  ; 

And  ay  the  peple  criede,  '  Here  cometh  oure  joye, 

And,  next  his  brother,  holder  up  of  Troye.' 

For  which  he  wex  a  litel  rede  for  schame 

Whan  he  the  peple  upon  him  herde  crien. 

That  to  byholde  it  was  a  noble  game. 

How  sobreliche  he  caste  down  his  eighen  : 

Criseyd  anon  gan  al  his  chere  aspyen, 

And  leet  so  softe  it  in  hire  herte  synken. 

That  to  hire  self  she  seyde, '  Who  yaf  me  drynken  ^  ? ' 

where.  "  as  though  it  were  a  lucky  day  for  him. 

^  at  foot's  pace.  *  who  has  given  me  a  love-potion  ? 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


For  of  hire  owen  thought  she  wex  al  rede, 
Remembrynge  hire  right  thus,  '  Lo !  this  is  he, 
Which  that  myn  uncle  swerth  he  moot  be  dede, 
But  I  on  hym  have  mercy  and  pite  : ' 
And  with  that  thought,  for  pure  ashamed  she 
Gan  in  hire  hed  to  pulle,  and  that  as  faste. 
While  he  and  al  the  peple  forby  paste. 

And  gan  to  caste,  and  rollen  up  and  down 
Within  hire  thought  his  excellent  prowesse. 
And  his  estat,  and  also  his  renoun, 
His  wit,  his  shappe,  and  ek  his  gentilnesse  ; 
But  moost  hire  favour  was  for  his  distresse 
Was  al  for  hire,  and  thought  it  as  a  rowthe  ^ 
To  sleen  swich  oon,  if  that  he  mente  trouthe. 

Now  myghte  som  envious  jangle  thus, 
'  This  was  a  sodeyn  love,  how  myghte  it  be 
That  she  so  lightly  lovede  Troylus, 
Right  for  the  firste  sighte  ? '     Ye,  pard^  ? 
Now  who  so  seith  so,  moot  he  never  ythe^! 
For  every  thyng  a  gynnyng  hath  it  nede 
Er  al  be  wrought,  withouten  any  drede. 

For  I  sey  nought  that  she  so  sodeynly 
Yaf  hym  hire  love,  but  that  she  gan  enclyne 
To  like  hym  firste,  and  I  have  told  yow  why; 
And  efter  that,  his  manhod  and  his  pyne 
Made  love  withinne  hire  herte  for  to  myne  ; 
For  which  by  proces,  and  by  goode  servyse, 
He  gat  hire  love,  and  in  no  sodeyn  wyse. 


'  pily.  '  y-llic  :  succeed,  j)rospcr. 


CHAUCER.  23 


[Troylus'  long  courtship  is  at  last  rewarded  with  the 
love  of  Criseyde.] 

0  soth  is  seyd,  that  heled  for  to  be, 
As  of  a  fevere,  or  other  gret  syknesse, 
Men  moste  drynke,  as  men  may  ofte  se, 
Ful  bittre  drynk  :  and  for  to  han  gladnesse 
Men  drj^nken  of  peynifs,  and  gret  distresse  : 

1  mene  it  here,  as  for  this  aventure, 

That  thorwgh  a  peyne  hath  fonden  al  his  cure. 

And  now  swetnesse  semeth  more  swete, 

That  bitternesse  assayed  was  byforn  ; 

For  out  of  wo  in  blisse  now  they  flete, 

Non  swich  they  felten  syn  that  they  were  born  ; 

Now  is  this  bet  than  bothe  two  be  lorn  ! 

For  love  of  God  !  take  every  womman  hede, 

To  werken  thus,  if  it  cometh  to  the  nede. 

Criseyde,  al  quyt  from  every  drede  and  teene, 
As  she  that  juste  cause  hadde  hym  to  triste, 
Made  hym  swich  feste,  it  joie  was  to  seene. 
When  she  his  trouthe  and  clene  entente  wiste  : 
And  as  aboute  a  tre,  with  many  a  twiste, 
Bytrent  and  writh^  the  soote  wodebynde, 
Gan  ich  of  hem  in  armes  other  wynde. 

And  as  the  new  abaysed  nyghtyngale, 

That  stynteth  first,  when  she  bygynneth  synge, 

When  that  she  hereth  any  herdes  tale. 

Or  in  the  hegges  any  wight  sterynge  ; 

And,  after,  syker^  doth  hire  vois  out  rynge  ; 

Right  so  Criseyde,  when  hire  drede  stente, 

Opncd  hire  herte,  and  told  hym  hire  entente. 

'  entwines  and  wreatlics.  *  sure,  clear. 


24  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  right  as  he  that  seth  his  deth  yshapen, 
And  deyen  mot,  in  aught  that  he  may  gesso, 
And  sodeynly  rescous  doth  hym  escapen  ^, 
And  from  his  deth  is  brought  in  sykernesse  ; 
For  al  this  world,  in  swich  present  gladnesse 
Was  Troilus,  and  hath  his  lady  swete  : 
With  worse  hap  God  lat  us  nevere  mete  ! 


In  suffisaunce,  in  blisse,  and  in  syngynges, 
This  Troilus  gan  al  his  lyf  to  lede  : 
He  spendeth,  jousteth,  maketh  festeyinges, 
He  yeveth  frely  ofte,  and  chaungeth  wede^; 
He  halt  aboute  hym  alway,  out  of  drede, 
A  world  of  folk,  as  com  hym  wel  of  kynde  ', 
The  fressheste  and  the  beste  he  koude  fynde. 

That  swich  a  vois  was  of  hym  and  a  neven  *, 
Thorughout  the  world,  of  honour  and  largesse, 
That  it  up  rong  unto  the  yate  of  heven  ; 
And  as  in  love  he  was  in  swich  gladnesse, 
That  in  his  herte  he  demed,  as  I  gesse, 
That  ther  nys  lovere  in  this  world  at  ese, 
So  wel  as  he,  and  thus  gan  love  hym  plese. 

The  goodlyhed  or  beaut^,  which  that  kynde 

In  any  other  lady  hadde  iset, 

Kan  nought  the  mountaunce  of  a  knotte  unbynde 

About  his  herte,  of  al  Criseydes  net  : 

He  was  so  narwe  ymasked'',  and  yknet. 

That  it  undon  on  any  manner  syde. 

That  nyl  nought  ben,  for  aught  that  may  l:)ctidc. 

And  by  the  bond  ful  oft  he  woldc  take 
This  Pandarus,  and  into  gardyn  lede, 
And  swich  a  feste,  and  swiche  a  proces  make 
Hym  of  Criseyde,  and  of  hire  wommanhede, 
And  of  hire  bcautd,  that,  withouten  drede, 

'  makes  liim  free.  '  dress.  "  as  well  suits  his  nature. 

*  name.  °  cnmcsiictl. 


CHAUCER.  25 

It  was  an  heven  his  wordes  for  to  here, 

And  thanne  he  wolde  synge  in  this  manere  : — 

'  Love  \  that  of  erth  and  se  hath  governaunce  ! 
Love,  that  his  hestes  hath  in  heven  hye  ! 
Love,  that  with  an  holsom  alHaunce 
Halt  peples  joyned,  as  hym  list  hem  gye  "• ! 
Love,  that  knetteth  law  and  compaignye, 
And  couples  doth  in  vertu  for  to  dwelle  ! 
Bynd  this  acorde,  that  I  have  told  and  telle  ! 

'  That,  that  the  world,  with  faith  which  that  is  stable, 

Dyverseth  so,  his  stoundes  ■'  concordynge  ; — 

That  elementz,  that  ben  so  discordable, 

Holden  a  bond  perpetualy  durynge  ; — 

That  Phebus  mot  his  rosy  carte  forth  brynge. 

And  that  the  mone  hath  lordschip  over  the  nyght ; — 

Al  this  doth  Love,  ay  heryed*  be  his  myght ! 

'  That,  that  the  se,  that  gredy  is  to  flowen, 

Constreyneth  to  a  certeyn  ende  so 

Hise  flodes,  that  so  fiersly  they  ne  growen 

To  drenchen  erth  and  al  for  evermo ; 

And  if  that  Love  aught  lete  his  brydel  go, 

Al  that  now  loveth  asonder  sholde  lepe. 

And  lost  were  al  that  Love  halt  now  to  hepe''. 

'  Soo,  wolde  Gode,  that  auctour  is  of  kynde  ^, 

That  with  his  bond  Love,  of  his  vertu,  liste 

To  cerclen  hertes  alle,  and  faste  bynde, 

That  from  his  bond  no  wighte  the  wey  out  wyste ! 

And  hertes  colde,  hem  wolde  I  that  he  twiste. 

To  make  hem  love,  and  that  hem  liste  ay  rewe 

On  hertes  soore,  and  kepe  hem  that  ben  trewe.' 


'  This  sonc;  is  pamphiasefl  from  Boctliius,  Cons.  2,  met.  S. 
guide.  ^  limes.  *  praised.  '•'  holds  together.  ''  nature. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


[Criseyde  is  to  be  sent  away  to  her  father  Calchas,  in  the  Grecian  camp, 
in  exchange  for  Antenor,  who  has  been  taken  prisoner.  She  vows 
fidelity,  and  tells  Troylus  why  she  loves  him,  promising  to  return  on 
the  tenth  night.] 

'  For  trusteth  wel  that  your  estat  real, 

Ne  veyn  delite,  nor  oonly  worthinesse 

Of  yow  in  werre  or  tournay  marcial, 

Ne  pomp,  array,  nobley,  or  ek  richesse, 

Ne  made  me  to  re  we  on  youre  distresse, 

But  moral  virtu,  grounded  upon  trowthe, 

That  was  the  cause  I  first  hadde  on  yow  routhe. 

'  Eke  gentil  herte,  and  manhode  that  ye  hadde. 

And  that  ye  hadde  (as  me  thought)  in  despite 

Every  thyng  that  souned  in-to^  badde. 

As  rudenesse,  and  poeplish^  appetite, 

And  that  your  reson  brideled  your  delite, 

This  made,  aboven  every  creature. 

That  I  was  youre,  and  shal  whil  I  may  dure. 

'  And  this  may  length  of  yeres  nought  fordo, 

Ne  remuable  fortune  deface  ; 

But  Juppiter,  that  of  his  myght  may  do 

The  sorwful  to  be  glad,  so  yeve  us  grace, 

Er  nyghtes  ten  to  meten  in  this  place. 

So  that  it  may  youre  herte  and  myn  sufifise  ! 

And  fareth  now  wel,  for  tyme  is  that  ye  rise.' 


[Troylus  wanders  about,  waiting  for  Criseyde's  return.] 

And  ihcrwithalle,  his  meynyc  for  to  blende -^ 

A  cause  he  fond  in  townci  for  to  go, 

And  to  Criseydes  hous  they  gonncn  wende  ; 

tended  towards.  -  vulgar.  ^  to  deceive  his  companions. 


CHAUCER.  27 


But  Lord  !   this  sely  Troilus  was  wo  ! 
Hym  thoughte  his  sorwful  herte  braste  atwo  ; 
For  when  he  saugh  hire  dorres  sperred  ^  alle, 
Wei  neigh  for  sorwe  adoun  he  gan  to  falle. 

Therwith,  when  he  was  ware,  and  gan  biholde, 
How  shet  was  every  wyndow  of  the  place, 
As  frost  hym  thoughte  his  herte  gan  to  colde  ; 
For  which,  with  chaunged  deedlich  pale  face, 
Withouten  word,  he  forth  bygan  to  pace  ; 
And,  as  God  wolde,  he  gan  so  faste  ryde, 
That  no  wight  of  his  contenaunce  espyde. 

Than  seyde  he  thus  : — '  O  paleys  desolat  ! 

O  hous  of  housses,  whilom  best  yhight  ! 

O  paleys  empty  and  disconsolat  ! 

O  thou  lanterne,  of  which  queynt  is  the  light ! 

O  paleys,  whilom  day,  that  nov.-  art  nyght ! 

Wei  oughtestow  to  falle,  and  I  to  dye, 

Syn  she  is  went  that  wont  was  us  to  gyel 

'  O  paleys,  whilom  crowne  of  houses  alle, 

Enlumyned  with  sonne  of  alle  bhsse  ! 

O  r^mge,  fro  which  the  ruby  is  out  falle  ! 

O  cause  of  wo,  that  cause  has  ben  of  blisse  ! 

Yit  syn  I  may  no  bet,  fayn  wolde  I  kysse 

Thy  colde  dores,  dorste  I  for  this  route  ; 

And  farewel  shryne,  of  which  the  seint  is  outc  ! 

Therwith  he  caste  on  Pandarus  his  yii. 
With  chaunged  face,  and  pitous  to  beholde  ; 
And  when  he  myght  his  tyme  aright  espye, 
Ay  as  he  rood,  to  Pandarus  he  tolde 
His  newe  sorwe,  and  ek  his  joyes  olde, 
So  pitously,  and  with  so  dede  an  hewe, 
That  every  wight  myght  on  his  sorwes  rewe. 

1  bolted.  '  guide. 


28  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Fro  thennes-forth  he  rydeth  up  and  down, 
And  every  thynge  com  hym  to  remembraunce, 
As  he  rood  forth  by  places  of  the  town, 
In  which  he  whilom  had  al  his  plesaunce  : — 
'  Lo  !   3'ond  saugh  I  myn  owen  lady  daunce  ; 
And  in  that  temple,  with  hire  eyen  clere, 
Me  caughte  first  my  righte  lady  deere. 

'And  yonder  have  I  herd  ful  lustily 
My  deere  herte  laughe  ;   and  yonder  pleye 
Saugh  Ich  hire  oones  ek  ful  blisfuUy  ; 
And  yonder  oones  to  me  gan  she  seye, 
'  Now  goode  swete  !   love  me  wel,  I  preye  ; 
And  yond  so  gladly  gan  she  me  beholde. 
That  to  the  deth  myn  herte  is  to  hir  holde. 

'And  at  that  corner  in  the  yonder  hous, 
Herde  I  myn  alderlevest^  lady  deere, 
So  wommanly,  with  vois  melodyous, 
Syngen  so  wel,  so  goodely  and  so  clere. 
That  in  my  soule  yit  me  thynkth  I  here 
The  blisful  sown  ;   and  in  that  yonder  place 
My  lady  first  me  took  unto  hire  grace.' 

Than  thought  he  thus,  '  O  blisful  lord  Cupide  ! 
When  I  the  processe  have[al]  in  memorie. 
How  thow  me  hast  werreyed^  on  every  syde, 
Men  myght  a  book  make  of  it  lyk  a  st6rie  ! 
What  nede  is  thee  to  seke  on  mc  victorie, 
Syn  I  am  thyn,  and  holly  at  thi  wille  ? 
What  joye  hastow  thyn  owen  folk  to  spillc  ? 

'Wel  hastow,  lord,  ywroke  on  mc  thyn  ire, 
Thow  myghty  god  !    and  dredeful  for  to  greve  ! 
Now  mercy,  god  !    thow  woost  wel  I  desire 
Thy  grace  moost,  of  alle  lustcs  leeve  ! 
And  lyve  and  dye  I  wol  in  thy  beleve  ; 
For  which  I  naxe'  in  guerdon  but  a  boone, 
That  thow  Criseyde  aycin  me  sonde  soone. 

'  best  beloved.  ^  ma<'c  war  en.  ^  nsk  not. 


CHAUCER.  20 

'  Destreyne  hire  herte  as  faste  to  retourne, 

As  thow  doost  myn  to  longen  hire  to  see  ; 

Than  woot  I  wel  that  she  nyl  naught  sojourne  : 

Now  bhsful  lord  !    so  cruwel  thow  ne  be 

Unto  the  blod  of  Troye,  I  preye  the, 

As  Juno  was  unto  the  blod  Thebane, 

For  which  the  folk  of  Thebes  caughte  hire  banc.' 

And  efter  this  he  to  the  yates  wente, 
Ther  as  Criseyde  out  rood  a  ful  good  pas, 
And  up  and  doun  ther  made  he  many  a  wente, 
And  to  himself  ful  ofte  he  seyde,  '  Alias  ! 
Fro  hennes  rood  my  blisse  and  my  solas  ! 
As  wolde  blisful  God  now  for  his  joye, 
I  myght  hire  seen  ayein  com  into  Troye  ! 

'  And  to  the  yonder  hille  I  gan  hire  gyde  ; 
Alias  !   and  ther  I  took  of  hire  my  leeve  ; 
And  yond  I  saugh  hire  to  hire  fader  ryde. 
For  sorwe  of  which  myn  herte  shal  to-cleve  ; 
And  hider  horn  I  com  when  it  was  eve  ; 
And  here  I  dwelle,  out-cast  from  alle  joye. 
And  shal,  til  I  may  seen  her  eft  ^  in  Troye.' 

And  of  hym-self  ymagyned  he  ofte. 

To  be  defet'-,  and  pale,  and  waxen  lesse 

Than  he  was  wont,  and  that  men  seyde  softe, 

'  What  may  it  be  ?   who  kan  the  sothe  gesse, 

Why  Troylus  hath  al  this  hevynesse?' 

And  al  this  nas  but  his  melencolye, 

That  he  hadde  of  hym-self  swich  fantasye. 

Another  tyme  ymagynen  he  wolde, 

That  every  wyght  that  wente  by  the  weye 

Hadde  of  him  routhe,  and  that  they  seyiin  sholde, 

*  I  am  right  sory,  Troilus  wol  deye.' 

And  thus  he  drof  a  day  yit  forth  or  twcye, 

As  ye  ban  herd  ;    swich  lyf  right  gan  he  lede, 

As  he  that  stood  bitwixen  hope  and  drede. 

'  attain.  ''■  cast  lo\mi. 


30  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


For  which  hym  Hked  in  his  songes  shewe 

Thencheson  ^  of  his  wo,  as  he  best  myghte, 

And  made  a  song  of  wordes  but  a  fewe, 

Somwhat  his  woful  herte  for  to  lighte  : 

And  when  he  was  from  every  mannes  sighte, 

With  softe  vois,  he  of  his  lady   deere, 

That  absent  was,  gan  synge  as  ye  may  here. 

'  O  sterre,  of  which  I  lost  have  al  the  lighte, 
With  herte  soore  wel  oughte  I  to  bewaylle, 
That  ever  derk  in  tormente,  nyght  by  nyghte, 
Towarde  my  deth,  with  wynde  in  steere  ^  I  saylle  ; 
For  which  the  tenthe  nyght  if  that  I  faile 
The  gidynge  of  thi  hemes  brighte  an  houre, 
My  ship  and  me  Caribdes  wol  devoure.' 

This  songe  when  he  thus  songen  hadde  soone 
He  fel  ayein  into  his  sikes  olde  ; 
And  every  nyght,  as  was  his  wone  to  doone. 
He  stood,  the  bryghte  mone  to  beholde  ; 
And  al  his  sorwe  he  to  the  moone  tolde, 
And  seyde,  '  I  wis,  when  thow  art  horned  newe 
I  shal  be  glad,  if  al  the  world  be  trewe. 

'  I  saugh  thyn  homes  olde  ek  by  the  morwe. 
Whan  hennes  rood  my  righte  lady  deere, 
That  cause  is  of  my  torment  and  my  sorwe  ; 
For  which,  O  bryghte  Lucina  the  cleere  ! 
For  love  of  God  !   renne  fast  aboute  thy  spere  ^  ; 
For  when  thyn  homes  newe  gynnen  sprynge. 
Than  shal  she  come  that  may  my  blisse  brynge.' 

The  day  is  moore,  and  longer  ever  nyght 
Than  they  ben  wont  to  be,  hym  thoughtc  tho  ; 
And  that  the  sonnc  wente  his  course  unright. 
By  longer  weye  than  it  was  wont  to  go  ; 
And  scyde,  '  Iwis,  me  dredeth  cveremo 
The  sonncs  sonc,  Pheton,  be  on  lyve*, 
And  that  his  fader  cart  amys  he  dryve.' 

'  Ihc  cause.  ^  will)  a  fail  wind.  •'  sjihcrc.  *  alive. 


CHAUCER. 

Upon  the  walles  fast  ek  wolde  he  waike, 

And  on  the  Grekes  oost  he  wolde  se  ; 

And  to  hymself  right  thus  he  wolde  talke  : — 

'  Lo,  yonder  is  myn  owen  lady  free, 

Or  elles  yonder,  ther  the  tentes  bee, 

And  thennes  comth  this  eyr  that  is  so  soote  \ 

That  in  my  soule  I  feele  it  doth  me  boote. 

'And  hardyly,  this  wynd  that  moore  and  moore 

Thus  stoundemele^  encresseth  in  my  face, 

Is  of  my  ladys  depe  sykes  sore  ; 

I  preve  it  thus,  for  in  noon  other  place 

Of  al  this  town,  save  oonly  in  this  space, 

Feele  I  no  wynd  that  souneth  so  lyke  peyne  ; 

It  seith  'Alias!    whi  twynned  be  we  tweyne?' 

This  longe  tyme  he  dryveth  forth  right  thus, 
Til  fully  passed  was  the  nynthe  nyght ; 
And  ay  bysyde  hym  was  this  Pandarus, 
That  bisily  dide  al  his  fulle  myght 
Hym  to  confort,  and  make  his  herte  light  ; 
Yevynge  hym  hope  alwey,  the  tenthe  morwe 
That  she  shal  come,  and  stenten  al  his  sorwe. 


[Criseyde,  in  her  father's  tent,  is  wooed  by  Diomede,  and  gradually 
yields  to  him.] 

Retournynge  in  hir  soule  ay  up  and  doun 
The  wordtis  of  this  sodeyn  Diomede, 
His  gret  estate,  and  peril  of  the  town. 
And  that  she  was  allon,  and  hadde  nede 
Of  frendes  help  ;   and  thus  bygan  to  brede  ' 
The  cause  whi,  the  sothe  for  to  telle, 
That  sche  tok  fully  purpos  for  to  dwelle*. 

*  sweet.  2  fron;^  XxvciQ  to  time.  ^  to  arise. 

*  to  remain  with  her  father,  instead  of  returning  to  Troy. 


32  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  morvve  com,  and  gostly  for  to  speke, 
This  Diomede  is  com  unto  Criseyde  ; 
And  shortly,  lest  that  ye  my  tale  breke, 
So  wel  he  for  hymselfe  spak  and  seyde. 
That  alle  hire  sykes  soore  adown  he  layde  ; 
And  finaly,  the  sothe  for  to  seyne. 
He  refte  hire  of  the  grete  of  al  hire  peyne. 

And  cfter  this,  the  storie  telleth  us. 
That  she  him  yaf  the  faire  baye  steede, 
The  which  she  ones  wan  of  Troilus  ; 
And  eke  a  broch  (and  that  was  litel  nede) 
That  Troilus^  was,  she  yaf  this  Diomede  ; 
And  ek  the  bet  from  sorw  hym  to  releve. 
She  made  hym  were  a  pensel  ^  of  hire  sieve. 

I  fynde  ek  in  storyes  elleswhere, 

When  thorugh  the  body  hirt  was  Dyomede 

Of  Troilus,  tho  weep  she  many  a  teere, 

When  that  she  saugh  hise  wyde  woundes  blede, 

And  that  she  took  to  kepen  hym  good  hede, 

And  for  to  hele  hym  of  his  sorwes  smerte. 

Men  seyn,  I  not  ^,  that  she  yaf  hym  hire  herte. 

But  trewelyche,  the  storye  telleth  us, 
Ther  made  never  womman  more  wo 
Than  she,  when  that  she  falsede  Troylus  ; 
She  seyde,  'Alias!    for  now  is  clene  ago* 
My  name  of  trouthe  in  love  for  evermo  ; 
For  I  have  falsed  oon  the  gentileste 
That  evere  was,  and  oon  the  worthicste. 

'  Alias  !    of  me  unto  the  worldes  ende 

Shal  neither  ben  ywriten  nor  ysonge 

No  good  word,  for  thise  bokes  wol  me  shendc  ; 

I  rolled  schal  I  ben  on  many  a  tonge  ; 

Thorughout  the  world  my  belle  schal  be  ronge  ; 

'  Tioiluris,         '^  a  banner  (,inaucj.        ■'  nc  wol     know  not.         '  gone. 


CHAUCER.  33 


And  wommen  most  wol  haten  me  of  alle  ; 
Alias  !    that  swich  a  cas  me  sholde  falle  ! 

'  They  wol  seyn,  in  as  muche  as  in  me  is, 
I  have  hem  don  dishonoure,  walaway  ! 
Al  be  I  not  the  firste  that  dide  amys, 
What  helpeth  that  to  don  my  blame  away? 
But  syn  I  se  ther  is  no  better  way, 
And  that  to  late  is  now  for  me  to  rewe, 
To  Dyomede  algate  ^  I  wol  be  trewe. 

'  But,  Troilus,  syn  I  no  better  may, 

And  syn  that  thus  departen  ye  and  I, 

Yet  preye  I  God  so  yeve  yow  right  good  day  ; 

As  for  the  gentileste  trewely, 

That  evere  I  say^,  to  serven  faithfully, 

And  best  kan  ay  his  lady  honour  kepe  ;' 

And  with  that  word  she  braste  anon  to  wepc. 

'And  certes,  yow  to  haten  shal  I  nevere, 

And  frendes  love,  that  shal  ye  han  of  me, 

And  my  good  word,  al  shold  I  lyven  evere  ; 

And  trewely  I  wol  right  sory  be, 

For  to  sen  yow  in  adversite  ; 

And  giltelees  I  wot  wel  I  yow  leeve. 

And  al  shal  passe,  and  thus  tak  I  my  leve.' 

But  trewely  how  longe  it  was  betweyne, 

That  she  forsok  hym  for  this  Dyomede, 

Ther  is  non  auctour  telleth  it,  I  wene  ; 

Tak  every  man  now  to  his  bokes  hede. 

He  shal  no  time  fj'nden,  out  of  drede  ; 

For  though  that  he  bigan  to  wowe  hire  soone, 

Er  he  hire  wan,  yet  was  ther  more  to  doonc. 

Ne  me  ne  list  this  sely  womman  chyde 
Ferther  than  the  storie  wol  devj'se  ; 
Hire  name,  alias  !   is  publyshed  so  wyde, 
That  for  hire  gilte  it  ought  ynough  suffise  ; 
And  if  I  myght  excuse  hire  any  wyse, 

*  always,  anyhow.  *  saw. 

VOL.    I.  D 


34  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

For  she  so  sory  was  for  hire  untrouthe, 
Iwis  I  wold  excuse  hire  yet  for  routhe. 


[Troylus  discovers  Criseyde's  infidelity,  and  meets  his  death, 
fighting  desperately.] 

The  wrath,  as  I  bigan  yow  for  to  seye, 
Of  Troilus,  the  Grekes  boughten  deere  ; 
For  thousandes  his  hondes  maden  dye, 
As  he  that  was  withouten  any  peere, 
Save  Ector  in  his  tyme,  as  I  kan  here  ; 
But,  walawey  !    save  only  Goddes  wille, 
Dispitously  hym  slough  the  fiers  Achille. 

And  when  that  he  was  slayn  in  this  manere, 
His  lighte  gost  ful  blisfully  is  went 
Up  to  the  holownesse  of  the  seventh  spere, 
In  convers  letynge  everych  element  ^  ; 
And  ther  he  saugh,  with  ful  avysement, 
The  erratyk  sterres,  herkenynge  armonye, 
With  sownes  ful  of  hevenyssh  melodye. 

And  down  from  thennes  faste  he  gan  avyse 

This  litel  spot  of  erth,  that  with  the  se 

Embraced  is  ;   and  fully  gan  despise 

This  wreched  world,  and  held  al  vanyt^. 

To  respect  of  the  pleyn  felicity 

That  is  in  hevene  above  :   and  at  the  laste, 

Ther  he  was  slayn,  his  lokyng  down  he  caste. 

And  in  hymself  he  lough  right  at  the  wo 
Of  hem  that  weptcn  for  his  deth  so  faste, 
And  dampned  al  our  werk  that  folweth  so 
The  Ijlyndc  lust,  the  which  that  may  not  lastc, 
And  sholdcn  al  our  hcrtc  on  hcvcne  caste  ; 

'   From  llic  scveiilli   or  uttermost  heaven  all   the  others  would   appear 
convex,  or  convers. 


CHAUCER.  35 

And  forth  he  wenti3,  shortly  for  to  telle, 
Ther  as  Mercurie  sorted  hym  to  dwelle. 

Svvich  fyn  hath,  lo  !    this  Troilus  for  love  ! 

Swich  fyn  hath  al  his  grete  worthynesse  ! 

Swich  fyn  hath  his  estat  real  ^  above  ! 

Swich  fyn  his  lust,  swich  fyn  hath  his  noblesse  ! 

Swich  fyn  hath  false  worldes  brotelnesse  ^ ! 

And  thus  bigan  his  lovynge  of  Cryseyde, 

As  I  have  told,  and  in  this  wise  he  deyde. 

O  yonge  fresshe  folkes,  he  or  she, 

In  which  that  love  up  groweth  with  your  age, 

Repeireth  horn  fro  worldly  vanyt^. 

And  of  your  herte  up  casteth  the  visage 

To  thilke  God,  that  after  his  ymage 

Yow  made,  and  thynketh  al  nys  but  a  faire, 

This  world  that  passeth  soon,  as  floures  faire. 

And  loveth  hym  the  which  that,  right  for  love, 
Upon  a  crois,  our  soules  for  to  beye. 
First  starf*  and  roos,  and  sit*  in  heven  above, 
For  he  nyl  falsen  no  wight,  dar  I  seye, 
That  wol  his  herte  al  holly  on  hym  leye  ; 
And  syn  he  best  to  love  is,  and  most  meke. 
What  nedeth  feyned  loves  for  to  seke  ? 

Lo  !   here  of  payens  corsed  olde  rites  ! 
Lo !    here  what  alle  hire  goddes  may  availle ! 
Lo  !    here  this  wreched  worldes  appetites  ! 
Lo !   here  the  fyn  and  guerdon  for  travaille, 
Of  Jove,  Apollo,  of  Mars,  and  swich  rascaille  ! 
Lo  !   here  the  forme  of  olde  clerkes  speche 
In  poetrie,  if  ye  hire  bokes  seche. 

'  royal.  ^  brittleaess.  s  (jjgj^  ^  ^j^^ 


D  2 


36  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Parlement  of  Foules. 

[Chaucer  dreams  that  he  sees  the  birds  assembled  on  St.  Valentine's  Day  to 
choose  their  mates,  the  Goddess  Nature  presiding.  Among  the  mates 
is  a  formel,  or  female  eagle,  wooed  by  three  tercels  :  the  formel  being 
probably  Anne  of  Bohemia,  and  the  tercel  royal  King  Richard  II.] 

And  in  a  launde,  upon  an  hille  of  floures, 
Was  set  this  noble  goddesse  Nature  ; 
Of  braunches  were  hir  halles  and  hir  boures 
Ywrought,  after  hir  crafte  and  hir  mesure  ; 
Ne  ther  nas  fowl  that  cometh  of  engendrure, 
That  there  ne  were  prest^,  in  hir  presence, 
To  take  hir  dome^,  and  yeve  hir  audience. 


There  myghte  men  the  royal  egle  fynde, 
That  with  his  sharpe  look  perceth  the  Sonne  ; 
And  other  egles  of  a  lower  kynde, 
Of  which  that  clerkes  wel  devysen  konne  ; 
There  was  the  tiraunt  with  his  fethres  donne 
And  grey,  I  mene  the  goshauke  that  doth  pync ' 
To  briddes,  for  his  outrageous  ravyne. 

The  gcntil  faucoun  *,  thaj  with  his  feet  distreyneth 
The  kyngiis  hond  ;    the  hardy  sperhauk  eke, 
The  quaylos  foo  ;  the  merlyon  that  peyneth 
Hymself  ful  ofte  the  larke  for  to  seke  ; 
There  was  the  dowvc,  with  hir  eycn  meke  ; 
The  jalouse  swanne,  ayens  hys  deth  that  syngeth  ; 
The  owle  eke,  that  of  dethc  the  bode  bryngcth. 

'  ready.  ^  judgment. 

*  causes  torment.  *  the  peregrine. 


CHAUCER.  37 


The  crane  the  geaunt,  with  his  trompes  soune  : 

The  thefe  the  chough,  and  eke  the  janglyng  pye  ; 

The  scornyng  jay,  the  eles  foo  the  heroune  ; 

The  false  lapwyng,  ful  of  trecherye  ; 

The  stare,  that  the  counseyl  kan  be\vrye ' ; 

The  tame  ruddok '-,  and  the  coward  kyte  ; 

The  cok,  that  orlogge  ys  of  thropes  lyte^. 

The  sparow,  Venus  sone,  and  the  nyghtyngale 
That  clepeth  forth  the  fresshe  leves  newe  : 
The  swalow,  mordrer  of  the  bees  smale, 
That  maken  hony  of  floures  fressh  of  hewe  ; 
The  wedded  turtel,  with  hys  herte  trewe  ; 
The  pecok,  with  his  aungels  fethers  bryghte  ; 
The  fesaunt,  scorner  of  the  cok  by  nyglite. 

The  waker*  goos,  the  cukkow  ever  unkynde, 

The  papinjay,  ful  of  delycacye  ; 

The  drake,  stroyer  of  his  owen  kynde  ; 

The  storke,  wTeker  of  avowterie  ; 

The  hoote  cormeraunt,  ful  of  glotonye  ; 

The  ravene  and  the  crowe,  with  voys  of  care; 

The  throstel  old,  the  frosty  feldefare. 


[The  question  as  to  which  tercel  is  to  have  the  formel  eagle  is  referred  to 
the  Parliament  of  Birds.     Some  of  the  opinions  given  are  as  follows.] 

The  watir  foules  han  her  hedcs  leyd 

Togedir,  and  of  shorte  avysement, 

Whan  everych  had  hys  large  golee^  seyd, 

They  seyden  sothl^  al  by  on  assent. 

How  that  the  goos,  with  hir  faconde  gent ", 

That  soo  desireth  to  pronounce  our  nede, 

Shal  telle  our  tale,  and  preyde  to  God  hir  spede. 

>  that  talks  and  reveals  secrets.  ^  robin.  ^  that  is  clock  to 

small  villages.  *  wakeful.  ''  mouthful.  ^  gentle  eloquence. 


38  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  for  these  watir  foules  tho  began 

The  goos  to  speke,  and  in  hir  cakelynge, 

She  seyde,  'Pes  now,  tak  kepe^  every  man, 

And  herkneth  which  a  resoun  I  shal  forth  bringe  ! 

My  wyt  ys  sharpe,  I  love  no  taryinge  ! 

I  sey  I  rede'"  hym,  though  he  were  my  brother, 

But  she  wol  love  hym,  lat  hym  love  another.' 

*  Loo  !  here  a  parfyte  resoun  of  a  goos  ! ' 
Ouod  the  sperhauke.     '  Never  mote  she  thee  ^ ! 
Loo,  suche  hyt  ys  to  have  a  tonge  loos  ! 
Now  pard^,  fool,  yet  were  hit  bet*  for  the 
Have  holde  thy  pes,  than  shewed  thy  nycetd  ; 
Hyt  lyth  not  in  hys  wyt,  nor  in  hys  wille  ; 
But  sooth  ys  seyd,  a  fool  kan  noght  be  stille.' 

The  laughtre  aroos  of  gentil  foules  alle, 
And  ryght  anoon  the  sede-foul^  chosen  hadde 
The  turtel  trewe,  and  ganne  hir  to  hem  calle  ; 
And  prayden  hir  to  seye  the  soth  sadde 
Of  thys  matere,  and  asked  what  she  radde^ 
And  she  answerde,  that  pleynly  hir  entente 
She  wolde  shewe,  and  sothly  what  she  mente. 

'  Nay,  God  forbede  a  lover  shuldc  chaunge  ! ' 
The  turtel  seyde,  and  wex  for  shame  al  reed  : 
'  Thoogh  that  hys  lady  evermore  be  straunge, 
Yet  let  hym  serve  hir  ever,  tyl  he  be  deed. 
Forsoth,  I  preyse  noght  the  gooses  reed  ; 
Yox  though  she  deyed,  I  wolde  noon  other  make"; 
I  wol  ben  hirs  til  that  the  dcth  me  take.' 

'  Wei  bourded  •*,'  quod  the  duke,  '  by  my  hat ! 
That  men  shulde  alwey  loven  causiilcs, 
Who  kan  a  resoun  fynde,  or  wyt  in  that .'' 
Daunceth  he  murye  ^  that  ys  murthelcs  ? 
Who  shulde  rcchche '"  of  that  ys  rechcheles  ? 

'  pay  altciilioii.  ^  a<lvisc.  ^  may  she  thrive.  *  belter. 

■'  the  fowls  that  feed  on  grain.  *  advised.  '  male.  *  jested. 

'  merrily.  '*  reck,  care. 


CHAUCER.  39 

Ye  !  quek  !  yet,'  quod  the  duke,  '  wel  and  faire  ! 
There  ben  moo  sterres,  God  woot,  than  a  paire.' 

*  Now  fy,  cherl  ! '  quod  the  gentil  tercelet,— 

*  Out  of  the  dunghil  com  that  word  ful  rj^ght ; 
Thou  kanst  noght  see  which  thing  is  wel  beset  ; 
Thou  farest  be  love  as  owles  doon  by  lyght, — 
The  day  hem  blent,  ful  wel  they  see  by  nyght  ; 
Thy  kynde  ys  of  so  lowe  a  wrechednesse, 
That  what  love  is  thou  kanst  not  see  ne  gesse.' 

Thoo  gan  the  cukkow  put  hym  forth  in  pres  ^ 

For  foule  that  eteth  worm,  and  seyde  blyve  - : — 

'  So  I,'  quod  he,  '  may  have  my  make  in  pes, 

I  reche  not  how  longe  that  ye  strive. 

Lat  ech  of  hem  be  soleyn  al  her  lyve, 

This  ys  my  reed,  syne  they  may  not  acorde  ; 

This  shorte  lessoun  nedeth  noght  recorde.' 

'  Yee,  have  the  glotoun  fild  ynogh  hys  paunch  e, 

Thanne  are  we  wel ! '  seyde  the  merlyoun  * : — 

'  Thou  mordrere  of  the  haysogge  *  on  the  braunche 

That  broghte  the  forth  !  thou  rewful  glotoun  I 

Lyve  thou  soleyn,  wormes  corrupcioun  ! 

For  no  fors  ys  of  lak  of  thy  nature  ^ ; 

Goo,  lewed  be  thou  while  the  world  may  dure  ! ' 

'  Now  pes,'  quod  Nature,  '  I  comrnaunde  here. 

For  I  have  herd  al  your  opynioun, 

And  in  effect  yet  be  we  never  the  nere  ; 

But  fynally,  this  ys  my  conclusioun, — 

That  she  hir  self  shal  have  the  eleccioun 

Of  whom  hir  lyst,  who-so  be  wrooth  or  blythe  ; 

Hym  that  she  cheest ",  he  shal  han  hir  as  swithe  ^.' 

'  among  the  crowd.         '■'  quickly.         ^  the  merlin.         *  hedge-sparrow. 
*  failure  of  thy  whole  species  would  not  matter.         *  chooses.        ''  swil'tly. 


40  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Hous  of  Fame. 

[Chaucer  dreams  that  he  is  carried  up  by  an  eagle  to  the  House  of  Fame, 
midway  between  heaven,  earth,  and  sea.  The  eagle  thus  explains  why 
Jove  does  him  this  honour.] 

'  But  er  I  bere  thee  moche  ferre ', 

I  wol  thee  telle  what  I  am, 

And  whider  thou  shalt,  and  why  I  cam 

To  do  thys,  so  that  thou  [thee]  take 

Good  herte,  and  not  for  fere  quake.' 

*  Gladly,'  quod  I.     '  Now  wel,'  quod  he  : 

'  First,  I,  that  in  my  feet  have  thee, 

Of  which  thou  hast  a  fere  and  wonder, 

Am  dwellyng  with  the  god  of  thonder, 

Whiche  that  men  callen  Jupiter, 

That  dooth  me  flee  ful  ofte  fer 

To  do  al  hys  comaundement. 

And  for  this  cause  he  hath  me  sent 

To  thee  :   now  herke,  be  thy  trouthe  ! 

Certeyn  he  hath  of  thee  routhe, 

That  thou  so  longe  trewely 

Hast  served  so  ententyfly'^ 

Hys  blyndc  nevew  Cupido, 

And  faire  Venus  also, 

Withoute  guerdoun  ever  yit, 

And  nevertheles  hast  set  thy  wit, 

(Although  [that]  in  thy  hede  ful  lyt  is) 

To  make  songcs,  bokes,  and  dytees, 

In  ryme,  or  elliis  in  cadence, 

As  thou  best  conne,  in  reverence 

Of  Love,  and  of  hys  scrvantcs  eke, 

That  have  hys  servyse  soght,  and  sekc  ; 

'   further.  ^  attentively. 


CHAUCER.  41 


And  peynest  the  to  preyse  hys  art, 
Although  thou  haddest  never  part  ; 
Wherfore,  al-so  God  me  blesse, 
Joves  halt  ^  hyt  gret  humblesse, 
And  vertu  eke,  that  thou  wolt  make 
A  nyght  ful  ofte  thyn  hede  to  ake, 
In  thy  studye  so  thou  writest. 
And  evermo  of  love  enditest. 
In  honour  of  hym  and  preysynges, 
And  in  his  folkes  furtherynges. 
And  in  hir  matere  al  devisest. 
And  noght  hym  nor  his  folk  dispisest, 
Although  thou  maist  goo  in  the  daunce 
Of  hem  that  hym  lyst  not  avaunce. 
Wherfore,  as  I  seyde,  ywys, 
Jupiter  considereth  this  ; 
And  also,  beausir,  other  thynges  ; 
That  is,  that  thou  hast  no  tydynges 
Of  Loves  folke,  yf  they  be  glade, 
Ne  of  noght  elles  that  God  made  ; 
And  noght  oonly  fro  fer  contree. 
That  ther  no  tydyng  cometh  to  thee, 
Not  of  thy  verray  neyghebores. 
That  dwellen  almost  at  thy  dores, 
Thou  herest  neyther  that  nor  this, 
For  when  thy  labour  doon  al  ys. 
And  hast  made  al  thy  rekenynges, 
Instede  of  reste  and  newe  thynges, 
Thou  goost  home  to  thy  house  anoon, 
And,  also  "^  domb  as  any  stoon. 
Thou  sittest  at  another  booke, 
Tyl  fully  dasevvyd  ^  ys  thy  looke, 
And  lyvest  thus  as  an  heremyte. 
Although  thyn  abstynence  ys  lyte. 
And  therfore  Joves,  through  hys  grace, 
Wol  that  I  here  thee  to  a  place. 
Which  that  hight  the  Hous  of  Fame, 
To  do  thee  som  disport  and  game, 
'  holds,  deems,  -  quite  as.  ^  dazed. 


42  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

In  som  recompensacioun 

Of  labour  and  devocioun 

That  thou  hast  had,  loo  !    causeles, 

To  Cupido  the  rechcheles. 


Prologue  to  the  Legende  of  Goode  Women. 
[The  poet  loves  books,  but  loves  the  daisy  more.] 

And  as  for  me,  though  than  I  kon  but  lyte ', 
On  bokes  for  to  rede  I  me  delyte, 
And  to  hem  yive  I  feyth  and  ful  credence, 
And  in  myn  herte  have  hem  in  reverence 
So  hertely,  that  ther  is  game  noon 
That  fro  my  bokes  maketh  me  to  goon, 
But  yt  be  seldom  on  the  holy  day, 
Save,  certeynly,  when  that  the  moneth  of  May 
Is  comen,  and  that  I  here  the  foules  synge, 
And  that  the  floures  gynnen  for  to  sprynge, 
Farewel  my  boke,  and  my  devocioun  ! 

Now  have  I  than  suche  a  condicioun, 
That  of  alle  the  floures  in  the  mede. 
Than  love  I  most  thise  floures  white  and  rede, 
Suche  as  men  callen  daysyes  in  her  toun. 
To  hem  have  I  so  gret  affeccioun. 
As  I  seyde  erst,  whan  comen  is  the  May, 
That,  in  my  bed  ther  daweth"-^  me  no  day, 
That  1  nam  up  and  walkyng  in  the  mede, 
To  seen  tliis  floure  ayein  the  sonne  sprede. 
Whan  it  up  ryseth  eriy  by  the  morwe  ; 
That  blisful  sight  softeneth  al  my  sorwe. 
So  glad  am  I,  whan  that  I  have  presence 
Of  it,  to  doon  it  alii-  reverence. 
As  she  tliat  is  of  alio  flouriis  flour. 
Fulfilled  of  ul  vcrtuc  and  honour, 

'  lililc.  '  dawnelh. 


CHAUCER.  43 


And  ever  ilike '  faire,  and  fressh  of  hewe. 

And  I  love  it,  and  ever  ylike  newe, 

And  ever  shal,  til  that  myn  herte  dye  ; 

Al  svvere  I  nat,  of  this  I  wol  nat  lye, 

Ther  lovede  no  wight  hotter  in  his  lyve. 

And,  whan  that  hit  ys  eve,  I  renne  blyve^, 

As  sone  as  ever  the  sonne  gynneth  weste, 

To  seen  this  flour,  how  it  wol  go  to  reste, 

For  fere  of  nyght,  so  hateth  she  derknesse  ! 

Hire  chere  is  pleynly  sprad  in  the  brightnesse 

Of  the  Sonne,  for  ther  yt  wol  unclose. 

Alias,  that  I  ne  had  Englyssh,  ryme,  or  prose, 

Suffisant  this  flour  to  preyse  arj^ght  ! 

But  helpeth,  ye  that  han  konnyng  and  myght, 

Ye  lovers,  that  kan  make  of  sentement  ; 

In  this  case  oghten  ye  be  diligent, 

To  forthren  me  somwhat  in  my  labour, 

Whethir  ye  ben  with  the  leef  or  with  the  flour  ^, 

For  wel  I  wot,  that  ye  han  herbiforn 

Of  makynge  ropen  *,  and  lad  awey  the  corn  ; 

And  I  come  after,  glenyng  here  and  there. 

And  am  ful  glad  yf  I  may  fynde  an  ere 

Of  any  goodly  word  that  ye  han  left. 

And  thogh  it  happen  me  rehercen  eft 

That  ye  han  in  your  fresshe  songes  sayd, 

Forbereth  me,  and  beth  not  evil  apayd^, 

Syn  that  ye  see  I  do  yt  in  the  honour 

Of  love,  and  eke  in  service  of  the  flour, 

Whom  that  I  serve  as  I  have  wit  or  myght. 

She  is  the  clerenesse  and  the  verray  lyght. 

That  in  this  derke  worlde  me  wynt  ^  and  ledyth, 

The  hert  in-with  my  sorwful  brest  yow  dredith. 

And  loveth  so  sore,  that  ye  ben  verrayly 

The  maistresse  of  my  wit,  and  nothing  I. 

My  word,  my  w^erkes,  ys  knyt  so  in  your  bond 

That,  as  an  harpe  obeieth  to  the  hond 

'  alike.  ^  run  quickly. 

'  See  the  introduction  to  the  poem  of  that  name,  p.  84. 
*  reaped  the  fruit  of  poetry.  *  be  not  ill  pleased.  *  winds,  turns. 


44  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

That  maketh  it  soune  after  his  fyngerynge, 
Ryght  so  movve  ^  ye  oute  of  myn  herte  bringe 
Swich  vois,  ryght  as  yow  lyst,  to  laughe  or  pleyne  ; 
Be  ye  myn  gide,  and  lady  sovereyne. 
As  to  my  erthely  God,  to  yow  I  calle, 
Bothe  in  this  werke,  and  in  my  sorwes  alle. 


[He  falls  asleep,  and  dreams  that  he  sees  the  God  of  Love  leading 
in  Queen  Alcestis,  clad  like  the  daisy.] 

Whan  that  the  sonne  out  of  the  south  gan  weste, 

And  that  this  flour  gan  close,  and  goon  to  reste, 

For  derknesse  of  the  nyght,  the  which  she  dredde, 

Home  to  myn  house  ful  swiftly  I  me  spedde 

To  goon  to  reste,  and  erly  for  to  ryse, 

To  seen  this  flour  sprede,  as  I  devyse. 

And  in  a  litel  herber  that  I  have, 

That  benched  was  on  turves  fresshe  ygrave, 

I  bad  men  sholde  me  my  couche  make  ; 

For  deyntee  of  the  newe  someres  sake'^, 

I  bad  hem  strawen  floures  on  my  bed. 

Whan  I  was  leyd,  and  had  myn  eyen  hed  ^, 

I  fel  on  slepe,  in-with  an  houre  or  twoo, 

Me  mette  *  how  I  lay  in  the  medewe  thoo  ^, 

To  seen  this  flour  that  I  love  so  and  drede  ; 

And  from  a-fer  come  walkyng  in  the  mede 

The  God  of  Love,  and  in  his  hande  a  qucne, 

And  she  was  clad  in  real "  habit  grenc  ; 

A  fret  of  gold  she  hadde  next  her  heer, 

And  upon  that  a  whit  coroune  she  beer,  « 

With  flourouns  smale,  and  [that]  I  shal  nat  lye, 

For  al  the  world  ryght  as  a  daycsye 

Ycorouned  ys  with  white  levcs  lyte'', 

So  were  the  flowrouns  of  hire  coroune  white  ; 

For  of  oo  pcrlii,  fyne,  oriental, 

Hire  white  coroune  was  imakcd  al, 

can.  '  for  the  sake  of  the  rarity  of  the  new  summer.  ^  hid. 

^  I  dreamed.  "  then.  *  royal.  '  little. 


CHALCER.  45 

For  which  the  white  coroune  above  the  grene 

Made  hire  lyke  a  dayesie  for  to  sene, 

Considered  eke  hir  fret  of  golde  above. 

Yclothed  was  this  myghty  God  of  Love 

In  silke,  enbrouded  ful  of  grene  greves  ^ 

In-with  a  fret  of  rede  rose  leves, 

The  fresshest  syn  the  world  was  first  begonne. 

His  gilte  here  was  coroned  with  a  sonne 

In  stede  of  gold,  for  hevynesse  and  wyghte  ^ ; 

Therwith  me  thoght  his  face  shoon  so  brighte 

That  wel  unnethes  '  myghte  I  him  beholde  ; 

And  in  his  hand  me  thoghte  I  saugh  him  holde 

Twoo  firy  dartiis,  as  the  gledes  *  rede, 

And  aungelyke  hys  \vynges  saugh  I  sprede. 

And,  al  be  that  men  seyn  that  blynd  ys  he, 

Algate  me  thoghte  that  he  myghte  se  ; 

For  sternely  on  me  he  gan  byholde, 

So  that  his  loking  dooth  myn  herte  colde. 

And  by  the  hande  he  held  this  noble  quene, 

Coroned  with  white,  and  clothed  al  in  grene. 

So  womanly,  so  b^nigne,  and  so  meke. 

That  in  this  world,  thogh  that  men  wolde  seke, 

Half  of  hire  beaute  shulde  men  nat  fynde 

In  creature  that  formed  ys  by  kynde^ 

And  therfore  may  I  seyn,  as  thynketh  me, 

This  song  in  preysyng  of  this  lady  fre. 

Hyde,  Absalon,  thy  gilte  tresses  clere  ; 
Ester,  ley  thou  thy  mekenesse  al  adown  ; 
Hyde,  Jonathas,  al  thy  frendly  manere  ; 
Penelopee,  and  Marcia  Catoun ", 
Make  of  your  wifhode  no  comparysoun  ; 
Hyde  ye  your  beautes,  Ysoude  ''  and  Eleyne, 
My  lady  comith,  that  al  this  may  disteyne"*. 

'  groves:   'embroidered  with  green  branches.' 
*  because  gold  would  be  heavy.  ^  scarcely.  *  sparks. 

'  nature.  ^  i.  e.  wife  of  Cato.  "^  Iseult. 

'  stain ;  make  foul  by  comparison. 


46  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Thy  faire  body  lat  yt  nat  appere, 

Lavyne  ;   and  thou  Lucresse  of  Rome  toune, 

And  PoHxene,  that  boghten  love  so  dere, 

And  Cleopatre,  with  al  thy  passyoun, 

Hyde  ye  your  trouthe  of  love,  and  your  renoun, 

And  thou,  Tesb^,  that  hast  of  love  suche  peyne, 

My  lady  comith,  that  al  this  may  disteyne. 

Hero,  Dido,  Laudomia,  alle  yfere^ 

And  Phillis,  hangyng  for  thy  Demophoun, 

And  Canace,  espied  by  thy  chere^, 

Ysiphile  betraysed  with  Jasoun, 

Maketh  of  your  trouthe  neyther  boost  ne  soun, 

Nor  Ypermystre,  or  Adriane^,  ye  tweyne. 

My  lady  cometh,  that  all  this  may  dysteyne. 


The  Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales. 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  schowres  swoote 
The  drought  of  Marche  had  perced  to  the  roote, 
And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  licour. 
Of  which  vertue  engendred  is  the  flour  ; 
Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breethe 
Enspired  hath  in  every  holte  and  heethe 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  i-ronne, 
And  smale  fowles  maken  melodic. 
That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  eye. 
So  prikcth  hem  nature  in  here  corages*  : — 
Than  longen  folk  to  gon  on  pilgrimages. 
And  palmers  for  to  sceken  straunge  strondes, 
To  feme  halwcs,  kouthe  '^  in  sondry  londes  ; 
And  specially,  from  every  schires  ende 
Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 

'  together.  *  (liscovcrcil  by  thy  look.  '  Aiimlne. 

*  their  hearts.  *  distant  sahits,  known. 


CHAUCER.  47 

The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seeke, 

That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seeke  \ 

Byfel  that,  in  that  sesoun  on  a  day, 
In  South werk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage, 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrye 
Wei  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  compainye, 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  i-falle 
In  felaweschipe,  and  pilgry^ms  were  thei  alle, 
That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  r>'de  ; 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde. 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste^. 
And  schortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste. 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everjxhon, 
That  I  was  of  here  felaweschipe  anon. 
And  made  forward  erly  for  to  r>'se. 
To  take  our  wey  ther  as  I  yow  dev^^se. 
But  natheles,  whil  I  have  tyme  and  space, 
Or^  that  I  forther  in  this  tale  pace, 
Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  to  resoun, 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 
Of  eche  of  hem,  so  as  it  semede  me. 
And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degre  ; 
And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne  : 
And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  first  bygynne. 
A  Knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man, 

That  from  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 

To  r>'den  out,  he  lovede  chyvalrye, 

Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curteisye. 

Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre. 

And  therto  hadde  he  riden,  noman  ferre  *, 

As  wel  in  Cristendom  as  in  hethenesse, 

And  evere  honoured  for  his  worthinesse. 

At  Alisaundre  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne, 

Ful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bygonne^ 

>  sick.  *  treated  in  the  best  way.  '  Before.  *  further. 

*  Either  '  been  served  first  at  table,'  or  '  begun  the  tournament.' 


48  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Aboven  alle  naciouns  in  Pruce. 

In  Lettowe  hadde  he  reysed  ^  and  in  Ruce, 

No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degre. 

In  Gernade  atte  siege  hadde  he  be 

Of  Algesir,  and  riden  in  Belmarie. 

At  Lieys  was  he,  and  at  Satalie, 

Whan  they  were  wonne  ;   and  in  the  Greete  see 

At  many  a  noble  arive  ^  hadde  he  be. 

At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  ben  fiftene, 

And  foughten  for  our  feith  at  Tramassene 

In  lystes  thries,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 

This  ilke  worthy  knight  hadde  ben  also 

Somtyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye, 

Ageyn  another  hethen  in  Turkye  : 

And  evermore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  prys'. 

And  though  that  he  was  worthy,  he  was  wys, 

And  of  his  port  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde. 

He  nevere  yit  no  vileinye  ne  sayde 

In  al  his  lyf,  unto  no  maner  wight. 

He  was  a  verray  perfight  gentil  knight. 

But  for  to  tellen  you  of  his  array. 

His  hors  was  good,  but  he  ne  was  nought  gay. 

Of  fustyan  he  werede  a  gepoun  * 

Al  bysmotered  ^  with  his  habergeoun  ^ 

For  he  was  late  ycome  from  his  viage, 

And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrimage. 

With  him  ther  was  his  sone,  a  yong  Squyer, 
A  lovyere,  and  a  lusty  bacheler. 
With  lokkes  crulle ''  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  even  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  delyver  *,  and  gret  of  strengthe. 
And  he  hadde  ben  somtyme  in  chivachyc'', 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys,  and  Picardye, 
And  born  him  wcl,  as  of  so  litcl  space, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  grace. 


'  camjiaigncd. 

''■  disembarkation. 

'  hii^di  fame. 

*  tunic. 

soiled. 

*  coal  of  mail. 

'  curled. 

*  active. 

military  service. 

CHAUCER.  49 

Embrowded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede 

Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures,  white  and  reede. 

Syngynge  he  was,  or  floytynge  S  al  the  day  ; 

He  was  as  fressh  as  is  the  moneth  of  May. 

Schort  was  his  goune,  with  sleeves  longe  and  wyde. 

Wei  cowde  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde. 

He  cowde  songes  make  and  wel  endite, 

Juste  and  eek  daunce,  and  wel  purtreye  and  write. 

So  hote  he  lovede,  that  by  nightertale^ 

He  sleep  nomore  than  doth  a  nightyngale. 

Curteys  he  was,  lowly,  and  servysable, 

And  carf3  byforn  his  fader  at  the  table. 

A  Yeman  hadde  he,  and  servauntz  nomoo 
At  that  tyme,  for  him  luste  *  ryde  soo  ; 
And  he  was  clad  in  coote  and  hood  of  grene. 
A  shef  of  pocok  arwes  brighte  and  kene 
Under  his  belte  he  bar  ful  thriftily. 
Wel  cowde  he  dresse  his  takel  yemanly  ; 

His  arwes  drowpede  nought  with  fetheres  lowe. 

And  in  his  hond  he  bar  a  mighty  bowe. 

A  not-heed^  hadde  he  with  a  broun  visage. 

Of  woode-craft  wel  cowde  he  al  the  usage. 

Upon  his  arm  he  bar  a  gay  bracer", 

And  by  his  side  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler. 

And  on  that  other  side  a  gay  daggere, 

Harneysed  wel,  and  scharp  as  poynt  of  spere  ; 

A  Cristofre  on  his  brest  of  silver  schene. 

An  horn  he  bar,  the  bawdrik  was  of  grene  ; 

A  forster^  was  he  sothly,  as  I  gesse. 
Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 

That  of  hire  smylyng  was  ful  symple  and  coy  ; 

Hire  grettest  ooth  ne  was  but  by  seynt  Loy ' ; 

And  sche  was  cleped  madame  Eglentyne. 

Ful  wel  sche  sang  the  servise  divyne, 

Entuned  in  hire  nose  ful  semely  ; 

And  Frensch  sche  spak  ful  faire  and  fetysly^ 

I  fluting.  "  night-time.  '  carved. 

*  it  was  his  pleasure.  =  crop-head.  "  guard  for  the  aims. 

7  forester.  «  St.  Eligius.  »  neatly. 

VOL.  I.  E 


50  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 

For  Frensch  of  Parys  was  to  hire  unknowe. 

At  mete  wel  i -taught  was  sche  withalle  ; 

Sche  leet  no  morsel  from  hire  lippes  falle, 

Ne  wette  hire  fyngres  in  hire  sauce  deepe. 

Wel  cowde  sche  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  keepe, 

That  no  drope  ne  fille  upon  hire  breste. 

In  curteisie  was  set  ful  moche  hire  leste. 

Hire  overlippe  wypede  sche  so  clene, 

That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  ferthing  sene 

Of  grece,  whan  sche  dronken  hadde  hire  draughte. 

Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  sche  raughte  ^, 

And  sikerly  sche  was  of  gret  disport, 

And  ful  plesaunt,  and  amyable  of  port, 

And  peynede  hir''^  to  countrefete  cheere 

Of  court,  and  ben  estatlich  of  manere. 

And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence. 

But  for  to  speken  of  hir  conscience, 

Sche  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous, 

Sche  wolde  weepe  if  that  sche  saw  a  mous 

Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde. 

Of  smale  houndes  hadde  sche,  that  sche  fedde 

With  rosted  flessh,  or  mylk  and  wastel  breed  ^. 

But  sore  weep  sche  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed, 

Or  if  men  smot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte  : 

And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 

Ful  semely  hire  wympel  *  i-pynched  was  ; 

Hir  nose  tretys®;  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas  ; 

Hir  mouth  ful  smal,  and  therto  softe  and  reed 

But  sikerly  sche  hadde  a  fair  forheed. 

It  was  almost  a  spannc  brood,  I  trowe  ; 

For  hardily  sche  was  not  undergrowe. 

Ful  fetys  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war. 

Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  arm  sche  bar 

A  pcire  of  bedcs  gauded  ^  al  with  grene  ; 

And  thcron  heng  a  broch  of  gold  ful  schene, 

'  reached.  '■'  took  trouble.  '  cake  {gastemi).  *  gorget. 

'  well  shaped.  "  The  gnu, lies  were  the  larger  heads. 


CHAUCER. 


51 


On  which  was  first  i-write  a  crowned  A, 
And  after,  Amor  viticit  omnia. 
Another  Nonne  with  hir  hadde  sche, 
That  was  hir  chapeleyne,  and  Prestes  thre. 

A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fair  for  the  maistrye  ', 
An  out-rydere,  that  lovede  venerye  ; 
A  manly  man,  to  ben  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deyntd  hors  hadde  he  in  stable  : 
And  whan  he  rood,  men  mighte  his  bridel  heere 
Gynglen  in  a  whistlyng  wynd  as  cleere, 
And  eek  as  lowde  as  doth  the  chapel  belle. 
Ther  as  this  lord  was  kepere  of  the  celle, 
The  reule  of  seynt  Maure  or  of  seint  Beneyt, 
Bycause  that  it  was  old  and  somdel  streyt, 
This  ilke  monk  leet  olde  thinges  pace, 
And  held  after  the  newe  world  the  space. 
He  yaf  nat  of  that  text  a  pulled  hen  2, 
That  seith,  that  hunters  been  noon  holy  men  ; 
Ne  that  a  monk,  whan  he  is  reccheles^ 
Is  likned  to  a  fissch  that  is  waterles  ; 
This  is  to  seyn,  a  monk  out  of  his  cloystre. 
But  thilke  text  held  he  not  worth  an  oystre. 
And  I  seide  his  opinioun  was  good. 
What*  schulde  he  studie,  and  make  himselven  wood^, 
Upon  a  book  in  cloystre  alway  to  powre. 
Or  swynke  with  his  handes,  and  laboure, 
As  Austyn  bit®.?     How  schal  the  world  be  served? 
Lat  Austyn  have  his  swynk  to  him  reserved. 
Therfor  he  was  a  pricasour ''  aright ; 
Greyhoundes  he  hadde  as  swifte  as  fowel  in  flight ; 
Of  prikyng  and  of  huntyng  for  the  hare 
Was  al  his  lust,  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 
I  saugh  his  sieves  purfiled  atte  honde 
With  grys ",  and  that  the  fyncste  of  a  londe. 
And  for  to  festne  his  hood  under  his  chynne 
He  hadde  of  gold  y-wrought  a  curious  pynne  : 

'  to  a  sovereign  degree.  2  valued  it  less  than  a  plucked  hen. 

or,  resetleis,  away  fiom  his  seat  or  station.  <  why.  '  mad. 

bids  (.biddcth).  '  hunter.  «  grey  fur. 

E  2 


52  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

A  love-knot  in  the  grettere  ende  ther  was. 
His  heed  was  balled,  that  schon  as  eny  glas, 
And  eek  his  face,  as  he  hadde  ben  anoynt. 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  poynt  ; 
His  eyen  steeped  and  rollyng  in  his  heede, 
That  stemede  as  a  forneys  of  a  leede^; 
His  bootes  souple,  his  hors  in  gret  estat. 
Now  certeinly  he  was  a  fair  prelat  ; 
He  was  not  pale  as  a  for-pyned^  goost. 
A  fat  swan  lovede  he  best  of  eny  roost. 
His  palfrey  was  as  broun  as  is  a  berye. 

A  Frere  there  was,  a  wantown  and  a  merye, 
A  lymytour*,  a  ful  solempne  man. 
In  alle  the  ordres  foure  is  noon  that  can 
So  moche  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage. 
He  hadde  i-mad  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wymmen,  at  his  owen  cost. 
Unto  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  biloved  and  famulier  was  he 
With  frankeleyns  over-al  in  his  cuntre, 
And  eek  with  worthy  wommen  of  the  toun  : 
For  he  hadde  power  of  confessioun, 
As  seyde  himself,  more  than  a  curat, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licentiat  ^ 
Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun, 
And  plesaunt  was  his  absolucioun ; 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  yeve  penaunce 
Ther  as  he  wiste  han  ^  a  good  pitaunce  ; 
For  unto  a  poure  ordre  for  to  yive 
Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  i-schrive. 
For  if  he  yaf,  he  dorste  make  avaunt, 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentaunt. 
For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte, 
He  may  not  wepe  although  him  sore  smerte. 
Therfore  in  stede  of  wepyng  and  preyeres, 
Men  moot  yive  silver  to  the  pourii  frercs. 

'  bright.  '  under  a  cauldron.  ^  worn  out.  *  a  bcp^.ir 

over  a  certain  district.  '■'  held  a  licence  honi  the  I'opo.  "  wherc- 

ever  he  knew  he  would  have. 


CHAUCER.  53 

His  typet  was  ay  farsed  ful  of  knyfes 

And  pynnes,  for  to  yive  faire  wyfes. 

And  certeynly  he  hadde  a  mery  note  ; 

Wei  couthe  he  synge  and  pleyen  on  a  rote'. 

Of  yeddynges^  he  bar  utterly  the  prys. 

His  nekke  whit  was  as  the  flour-de-lys. 

Therto  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 

He  knew  the  tavernes  wel  in  every  toun, 

And  everych  hostiler  and  tappestere, 

Bet  then  a  lazer,  or  a  beggestere, 

For  unto  such  a  worthy  man  as  he 

Acorded  not,  as  by  his  faculte, 

To  han  with  sike  lazars  aqueyntaunce. 

It  is  not  honest,  it  may  not  avaunce. 

For  to  delen  with  no  such  poraille  ^, 

But  al  with  riche,  and  sellers  of  vitaille. 

And  overal,  ther  as  profyt  schulde  arise, 

Curteys  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servyse. 

Ther  nas  no  man  nowher  so  vertuous. 

He  was  the  beste  beggere  in  his  hous. 

For  though  a  widewe  hadde  noght  oo  schoo, 

So  plesaunt  was  his  In  principio^, 

Yet  wolde  he  have  a  ferthing  or  he  wente. 

His  purchas'  was  wel  better  than  his  rente. 

And  rage  he  couthe  as  it  were  right  a  whelpe, 

In  love-dayes  ^  couthe  he  mochel  helpe. 

For  ther  he  was  not  lik  a  cloysterer. 

With  a  thredbare  cope  as  is  a  poure  scoler, 

But  he  was  lik  a  maister  or  a  pope. 

Of  double  worsted  was  his  semy-cope, 

That  rounded  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 

Somwhat  he  lipsede,  for  his  wantownesse, 

To  make  his  Englissch  swete  upon  his  tunge  ; 

And  in  his  harpyng,  whan  that  he  hadde  sunge, 

His  eyen  twynkled  in  his  heed  aright, 

As  don  the  sterriis  in  the  frosty  night. 

'  harp,  or  fiddle.         *  songs.  '  paupers.  *  St.  John  i.  i,  the  usual 

friars'  greeting.  '■"  what  he  got  by  begging.  «  days  of  arbitration. 


54  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

This  worthy  lymytour  was  cleped  Huberd. 

A  Marchaunt  was  ther  with  a  forked  herd, 
In  motteleye,  and  high  on  hors  he  sat, 
Upon  his  heed  a  Flaundrisch  bevere  hat  ; 
His  botes  elapsed  faire  and  fetysly. 
His  resons  he  spak  ful  solerp.pnely, 
Sownynge  alway  thencres  of  his  wynnynge. 
He  wolde  the  see  were  kept  for^  eny  thinge 
Betwixe  Middelburgh  and  Orewelle. 
Wei  couthe  he  in  eschaunge  scheeldes^  selle. 
This  worthi  man  ful  wel  his  wit  bisette  ; 
Ther  wiste  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette, 
So  estatly  was  he  of  governaunce, 
With  his  bargayns,  and  with  his  chevysaunce  ^. 
For  sothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  withalle, 
But  soth  to  sayn,  I  not  how  men  him  calle. 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also, 
That  unto  logik  hadde  longe  i-go. 
As  lane  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  was  not  right  fat,  I  undertake  ; 
But  lokede  holwe,  and  therto  soberly. 
Ful  thredbar  was  his  overest  courtepy*. 
For  he  hadde  geten  him  yit  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  office. 
For  him  was  levere  have  at  his  beddes  heede 
Twenty  bookes,  clad  in  blak  or  reede, 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophye, 
Then  robes  riche,  or  fithele,  or  gay  sawtryif'. 
But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litcl  gold  in  cofre  ; 
But  al  that  he  mighte  of  his  frendes  hentc, 
On  bookes  and  on  lernyng  he  it  spcnte, 
And  busily  gan  for  the  soulcs  preye 
Of  hem  that  yaf  him  wherwith  to  scoleye  ; 
Of  studie  took  he  most  cure  and  most  hcedc. 
Not  oo  word  spak  he  more  than  was  nccde, 

'  for  fear  of.  '  coins  staniiicil  with  a  shield  :  I'rux. 

'■'  jjains.  *  siioit  cloak.  ■'*  psaltery,  iiarp. 


CHAUCER.  65 

And  that  was  seid  in  forme  and  reverence 
And  schort  and  quyk,  and  ful  of  high  sentence. 
Sownynge  in  ^  moral  vertu  was  his  speche, 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly  teche. 

****** 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun, 
And  was  a  poure  Persoun  of  a  toun  ; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lemed  man,  a  clerk, 
That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche  ; 
His  parischens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversite  ful  pacient  ; 
And  such  he  was  i-proved  ofte  sithesl 
Ful  loth  were  him  to  curse  for  his  tythes. 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeven,  out  of  dowte. 
Unto  his  poure  parisschens  aboute, 
Of  his  offrynge,  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 
He  cowde  in  litel  thing  han  suffisaunce. 
Wyd  was  his  parische,  and  houses  fer  asonder. 
But  he  ne  lafte  not  for  reyne  ne  thonder. 
In  siknesse  nor  in  meschief  to  visite 
The  ferreste  in  his  parissche,  moche  and  lite, 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hond  a  staf. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  scheep  he  yaf, 
That  first  he  wroughte,  and  afterward  he  taughte, 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte, 
And  this  figure  he  addede  eek  therto. 
That  if  gold  ruste,  what  schal  yren  doo  ? 
For  if  a  prest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste. 
No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  ruste  ; 
And  schame  it  is,  if  that  a  prest  tak  keep, 
A  [fihhy]  schepherde  and  a  clene  scheep  ; 
Wei  oughte  a  prest  ensample  for  to  yive, 
By  his  clennesse,  how  that  his  scheep  schulde  lyve. 
He  sette  not  his  benefice  to  hyre, 
And  leet  his  scheep  encombred  in  the  myre, 

^  tending  towards.  -  oft-times. 


56  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


And  ran  to  Londone,  unto  seynte  Poules, 
To  seeken  him  a  chaunterie  for  soules^, 
Or  with  a  bretherhede  to  ben  withholde  ; 
But  dwelte  at  hoom,  and  kepte  -wel  his  folde, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  myscary^e  ; 
He  was  a  schepherd  and  no  mercenarie. 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous, 
He  was  to  sinful  man  nought  despitous, 
Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous'^  ne  digne, 
But  in  his  teching  discret  and  benigne. 
To  drawe  folk  to  heven  by  fairnesse 
By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  busynesse  : 
But  it  were  eny  persone  obstinat, 
What  so  he  were,  of  high  or  lowe  estat, 
Him  wolde  he  snybbe  scharply  for  the  nones. 
A  better  preest,  I  trowe,  ther  nowher  non  is. 
He  waytede  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 
Ne  makede  him  a  spiced^  conscience, 
But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
He  taughte,  but  first  he  fohvede  it  himselve. 


The  Tale  of  the  Man  of  Lawe. 

[Custance  is  falsely  charged  with  the  murder  of  Dame  Hermengild. 
The  Knight  who  charges  her  is  struck  down  for  his  perjury.] 

Alias  !    Custance  !   thou  hast  no  champioun 
Ne  fyghte  canstow  nought,  so  weylawcy ! 
But  he,  that  starf  for  our  redempcioun. 
And  bond  Sathan  (and  yit  lyth  ther*  he  lay) 
So  be  thy  stronge  champioun  this  day  ! 
For,  but  if  crist  open  miracle  kythe", 
Withouten  gilt  thou  shalt  be  slayn  as  swythe*. 

'  an  endowment  for  saying  masses.  '  haughty. 

*  nice,  fastidious.  *  where.  '  show.  '  quickly. 


CHAUCER.  57 


She  sette  her  doun  on  knees,  and  thus  she  sayde, 

'  Immortal  god,  that  sauedest  Susanne 

Fro  false  blame,  and  thow,  merciful  mayde, 

Mary  I  mene,  doughter  to  Seint  Anne, 

Bifore  whos  child  aungeles  singe  Osanne, 

If  I  be  giltlees  of  this  felonye, 

My  socour  be,  for  elles  1  shal  dye!' 

Haue  ye  not  seyn  som  tyme  a  pale  face, 
Among  a  prees,  of  him  that  hath  be  lad 
Toward  his  deth,  wher  as  him  gat  no  -grace, 
And  swich  a  colour  in  his  face  hath  had, 
Men  myghte  knowe  his  face,  that  was  bistad', 
Amonges  alle  the  faces  in  that  route  : 
So  stant  Custance,  and  looketh  hir  aboute. 

O  queenes,  lyuinge  in  prosperitee. 

Duchesses,  and  ladyes  euerichone, 

Haueth  som  rewthe  on  hir  aduersitee  ; 

An  emperoures  doughter  stant  allone  ; 

She  hath  no  wight  to  whom  to  make  hir  mone. 

O  blood  roial  !   that  stondest  in  this  drede, 

Fer  ben  thy  frendes  at  thy  grete  nede  ! 

This  Alia  king  hath  swich  compassioun, 
As  gentil  herte  is  fulfild  of  pitee, 
That  from  his  yen  ran  the  water  doun. 
'Now  hastily  do  fecche  a  book,'  quod  he, 
'  And  if  this  knyght  wol  sweren  how  that  she 
This  womman  slow,  yet  wole  we  vs  auyse 
Whom  that  we  wole  that  shal  ben  our  lustyse.' 

A  Briton  book,  writen  with  Euangyles, 
Was  fet^  and  on  this  book  he  swor  anoon 
She  gilty  was,  and  in  the  mene  whyles 
A  hand  him  smot  vpon  the  nekkc-boon, 
That  doun  he  fel  atones  as  a  stoon. 
And  both  his  yen  braste  out  of  his  face 
In  sight  of  eucry  body  in  that  place. 

1  in  sore  peril.  ^  fetched. 


58  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

A  voys  was  herd  in  general  audience, 

And  seyde,  '  thou  hast  disclaundered  giltelees 

The  doughter  of  holy  chirche  in  hey  presence  ; 

Thus  hastou  doon,  and  yet  holde  I  my  pees.' 

Of  this  meruaille  agast  was  al  the  prees  ; 

As  mased  folk  they  stoden  euerichone, 

For  drede  of  wreche  \  saue  Custance  allone. 

Gret  was  the  drede  and  eek  the  repentance 

Of  hem  that  hadden  wrong  suspeccioun 

Vpon  this  sely  innocent  Custance  ; 

And,  for  this  miracle,  in  conclusioun, 

And  by  Custances  mediacioun, 

The  king,  and  many  another  in  that  place, 

Conuerted  was,  thanked  be  Cristes  grace  ! 

This  false  knyght  was  slayn  for  his  vntrewthe 

By  lugement  of  Alia  hastily  ; 

And  yet  Custance  hadde  of  his  deth  gret  rewthe. 

And  after  this  lesus,  of  his  mercy. 

Made  Alia  wedden  ful  solempnely 

This  holy  mayden,  that  is  so  bright  and  sheene. 

And  thus  hath  Crist  ymaad  Custance  a  queene. 


[Through  the  intrigues  of  Donegild,  the  queen  mother,  a  forged  letter  is 
sent  in  the  king's  name  bidding  Custance  to  be  banished  and  turned 
adrift  in  an  open  boat.] 

Wcpen  both  yonge  and  olde  in  al  that  place, 
Whan  that  the  king  this  cursed  letter  sente, 
And  Custance,  with  a  deedly  pale  face, 
The  ferthc  day  toward  hir  ship  she  wente. 
But  nathiiles  she  taketh  in  good  entente 
The  vville  of  Crist,  and,  kneling  on  the  stronde, 
She  scydl-,  'lord  !   ay  wel-com  be  thy  sonde''! 

'  vengeance.  °  sending,  visitation. 


CHAUCER.  59 

He  that  me  kepte  fro  the  false  blame 

Whyl  I  was  on  the  londe  amonges  yow, 

He  can  me  kepe  from  harme  and  eek  fro  shame 

In  sake  see,  al-though  I  se  nat  how. 

As  strong  as  euer  he  was,  he  is  yet  now. 

In  him  triste  I,  and  in  his  moder  dere, 

That  is  to  me  my  seyl  and  eek  my  stere  ^' 

Hir  litel  child  lay  weping  in  hir  arm, 
And  kneling,  pitously  to  him  she  seyde, 
'Pees,  litel  sone,  I  wol  do  thee  noon  harm.' 
With  that  hir  kerchef  of  hir  heed  she  breyde, 
And  ouer  his  litel  yen  she  it  leyde  ; 
And  in  hir  arm  she  lulleth  it  ful  faste. 
And  in-to  heuen  hir  yen  vp  she  caste. 

'  Moder,'  quod  she,  '  and  mayde  bright,  Marye, 
Soth  is  that  thurgh  womannes  eggement  '^ 
Mankynd  was  lorn  ^  and  damned  ay  to  dye, 
For  which  thy  child  was  on  a  croys  yrent  ; 
Thy  blisful  yen  seye  al  his  torment  ; 
Than  is  ther  no  comparisoun  bitwene 
Thy  wo  and  any  wo  man  may  sustene. 

Thou  sey  thy  child  yslayn  bifor  thyn  yen, 
And  yet  now  lyueth  my  litel  child,  parfay  ! 
Now,  lady  bryght,  to  whom  alle  woful  cryen. 
Thou  glorie  of  wommanhede,  thou  fayre  may, 
Thou  hauen  of  refut,  bryghte  sterre  of  day, 
Rewe  on  my  child,  that  of  thy  gentillesse 
Rewest  on  euery  rewful  in  distresse  ! 

O  litel  child,  alias  !    what  is  thy  gilt. 
That  neuer  wroughtest  sinne  as  yet,  parde, 
Why  vvil  thyn  harde  fader  han  thee  spilt*? 
O  mercy,  derif  Constable!'    quod  she  ; 
'As  lat  my  litel  child  dwelle  heer  with  thee  ; 
And  if  thou  darst  not  sauen  him,  for  blame, 
So  kis  him  ones  in  his  fadres  name  ! ' 

*  rudder.  *  incitement.  ^  lost.  *  killed. 


6o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Ther-with  she  loketh  bakward  to  the  londe, 
And  seyde,  '  far-wel,  housbond  rewthelees  ! ' 
And  \^  she  rist^,  and  walketh  doun  the  stronde 
Toward  the  ship  ;   hir  folweth  al  the  prees, 
And  euer  she  preyeth  hir  child  to  holde  his  pees  ; 
And  taketh  hir  leue,  and  with  an  holy  entente 
She  blisseth  hir  ;.   and  in-to  ship  she  wente. 

Vitailled  was  the  ship,  it  is  no  drede, 
Habundantly  for  hir  ful  longe  space, 
And  other  necessaries  that  sholde  nede 
She  hadde  ynough,  heried  -  be  Goddes  grace  ! 
For  wynd  and  weder  almyghty  God  purchace 
And  bringe  hir  hoom  !    I  can  no  better  seye  ; 
But  in  the  see  she  dryueth  forth  hir  weye. 
****** 

[King  Alia  and  Custance  meet  at  Rome  after  many  years.] 

Whan  Alia  sey  his  wyf,  fayre  he  hir  grette, 
And  weep,  that  it  was  rewthe  for  to  see. 
For  at  the  firste  look  he  on  hir  sette 
He  knew  wel  verraily  that  it  was  she. 
And  she  for  sorwe  as  domb  stant  as  a  tre  ; 
So  was  hir  herte  shet  in  hir  distresse 
Whan  she  remembred  his  vnkyndenesse. 

Twyes  she  swowned  in  his  owen  syghte  ; 
He  weep,  and  him  excuseth  pitously  : — 
'  Now  God,'  quod  he,  '  and  alle  his  halvves '  bryghte 
So  wisly  ■*  on  my  soule  as  haue  mercy, 
That  of  your  harm  as  giltelees  am  I 
As  is  Maurice  my  sone  so  lyk  your  face  ; 
•   Flics  the  feend  me  fecche  out  of  this  place  !' 

Long  was  the  sobbing  and  the  bitter  pcyne 
Er  that  her  woful  hertes  myghtii  cesse  ; 
Greet  was  the  pilii  for  to  here  hem  pleyne 
Thurgh  whiche  pleyntes  gan  her  wo  cncresse. 
1  prey  yow  al  my  labour  to  relcsse  ; 
'  rises  (riseth;.  '  praised.  '  saints.  ^  certainly. 


CHAUCER.  6 1 

I  may  nat  telle  her  wo  vn-til  tomorwe, 
I  am  so  wery  for  to  speke  of  sorwe. 

But  fynally,  when  that  the  soth  is  wist 

That  Alia  giltelees  was  of  hir  wo, 

I  trowe  an  hundred  tymes  been  they  kist, 

And  swich  a  blisse  is  ther  bitwix  hem  two 

That,  saue  the  loye  that  lasteth  euermo, 

Ther  is  noon  lyk  that  any  creature 

Hath  seyn  or  shal,  whyl  that  the  world  may  dure. 


The  Clerkes  Tale. 

[Chaucer  moralises  on  the  story  of  Patient  Grisildis.] 

Lenuoy  de  Chaucer. 

Grisild  is  deed,  and  eek  hir  pacience, 
And  bothe  atones  buried  in  Itaille  ; 
For  which  I  crye  in  open  audience, 
No  wedded  man  so  hardy  be  tassaille 
His  wyues  pacience,  in  hope  to  fynde 
Grisildes,  for  in  certein  he  shal  faille  ! 

O  noble  wyues,  ful  of  heigh  prudence, 

Lat  non  humilitee  your  tonge  naille, 

Ne  lat  no  clerk  haue  cause  or  diligence 

To  wryte  of  yow  a  storie  of  swich  meruaillc 

As  of  Grisildis  pacient  and  kynde  ; 

Lest  Chicheuache  yow  swelwe  in  hir  entraille ' ! 

Folweth  ^  Ekko,  that  holdeth  no  silence. 
But  euere  answereth  at  the  countretaille  ^ ; 

'  An  allusion  to  the  old  French  fable  of  Chichevache  and  Bicorne,  two 
monstrous  cows,  of  which  the  former  fed  on  patient  wives  and  was  conse- 
Ljuently  thin,  the  latter  on  patient  husbands  and  was  always  fat. 

■■*  follow :  eth  is  the  termination  of  2nd  pers.  plural  imperative. 

*  in  return. 


62  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Beth  nat  bidaffed^  for  your  innocence, 
But  sharply  tak  on  yow  the  gouernaille. 
Emprinteth  wel  this  lesson  in  your  mynde 
For  commune  profit,  sith  it  may  auaille. 

Ye  archewyues  ^,  stondeth  at  defence. 
Sin  ye  be  stronge  as  is  a  greet  camaille  ; 
Ne  sufifreth  nat  that  men  yow  don  offence. 
And  slendre  wyues,  feble  as  in  bataille, 
Beth  egre  as  is  a  tygre  yond  in  Ynde  ; 
Ay  clappeth  as  a  mille,  I  yow  consaille. 

Ne  dreed  hem  nat,  do  hem  no  reuerence  ; 

For  though  thyn  housbonde  armed  be  in  maille, 

The  arwes  of  thy  crabbed  eloquence 

Shal  perce  his  brest,  and  eek  his  auentaille  ^ ; 

In  lalousye  I  rede  eek  thou  him  bynde, 

And  thou  shalt  make  him  couche  as  doth  a  quaille. 

If  thou  be  fair,  ther  folk  ben  in  presence 

Shew  thou  thy  visage  and  thy  apparaille  ; 

If  thou  be  foul,  be  fre  of  thy  dispence, 

To  gete  thee  frendes  ay  do  thy  trauaille  ; 

Be  ay  of  chere  as  lyght  as  leef  on  lynde  *, 

And  lat  him  care,  and  wepe,  and  wringe,  and  waille  ! 


The  Frankeleynes  Tale. 

In  Armoryke,  that  cleped  is  Briteyne, 

Ther  was  a  knight,  that  lovede  and  dide  his  pcyne 

To  serve  a  lady  in  his  beste  wise  ; 

And  many  a  labour,  and  many  a  greet  emprise 

He  for  his  lady  wrought,  er  sche  were  wonne  ; 

For  sche  was  on  the  fairest  ^  under  sonne, 

befooled.  *  ruling  wives.  '  front  of  helmet. 

*  the  linden  tree.  '•'  the  one  fairest. 


CHAUCER.  63 


And  eek  therto  come  of  so  heih  kynrede, 

That  wel  unnethes  dorste  this  knight  for  drede 

Telle  hire  his  woo,  his  peyne,  and  his  distresse. 

But  atte  laste  sche  for  his  worthinesse, 

And  namely  for  his  meke  obeissance, 

Hath  suche  a  pitd  caught  of  his  penaunce, 

That  prively  sche  fel  of  his  acord 

To  take  him  for  hir  housbonde  and  hir  lord, 

(Of  suche  lordschipe  as  men  han  over  her  ^  wyves) ; 

And,  for  to  lede  the  more  in  blisse  her  lyves, 

Of  his  fre  vville  he  swor  hir  as  a  knight, 

That  never  in  al  his  lyf  by  day  ne  night 

Ne  schulde  he  upon  him  take  no  maystrie 

Ayeins  hir  wille,  ne  kythe  -  hir  jalousye, 

But  hir  obeye,  and  folwe  hir  wille  in  al, 

As  any  lovere  to  his  lady  schal  ; 

Save  that  the  name  of  sovereynet^, 

That  wolde  he  han  for  schame  of  his  degre. 

Sche  thanketh  him,  and  with  ful  grete  humblesse 

Sche  sayde  :  '  Sire,  sith  ^  of  your  gentilnesse 

Ye  profre  me  to  han  so  large  a  reyne, 

Ne  wolde  never  God  betwixe  us  tweyne, 

As  in  my  gilt,  were  eyther  werre  or  stryf 

Sire,  \  wil  be  your  humble  trewe  wijf^ 

Have  heer  my  trouthe,  til  that  myn  herte  breste.' 

Thus  be  they  bothe  in  quiete  and  in  reste. 

For  o  thing,  syres,  saufly  dar  I  seye. 

That  frendes  everich  other  moot  obeye, 

If  they  wille  longe  holden  companye 

Love  wol  nought  ben  constreigned  by  maystrj'e. 

Whan  maystrie  cometh,  the  god  of  love  anon 

Beteth  his  wynges,  and  fare  wel,  he  is  gon  ! 

Love  is  a  thing,  as  any  spiryt,  fre. 

Wommen  of  kynde  desiren  liberty, 

And  nought  to  be  constreigned  as  a  thral  ; 

And  so  do  men,  if  I  sooth  seyen  schal. 


their.  ^  shew. 


64  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Here  may  men  sen  an  humble  wyse  acord  ; 

Thus  hath  sche  take  hire  servaunt  and  hire  lord, 

Servaunt  in  love,  and  lord  in  manage. 

Than  was  he  bothe  in  lordschipe  and  servage  ! 

Servage  ?  nay,  but  in  lordschipe  above, 

Sith  he  hath  bothe  his  lady  and  his  love  ; 

His  lady  certes,  and  his  wyf  also. 

The  whiche  that  lawe  of  love  accordeth  to. 

And  whan  he  was  in  this  prosperite, 

Hoom  with  his  wyf  he  goth  to  his  cuntre. 

Nought  fer  fro  Penmark,  ther  his  dwellyng  was, 

Wher  as  he  lyveth  in  blisse  and  in  solas. 


[Arviragus  goes  to  England  for  two  years  on  military  service,  and  leaves 
Dorigen  at  home.] 

Now  stood  hir  castel  faste  by  the  see. 
And  often  with  hir  frendtfs  walked  sche, 
Hir  to  disporte  upon  the  banke  on  heih, 
Wher  as  sche  many  a  schippe  and  barge  seih, 
Seylinge  her  cours,  wher  as  hem  liste  go. 
But  yit  was  ther  a  parcelle  of  hir  wo, 
For  to  hir  self  ful  often  seyde  sche, 
'  Is  there  no  schip,  of  so  many  as  I  se, 
Wole  bryngen  hoom  my  lord  1  than  were  myn  herte 
Al  waryssched '  of  this  bitter  peynes  smerte.' 

Another  tyme  ther  wolde  sche  sitte  and  thinke. 
And  caste  hir  eyen  dounward  fro  the  brynke  ; 
But  whan  sche  saugh  the  grisly  rokkes  blake, 
For  verray  fere  so  wolde  hire  herte  quake. 
That  on  hire  feet  sche  mighte  hir  nought  sustene. 
Than  wolde  sche  sitte  adoun  upon  the  grene, 
And  pitously  into  the  see  byholde, 
And  sayn  right  thus,  with  sorowful  sikes*  coldc. 
'  EternC'  God,  that  thurgh  thy  purveyaunce 
Ledest  the  world  by  ccrtcin  govcrnuunce, 

'  cured.  '  sighs. 


CHAUCER.  65 


In  ydel,  as  men  sayn,  ye  nothing  make. 
But,  Lord,  these  grisly  feendly  rokkes  blake, 
That  semen  rather  a  foul  confusioun 
Of  vverk,  then  any  fayr  creacioun 
Of  suche  a  parfyt  wys  God  and  a  stable, 
Why  han  ye  wrought  this  werk  unresonable  ? 
For  by  this  werk,  south,  north,  ne  west,  ne  est, 
Ther  nis  y-fostred  man,  ne  brid,  ne  best  ; 
Hit  doth  no  good,  to  my  wit,  but  anoyeth. 
Se  ye  nought,  Lord,  how  mankynd  it  destroyeth? 
An  hundred  thousand  bodyes  of  mankynde 
Han  rokkes  slayn,  al  be  they  nought  in  mynde  ; 
Which  mankynd  is  so  fair  part  of  thy  werk, 
That  thou  it  madest  lyk  to  thyn  owen  werk, 
Than  semed  it,  ye  hadde  a  gret  chierte^ 
Toward  mankynd  ;  but  how  than  may  it  be. 
That  ye  suche  menes  ^  make  it  to  distroyen  ? 
Whiche  menes  doth  no  good,  but  ever  anoyen. 
I  wot  wel,  clerkes  woln  sayn  as  hem  leste. 
By  argumentz,  that  al  is  for  the  beste, 
Though  I  ne  can  the  causes  nat  yknowe  ; 
But  thilke  God  that  made  wynd  to  blowe, 
As  kepe  my  lord,  this  is  my  conclusioun  ; 
To  clerkes  lete  I  al  disputison  ^ ; 
But  wolde  God,  that  al  the  rokkes  blake 
Were  sonken  into  helle  for  his  sake  ! 
These  rokkes  sleen  myn  herte  for  the  feere.' 
Thus  wolde  sche  sayn  with  many  a  pitous  teere. 

Hir  freendes  sawe  that  it  nas  no  disport 
To  romen  by  the  see,  but  discomfort, 
And  schopen*  for  to  pleyen  som where  elles. 
They  leden  hir  by  ryveres  and  by  welles, 
And  eek  in  other  places  delitables  ; 
They  dauncen  and  they  playe  at  chesse  and  tables'. 
So  on  a  day,  right  in  the  morwe  tyde, 
Unto  a  gardyn  that  was  ther  besyde, 

'  charity.  "  means,  ways.  ^  disputing. 

*  planned.  '-  backgammon, 

vol,.  I.  F 


66  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

In  which  that  thay  hadde  made  here  ordinaunce 

Of  vitaile,  and  of  other  purveyaunce, 

They  gon  and  pleye  hem  al  the  longe  day; 

And  this  was  on  the  sixte  morwe  of  May, 

Which  jMay  hadde  peynted  with  his  softe  schoures 

This  gardyn  ful  of  leves  and  of  floures  : 

And  crafte  of  mannes  hand  so  curiously 

Arayed  hath  this  gardyn  trewely, 

That  never  nas  ther  gardyn  of  such  prys, 

But  if  it  were  the  verrey  paradys. 

The  odoure  of  floures  and  the  fresshe  sight, 

Wolde  han  made  any  pensyf  herte  hght 

That  ever  was  born,  but  if  to^  gret  siknesse 

Or  to  gret  sorwe  held  it  in  distresse  ; 

So  ful  it  was  of  beaute  with  plesaunce. 

And  after  dynere  gonne  they  to  daunce, 

And  synge  also,  save  Dorigen  alone. 

Sche  made  alwey  hir  compleynt  and  hir  mone, 

For  sche  ne  saugh  him  on  the  daunce  go. 

That  was  hir  housbond,  and  hir  love  also  ; 

But  natheles  sche  moste  a  tyme  abyde, 

And  with  good  hope  sche  let  hir  sorwe  slyde^. 

Upon  this  daunce,  amonges  other  men, 
Daunced  a  squier  biforen  Dorigen, 
That  fresscher  was  and  jolyer  of  array. 
As  to  my  dome,  than  is  the  month  of  May. 
He  syngeth  and  daunceth  passyng  any  man, 
That  is  or  was  sith  that  ^  this  world  bygan  ; 
Therwith  he  was,  if  men  schulde  him  discryve, 
On  of  the  bestc  farynge  man  on  lyve, 
Yong,  strong,  ryht  vertuous,  and  riche,  and  wys, 
And  wel  biloved,  and  holden  in  gret  prys. 
And  schortliche,  if  the  soth  I  tellen  schal, 
Unwytyng  of  this  Dorigen  at  al. 
This  lusty  squyer,  servaunt  to  Venus, 
Which  that  y-clcped  was  Aurelius, 
Had  loved  hire  best  of  any  crciiture 
Two  yeer  and  more,  as  was  his  aventure ; 
*  too.  *  pass.  '  since. 


CHAUCER.  67 


But  never  durste  he  telle  hir  his  grevaunce, 
Withoute  cuppe^  he  drank  al  his  penaunce. 
He  was  dispeyred,  nothing  durste  he  seye, 
Save  in  his  songes  somwhat  wolde  he  wreye^ 
His  woo,  as  in  a  general  compleyning  ; 
He  sayde,  he  lovede  and  was  biloved  nothing. 
Of  suche  matere  made  he  many  layes, 
Songes,  compleintes,  roundels,  virelayes  ; 
How  that  he  durste  nought  his  sorwe  telle, 
But  languissheth  as  a  fury  doth  in  helle  ; 
And  deye  he  moste,  he  seyde,  as  did  Ekko 
For  Narcisus,  that  durste  nought  telle  hir  wo. 
In  other  manere  then^  ye  here  me  seye 
Ne  durste  he  nought  to  hir  his  wo  bewreye, 
Save  that  paraventure  som  tyme  at  daunces, 
Ther*  yonge  folk  kepen  here  observaunces, 
Hit  may  wel  be  he  loked  on  hir  face 
In  such  a  wise,  as  man  that  asketh  grace, 
But  nothing  wiste  sche  of  his  entent. 
Natheles  it  happed,  er  they  thennes  went, 
Bycause  that  he  was  hir  neygheboure, 
And  was  a  man  of  worschipe  and  honour, 
And  hadde  knowen  him  of  tyme  yore. 
They  felle  in  speche,  and  ofte  more  and  more 
Unto  his  purpos  drow  Aurelius  ; 
And  whan  he  saw  his  tyme,  he  sayde  thus. 
*  Madame,'  quod  he,  '  by  God,  that  this  world  made, 
So  that  I  wiste  it  mighte  your  herte  glade, 
I  wolde  that  day,  that  your  Arveragus 
Wente  on  the  see,  that  I  Aurelius 
Had  went  ther*  I  schulde  never  have  come  ayain  ; 
For  wel  I  woot  my  service  is  in  vayn. 
My  guerdon  nys  but  bersting  of  myn  herte. 
Madame,  reweth  upon  my  peynes  smerte. 
For  with  a  word  ye  may  me  sle  or  save. 
Her  at  your  foot,  God  wold  that  I  were  grave  ^  ! 
I  have  as  now  no  Icyscr  more  to  seye  ; 
Have  mercy,  swete,  or  ye  wole  do  me  deye.' 
'  without  measure.         ^  bewray,  shew.         ^  than.         *  where.         '  buried. 

F  2 


68  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Sche  gan  to  loke  upon  Aurelius  ; 
'  Is  this  your  wil,'  quod  sche,  '  and  say  ye  thus  ? 
Never  erst,'  quod  sche,  '  ne  wiste  I  what  ye  mente. 
But  now,  Aurely,  I  knowe  your  entente. 
By  thilke  God,  that  yaf  me  soule  and  lyf, 
Ne  schal  I  never  ben  untrewe  v.'if 
In  word  ne  werk  ;  as  fer  as  I  have  wit, 
I  wol  ben  his  to  whom  that  I  am  knit.' 
But  after  that  in  pley  thus  seyde  sche  : 
'  Tak  this  for  fynal  answer  as  of  me. 
AureHe,'  quod  sche,  '  by  heighe  God  above, 
Yit  wol  I  graunte  you  to  ben  your  love, 
(Sin  I  you  se  so  pitously  compleyne), 
Loke,  what  day  that  endelong^  Bryteyne 
Ye  remewe  alle  the  rokkes,  ston  by  stoon. 
That  thay  ne  lette  schip  ne  boot  to  goon  ; 
I  say,  whan  j'e  han  maad  the  coost  so  clene 
Of  rokkes,  that  ther  nys  no  stoon  y-sene, 
Than  wol  I  love  yow  best  of  any  man, 
Have  heer  my  trouthe,  in  al  that  ever  I  can.' 
'Is  ther  non  other  grace  in  you?'  quod  he. 
'  No,  by  that  Lord,'  quod  sche,  '  that  made  me. 
For  wel  I  wot  that  that  schal  never  betyde. 
Let  such  folye  out  of  youre  herte  slyde. 
What  deynte  schulde  man  have  by  his  lijf, 
For  to  go  love  another  mannes  wyf?' 
Wo  was  Aurely  whan  that  he  this  herde, 
And  with  a  sorwful  herte  he  thus  answerde. 
'  Madame,'  quod  he,  '  this  were  an  impossfble. 
Than  mot  I  deye  on  sodeyn  deth  orrible.' 
And  with  that  word  he  torned  him  anon. 

■ifi  if.  ^  i(.  ^  i(i 

[Aurelius  applies  to  a  '  subtil  clerke '  of  Orleans,  who  by  magical  arts 
causes  all  the  rocks  to  seem  to  disappear.  He  then  goes  to  Dorigcn, 
and  claims  her  promise.] 

He  taketh  his  Icve,  and  sche  astoniiid  stood ; 
In  alle  hir  face  ther  nas  oon  drop  of  blood  ; 

'  all  along. 


CHAUCER.  69 

Sche  wende  never  have  come  in  such  a  trappe. 

*  Alias  ! '  quod  sche,  '  that  ever  this  schulde  happe  ! 

For  wende  I  never  by  possibility, 

That  such  a  monstre  or  merveyl  mighte  be  ; 

It  is  agayns  the  proces  of  nature.' 

And  hom  sche  goth  a  sorwful  creature, 

For  verray  fere  unnethe  may  sche  go. 

Sche  wepeth,  wayleth  al  a  day  or  two, 

And  swowneth,  that  it  routhe  was  to  see  ; 

But  why  it  was,  to  no  wight  tolde  sche, 

For  out  of  toune  was  goon  Ar\iragus. 

But  to  hir  self  sche  spak,  and  sayde  thus, 

With  face  pale,  and  with  ful  sorwful  cheere, 

In  hir  compleint,  as  ye  schul  after  heere. 


[Dorigen  complains  to  Fortune.] 

Thus  playned  Dorigen  a  day  or  tweye, 
Purposyng  ever  that  sche  wolde  deye ; 
But  natheles  upon  the  thridde  night 
Hom  cam  Arveragus,  the  worthy  knight, 
And  asked  hir  why  that  sche  weep  so  sore  ; 
And  sche  gan  wepen  ever  lenger  the  more. 

'  Alias  ! '  quod  sche,  '  that  ever  was  I  born  ! 
Thus  have  I  sayd,'  quod  sche,  '  thus  have  I  sworn  ; ' 
And  told  him  al,  as  ye  han  herd  bifore  ; 
It  nedeth  nought  reherse  it  you  no  more. 

This  housbond  with  glad  cheere  in  frendly  wise 
Answerde  and  sayde,  as  I  schal  you  devyse. 

*  Is  ther  aught  elles,  Dorigen,  but  this.?' 

'  Nay,  nay,'  quod  sche,  '  God  helpe  me  so  as  wis  \ 
This  is  to  moche,  and  it  were  Goddes  wille.' 

*  Ye,  wyf,'  quod  he,  '  let  slepen  that  is  stille, 
It  may  be  wel  peraunter  yet  to  day. 

Ye  schal  your  trouthii  holden,  by  my  fay. 
For  God  so  wisly^  have  mercy  upon  me, 
1  hadde  wel  lever  y-stikid  *  for  to  be, 

*  for  a  certainty,  certainly,  *  stabbed. 


70  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


For  verray  love  which  that  I  to  j'ou  have, 
But-if  ye  scholde  your  trouthe  kepe  and  save. 
Trouthe  is  the  heighest  thing  that  men  may  kepe.' 
But  with  that  word  he  gan  anoon  to  wepe, 
And  sayde,  '  I  yow  forbede  up  peyne  of  deth, 
That  never  whil  thee  lasteth  lyf  or  breth, 
To  no  wight  telle  thou  of  this  aventure. 
As  I  may  best,  I  wil  my  woo  endure. 
Ne  make  no  contenaunce  of  hevynesse. 
That  folk  of  you  may  demen  harm  or  gesse.' 
And  forth  he  cleped  a  squyer  and  a  mayde. 
'Go  forth  anoon  with  Dorigen,'  he  sayde, 
'  And  bryngeth  hir  to  such  a  place  anoon.' 
They  take  her  leve,  and  on  her  wey  they  gon  ; 
But  they  ne  wiste  why  sche  thider  wente, 

He  nolde  no  wight  tellen  his  entente 

This  squyer,  which  that  highte  Aurelius, 
On  Dorigen  that  was  so  amorous, 
Of  adventure  happed  hir  to  mete 
Amyd  the  toun,  right  in  the  quyke  strete  ; 
As  sche  was  boun  to  goon  the  wey  forth-right 
Toward  the  gardyn,  ther  as  sche  had  hight. 
And  he  was  to  the  gardyn-ward  also  ; 
For  vvel  he  spyed  whan  sche  wolde  go 
Out  of  hir  hous,  to  any  maner  place. 
But  thus  thay  mette,  of  adventure  or  grace, 
And  he  salueth  hir  with  glad  entente. 
And  askith  of  hir  whider-ward  sche  wente. 
And  sche  answerde,  half  as  sche  were  mad, 
'  Unto  the  gardyn,  as  myn  housbond  bad, 
My  trouthe  for  to  holde,  alias  !  alias  ! ' 
Aurilius  gan  wondren  on  this  cas  ^, 
And  in  his  herte  hadde  gret  compassioun 
Of  hir,  and  of  hir  lamentacioun. 
And  of  Arveragus  the  worthy  knight, 
That  bad  hir  holden  al  that  sche  hadde  hight, 
So  loth  him  was  his  wif  schuld  breke  hir  trouthe. 
And  in  his  hert  he  caughte  of  this  gret  routhe, 
*  case,  circumstance. 


CHA  UCER.  7 1 


Consideryng  the  best  on  every  syde, 

That  fro  his  hist  yet  were  him  lever  abyde, 

Than  doon  so  heigh  a  cherhssch  wrecchednesse 

Agayns  fraunchise  ^  of  alle  gentilesse  ; 

For  which  in  fewe  wordes  sayde  he  thus. 

'  Madame,  saith  to  your  lord  Arveragus,  • 

That  sith  I  se  his  grete  gentilesse 

To  you,  and  eek  I  se  wel  your  distresse, 

That  him  were  lever  han  schame  (and  that  were  routhe) 

Than  ye  to  me  schulde  breke  thus  your  trouthe, 

I  have  wel  lever  ^  ever  to  suffre  woo, 

Than  I  departe'  the  love  bytwix  yow  two. 

I  yow  relesse,  madame,  into  your  hond 

Ouyt  every  seurement  and  every  bond 

That  ye  han  maad  to  me  as  herebiforn, 

Sith  thilke  tyme  which  that  ye  were  born. 

My  trouthe  I  plighte,  I  schal  yow  never  reprove* 

Of  no  byhest  ^  and  heer  I  take  my  leve, 

As  of  the  trewest  and  the  beste  wif 

That  ever  yit  I  knew  in  al  my  lyf. 

But  every  wyf  be  war  of  hir  byheste, 

On  Dorigen  remembreth  atte  leste. 

Thus  can  a  squyer  doon  a  gentil  dede 

As  wel  as  can  a  knyght,  withouten  drede.' 

Sche  thanketh  him  upon  hir  knees  al  bare, 
And  hoom  unto  hir  housbond  is  sche  fare. 
And  told  him  al,  as  ye  han  herd  me  sayd  ; 
And,  be  ye  siker,  he  was  so  wel  apayd", 
That  it  were  impossible  me  to  write. 
What  schuld  I  lenger  of  this  cas  endite  ? 
Arveragus  and  Dorigen  his  wyf 
In  sovereyn  blisse  leden  forth  her  lyf. 
Never  eft  ne  was  ther  anger  hem  bytwene  ; 
He  cherisscheth  hir  as  though  sche  were  a  quene, 
And  sche  was  to  him  trewe  for  evermore; 
Of  these  two  folk  ye  gete  of  me  nomore. 

*  generosity.  ^  I  prefer.  '   divide.  *  reprove. 

*  piomi:,c.  *  paid,  pleased. 


72 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Knightes  Tale. 
[Palamon  and  Arcite  first  see  Emelye  from  the  prison  window.] 

This  passeth  yeer  by  yeer,  and  day  by  day, 

Til  it  fel  oones,  in  a  morwe  of  May, 

That  Emelie,  that  fairer  was  to  scene 

Than  is  the  lilie  on  hir  stalke  grene, 

And  fresscher  than  the  May  with  floures  newe — 

For  with  the  rose  colour  strof  hire  hewe, 

I  not  ^  which  was  the  fayrere  of  hem  two — 

Er  it  were  day,  as  was  hire  wone'^  to  do, 

Sche  was  arisen,  and  al  redy  dight ; 

For  May  wol  han  no  sloggardye  anight. 

The  sesoun  priketh  every  gentil  herte, 

And  maketh  him  out  of  his  sleep  to  sterte, 

And  seith,  'Ar>'s,  and  do  thyn  observaunce.' 

This  makede  Emelye  han  remembraunce 

To  don  honour  to  May,  and  for  to  ryse. 

I -clothed  was  sche  fresshe  for  to  devyse. 

Hir  yelwe  heer  was  browded  in  a  tresse, 

Byhynde  hir  bak,  a  yerde  long,  I  gesse. 

And  in  the  gardyn  at  the  sonne  upriste 

Sche  walketh  up  and  doun,  and  as  hir  liste 

Sche  gadereth  floures,  party  whyte  and  reede, 

To  make  a  sotil  gerland  for  hire  heede, 

And  as  an  aungel  hevenlyche  sche  song. 

The  grete  tour,  that  was  so  thikke  and  strong, 

Which  of  the  castel  was  the  cheef  dongcoun, 

(Ther  as  the  knightes  wercn  in  prisoun, 

Of  which  I  toldc  yow,  and  tellen  schal) 

Was  even  joynant ''  to  the  gardyn-wal, 

Ther  as  this  Emelye  hadde  hire  pleyynge. 

Bright  was  the  sonne,  and  cleer  that  morwenynge, 

And  Palamon,  this  woful  prisoner. 

As  was  his  wone  ^,  by  levc  of  his  gayler, 

>  ne  wot,  know  not.  '  wont,  custom.  '  adjoining. 


CIIA  UCER. 

Was  risen,  and  romede  in  a  chambre  on  heigh, 

In  which  he  al  the  noble  cit^  seigh, 

And  eek  the  gardyn,  ful  of  braunches  grene, 

Ther  as  this  fresshe  Emely  the  scheene 

Was  in  hir  walk,  and  romede  up  and  doun. 

This  sorweful  prisoner,  this  Palamon, 

Gooth  in  the  chambre,  romyng  to  and  fro, 

And  to  himself  compleynyng  of  his  woo  ; 

That  he  was  born,  ful  ofte  he  seyde,  alas  ! 

And  so  byfel,  by  aventure  or  cas  ^, 

That  thurgh  a  wyndow  thikke,  of  many  a  barre 

Of  iren  greet,  and  squar  as  eny  sparre'^, 

He  caste  his  eyen  upon  Emelya, 

And  therwithal  he  bleynte  ^  and  cryede,  a  ! 

As  though  he  stongen  were  unto  the  herte. 

And  with  that  crye  Arcite  anon  up-sterte. 

And  seyde,  '  Cosyn  myn,  what  eyleth  the. 

That  art  so  pale  and  deedly  on  to  see  ? 

Why  crydestow  ?   who  hath  the  doon  offence  ? 

For  Goddes  love,  tak  al  in  pacience 

Our  prisoun,  for  it  may  non  other  be  ; 

Fortune  hath  yeven  us  this  adversity. 

Som  wikke  aspect  or  disposicioun 

Oi  Saturne,  by  som  constellacioun. 

Hath  yeven  us  this,  although  we  hadde  it  sworn  ; 

So  stood  the  heven  whan  that  we  were  born  ; 

We  mote  endure  it  :    this  is  the  schort  and  pleyn.' 

This  Palamon  answerde,  and  seyde  ageyn, 
*  Cosyn,  for  sothe  of  this  opynyoun 
Thou  hast  a  veyn  ymaginacioun. 
This  prisoun  caused  me  not  for  to  crye. 
But  I  was  hurt  right  now  thurghout  myn  eye 
Into  myn  herte,  that  wol  my  bane  be. 
The  fairnesse  of  that  lady  that  I  see 
Yond  in  the  gardyn  rome  to  and  fro, 
Is  cause  of  al  my  crying  and  my  wo. 
I  not  whether  sche  be  womman  or  goddesse  ; 
But  Venus  is  it,  sothly  as  I  gesse.' 

'  accident  or  chance.  *  bolt.  ^  bleiicheil,  started. 


73 


74  THE  ENGLISH  FOETS. 

And  therwithal  on  knees  adoun  he  fil, 

And  seyde  :    'Venus,  if  it  be  thy  wil 

Yow  in  this  gardyn  thus  to  transfigure, 

Biforn  me  sorweful  wrecche  creature, 

Out  of  this  prisoun  help  that  we  may  scape. 

And  if  so  be  my  destind  be  schape 

By  eterne  word  to  deyen  in  prisoun, 

Of  our  lynage  have  sum  compassioun, 

That  is  so  lowe  y-brought  by  tyrannye.' 

And  with  that  word  Arcite  gan  espye 

Wher  as  this  lady  romede  to  and  fro. 

And  with  that  sighte  hir  beaute  hurte  him  so, 

That  if  that  Palamon  was  wounded  sore, 

Arcite  is  hurt  as  moche  as  he,  or  more. 

And  with  a  sigh  he  seyde  pitously  : 

'The  fressche  beaute  sleeth  me  sodeynly 

Of  hir  that  rometh  in  the  yonder  place  ; 

And  but  I  have  hir  mercy  and  hir  grace, 

That  I  may  seen  hir  atte  leste  weye, 

I  nam  but '  deed  ;   ther  nys  no  more  to  seye.' 


[Arcite  has  been  released  from  prison,  and  Palamon  ha3  escaped.     They 
meet  in  a  wood  near  Athens.] 

And  with  that  word  he  fel  doun  in  a  traunce 
A  long  tyme  ;   and  after  he  upsterte  "^ 
This  Palamon,  that  thoughte  that  thurgh  his  hcrte 
He  felte  a  cold  swerd  sodeynliche  glyde  ; 
For  ire  he  quook^,  no  lengcr  nolde  he  byde. 
And  whan  that  he  hadde  herd  Arcitcs  tale, 
As  he  were  wood*,  with  face  deed  and  pale. 
He  sterte  him  up  out  of  the  bussches  thikke, 
And  seyde  :    'Arcytc,  false  traitour  wikke. 
Now  art  thou  hent  '\  that  lovcst  my  lady  so, 
For  whom  that  I  have  al  this  peyne  and  wo, 
And  art  my  blood,  and  to  my  counscil  sworn, 

*  am  mcicly.  ■'  stalled  up.  '  quaked. 

•  mad.  ''  caught. 


CHAUCER.  75 


As  I  ful  ofte  have  told  thee  heer  byforn, 

And  hast  byjaped^  heer  duk  Theseus, 

And  falsly  chaunged  hast  thy  name  thus  ; 

I  wol  be  deed,  or  elles  thou  schalt  dye. 

Thou  schalt  not  love  my  lady  Emelye, 

But  I  wil  love  hir  oonly  and  no  mo  ; 

For  I  am  Palamon,  thy  mortal  fo. 

And  though  that  I  no  wepne  have  in  this  place, 

But  out  of  prisoun  am  astert  by  grace, 

I  drede  not  that  outher  thou  schalt  dye, 

Or  thou  ne  schalt  not  loven  Emelye. 

Ches  "^  which  thou  wilt,  for  thou  schalt  not  asterte  ^' 

This  Arcite,  with  ful  despitous  herte, 

Whan  he  him  knew,  and  hadde  his  tale  herd. 

As  fers  as  lyoun  pullede  out  a  swerd, 

And  seide  thus  :   '  By  God  that  sit  *  above, 

Nere  it^  that  thou  art  sik  and  wood  for  love, 

And  eek  that  thou  no  wepne  hast  in  this  place. 

Thou  schuldest  nevere  out  of  this  grove  pace, 

That  thou  ne  schuldest  deyen  of  myn  hond. 

For  I  defye  ^  the  seurte  and  the  bond 

Which  that  thou  seyst  that  I  have  maad  to  the. 

What,  verray  fool,  think  wel  that  love  is  fre  ! 

And  I  wol  love  hir  mawgre^  al  thy  might. 

But,  for  as  muche  thou  art  a  worthy  knight, 

And  wilnest  to  derreyne  hir  by  batayle, 

Have  heer  my  trouthe,  to-morwe  I  nyl  not  fayle, 

Withouten  wityng*  of  any  other  wight, 

That  heer  I  wol  be  founden  as  a  knight, 

And  brjTigen  barneys  right  inough  for  the  ; 

And  ches'"'  the  baste,  and  leve  the  worste  for  me. 

And  mete  and  drynke  this  night  wil  I  brjmge 

Inough  for  the,  and  clothes  for  thy  beddynge. 

And  if  so  be  that  thou  my  lady  wynne, 

And  sle  me  in  this  woode  ther  I  am  inne. 

Thou  maist  wel  han  thy  lady  as  for  me.' 

This  Palamon  answerde  :    '  I  graunte  it  the.' 

*  tricked.  ^  choose.  '  escape.  *  sitteth. 

'  were  it  not.  *  reject.  '  in  spite  of.  '  knowledge. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


And  thus  they  ben  departed  til  a-morwe, 

When  ech  of  hem  hadde  leyd  his  feith  to  borwe 

O  Cupide,  out  of  alle  charitd  ! 
O  regne,  that  wolt  no  felawe  han  with  the  ! 
Ful  soth  is  seyd,  that  love  ne  lordschipe 
Wol  not,  his  thankes  \  han  no  felaweschipe. 
Wei  fynden  that  Arcite  and  Palamoun. 
Arcite  is  riden  anon  unto  the  toun, 
And  on  the  morwe,  er  it  were  dayes  light, 
Ful  prively  two  harneys  hath  he  dight, 
Bothe  suffisaunt  and  mete  to  darreyne 
The  batayle  in  the  feeld  betwixe  hem  tweyne. 
And  on  his  hors,  allone  as  he  was  born, 
He  caryeth  al  this  harneys  him  byforn  ; 
And  in  the  grove,  at  tyme  and  place  i-set. 
This  Arcite  and  this  Palamon  ben  met. 
Tho  "^  chaungen  gan  the  colour  in  here  face. 
Right  as  the  honter  in  the  regne  of  Trace 
That  stondeth  at  the  gappe  with  a  spere, 
Whan  honted  is  the  lyoun  or  the  here, 
And  hereth  him  come  ruschyng  in  the  grevcs, 
And  breketh  bothe  bowes  and  the  leves, 
And  thinketh,  '  Here  comth  my  mortel  enemy, 
Withoute  faile,  he  mot^  be  deed  or  I  ; 
For  eyther  I  mot  slen  him  at  the  gappe, 
Or  he  mot  sleen  me,  if  that  me  myshappe  :' 
So  ferden  they,  in  chaungyng  of  here  hewe, 
As  fer  as  everich  of  hem  other  knewe. 
Ther  nas  no  '  good  day,'  ne  no  saluyng  ; 
But  streyt  withouten  word  or  rehersyng, 
Everych  of  hem  halp  *  for  to  armen  other, 
As  frendly  as  he  were  his  owiin  brother  ; 
And  after  that  with  scharpe  speres  stronge 
They  foynen  ech  at  other  wonder  longe. 
Thou  myghtcst  wenii  that  this  Palamon 
In  his  fightynge  were  as  a  wood'  lyoun, 
And  as  a  cruel  tygrc  was  Arcite  : 
As  wildci  boorcs  gonnc  they  to  smyte 
willingly.  "^  then.  °  must,  shall.  <  Iidpcd.  »  mad. 


CHAUCER.  77 


That  frothen  white  as  foom  for  ire  wood. 
Up  to  the  ancle  foughte  they  in  her  blood. 

****** 

[The  poet  describes  the  Temples  of  Venus  and  Mars,  where  Arcite  and 
Palamon  are  about  to  offer  their  prayers  before  the  final  combat.] 

First  in  the  temple  of  Venus  maystow  se 
Wrought  on  the  wal,  ful  pitous  to  byholde, 
The  broken  slepes,  and  the  sykes  ^  colde  ; 
The  sacred  teeres,  and  the  waymentyng  ; 
The  fyry  strokes  of  the  desiryng, 
That  loves  servauntz  in  this  lyf  enduren  ; 
The  othes,  that  her  covenantz  assuren. 
Plesaunce  and  hope,  desyr,  fool-hardynesse, 
Beaute  and  youthe,  bauderye,  richesse, 
Charmes  and  force,  lesynges,  flaterye, 
Dispense,  busynesse,  and  jelousye, 
That  werede  of  yelwe  goldes  ^  a  gerland, 
And  a  cokkow  sittyng  on  hir  hand  ; 
Festes,  instrumentes,  caroles,  daunces, 
Lust  and  array,  and  alle  the  circumstaunccs 
Of  love,  whiche  that  I  rekned  have  and  schal, 
By  ordre  weren  peynted  on  the  wal. 
And  mo  than  I  can  make  of  mencioun. 
For  sothly,  al  the  mount  of  Citheroun, 
Ther^  Venus  hath  hir  principal  dwellyng, 
Was  schewed  on  the  wal  in  portreying, 
With  al  the  gardyn,  and  the  lustynesse. 
Nought  was  foryete*  the  porter  Ydelnesse, 
Ne  Narcisus  the  fayre  of  yore  agon, 
Ne  yet  the  folye  of  kyng  Salamon, 
Ne  eek  the  grete  strengthe  of  Hercules, 
Thenchauntementz  of  Mddea  and  Circes, 
Ne  of  Turnus  with  the  hardy  fiers  corage. 
The  riche  Cresus,  caytif  '^  in  servage  ^ 
Thus  may  ye  seen  that  wisdom  ne  richesse, 
Beaute  ne  sleighte,  strengthe,  ne  hardynesse, 

'  sifjhs.  ^  marigolds.  ^  where.  *  forj^olten. 

'  captive.  *  ser%'itude. 


78  THE  ENGLISH  FOETS. 

Ne  may  with  Venus  holde  champartye\ 

For  as  hir  list  the  world  than  may  sche  gye^, 

Lo,  alle  thise  folk  i-caught  were  in  hir  las', 

Til  they  for  wo  ful  often  sayde  alias. 

Sufificeth  heer  ensamples  oon  or  tuo, 

And  though  *  I  couthe  rekne  a  thousend  mo. 

The  statue  of  Venus,  glorious  for  to  see, 

Was  naked  fletyng®  in  the  large  see, 

And  fro  the  navel  doun  al  covered  was 

With  wawes "  grene,  and  brighte  as  any  glas. 

A  citole^  in  hir  right  hond  hadde  sche, 

And  on  hir  heed,  ful  semely  for  to  see, 

A  rose  garland,  fresch  and  wel  smellyng. 

Above  hir  heed  hir  dowves  flickeryng. 

Bifom  hir  stood  hir  sone  Cupido, 

Upon  his  schuldres  wynges  hadde  he  two  ; 

And  blynd  he  was,  as  it  is  ofte  seene  ; 

A  bowe  he  bar  and  arwes  brighte  and  kene. 

Why  schulde  I  nought  as  wel  eek  telle  you  al 

The  portreiture,  that  was  upon  the  wal 

Withinne  the  temple  of  mighty  Mars  the  reede  ? 

Al  peynted  was  the  wal  in  lengthe  and  breede 

Lik  to  the  estres  *  of  the  grisly  place, 

That  highte  ^  the  grete  temple  of  Mars  in  Trace, 

In  thilke  colde  frosty  regioun, 

Ther  as  Mars  hath  his  sovereyn  mansioun. 

First  on  the  wal  was  peynted  a  forest. 

In  which  ther  dwelleth  neyther  man  ne  best^°, 

With  knotty  knarry  bareyne  trees  olde 

Of  stubbcis  scharpe  and  hidous  to  byholde  ; 

In  which  ther  ran  a  swymbcl  in  a  swough  '^, 

As  though  a  storm  schulde  bersten  every  bough  : 

And  downward  on  an  hil  under  a  bente ", 

Ther  stood  the  temple  of  Marz  armypotente, 

Wrought  al  of  burned"  steel,  of  which  thentrd 

'  divided  empire.  '^  guide,  turn.  ^  lace,  snare.  *  never- 
theless. •  floating.  •  waves.  ''  harp.  '  interior. 
'••  is  called.  '"  beast,  animal.  "  moaning  in  a  gust.  ''^  slope. 
'^  burnished. 


CHAUCER. 


Was  long  and  streyt\  and  gastly  for  to  see. 

And  therout  cam  a  rage  and  such  a  vese", 

That  it  made  al  the  gates  for  to  rese^ 

The  northern  light  in  at  the  dores  schon, 

For  wyndowe  on  the  wal  ne  was  ther  noon, 

Thurgh  which  men  mighten  any  light  discerne. 

The  dore  was  al  of  ademaunt  eterne, 

I-clenched  overthwart  and  endelong* 

With  iren  tough  ;   and,  for  to  make  it  strong, 

Every  piler  the  temple  to  susteene 

Was  tonne  gi^eet*",  of  iren  bright  and  schene. 

Ther  saugh  I  first  the  derke  ymaginyng 

Of  felonye,  and  al  the  compassyng  ; 

The  cruel  ire,  as  reed  as  eny  gleede  ^  ; 

The  pikepurs,  and  eek  the  pale  drede  ; 

The  smyler  with  the  knyf  under  the  cloke  ; 

The  schepne ''  brennyng  ^  with  the  blake  smoke  ; 

The  tresoun  of  the  murtheryng  in  the  bed  ; 

The  open  werre,  with  woundes  al  bi-bled  ; 

Contek®  with  bloody  knyf,  and  scharp  manace. 

Al  ful  of  chirkyng  ^^  was  that  sory  place. 

The  sleere  of  himself"  yet  saugh  I  there. 

His  herte-blood  hath  bathed  al  his  here  ; 

The  nayl  y-dryven  in  the  schode  ^-  a-nyght  ; 

The  colde  deth,  with  mouth  gapyng  upright. 

Amyddes  of  the  temple  sat  meschaunce, 

With  disconfort  and  sory  contenaunce. 

Yet  saugh  I  woodnesse  ^^  laughying  in  his  rage  ; 

Armed  complaint,  outhees ",  and  fiers  outrage. 

The  caroigne  ^^  in  the  bussh,  with  throte  y-corve  ^^ : 

A  thousand  slain,  and  not  of  qualme  y-storve  '^ ; 

The  tiraunt,  with  the  prey  by  force  y-raft  ^* ; 

The  toun  destroyed,  ther  was  no  thyng  laft. 

Yet  sawgh  I  brent "  the  schippes  hoppesteres  -"  ; 

slrait,  narrow.  '  rush.  '  shnke.  ^  acros>  and 

downwards.  •'  great  as  a  tun.  *  live  coal.  '  stable. 

*  burning.  '  strife.  ^^  shrieking.  "  suicide.  "  temple. 

"  madness.  '*  outcry.  *'  carcase.  '^  cut.  "  dead  of 

sickness.  *'  reft.  "  burnt.  •"  the  dancing  ships. 


8o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  hunte  ^  strangled  with  the  wilde  bares  ^ : 
The  sowe  freten  ^  the  child  right  in  the  cradel  ; 
The  cook  i-skalded,  for  al  his  longe  ladel. 
Nought  was  foryete*  by^  the  infortune  of  Marte  ; 
The  cartere  over-ryden  with  his  carte, 
Under  the  whel  ful  lovve  he  lay  adoun. 
Ther  were  also  of  Martes  divisioun, 
The  harbour,  and  the  bocher  ;   and  the  smyth 
That  forgeth  scharpe  swerdes  on  his  stith  ^ 
And  al  above  depeynted'''  in  a  tour 
Saw  I  conquest  sittyng  in  gret  honour, 
With  the  scharpe  swerd  over  his  heed 
Hangynge  by  a  sotil*  twynes  threed. 


Good  Counseil  of  Chaucer. 

Fie  fro  the  pres,  and  dwelle  with  sothfastnesse  ; 
Suffice  thee  thy  good,  though  hit  be  smal  ; 
For  hord  hath  hate,  and  clymbyng  tikelnesse®, 
Pres  hath  envye,  and  wele  blent  over  al  ^". 
Savour  no  more  then  thee  behove  shal ; 
Do  wel  thy-self  that  other  folk  canst  rede. 
And  trouthe  thee  shal  delyver,  hit  ys  no  drcde". 

Peyne  thee  not  eche  croked  to  rcdresse 

In  trust  of  hir  that  turneth  as  a  bal", 

Gret  reste  stant  in  lytil  besynesse  ; 

Bewar  also  to  spurne  ayein  a  nal  ^^, 

Stryve  not  as  doth  a  crokke  with  a  wal"  ; 

Dauntci  thy-selfe  that  dauntest  otheres  dede, 

And  trouthe  thee  shal  delyver,  hit  is  no  drede. 

'  hunter.  '^  bears.  '  (I  saw)  the  sow  eat.  *  for^'otten. 
"  as  regards.  "  anvil.  ''  painted.  '  subtle,  thin.  "  in- 
security. '"  wealth  everywhere  blinds  people.  "  there  is  no  doubt. 
"  i.e.  Fortune.  "  an  awl.             "  i.e.  as  weak  does  with  strong. 


CHAUCER.  8 1 

That  thee  is  sent  receyve  in  buxumnesse^ 
The  wrasteHng  of  this  world  asketh  ^^  a  fal  ; 
Heer  is  no  hoom,  heer  is  but  wyldernesse. 
Forth  pilgrime,  forth  !    forth  best,  out  of  thy  stal  ! 
Loke  up  on  hye,  and  thonke  God  of  al ; 
Weyve^  thy  lust,  and  let  thy  gost  thee  lede. 
And  trouthe  shal  thee  delyver,  hit  is  no  drede. 


Ij'Envoye  *. 

Therfor,  thou  vache  ^,  leve  thyn  old  wrecchednesse  ; 

Unto  the  worlde  leve  now  to  be  thral " ; 

Crye  him  mercy,  that  of  his  heigh  goodnesse 

Made  thee  of  naught  ;   and,  in  especial, 

Draw  unto  him,  and  pray  in  general 

For  thee,  and  eek  for  other,  hevenly  mede  "^ ; 

And  trouthe  schal  thee  delivere,  it  is  no  drede. 

'  with  submission.  ^  brings.  ^  gg^  ^^^^^^  ^  jj^j^  stanza 

is  only  in  MS.  Addit.  10340  (Brit.  Mus.).  *  cow,  poor  creature. 

'  cease  to  be  a  slave  to  the  world.  '^  reward. 


VOL.  I. 


POEMS    COMMONLY  ATTRIBUTED    TO   CHAUCER. 


The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose. 

It  has  already  been  said  (p.  7)  that  Chaucer  translated  the 
Romaunt^  and  that  a  version  has  been  current  under  his  name  for 
centuries.  There  is  only  one  MS.  of  this  translation,  in  the 
Hunterian  Museum  at  Glasgow,  so  that  we  have  no  means  of 
comparing  texts,  and  thus  settling  the  difficult  questions  that  have 
been  raised  about  it.  As  it  stands,  the  poem  contains  various 
features  which,  in  the  opinion  of  the  most  advanced  school  of 
Chaucerian  criticism,  mark  it  out  as  being  not  Chaucer's  ;  the 
principal  difficulty  being  connected  with  the  rhymes,  some  of 
which  seem  to  be  irreconcileable  with  Chaucer's  principles  of 
pronunciation.  The  question  cannot  be  properly  discussed  here, 
but  in  deference  to  what  seems  to  be  the  balance  of  opinion 
we  quote  the  Rotnaunt  under  the  head  of  '  Poems  attributed  to 
Chaucer.'  The  passage  given  is  remarkable  as  the  original  of 
the  '  May  morning '  passages  which  abound  in  Chaucer  and  his 
successors.  Whether  by  Chaucer  or  not,  it  is  a  vigorous  and  exact 
rendering  of  the  French. 

That  it  was  May  me  thoughte  tho ', 

It  is  .V.  yere  or  more  ago  ; 

That  it  was  May,  thus  dremed  me, 

In  tyme  of  love  and  jolitd. 

That  al  thing  gynneth  waxen  gay. 

For  ther  is  neither  busk  nor  hay'^ 

In  May,  that  it  nyl  shrouded  been, 

And  it  with  newe  leves  wreen  ^. 

These  wodes  eek  recoveren  grene, 

That  drie  in  wynter  ben  to  sene  ; 

And  the  erth  wexith  proud  withallc, 

For  swotc  dcwes  that  on  it  fallc  j 

And  the  pore  estat  forget, 

In  which  that  wynter  had  it  set. 

*  then.  ^  hedge.  '  cover. 


POEMS  ATTRIBUTED   TO   CHAUCER.  83 

And  than  bycometh  the  ground  so  proud. 
That  it  wole  have  a  newe  shroud, 
And  makith  so  queynt  his  robe  and  faire. 
That  it  had  hewes  an  hundred  payre, 
Of  gras  and  flouris,  ynde  and  pers  ^, 
And  many  hewes  full  dyvers  : 
That  is  the  robe  I  mene,  iwis, 
Through  which  the  ground  to  preisen  is. 

The  briddes,  that  han  left  her  song, 
While  thei  han  suffrid  cold  so  strong 
In  wedres  grj^l"  and  derk  to  sighte, 
Ben  in  May  for  the  sonne  brighte, 
So  glade,  that  they  she  we  in  syngj'ng, 
That  in  her  hertis  is  sich  lykyng, 
That  they  mote  syngen  and  be  light. 
Than  doth  the  nyghtyngale  hir  myght. 
To  mak  noyse,  and  syngen  blythe. 
Than  is  blisful  many  sithe^. 
The  chelaundre  *,  and  the  papyngay. 
Than  younge  folk  entenden  ay, 
For  to  ben  gay  and  amorous. 
The  tyme  is  than  so  savorous. 

Hard  is  the  hert  that  loveth  nought 
In  May,  whan  al  this  mirth  is  wrought ; 
Whan  he  may  on  these  braunches  here 
The  smale  briddes  syngen  clere 
Her  bhsful  swete  song  pitous. 
And  in  this  sesoun  delytous  : 
Whan  love  affraieth®  alle  thing, 

Methought  a  nyght,  in  my  sleping, 
Right  in  my  bed  ful  redily. 
That  it  was  by  the  morowe  erly, 
And  up  I  roos,  and  gan  me  clothe ; 
Anoon  I  wissh"  myn  hondis  bothe  j 
A  sylvre  nedle  forth  I  drough 
Out  of  an  aguler^  queynt  ynough, 

*  azure  and  blue-gray.  "^  horrible  storms.  '  times.  "  goldfinch. 

'  disturbs.  «  washed.  ''  needle-case. 

G  2 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


And  gan  this  nedle  threde  anon  ; 
For  out  of  toun  me  list  to  gon, 
The  song  of  briddes  for  to  here 
That  in  thise  buskes  syngen  clere, 
And  in  the  swete  seson  that  leve  is  ; 
With  a  threde  bastyng  my  slevis, 
Alone  I  wente  in  my  playing, 
The  smale  foules  song  harknyng. 
They  peyned  hem  ful  many  peyre, 
To  synge  on  bowes  blosmed  feyre  \ 
Joly  and  gay,  ful  of  gladnesse. 
Toward  a  ryver  gan  I  me  dresse, 
That  I  herd  renne  faste  by  ; 
For  fairer  playing  non  saugh  I 
Than  playen  me  by  that  ryvere. 
For  from  an  hille  that  stood  ther  nere. 
Cam  doun  the  streme  ful  stif  and  bold, 
Cleer  was  the  water,  and  as  cold 
As  any  welle  is,  sooth  to  seyn. 
And  somdele  lasse  it  was  than  Seyn, 
But  it  was  straiter,  wel-away  ! 
And  never  saugh  I,  er  that  day. 
The  watir  that  so  wel  lyked  me  ; 
And  wondir  glad  was  I  to  se 
That  lusty  place,  and  that  ryvere  ; 
And  with  that  watir  that  ran  so  clere 
My  face  I  wissh.     Tho  saugh  I  wel. 
The  botme  paved  everydeP 
With  gravel,  ful  of  stones  shene. 
The  medewe  softii,  swote,  and  grene. 
Beet  right  up  on  the  watir-syde. 
Ful  clere  was  than  the  morow-tyde, 
And  ful  attempre,  out  of  drede ''. 
Tho  gan  I  walke  thorough  the  mede, 
Dounward  ay  in  my  pleying, 
The  ryver-syde  costeying. 

blossomed  fair.  ^  everywhere.  '  attempered,  without  doubt. 


POEMS  ATTRIBUTED   TO   CHAUCER. 


The  Flower  and  the  Leaf. 

The  Floiver  and  the  Leaf,  written,  according  to  internal  evi- 
dence, by  a  lady,  and  about  1450,  follows  out  a  fancy  of  French 
origin  which  had  already  in  Chaucer's  time  found  its  way  into  the 
stock  poetical  material  of  the  age,  and  to  which  he  makes  reference 
in  The  Legende  of  Goode  Women. 

'  But  helpeth,  ye  that  han  conning  and  might, 
Ye  lovers,  that  can  make  of  sentement ; 
In  this  case  oughte  ye  be  diligent 
To  ferthren  me  somewhat  in  my  labour, 
Whether  ye  been  \vith  the  leafe  or  with  the  flour.* 

The  followers  of  the  Flower 

'  Are  such  folk  that  loved  idlenesse, 
And  not  deliten  in  no  businesse, 
But  for  to  hunte  and  hauke  and  play  in  medes 
And  many  other  suchlike  idle  dedes:' 

whereas  the  company  of  the  Leaf,  wearing  laurel  chaplets, '  whose 
lusty  green  may  not  appaired  be '  by  winter  storms  or  frosts, 
represent  the  brave  and  steadfast  of  all  ages,  the  great  knights  and 
champions,  the  constant  lovers  and  pure  women  of  past  and 
present  times. 

The  poem  opens  with  the  usual  spring  morning,  and  the  de- 
scription of  a  woodland  arbour  hedged  round  with  sycamore  and 
eglantine,  and  haunted  with  the  songs  of  birds.  Thence  the  poet 
sees  the  rival  companies  of  the  Flower  and  the  Leaf  scattered  over 
the  plain  outside,  and  describes  their  dresses  and  equipments  with 
a  length  and  wearisome  detail  which  would  alone  mark  off  the 
poem  from  Chaucer's  work.  A  storm  comes  on,  which  drenches 
the  flower-chaplets  and  green  dresses  of  Flora's  train,  while  it 
leaves  those  of  the  Leaf  unharmed.  These  bring  shelter  and 
friendly  help  to  the  followers  of  the  Flower,  and  then  the  two 
companies  pass  singing  out  of  sight,  and  a  'fair  lady,'  herself 
a  servant  of  the  Leaf,  explains  to  the  poet  the  meaning  of  the 
vision. 

Dryden's  paraphrase  of  this  poem,  which  he  of  course  believed 
to  be  by  Chaucer,  is  well  known. 


86  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

[The  author  having  passed  a  sleepless  night,  though  why  she  knows  not, 
as  she  has  neither  sickness  nor  disease,  wanders  out  early.] 

And  up  I  roos  three  houres  after  twelfe, 
Aboute  the  [eriy]  springing  of  the  day  ; 
And  on  I  putte  my  geare  and  mine  array, 
And  to  a  pleasaunt  grove  I  gan  to  passe, 
Long  or  the  brighte  Sonne  up-risen  was  ; 

In  which  were  okes  grete,  straight  as  a  Hne, 
Under  the  which  the  gras,  so  fresh  of  hew, 
Was  newly  spronge  ;    and  an  eight  foot  or  nine 
Every  tree  wel  fro  his  fellow  grew, 
With  branches  brode,  laden  with  leves  new, 
That  sprongen  out  ayen  the  sunne  shene. 
Some  very  red,  and  some  a  glad  light  grene  ; 

Which,  as  me  thoughte,  was  right  a  plesant  sight  ; 

And  eke  the  briddes  songes  for  to  here 

Would  have  rejoyced  any  earthly  wight  ; 

And  I  that  couthe  not  yet,  in  no  manere, 

Here  the  nightingale  of  all  the  yere, 

P'ul  busily  herkned  with  hart  and  ere, 

If  I  her  voice  perceive  coude  any- where. 

And,  at  the  last,  a  path  of  little  breede^ 

I  found,  that  gretly  hadde  not  used  be  ; 

For  it  forgrowen  was  with  grasse  and  weede, 

That  well  unneth  a  wight  [ne]  might  it  se  : 

Thoght  I,  'This  path  some  whider  goth,  pardc  !' 

And  so  I  followed,  till  it  me  brought 

To  right  a  pleasaunt  herber,'^  well  ywrought. 

That  benched  was,  and  eke  with  turfes  newe 

Freshly  turved,  whereof  the  grene  gras. 

So  small,  so  thicke,  so  short,  so  fresh  of  hewe, 

That  most  ylike  grene  wool,  I  wot,  it  was  : 

The  hegge  also  that  yede  in  this  compas^, 

And  closed  in  all  the  grene  hcrbere, 

With  sicamour  was  set  and  cglatcre  *. 

'  brcadtli.  ^  arbour.  '  went  round  about.  *  eglantine. 


POEMS  ATTRIBUTED   TO   CHAUCER.  87 


And  as  I  stood  and  cast  aside  mine  eie, 

I  was  ware  of  the  fairest  medler-tree, 

That  ever  yet  in  all  my  Hfe  I  sie\ 

As  full  of  blossomes  as  it  mighte  be  ; 

Therein  a  goldfinch  leaping  pretile 

Fro  bough  to  bough  ;   and,  as  him  list,  gan  ete 

Of  buddes  here  and  there  and  floures  swete. 

And  to  the  herber  side  ther  was  joyninge 
This  faire  tree,  of  which  I  have  you  told  ; 
And  at  the  last  the  brid  began  to  singe, 
When  he  had  eten  what  he  ete  wolde, 
So  passing  sweetly,  that  by  manifolde 
It  was  more  pleasaunt  than  I  coude  devise. 
And  when  his  song  was  ended  in  this  wise, 

The  nightingale  with  so  mery  a  note 

Answered  him,  that  all  the  woode  rong 

So  sodainly,  that,  as  it  were  a  sote^, 

I  stood  astonied  ;   so  was  I  with  the  song 

Thorow  ravished,  that  till  late  and  longe, 

Ne  wist  I  in  what  place  I  was,  ne  where  ; 

And  ay,  me  thoughte,  she  song  even  by  mine  ere. 

Wherefore  about  I  waited  busily, 
On  every  side,  if  that  I  her  mighte  see  ; 
And,  at  the  last,  I  gan  full  well  aspie 
Where  she  sat  in  a  fresh  grene  laurer  tree, 
On  the  further  side,  even  right  by  me. 
That  gave  so  passing  a  delicious  smell. 
According  to  the  eglantere  full  well. 
****** 

And  as  I  sat,  the  briddes  barkening  thus, 
Me  thoughte  that  I  herde  voices  sodainly. 
The  most  sweetest  and  most  delicious 
That  ever  any  wight,  I  trow  truly. 
Herd  in  here  life  ;  for  sothe  the  armony 
And  sweet  accord  was  in  so  good  musike, 
That  the  voice[s]  to  angels  most  were^  like. 

'  saw.  ^  sot,  fool.  ^  Old  ed.  was. 


88  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  at  the  last,  out  of  a  grove  faste  by, 

That  was  right  goodly  and  pleasant  to  sight, 

I  sie  where  there  cam,  singing  lustily, 

A  world  of  ladies  ;  but,  to  tell  aright 

Ker  grete  beautie,  it  lieth  not  in  my  might, 

Ne  her  array ;  neverthelesse  I  shall 

Telle  you  a  part,  though  I  speake  not  of  all. 


The  Court  of  Love. 

The  Cottrt  of  Love  (date  about  1 500)  is  a  poem  of  the  Chau- 
cerian school,  containing  many  echoes  of  Chaucer,  and  making 
distinct  reference  to  The  Compleynte  of  Pite  and  The  Legende  of 
Goode  Women.  '  Philogenet,  of  Cambridge  Clerk,'  who,  in  the 
days  of  unreflecting  Chaucerian  criticism,  was  always  supposed  to 
represent  the  young  Chaucer  himself,  repairs  to  the  Court  of 
Venus,  where  he  finds  Admetus  and  Alceste,  the  heroine  of  The 
Legende  of  Goode  Women,  with  her  'ladies  good  nineteene' 
presiding  over  the  Castle  of  Love.  The  Queen's  handmaid 
Philobone  takes  him  in  charge  and  shows  him  the  wonders  of  the 
place.  He  swears  allegiance  to  the  Twenty  Statutes  of  Love,  and 
is  then  introduced  to  the  Lady  Rosial,  with  whom  he  has  already 
fallen  in  love  in  his  dream,  and  whose  presence  inspires  him  with 
long  protestations  of  devotion.  Rosial  is  for  the  time  obdurate, 
and  sends  him  away  again  with  Philobone  to  wait  her  pleasure. 
After  a  graphic  description  of  the  Courtiers  of  Love,  an  unequal 
but  vigorous  piece  of  writing,  there  appears  to  be  a  break  in  the 
poem,  for  we  find  ourselves  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  a  tender 
speech  of  Rosial,  who  describes  how  Pite,  risen  from  the  shrine  in 
which  Philogenet  had  seen  her  buried  within  the  temple  of  Venus, 
had  softened  her  breast  towards  him.  The  poem  ends  with  one  of 
the  favourite  bird-scenes  of  the  time,  a  curious  paraphrase  of  the 
Matins  for  Trinity  Sunday.  This  song  in  honour  of  Love,  sung 
on  May  morning  by  a  chorus  of  birds,  should  be  compared  with 
the  last  scenes  of  the  Parlemcnt  of  P'oules. 

The  first  of  the  following  extracts,  a  beautiful  sketch  of  Privy 
Thought  or  Fancy,  among  the  Courtiers  of  Love,  is  full  of  delicate 
imagination,  and  represents  the  author  better  than  the  tedious 
Statutes  of  Love,  or  the  hymn  to  Venus,  taken  from  Boethius,  of 


POEMS  ATTRIBUTED    TO   CHAUCER.  89 

which  his  master,  Chaucer,  had  before  him  made  more  successful 
use.  The  second  piece,  which  represents  the  close  of  the  May 
festival,  is  so  characteristic  of  the  school  of  poetry  and  of  the  time, 
that  it  will  bear  quoting,  in  spite  of  its  conventionality. 

And  Prevye  Thought,  rejoycing  of  hym-self, 

Stode  not  fer  thens  in  abite  mervelous ;  ' 

'Yon  is,'  thought  I,  'som  sprite  or  som  elf, 

His  sotill  image  is  so  curious  : 

How  is,'  quod  I,  'that  he  is  shaded  thus 

With  yonder  cloth,  I  note^  of  what  coloure?' 

And  nere  I  went  and  gan  to  lere  and  pore, 

And  framed  him  a  question  full  hard. 

'  What  is,'  quod  I,  '  the  thyng  thou  lovest  best  ? 

Or  what  is  bote  "^  unto  thy  paynes  hard  ? 

Me  think  thou  livest  here  in  grete  unrest, 

Thow  wandrest  ay  from  south  to  est  and  west, 

And  est  to  north  ;  as  fer  as  I  can  see. 

There  is  no  place  in  courte  may  holden  the. 

'  Whom  folowest  thow  ?  where  is  thy  harte  iset  ? 

But  my  demaunde  asoile  ^  I  thee  require.' 

'  Me  thoughte,'  quod  he,  '  no  creature  may  lette 

Me  to  ben  here  and  where  as  I  desire  : 

For  where  as  absence  hath  don  out  the  fire, 

My  mery  thought  it  kyndelith  yet  agayn. 

That  bodily  me  thinke  with  my  souverayne 

'  I  stand  and  speke,  and  laugh,  and  kisse,  and  halse  ■•, 

So  that  my  thought  comforteth  me  ful  ofte  : 

I  think,  God  wot,  though  all  the  world  be  false, 

I  wil  be  trewe  ;    I  think  also  how  softe 

My  lady  is  in  speche,  and  this  on-lofte 

Bryngeth  myn  harte  in  joye  and  grete  gladnesse  ; 

This  prevey  thought  alayeth  myne  hevynesse. 

'And  what  I  thinke  or  where  to  be,  no  man 

In  all  this  erth  can  tell,  iwis,  but  I  : 

And  eke  there  nys  no  swalowe  swifte,  ne  swan 

'  know  not.  *  remedy.  '  absolve,  solve.  *  embrace. 


9C  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

So  wight  ^  of  wyng,  ne  half  so  yerne  ^  can  flye  ; 
For  I  can  ben,  and  that  right  sodenly, 
In.Heven,  in  Helle,  in  Paradise,  and  here, 
And  with  my  lady,  whan  I  wil  desire. 

'  I  am  of  councell  ferre  and  wide,  I  wot, 

With  lord  and  lady,  and  here  privitd 

I  wot  it  all  ;   and  be  it  cold  or  hoot, 

Thay  shalle  not  speke  withoute  licence  of  me. 

I  mynde,  in  suche  as  sesonable  ^  bee, 

Tho  *  first  the  thing  is  thought  withyn  the  harte, 

Er  any  worde  out  from  the  mouth  astarte.' 


And  furth  the  cokkowe  gan  procede  anon, 

With  *" Benedictus''  thankyng  God  in  haste. 

That  in  this  May  wold  visite  hem  echon, 

And  gladden  hem  all  while  the  feste  shall  laste : 

And  therewithal  a  loughter  out  he  braste, 

'  I  thanke  it  God  that  I  shuld  e^ide  the  song, 

And  all  the  service  which  hath  ben  so  long.' 

Thus  sange  thay  all  the  service  of  the  feste, 

And  that  was  done  right  erly,  to  my  dome^ ; 

And  furth  goth  all  the  courte,  bothe  moste  and  leste, 

To  feche  the  floures  fressh,  and  braunche  and  blome  ; 

And  namly  hawthorn  brought  both  page  and  grome, 

With  fressh  garlantis,  partie  blewe  and  white, 

And  hem  rejoysen  in  her  grete  delite. 

Eke  eche  at  other  threw  the  floures  brighte, 

The  prymerose,  the  violet,  and  the  golde*^ ; 

So  than,  as  I  beheld  the  riall  sighte, 

My  lady  gan  me  sodenly  bcholde. 

And  with  a  trewe  love,  plitcd  many-folde. 

She  smote  me  thrugh  the  very  harte  as  blive ', 

And  Venus  yet  I  thanke  I  am  alive. 

'  swift.  ^  eagerly,  briskly.  '  ripe  for,  inclMicd  to  love. 

Then  =  when.  '"  in  my  judgment.  '  marigold.  '  swiftly. 


WILLIAM     LANG  LEY, 

OR 

LANGLAND. 

Contemporaneously  with  Chaucer  there  lived  and  worked  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  of  our  poets,  of  whom  we  know  little  or 
nothing  except  from  his  works.  And  even  these  have  been  so 
httle  studied  by  the  generality  of  readers,  that  the  singular  mis- 
take has  arisen  of  confusing  the  name  of  the  work  with  the  name 
of  the  author.  It  is  common  to  see  references  made  to  '  Piers 
Plowman '  as  if  he  were  a  writer  living  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
which  is  no  less  confusing  than  if  we  should  speak  of  Hamlet  as 
flourishing  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 

Our  author's  name  is  not  certainly  known.  That  his  Christian 
name  was  William  there  can  be  no  doubt,  though  by  some  mistake 
he  has  sometimes  been  called  Robert.  In  a  note  written  on  the 
fly-leaf  of  one  of  the  Dublin  MSS.,  in  a  hand  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  we  are  told  that  a  certain  Stacy  de  Rokayle,  living  at 
Shipton-under-Wychwood  (about  four  miles  from  Burford  in  Ox- 
fordshire), and  holding  land  of  Lord  le  Spenser,  was  the  father 
of  William  de  Langlond  who  wrote  the  book  called  Piers  Plowman. 
The  only  difficulty  about  this  testimony  is  the  name  Langland, 
which  should  rather,  perhaps,  be  read  as  Langley  ;  since  the 
Langland  family  was  at  that  date  connected  with  Somersetshire, 
whilst  there  is  actually  a  hamlet  named  Langley  at  no  great 
distance  from  Shipton. 

By  a  careful  study  of  the  internal  evidence  afforded  us  by  the 
poet's  works,  we  can  make  out  quite  sufficient  to  give  us  a  clear 
idea  of  the  man.  We  gather,  chiefly  from  his  own  words,  that  he 
was  born  about  A.D.  1332,  probably  at  Cleobury  Mortimer  in  Shrop- 
shire. His  father  and  his  friends  put  him  to  school  (possibly  in 
the  monastery  at  Great  Malvern),  made  a  clerk  or  scholar  of  him, 
and  taught  him  what  holy  writ  meant.  In  1362,  at  the  age  of 
about  thirty,  he  first  began  work  upon  the  poem,  which  was  to 
occupy  him  during  a  great  part  of  his  after  life.  The  real  subject 
of  the  poem  is  the  religious  and  social  condition  of  the  poorer 


92  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

classes  of  England  during  the  reigns  of  Edward  III.  and  Richard 
II.  His  testimony  is  invested  with  a  peculiar  interest  by  the  fact 
that  he  clearly  knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  His  own  expe- 
rience, and  his  own  keen  powers  of  observation  provided  him  with 
an  abundant  supply  of  material.  He  saw  the  necessity  of  some 
reform,  and  endeavoured  to  realise  in  his  own  mind  the  person  of 
the  coming  reformer.  To  this  ideal  person  he  gave  the  name 
of  Piers  the  Plowman,  to  signify  that  great  results  can  often  be 
achieved  by  comparatively  humble  means ;  and  perhaps  as  hinting, 
at  the  same  time,  that  if  the  labouring  classes  were  to  expect  any 
great  improvement  to  take  place  in  their  condition,  they  had  best 
consider  what  they  could  do  to  help  themselves.  As  years  wore 
on,  William's  supposed  reformer  seems  to  have  become  less  actual 
to  him,  and  assumed,  as  it  were,  a  more  spiritual  form  to  his  mind. 
At  last  he  fully  grasps  the  idea  that  it  is  better  to  turn  from  any 
expectation  of  a  reformer  to  come  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
Saviour  who  has  come  already.  At  this  point,  his  mind  seizes  a 
bolder  conception  ;  he  no  longer  describes  Piers  Plowman  as  he 
had  done  at  first,  as  if  he  were  no  more  than  what  was  formerly 
called  a  head  harvestman,  giving  directions  to  the  reapers  and 
sowing  the  corn  himself  that  he  might  be  sure  it  was  sown  properly ; 
but  he  identifies  him  rather  with  the  Good  Samaritan,  or  personified 
Love,  who  is  to  be  of  more  help  to  mankind  than  Faith  as  typified 
by  Abraham,  or  than  Hope  as  typified  by  Moses.  The  true  Good 
Samaritan  is  He  who  told  the  parable  of  Himself;  the  Reformer  is 
no  other  than  Christ.  When  Christ  became  incarnate.  He  was  like 
a  warrior  doing  battle  in  another's  cause,  and  wearing  his  arms  and 
cognisance.  He  put  on  the  armour  of  Piers  the  Plowman  when  He 
took  upon  Himself  human  nature  ;  and  His  victory  over  death  was 
the  earnest  of  the  deliverance  of  mankind  from  all  miseries,  and 
the  beginning  of  the  improvement  of  the  condition  of  the  lower 
orders.  Such  ideas  as  these  form,  in  fact,  a  part  of  the  author's  own 
life ;  they  are  essentially  an  important  chapter  in  his  autobiography. 

In  the  first  instance,  he  began  his  poem  under  the  form  of  a 
Vision,  which  took  at  last  the  name  of  the  Vision  of  Piers  the 
Plowman  ;  though  it  is  rather  a  succession  of  visions,  in  some  of 
which  Piers  is  never  seen  at  all.  The  poet  describes  himself  as 
wandering  on  the  Malvern  Hills,  where  he  falls  asleep  beside  a 
murmuring  brook,  and  dreams  of  a  Field  full  of  Folk,  i.e.  the 
world,  of  the  Lady  Holychurch  who  acts  as  his  instructress,  of  the 
Lady  Meed  who  corrupts  justice  and  is  ready  to  bribe  even  the 


LANGLEY  OR  LANGLAND.  93 

king  himself,  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  and  of  Piers  the  Plowman. 
Such  was  the  first  draught  of  his  poem,  to  which  a  sort  of  appendix 
was  shortly  added,  with  the  title  of  Do -Well,  Do-bet  [i.e.  Do- 
better],  and  Do-best. 

It  would  appear  that  he  had  already  some  acquaintance  with 
London  life  ;  and,  soon  after  the  writing  of  the  first  draught  of  the 
poem,  he  seems  to  have  resided  there  permanently,  taking  up  his 
abode  in  Cornhill,  where  he  lived  with  his  wife  Kitte  and  his 
daughter  Calote,  for  many  long  years.  About  a.d.  1377  he  under- 
took the  task  of  revising  his  poem  ;  it  ended  in  his  completely 
rewriting  it,  at  the  same  time  expanding  it  to  so  great  an  extent 
that  it  grew  to  three  times  its  former  length.  Incidentally,  he 
describes  himself  as  a  tall  man,  going  by  the  nickname  of  Long 
Will ;  one  loath  to  reverence  lords  or  ladies,  or  persons  dressed  in 
fur  and  wearing  silver  ornaments,  and  not  deigning  to  say  '  God 
save  you'  to  the  Serjeants  whom  he  met.  It  requires  no  great 
stretch  of  the  imagination  to  picture  to  ourselves  the  tall  gaunt 
figure  of  Long  Will,  in  long  robes  and  with  shaven  crown,  striding 
along  Cornhill,  saluting  no  man  by  the  way,  and  minutely  obser- 
vant of  the  gay  dresses  to  which  he  paid  no  outward  reverence. 
It  further  appears  that  he  was  thoroughly  versed  in  legal  forms, 
and  conversant  with  the  writing  out  of  legal  documents  ;  such 
knowledge  enabled  him  to  earn  small  sums  as  a  notary,  and  he 
was  frequent  in  his  attendance  at  Westminster  Hall. 

Towards  the  year  1393,  or  even  a  little  earlier,  we  find  him  again 
becoming  dissatisfied  with  the  wording  of  his  poem.  Again  he 
resolved  to  revise  it  thoroughly,  but  this  time  he  is  more  careful 
about  the  form  than  the  matter.  Minute  corrections  and  altera- 
tions were  made  in  almost  every  line  ;  a  few  passages  were  cur- 
tailed, and  others  somewhat  lengthened.  Perceiving  that  one  long 
passage  of  his  poem  as  it  stood  in  the  second  draught  was,  as  to 
its  general  contents,  a  repetition  of  a  former  passage,  he  so  trans- 
posed his  material  as  to  bring  the  two  passages  together,  inter- 
weaving them  with  such  ingenuity  that  the  numerous  insertions 
seem  to  fall  into  their  places  naturally  enough.  The  resulting 
third  draught  of  the  poem  is  not  much  longer  than  the  second. 
In  some  points  he  made  improvements,  but  the  general  effect  of 
the  whole  is  less  striking  and  original  ;  this  being  the  inevitable 
result  of  his  obvious  desire  to  tone  down  some  of  the  more  out- 
spoken passages,  and  to  express  a  certain  leaning  towards  conser- 
vatism such  as  frequently  comes  with  advancing  years.     We  are 


94  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

bound,  perhaps,  to  consider  this  latest  version  of  the  poem  as 
being,  upon  the  whole,  the  best ;  but  we  cannot  but  remark  that, 
whilst  it  is  more  mature,  it  is  less  vigorous. 

Thus,  during  a  period  of  more  than  thirty  years,  the  poem  called 
the  Vision  of  Piers  the  Plowman,  with  its  appendix  of  Do -Well, 
Do-bet,  and  Do-best,  descriptive  of  three  stages  in  the  Christian's 
life  and  experience,  grew  slowly  into  its  final  shape  under  the 
author's  hands.  It  is  a  poem  of  almost  unique  character,  and  can 
hardly  be  judged  by  any  of  the  usual  standards.  In  one  respect, 
it  reminds  us  of  Butler's  Hudibras  ;  it  was  obviously  written  rather 
to  give  the  author  an  opportunity  of  saying  many  things  by  the 
way  than  on  such  a  definite  plan  as  requires  a  close  attention  on 
the  part  of  a  reader.  The  general  plan  has  but  slight  coherence, 
and  merely  aims  at  considering  what  improvement  can  be  made 
in  men's  characters,  and  what  hope  there  is  for  the  world  from  the 
teachings  of  Christianity.  He  who  does  a  kindly  action,  does  ivell\ 
but  he  who  teaches  men  to  do  good,  does  better ;  whilst  he  who 
combines  both,  who  does  good  himself  and  teaches  others  to  do  the 
same,  does  best.  From  frequently  dwelling  on  this  theme,  the  poet 
at  last  considers  the  life  of  Christ ;  and,  following  the  narrative  of 
the  gospels,  describes  His  entry  into  Jerusalem,  His  betrayal  and 
crucifixion.  At  this  point,  he  supplements  the  gospel  narrative 
from  the  apocryphal  gospel  of  Nicodemus,  describing  the  descent 
of  Christ  into  hell.  His  victory  over  Satan  and  Lucifer,  and  His 
release  of  the  souls  of  the  patriarchs  from  their  long  prison.  Then 
follows  the  glorious  Resurrection  of  the  Saviour,  the  descent  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,  and  the  bestowal  upon  men  of  the  gifts  of  the  Spirit. 
But  the  progress  of  Christianity  is  checked  to  some  extent  by  the 
descent  of  Antichrist  and  the  attack  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins 
upon  the  church ;  and  the  poem  concludes  by  reminding  us  that 
the  church  is  still  militant,  that  corruptions  have  crept  in  where 
only  truth  should  be  preached,  and  that  the  end  is  not  yet. 

In  1399,  during  the  brief  space  when  the  deposition  of  Richard 
II,  was  already  imminent  but  had  not  yet  been  decided  upon,  our 
author  wrote  a  poem,  addressed  to  the  king,  upon  the  subject  of  the 
misgovernmcnt  under  which  England  suffered.  This  poem,  in  the 
only  extant  manuscript,  breaks  off  abruptly  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence  ;  and,  though  it  is  of  considerable  interest,  its  immediate 
application  was  speedily  set  aside  by  the  rapid  progress  of  events. 

The  manuscripts  of  Piers  the  Plowman,  in  all  tlirce  versions,  are 
very  numerous,  and  it  was  once  an  extremely  favourite  poem.     In 


LANGLEY  OR  LANGLAND.  95 

the  reign  of  Edward  VI.  it  was  for  the  first  time  printed,  and  went 
through  three  editions  in  one  year.  It  was  familiar  to  several  of 
our  great  writers,  including  Lydgate,  Skelton,  Gascoigne,  Drayton, 
and  Spenser.  The  author's  vocabulary  is  extremely  copious,  which 
occasions  one  difficulty  in  understanding  his  language.  Some 
have  imagined  that  his  language  contains  only  words  of  English 
origin,  but  this  notion  must  have  originated  in  extreme  ignorance. 
He  uses,  in  fact,  the  common  midland  dialect  of  the  time,  into 
which  French  words  were  introduced  with  great  freedom  ;  and  the 
percentage  of  French  words  employed  by  him  is  slightly  greater 
than  that  which  is  to  be  found  in  Chaucer.  The  metre  is  the 
usual  unrhymed  alliterative  metre  of  the  older  English  period  ; 
almost  the  07ily  metre  which  can  rightly  be  called  English,  since 
nearly  all  others  have  been  borrowed  from  French  or  Italian.  We 
commonly  find  about  three  syllables  in  each  line,  which  begin  with 
the  same  letter  ;  and  such  syllables  are,  as  a  rule,  accented  ones. 
The  general  swing  of  the  lines  has  been  described  as  anapcEstic  ; 
it  is  rather  dactylic,  with  one  or  more  unaccented  syllables  prefixed. 
The  characters  which  William  describes  as  appearing  to  him  in 
consecutive  visions  have  all  allegorical  names,  and  some  are 
visionary  enough  ;  but  others  may  have  been  sketched  from  the 
life,  and  are  as  distinct  as  a  drawing  by  Hogarth.  The  chief 
power  of  his  writing  resides  in  its  homely  earnestness,  and  in  his 
hearty  hatred  of  untruth  in  every  form.  In  treating  of  theological 
questions,  he  is  often  obscure,  minute,  and  tedious  ;  but  in  treating 
of  life  and  manners  he  is  keen,  direct,  satirical,  and  vivid.  Some 
portions  of  the  poem  could  well  be  spared  ;  others  are  of  much 
value.  It  is  not  suited  to  all  readers  ;  but  most  of  those  who 
explore  it  must  be  glad  that  they  have  done  so.  Apart  from  its 
literary  merit,  it  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  linguistic  monuments 
in  the  whole  range  of  our  literature. 

Instead  of  giving,  as  is  usual,  short  scraps  of  the  poem  which 
are  almost  unintelligible  for  lack  of  context,  we  present  here,  in  a 
much  abridged  form,  the  21st  Passus  or  canto  of  the  poem,  the  sub- 
ject of  which  will  be  readily  perceived.  It  deals  with  Christ's  entry 
into  Jerusalem,  the  crucifixion,  descent  into  hell,  and  resurrection. 

In  the  following  extract,  the  spelling  has  been  modernised, 
because  the  language  is  a  little  difficult,  as  is  usual  in  alliterative 
poems.  It  is  given  as  a  specimen  of  style,  but  has  no  linguistic 
value  in  its  modern  dress. 

W.  W.  SKEAT. 


gS  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

From  'The  Vision  of  Piers  the  Plowman.' 

Passus  XXI.     {Latest  Version.) 

Wo-weary  and  wetshod  *  went  I  forth  after, 

As  a  reckless  renk^  "  that  recketh  not  of  sorrow, 

And  yede^  forth  like  a  loreP  *  all  my  life-time, 

Till  I  wex  *  weary  of  this  world  •  and  wilned  ^  eft  ^  to  sleep. 

And  leaned  me  till  Lent  •  and  long  time  I  slept. 

Of  girls  "^  and  of  gloria  laus  '  greatly  I  dreamed, 

And  how  hosanna  by  organ  '  old  folk  sung. 

One,  was  semblable*  to  the  Samaritan  '  and  some-deal  to  Piers 

Plowman, 
Barefoot  on  an  ass-back  *  bootless  came  pricking, 
Without  spurs  or  spear  "  and  sprackly^  he  looked. 
As  is  the  kind  of  a  knight  *  that  cometh  to  be  dubbed, 
To  get  his  gold  spurs  •  and  galoches^"  y-couped". 
Then  was  Faith  in  a  fenestre '^  •   and  cried,  '■Ah!  fili  David  P 
As  doth  an  herald  of  arms  *  when  auntres  '^  come  to  jousts. 
Old  Jews  of  Jerusalem  •  for  joy  they  sung, 

Benedictiis  qui  vetiit  in  noj?iine  domini. 
Then  I  frayned^*  at  Faith  •  what  all  that  fare  meant. 
And  who  should  joust  in  Jerusalem  •  *  Jesus,'  he  said, 
'And  fetch  that^^  the  fiend  claimeth  •  Piers  fruit  the  Plowman ^^' 
'Is  Piers  in  this  place?'  quoth  I  •  and  he  preynte"  upon  me, 
^ Libenun  Dei  arbitritim^  quoth  he  '   'for  love  hath  undertaken 
That  this  Jesus,  of  his  gentrise  ^*  •  shall  joust  in  Piers'  arms, 
In  his  helm  and  in  his  habergeon  *  humatiii  naturd. 
That  Christ  be  not  known  •  for  consummatiis  Deus, 
In  Piers'  plates  the  Plowman^*  •  this  pricker 2°  shall  ride; 
For  no  dint"  shall  him  dere^^  *  as  in  Deitate  patris.' 


•  man.  »  went.  '  caitiff.  *  became.  '  wished. 

"  again.  '  children.  *  like.  •  sprightly.  '"  shoes. 

"  curiously  cut.  "  ^vindow.  *'  adventurers.  "  asked. 

»'  that  which,  'o  the  fruit  [souls  of  men]  belonging  to  Piers  Plowman 

[Christ].  "  glanced,  looked.  "  condescension.  '*  in  the 

plate-armour  of  Piers  Plowman.  "rider.  "blow.  "harm. 


LANG  LEY  OR  LANGLAND.  97 

*  Who  shall  joust  with  Jesus  ? '  quoth  I   *  *  Jews,  or  the  scribes  ? ' 

'  Nay,'  quoth  Faith,  '  but  the  fiend  •  and  false-doom-to-die. 

Death  saith  he  will  for-do^  •  and  adown  bring 

All  that  liveth  or  looketh  '  on  land  and  in  water. 

Life  saith  that  he  lieth  *  and  hath  laid  his  life  to  wed'', 

That,  for  all  that  Death  can  do  •  within  three  days, 

To  walk,  and  fetch  from  the  fiend  •  Piers  fruit  the  Plowman, 

And  lay  it  where  him  liketh  ■  and  Lucifer  bind, 

And  for-beat  ^  and  bring  adown  '  bale  and  death  for  ever ! 

O  tnors,  ero  i/iors  tua! 
Then  came  Pilate  with  much  people  •  sedens  pro  iribunali, 
To  see  how  doughtily  Death  should  do  '  and  deem*  their  beyer 

right  ^ 
The  Jews  and  the  justices  *  against  Jesus  they  were. 
And  all  the  court  cried  •  crucifige!  loud. 
Then  put  him  forth  a  pilour®  "  before  Pilate,  and  said, 
'This  Jesus  of  our  Jews'  temple  '  japed ^  and  despised, 
To  for-do  it  on  a  day  *  and  in  three  days  after 
Edify  it  eft  new  •  here  He  stands  that  said  it. 
And  yet  make  it  as  much^  •  in  all  manner  [of]  points 
Both  as  long  and  as  large  '  aloft  and  aground. 
And  as  wide  as  it  ever  was  *  this  we  witness  all ! ' 
''Crucifige!''  quoth  a  catch-poll  •  he  can  of^  witchcraft. 
'  Tolle!  tolle! '  quoth  another  •  and  took  of  keen  thorns. 
And  began  of  a  green  thorn  *  a  garland  to  make, 
And  set  it  sore  on  His  head  •  and  sith '"  said  in  envy, 
'■Ave!  Rabbi!''  quoth  that  ribald  "  and  reeds  shot  at  His  eyes: 
And  nailed  Him  with  three  nails  •  naked  on  the  rood. 
And,  with  a  pole,  poison  '  [they]  put  to  his  lips. 
And  bade  Him  drink,  His  death  to  let"  •  and  His  days  lengthen  ; 
And  said,  '  if  He  soothfast  be  "  He  will  Himself  help  ; 
And  now,  if  Thou  be  Christ  *  God's  son  of  heaven, 
Come  adown  off  this  rood  *  and  then  will  we  'lieve 
That  life  Thee  loveth  '  and  will  not  let  Thee  die.' 


'  destroy.              '  as  a  pledge.  ^  beat  to  death.               *  adjudge. 

*  the  right  [claim]  of  them  both.  *  a  robber  put  himself  forward. 

'  jested.                    '  great.  °  knows  much  of.                     "  then. 
"  prevent. 


VOL.  I. 

L 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


'  Consummattim  est! '  quoth  Christ   "   and  comsed  ^  for  to  swoon 

Piteously  and  pale  "  as  prisoner  that  dieth. 

The  Lord  of  Hfe  and  of  Hght  '  then  laid  His  eyes  together, 

The  day  for  dread  thereof  withdrew  "  and  dark  became  the  sun, 

The  wall  of  the  temple  to-clave  '^  "  even  in  two  pieces  ; 

The  hard  rock  all  to-rove^  •  and  right  dark  night  it  seemed. 

The  earth  quook  and  quashed  "  as  [if]  it  quick*  were, 

And  dead  men  for  that  din  •  came  out  of  deep  graves, 

And  told  why  that  tempest  •  so  long  time  dured  ; 

'  For  a  bitter  battle '  "  the  dead  body  said  ; 

'Life  and  Death  in  this  darkness  *  the  one  for-doth^  the  other, 

But  shall  no  wight  wit  witterly^  "  who  shall  have  the  mastery 

Ere  Sunday,  about  sun-rising'  •  and  sank  with  that  to  earth. 

•)^  if-  %  -^  %  -Sfi  -^ 

Lo  !  how  the  sun  gan  lock  •  her^  light  in  her-self, 

When  she  saw  Him  suffer  death  ■  who  sun  and  sea  made  ! 

Lo  !  the  earth,  for  heaviness  •  that  He  would  death  suffer, 

Quaked  *  as  [a]  quick  thing  '  and  al  to-quashed  the  rocks  ! 

Lo  !  hell  might  not  hold  •  but  opened,  when  God  tholed  *, 

And  let  out  Simon's "  sons  •  to  see  Him  hang  on  rood. 

Now  shall  Lucifer  'lieve  it  "  though  him  loath  think  ; 

For  Jesus,  as  a  giant  "  with  a  gin-''  cometh  yond. 

To  break  and  to  beat  adown  "  all  that  be  against  Him, 

And  to  have  out  all  •  of  them  that  Him  liketh. 

'  Suffer  we,'  said  Truth  •  '  I  hear  and  see  both 

A  Spirit  speak  to  hell  '  and  bids  unspar  the  gates  ; 

Attollite  portas,  principes,  vestrasj  &c.' 
A  voice  loud  in  that  light  "  to  Lucifer  cried, 
'  Princes  of  this  palace  •  prest  '^  undo  the  gates, 
For  here  cometh  with  crown  *  the  king  of  all  glory.' 
Then  sighed  Satan  •  and  said  to  hell, 
'  Such  a  light,  against  our  leave  "  Lazarus  it  fetched  ; 
Cold  care  and  cumbrance  *  is  come  to  us  all. 

'  began.  *  was  cloven  in  twain.  ^  wa<;  reft  in  two. 

*  alive.  °  destroys.  ''  know  certainly.  '  sun  is  feminine. 

'so  here;  above  we  have  (\\ioak.  "  suffered. 

'"  In  the  apocryjihnl  (Jospel  of  Nicodcmus,  two  sons  of  .Simeon  rise  from 
the  dead,  and  reveal  wlial  they  have  witnessed  in  hell  during  Christ's  descent 
into  it.  "  device,  i)lan.  "  quickly. 


LANGLEY  OR  LANGLAXD.  99 

If  this  king  come  in  •  mankind  will  be  fetch, 

And  lead  it  where  Lazar  is  ■  and  lightly  me  bind. 

Patriarchs  and  prophets  •  have  parled^  hereof  long, 

That  such  a  lord  and  a  light  "  shall  lead  them  all  hence. 

But  rise  up,  Ragamuffin  !    "    and  reach  me  the  bars 

That  Belial  thy  bel-sire  ^   "   beat  ^,  with  thy  dam  *, 

And  I  shall  let®  this  lord  '  and  His  light  stop. 

Ere  we  through  brightness  be  blent  ^  "  bar  we  the  gates  ! 

Check  we,  and  chain  we  *  and  each  chine'  stop, 

That  no  light  leap  in  •  at  louvre  nor  at  loop. 

And  thou,  Ashtaroth,  hoot  out  '  and  have  out  our  knaves, 

Coking,  and  all  his  kin  *  our  cattle  *  to  save. 

Brimstone  boiling  *  burning  out-cast  it 

All  hot  on  their  heads  •  that  enter  nigh  the  walls. 

Set  bows  of  brake  ^  *  and  brazen  guns. 

And  shoot  out  shot  enough  *  His  sheltrums"  to  blend". 

Set  Mahound  at  the  mangoneP^  *  and  mill-stones  throw, 

With  crooks  and  with  calthrops    *  a-cloy  ^^  we  them  each  one  ! ' 

'Listen!'  quoth  Lucifer  •  'for  I  this  lord  know. 

Both  this  lord  and  this  light  •  is  long  ago  I  knew  him. 

May  no  death  this  Lord  dere^*  '  nor  devil's  queintise^": 

And,  where  He  will,  is  His  way    •  but  warn  Him  of  the  perils. 

If  He  reave  me  of  my  right  *  He  robbeth  me  by  mastery '^ 

For,  by  right  and  by  reason  •  the  renks  ^'  that  be  here 

Body  and  soul  be  mine  •  both  good  and  ill. 

For  He  Himself  it  said  •  that  Sire  is  of  hell, 

That  Adam  and  Eve  •  and  all  their  issue 

Should  die  with  dooP'  '  and  here  dwell  ever, 

If  that  they  touched  a  tree  "  or  took  thereof  an  apple. 

Thus  this  lord  of  light  '  such  a  law  made  ; 

And,  since  He  is  so  leal  a  Lord  •  I  'lieve  that  He  will  not 

Reave  us  of  our  right  •  since  reason  them  damned. 

And,  since  we  have  been  seised  •  seven  thousand  winters, 

And  [He]  never  was  there-against  •  and  now  will  begin, 

'  spoken.  *  good  father.  ^  forged.  *  mother.  '  stop. 

'  blinded.  ''  chink.  '  chattels.  '  cross-bows,  with  powerful 

levers  for  setting  them.  ''  squadrons.  "  blind.  **  catapult. 

^^  frustrate.  '*  harm.  *'  device.  '*  mere  force.  '"  men. 

"  sorrow. 

H  2 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


He  were  unwrast  of^  His  word  *  that  witness  is  of  truth!' 

'That  is  sooth,'  said  Satan  *  'but  I  me  sore  doubt, 

For^  thou  got  them  with  guile  *  and  His  garden  broke, 

Against  His  love  and  His  leave  "  on  His  land  yedest\ 

Not  in  form  of  a  fiend  •  but  in  form  of  an  adder ; 

And  enticedest  Eve  *  to  eat  by  herself. 

And  behightest*  her  and  him  •  after  to  know, 

As  two  gods,  with  God  *  both  good  and  ill  ; 

Thus  with   treason    and  with    treachery  •  thou   troiledest®  them 

both, 
And    diddest "   them    break    their    buxomness  "^    '    through   false 

byhest ' ; 
Thus  haddest  thou  them  out  ■  and  hither  at  the  last. 
It  is  not  graithly'  gotten  '  where  guile  is  at  the  root. 
Forthy^"  I   dread  me,'  quoth  the  devil  '  'lest  Truth  will   them 

fetch  ; 
And,  as  thou  beguiledest  God's  image  *  in  going  of  an  adder. 
So  hath  God  beguiled  us  all  *  in  going  of  a  wy".' 

******* 

'  What  lord  art  Thou } '  quoth  Lucifer  •  a  voice  aloud  said, 
'  The  lord  of  might  and  of  main  *  that  made  all  things. 
Duke  of  this  dim  place  •  anon  undo  the  gates. 
That  Christ  may  come  in  •  the  king's  son  of  heaven.' 
And  with  that  breath  hell  brake  •  with  all  Belial's  bars  ; 
For  any  wy  or  ward'^  "  wide  opened  the  gates. 
Patriarchs  and  prophets  '  populus  in  te7iebris 
Sang  with  saint  John  ■  ecce  agnus  Dei! 
Lucifer  might  not  look  •  so  light  him  ablent "  ; 
And  those  that  our  Lord  loved  *  with  that  light  forth  flew. 
******* 

Ashtoreth  and  all  others  •  hid  them  in  hemes  '*, 
They  durst  not  look  on  our  Lord  •  the  least  of  them  all, 
But  let  Him  lead  forth  which  Him  list  •  and  leave  which  Hhn 
liked. 


'  turned  away  from.  *  because.  '  went.  *  didst 

l^romise.  "  didst  deceive.  •  didst  cause.  ^  obedience. 

"  pror 
man. 


Tiise.  "  didst  deceive.  •  didst  cause.  ^  obedience. 

Dmise.  "regularly.  '"therefore,  "  in  taking  the  form  of  a 

I.  "  despile  any  wi{;lit  or  guard.  ^  blindud.  "  corners. 


LANGLEY  OR  LANGLAND. 


Many  hundreds  of  angels  *  harped  then  and  sang, 

Culpat  caro,  purgat  caro,  Regnat  Deus  Dei  caro. 

Then  piped  Peace  *  of  poetry  a  note, 

Clarior  est  solito  -post  maxima  nebula  Phebus, 
Post  inimicitias  clarior  est  et  amor. 

'  After  sharpest  showers,'  quoth  Peace  '  '  most  sheen  is  the  sun, 

Is  no  weather  warmer  •  than  after  watery  clouds, 

Nor  love  liefer  ■  nor  liefer  friends, 

Than  after  war  and  wrack  •  when  Love  and  Peace  be  masters. 

Was  never  war  in  this  world  •  nor  wickeder  envy, 

But  Love,  if  him  list  '  to  laughing  it  brought, 

And  Peace,  through  patience  *  all  perils  stopped.' 

Truth  trumped  them,  and  sang  •  Te  Detim  laudamus ; 
And  then  luted  Love  "  in  a  loud  note, 

Ecce  quajii  bonuin  et  qiiam  ioamdum  est  habitare  fratres 
in  union! 
Till  the  day  dawned  *  these  damsels  danced, 
That  men  rung  to  the  resurrection  •  and  with  that  I  awaked, 
And  called  Kitte  my  wife  *  and  Calote  my  daughter, 
'  Arise  !  and  go  reverence  '  God's  resurrection, 
And  creep  on  knees  to  the  cross  •  and  kiss  it  for  a  jewel. 
And  rightfullest  relic  '  none  richer  on  earth  ! 
For  God's  blessed  body  •  it  bare,  for  our  boot\ 
And  it  a-feareth  ^  the  fiend  ;    •    for  such  is  the  might, 
May  no  grisly  ghost  '  glide  where  it  shadoweth  !' 

*  help,  remedy.  '  frightens  away. 


JOHN     GOWER. 


[John  Gower  seems  to  have  been  bom  about  1330,  and  died  in  140S, 
having  been  blind  for  eight  or  nine  years  before  his  death.  He  was  a 
gentleman  of  ancient  family,  owning  estates  in  Kent  and  Suffolk.  The 
place  of  his  birth  is  unknown ;  he  is  believed  to  have  died  in  the  priory 
of  St.  Mary  Overies,  Southwark,  in  the  church  of  which,  now  called  St. 
Saviour's,  his  tomb  may  still  be  seen.  The  earliest  of  his  three  principal 
works,  Speculum  Meditantis,  was  in  French  verse,  but  it  has  not  come  down 
to  posterity,  nor  is  the  precise  time  of  its  composition  known.  The  second, 
Vox  Clamantis,  in  Latin  elegiac  verse,  was  written  between  1382  and  1384, 
and  commemorates  the  rising  of  the  commons  under  Wat  Tyler  in  the 
former  year,  moralizing  upon  it  and  improving  the  occasion  with  astonish- 
ing prolixity.  The  third,  Confesbio  Amaniis,  one  of  the  best  known  of  early 
English  poems,  was  written  between  1385  and  1393.] 

The  poetry  of  Gower  has  been  variously  estimated.  It  was 
a  practice  with  the  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century  to  link  his 
name  in  a  venerated  trio  with  those  of  Chaucer  and  Lydgate,  just 
as  in  the  seventeenth  century  the  names  of  Shakspere,  Jonson, 
and  Fletcher  were  often  joined  together  as  the  great  dramatic 
lights  of  the  preceding  age.  In  each  case  the  effect  of  closer 
study  has  been  to  lead  men  to  think  that  they  liave  been  joining 
gold  with  iron  and  clay.  Shakspere,  read  attentively,  rises  high 
above  the  standard  reached  by  Jonson  and  Fletcher  ;  and  in  a 
yet  greater  degree  has  the  genius  of  Chaucer,  accurately  studied 
and  rightly  felt,  impressed  the  present  age  with  the  sense  of  his 
unrivalled  eminence  among  his  contemporaries. 

Gower,  a  man  of  birth  and  fortune,  must  have  lived  in  the 
cultivated  society  of  his  day.  Of  that  society,  French  poetry, 
in  its  various  forms  of  Fabliau,  Rondel,  Romance,  Epigram, 
Chanson,  &c.,  was  one  of  the  chief  delights  and  distractions. 
With  much  imitative  power,  with  the  faculty  of  sustained  attention, 
with  a  high  appreciation  for  his  own  thoughts,  and  remarkable 


GOWLR.  103 

linguistic  facility,  Gower,  when  he  betook  himself  to  poetrj',  was 
sure  to  become  a  copious  and  prolific  writer.  But,  possessing  no 
originality,  he  was  equally  sure  to  remain  pent  within  the  im- 
prisoning bounds  of  fashion  and  conventionality,  to  follow,  not 
take  the  lead,  to  interpret,  not  modify  opinion.  He  seems  to  have 
been  without  the  sense  of  hmnour  ;  we  doubt  if  a  single  jest  of  his 
own  making  can  be  found  throughout  his  writings.  From  this 
cause,  although  he  may  justly  be  called  a  moralist  and  a  didactic 
writer,  (Chaucer  and  Lydgate  both  speak  of  him  as  the  'moral' 
Gower),  the  higher  intellectual  rank  of  a  satirist  must  be  denied 
him.  The  moralist  declaims,  the  satirist  paints  ;  we  are  convinced 
of  the  deformity  of  vice  in  the  one  case,  but  we  see  it  in  the  other. 
The  faculties  of  the  first  dispose  him  to  subjective  estimates  of 
men  and  things,  those  of  the  second  to  objective  estimates.  The 
one  describes  the  offenders,  the  other  makes  them  exhibit  them- 
selves. The  moralist  inveighs  against  the  selfish  cowardice  of 
a  degraded  proletariat  ;  the  satirist  puts  a  few  simple  words  in 
their  mouths,  and  we  know  them  and  their  kind  for  evermore. 

'  Curramus  praecipites,  et 
Bum  jacet  in  ripa,  calcemus  Caesaris  kosiem.^ 

Several  MSS.  of  the  Confessio  Amantis,  Gower's  principal  poem, 
contain  a  passage  in  Latin  prose  in  which  he  describes  the  three 
books  which  he  had  written,  all  with  a  didactic  motive,  *  doctrinae 
causa.'  The  first  of  these,  Speculum  Meditantis^  was  in  French 
verse.  It  was  probably  written  between  1360  and  1370,  at  a 
period  when  the  ladies  at  Edward  II Ts  court  and  their  admirers 
would  hardly  have  condescended  to  read  a  poem  couched  in  their 
native  EngHsh,  a  tongue  not  then  beheved  to  be  suited  to  themes 
of  love,  mysticism,  and  chivalry.  It  was  a  strictly  moral  poem, 
treating  of  virtues  and  vices,  and  the  methods  of  penitence  and 
amendment  ;  but  it  has  absolutely  vanished  ;  and  since  from  the 
account  we  have  of  the  contents  it  is  impossible  not  to  believe 
that  it  was  exceedingly  dull,  we  may  be  reconciled  to  the  loss. 
Gower's  next  considerable  effort,  the  Vox  Claviantis,  a  Latin 
elegiac  poem  in  seven  books,  was  suggested  by  the  rising  of  the 
commons  under  Wat  Tyler  and  others  in  1381.  \Vhy  he  chose  to 
write  it  in  Latin  it  is  impossible  to  say,  unless  we  suppose  that  he 
wished  to  hide  from  the  objects  of  them,  under  the  veil  of  a 
learned  language,  the  sharp  censures  on  the  classes  of  knights, 
burghers,  and  cultivators,  which  the  poem  contains.     In  a  passage 


I04  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

which  is  grotesque  if  not  dramatic,  the  poet  thus  describes  the 
ringleaders  of  the  insurrection  : — 

'  Watte  vocat,  cui  Thomme  venit,  neque  Symme  retardat, 
Recteque  Gibbe  simul  Hicke  venire  jubent : 
Colle  furit,  quern  Geffe  juvat,  nocumenta  parantes, 

Cum  quibus  ad  damnum  Wille  coire  vovet. 
Grigge  rapit,  dum  Dawe  strepit,  comes  est  quibus  Hobbe, 
Lorkin  et  in  medio  non  minor  esse  putat.' 

The  murder  of  Archbishop  Sudbury  by  the  rebels  is  described, 
but  with  little  of  that  local  or  circumstantial  colouring  which  we 
should  desire.  All  that  they  succeeded  in  doing,  says  Gower,  was 
to  send  him  to  heaven, 

'  Vivere  fecerunt,  quern  mortificare  putarunt ; 
Quem  tollunt  mundo,  non  potuere  Deo.' 

For  several  years  before  the  rising  of  the  commons  the  fame 
of  Chaucer's  English  poetry  must  have  been  growing.  Mere 
fasbion  could  not  hold  out  against  the  commanding  power  of 
that  poetry  ;  and  Gower,  when  next  he  attempted  a  considerable 
work,  found  that  he  might  as  well  write  it  in  English.  The 
Confessio  Amantis  was  begun,  he  tells  us,  at  the  command  of 
Richard  II,  who  meeting  him  one  day  on  the  Thames,  while  the 
tide  was  flowing,  called  him  into  his  barge,  and  bade  him  in  the 
course  of  their  talk  to  'boke  some  newe  thing.'  Thus  incited, 
Gower  planned  a  work 

'  Whiche  may  be  wisdom  to  the  wise. 
And  play  to  hem  that  list  to  play.' 

The  long  prologue  is  taken  up  with  an  account  of  the  then  state 
of  the  world,  in  which  he  repeats  much  of  the  censure  on  the 
various  orders  of  men  that  he  had  introduced  into  the  Vox 
ClaTuantis.  He  deplores  the  decline  of  virtue  and  good  customs, 
and  the  general  tendency  of  things  to  grow  worse.  Love  itself  is 
diseased,  and  no  longer  the  pure  passion  that  it  once  was.  Start- 
ing from  this  point,  he  devotes  the  greater  part  of  the  voluminous 
poem  which  follows  to  an  examination  of  the  various  ways  in 
which  men  offend  against  the  god  of  love.  The  seventh  or 
penultimate  book  only  is  an  exception  to  this  remark,  being  a 
sketch  of  the  philosophy  of  Aristotle.  The  lover  is  represented  as 
a  penitent,  who,  being  half  dead  from  a  wound  inflicted  by  Cupid, 
and  resorting  to  Venus  his  mother,  is  recommended  by  the  goddess 
to  apply  to  Genius  her  priest,  and  confess  to  him  all  the  sins  that 


GOU'ER.  105 

he  has  committed  in  the  article  of  love.  With  the  seven  deadly  sins, 
pride,  anger,  envy,  &c.,  for  his  groundplan,  the  penitent  confesses 
under  the  head  of  each  his  misdeeds  as  a  lover,  and  the  confessor 
consoles  and  directs  him  by  relating  the  experiences  of  former 
lovers  in  pari  materia.  This  strange  medley  of  things  human  and 
divine,  of  which  notable  examples  exist  in  the  works  of  Chaucer 
and  Boccaccio,  does  not  mean  the  consecration  of  the  world  of 
passion  by  introducing  religion  into  it,  but  the  profanation  of  reli- 
gion by  degrading  its  rites  and  emblems  to  the  service  of  earthly 
desire.  But  in  this  commingling  of  the  morality  of  Christianity 
and  the  morality  of  Ovid,  the  two  elements  agree  no  better 
than  fire  and  water  ;  and  the  sense  of  this,  forcing  itself  upon 
the  consciences  of  the  nobler  spirits  that  thus  offended,  led  to 
those  'Retractations'  and  palinodes  which  modern  critics  have 
regarded  with  so  much  wonder  and  disdain.  Thus  it  was  with 
Chaucer  ;  thus  with  Boccaccio  :  to  Gower  perhaps,  who  wi-ote  under 
the  spell  of  fashion  and  in  the  groove  of  imitation,  the  precise 
character  of  the  absurd  confusion  of  ideas  which  reigns  in  his 
book  was  never  sufficiently  apparent  to  induce  him  to  regret  it. 

The  quarrels  of  poets  are  not  relevant  to  the  purpose  of  this 
book  ;  otherwise  we  might  be  tempted  to  enter  on  the  much- 
debated  question  of  the  relations  between  Chaucer  and  Gower, 
and  the  meaning  of  certain  inserted  or  suppressed  passages  in 
their  writings.  We  will  only  observe  that  since  the  discovery  (in 
Trivet's  Chronicle)  of  the  common  source  of  the  story  of  Constance, 
told  by  Chaucer  in  the  Man  of  Lawe's  tale  and  by  Gower  in  the 
second  book  of  the  Cottfessio  Amantis,  the  chief  reason  for  doubt- 
ing the  existence  of  a  bitter  feeling  between  the  two  poets  has 
been  removed.  If  Chaucer  had,  as  Tyrwhitt  and  Warton  thought, 
borrowed  from  Gower  the  story  of  Constance,  it  was  hard  to 
believe  that  he  would  speak  roughly  of  him  in  the  prologue  to  the 
very  tale  which  attested  the  literary  obligation.  But  no  such 
obligation  existed,  and  therefore  the  words  may  be  taken  in  their 
natural  bearing  ^ 

That  Gower  was  timid  and  a  timeserver  is  a  conclusion  which 
it  is  difficult  to  resist,  when  we  consider  the  changes  made  in  the 
Prologue  to  the  Con/essio  Amantis.     In  its  original  shape,  as  we 

'  Speaking  of  the  stories  of  Canace  and  of  Appollinus  of  Tyre,  told  by 
Gower  in  his  third  and  eighth  books,  Chaucer  says  — 

k*  Of  suche  corsed  stories  I  seye  fy,' 


lo6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

have  seen,  it  states  that  the  poem  was  undertaken  and  made  'for 
kynge  Richardes  sake,'  and  prays  'that  his  corone  longe  stonde.' 
But  in  several  MSS.  all  this  is,  not  very  skilfully,  omitted  or 
changed.  In  these  the  poem  is  dedicated  to  '  Henry  of  Lancaster,' 
and  is  said  to  have  been  composed  in  the  sixteenth  year  of  King 
Richard,  i.e.  in  1393.  Henry,  afterwards  Henry  IV,  could  not 
have  been  called  Henry  of  Lancaster  till  after  his  father's  death  in 
February  1399.  Soon  after  that  date  Richard  II  went  over  to 
Ireland  ;  his  unpopularity  in  England  was  great  ;  the  plot  for 
supplanting  him  by  Henry  was  set  on  foot,  and  with  every  month 
that  passed  the  movement  grew  in  strength.  It  was  probably  in 
the  course  of  the  summer  of  1399  that  Gower,  perceiving  how 
things  were  going,  transformed  his  prologue  so  as  to  make  it 
acceptable  to  the  pretender  whose  success  he  anticipated.  In  the 
copies  with  the  altered  prologue  he  also  omitted  the  lines  of 
eulogy  on  Chaucer  at  the  end,  which  the  poem  had  originally 
contained.  What  could  have  prompted  the  omission  but  a  feeling 
of  estrangement .''  And  for  this  estrangement  the  severity  of  the 
language  just  quoted  from  Chaucer  supplies  a  probable  motive. 

The  last  considerable  work  of  our  author  was  the  Cronica 
Tripartita^  a  Latin  poem  in  three  books,  giving  a  regular  history 
of  political  incidents  in  England  from  1387  to  1399.  As  might  be 
expected,  the  writer  bears  hardly  throughout  the  poem  on  the 
unfortunate  Richard.  He  seems  to  know  nothing  of  the  common 
story  as  to  the  manner  of  his  death.  The  deposed  king  died,  he 
says,  in  prison,  from  grief,  and  because  he  refused  to  take  food. 

Of  Gower's  shorter  French  poems,  his  Cinkante  Baladcs,  which 
exist  in  MS.  in  the  library  of  the  Duke  of  Sutherland,  Warton  has 
printed  four.  They  are  in  stanzas  of  seven  and  eight  lines,  with 
refrains,  and  are  written  not  without  elegance  ;  the  opening  of  one 
of  them  is  here  printed. 

T.  Arnold. 


GOIVER.  107 


Openixg  of  the  thirtieth  of  Gower's 

'CiNKANTE  BaLADES.' 

Si  com  la  nief^,  quant  ie  fort  vent  tempeste, 

Pur  halte  mier  se  torne  ^i  et  la, 

Ma  dame,  ensi''*  men  coer^  manit  en  tempeste, 

Quant  le  danger  de  vo  parole  orra, 

La  nief  qe  votre  bouche  soufflera. 

Me  fait  sigler  sur  le  peril  de  vie, 

Guest  en  danger^  fait  *  qidl  merci  supplie. 

Opening  of  the  Original  Prologue  to  the 

'CONFESSIO  AMANTIS.' 

Of  hem,  that  writen  us  to-fore, 
The  bokes  dwelle,  and  we  therfore 
Ben  taught  of  that  was  writen  tho. 
Forthy^  good  is,  that  we  also 
In  oure  time  amonge  us  here 
Do  write  of-newe  some  matere 
Ensampled  of  the  olde  wise, 
So  that  it  might  in  suche  a  wise. 
Whan  we  be  dede  and  elleswhere, 
Beleve^  to  the  worldes  ere 
In  time  comend^  after  this. 
But  for  men  sain,  and  soth  it  is. 
That  who  that  al  of  wisdom  writ, 
It  dulleth  ofte  a  mannes  wit 
To  hem  that  shall  it  al  day  rede. 
For  thilke  cause,  if  that  ye  rede, 
I  wolde  go  the  middel  wey 
And  write  a  boke  betwene  the  twey, 
Somwhat  of  lust,  somwhat  of  lore, 
That  of  the  lasse  or  of  the  more 
Som  man  may  like  of  that  I  write. 
And  for  that  fcwii  men  endite 
•  nef.  ship.  ^  ainsi.  '  cceur.  *  faut. 

••  Therefore.  '  remain.  '  comimr. 


I08  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

In  oure  Englisshe,  I  thenke  make 

A  bok  for  king  Richardes  sake, 

To  whom  belongeth  my  legeaunce 

With  all  min  hertes  obeisaunce. 

In  al  that  ever  a  lege  man 

Unto  his  king  may  don  or  can. 

So  ferforth  I  me  recommaunde 

To  him,  which  all  me  may  commaunde, 

Preiend^  unto  the  highe  regne, 

Which  causeth  every  king  to  regne. 

That  his  corone  longe  stonde. 

I  thenke,  and  have  it  understonde, 
As  it  befell  upon  a  tide, 
As  thing,  which  shulde  tho  betide, 
Under  the  town  of  newe  Troy, 
Which  tok  of  Brute  his  firste  joy, 
In  Themse,  whan  it  was  flowend  ; 
As  I  by  bote  cam  rowend, 
So  as  fortune  her  time  sette. 
My  lege  lord  perchaunce  I  mette. 
And  so  befell,  as  I  came  nigh, 
Out  of  my  bote,  whan  he  me  sigh. 
He  bad  me  come  into  his  barge. 
And  whan  I  was  with  him  at  large, 
Amonges  other  thinges  said, 
He  hath  this  charge  upon  me  laid 
And  bad  me  do  my  besinesse, 
That  to  his  highe  worthynesse 
Some  newe  thing  I  shulde  boke, 
That  he  himself  it  mighte  loke 
After  the  forme  of  my  writing. 
And  thus  upon  his  commaunding 
Min  herte  is  well  the  more  glad 
To  write  so  as  he  me  bad  ; 
And  eke  my  fere  is  well  the  lasse, 
That  non  envic  shall  compasse  ; 
Without  a  resonable  wite^ 
To  fcigne  and  blamii  that  I  write. 
'  praying.  "  cause  of  censure. 


GOIVER.  109 

Alexander  and  the  Robber. 

[Confessio  Amantis,  lib.  iii.] 
Of  him,  whom  all  this  erthe  draddc, 
Whan  he  the  world  so  overladde 
Through  werre,  as  it  fortuned  is, 
King  Alisaundre,  I  rede  this, 
How  in  a  marche ',  where  he  lay, 
It  fell  parchaunce  upon  a  day 
A  rover  of  the  see  was  nome  ^, 
Which  many  a  man  had  overcome, 
And  slain  and  take  her  good  away. 
This  pilour^,  as  the  bokes  say, 
A  famous  man  in  sondry  stede 
Was  of  the  werkes,  whiche  he  dede. 
This  prisoner  to-fore  the  kinge 
Was  brought,  and  ther  upon  this  thinge 
In  audience  he  was  accused  ; 
And  he  his  dede  had  nought  excused, 
And  praid  the  king  to  done  him  right, 
And  said  :    Sire,  if  I  were  of  might, 
I  have  an  herte  liche  unto  thine. 
For  if  thy  power  were  mine, 
My  wille  is  most  in  speciall 
To  rifle  and  geten  over  all 
The  large  worldes  good  about. 
But  for  I  lede  a  pover  route  * 
And  am,  as  who  saith  ^,  at  mischefe  *, 
The  name  of  pilour  and  of  thefe 
I  bere,  and  thou,  which  routes  grete 
Might  lede,  and  take  thy  beyete'^, 
And  dost  right  as  I  wolde  do. 
Thy  name  is  nothing  cleped  so. 
But  thou  art  named  emperour. 
Our  dedes  ben  of  oon  colour. 
And  in  effecte  of  oon  deserte  ; 
But  thy  richesse  and  my  poverte 

•  border-land,  country.  '  taken.  '  pillager.  •  a  poor  company. 

*  a:>  the  phrase  is.  *  in  ill-luck.  '  advantage,  acquisition. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


They  be  nought  taken  evenlichc, 

And  netheles  he  that  is  riche 

This  day,  to-morwe  he  may  be  pover, 

And  in  contrarie  also  recover 

A  pover  man  to  grete  richesse. 

Men  sain  forthy,  let  rightwisenesse 

Be  peised^  even  in  the  balaunce. 

The  king  his  hardy  contenaunce 
Beheld,  and  herde  his  wordes  wise, 
And  said  unto  him  in  this  wise  : 
Thin  answere  I  have  understonde, 
Whereof  my  will  is,  that  thou  stonde 
In  my  service  and  stille  abide. 
And  forth  withal  the  same  tide 
He  hath  him  terme  of  life  witholde^, 
The  more  and  for  he  shuld  ben  holde^, 
He  made  him  knight  and  yaf  him  lond, 
Whiche  afterward  was  of  his  hond 
An  orped*  knight  in  many  a  stede, 
And  gret  prowesse  of  armes  dede, 
As  the  croniques  it  recorden. 

The  Story  of  Constance. 

\ConJessio  A  mantis,  lib.  ii.] 

But  what  the  highe  God  woll  spare 

It  may  for  no  perill  misfare. 

This  worthy  maiden,  which  was  there, 

Stode  than,  as  who  saith,  dede  for  fere, 

To  se  the  fest,  how  that  it  stood, 

Whiche  all  was  torned  into  blood. 

The  dissh  forth  with  the  cuppe  and  all 

Bcbled'*  they  weren  over  all. 

She  sigh "  hem  die  on  every  side, 

No  wonder  though  she  wepte  and  cridc, 

'  poised,  weighed.  *  retained  for  his  life-time.  '  .niid  in  order 

Ihal  he  mif^hl  be  bound  to  liim  the  more.  *  '  horped  '  in  ihe  Harlcian 

MS.    It  means  '  bold.'  '  besmeared,  '  saw. 


GOJVEI?. 

Makend  many  a  wofull  mone. 
Whan  all  was  slain  but  she  al-one, 
This  olds  fend,  this  Sarazin, 
Let  take  anone  this  Constantin, 
With  all  the  good  she  thider  brought, 
And  hath  ordeigned  as  she  thought 
A  naked  ship  withoute  stere. 
In  which  the  good  and  her  infere^ 
Vitailled  full  for  yeres  five. 
Where  that  the  wind  it  wolde  drive, 
She  put  upon  the  wawes  wilde. 

But  he,  which  alle  thing  may  shilde, 
Thre  yeer  til  that  she  cam  to  londe. 
Her  ship  to  stere  hath  take  on  honde^, 
And  in  Northumberlond  arriveth. 
And  happeth  thanne  that  she  driveth 
Under  a  castell  with  the  flood, 
Whiche  upon  Humber  banke  stood : 
And  was  the  kinges  owne  also, 
The  whiche  Allee  was  cleped  the, 
A  Saxon  and  a  worthy  knight, 
But  he  beleveth  nought  aright. 
Of  this  castell  was  castellaine 
Elda,  the  kinges  chamberlaine, 
A  knightly  man  after  his  iawe. 
And  when  he  sigh  upon  the  wawe. 
The  ship  drivend  alone  so. 
He  badde  anon  men  shulden  go 
To  se,  what  it  betoken  may. 
This  was  upon  a  somer  day. 
The  ship  was  loked,  and  she  founded 
Elda  within  a  litel  stounde 
It  wist,  and  with  his  wife  anon 
Toward  this  yonge  lady  gon. 
Where  that  they  founde  gret  riohessc. 
But  she  her  wolde  nought  confesse, 
Whan  they  her  axen  what  she  was. 
And  nethelcs,  upon  the  cas, 
'  towther.  *  taken  in  hand.  ^  Constance  was  found. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Out  of  the  ship  with  great  worship 

They  toke  her  into  felaship, 

As  they  that  weren  of  her  glade 

But  she  no  maner  joie  made, 

But  sorweth  sore  of  that  she  fonde 

No  Cristendome  in  thilke  londe. 

But  elles  she  hath  all  her  will, 

And  thus  with  hem  she  dwelleth  still. 

Dame  Hermegild,  which  was  the  wife 
Of  Elda,  liche  her  owen  life 
Constance  loveth  ;  and  fell  so, 
Spekend  all  day  betwene  hem  two, 
Through  grace  of  Goddes  purveiaunce, 
This  maiden  taughte  the  creaunce  ^ 
Unto  this  wif  so  parfitly, 
Upon  a  day  that,  faste  by, 
In  presence  of  her  husbonde, 
Wher  they  go  walkend  on  the  stronde, 
A  blinde  man,  which  cam  ther  ladde, 
Unto  this  wife  criend  he  badde 
With  bothe  his  hondes  up,  and  praide 
To  her,  and  in  this  wise  he  saide  ; 
'  O  Hermegilde,  which  Cristes  feith 
Enformed,  as  Constance  saith. 
Received  hast,  yif  me  my  sighte.' 

Upon  this  worde  her  herte  aflighte^, 
Thenkend  what  beste  was  to  done, 
But  netheles  she  herde  his  bone^. 
And  saide, — '  In  trust  of  Cristiis  lawe, 
Which  don  was  on  the  crosse  and  slawe, 
Thou  blinde  man,  beholde  and  se. 
With  that  to  God  upon  his  kne 
Thonkend,  he  tok  his  sight  anon, 
Wherof  they  merveile  everychon. 
But  Elda  wondreth  most  of  alle  ; 
This  open  thing  whiche  is  bcfalle 

creed.  "  felt  afflicted.  '  petition. 


GOIVER. 

Concludeth  him  by  such  a  way, 
That  he  the  feith  no  nede  obey. 

Now  hst  what  fell  upon  this  thinge. 
This  Elda  forth  unto  the  kinge 
A  morwe  tok  his  way  and  rood, 
And  Hermegild  at  home  abood 
Forth  with  Constance  well  at  ese. 
Elda,  which  thought  his  king  to  plese 
As  he,  that  than  unwedded  was, 
Of  Constance  all  the  pleine  cas 
As  godelich  as  he  couthe,  tolde. 
The  king  was  glad  and  said  he  wolde 
Comen  thider  in  suche  a  wise, 
That  he  him  might  of  her  avise. 


VOL  I. 


JOHN     LYDGATE. 


[John  Lydgate  was  bom  at  the  village  of  Lydgate  near  Newmarket  in 
Suffolk,  about  1370.  His  death  probably  occurred  about  1440.  Appar- 
ently the  latest  date  discoverable  in  any  of  his  poems  is  1433,  in  which 
year  he  wrote  a  sort  of '  city  poem,'  celebrating  the  pageants,  processions, 
and  other  rejoicings  in  the  city  of  London  on  the  occasion  of  the  sojemn 
entry  of  Henry  VI.  He  was  a  monk  in  the  Benedictine  monastery  of  Bury 
St.  Edmunds.  Among  his  numerous  writings  three  stand  out  prominently : 
the  Storie  of  Thebes,  written  when  he  was  nearly  fifty;  the  Troye  Book,  begun 
under  Henry  IV,  and  finished  about  1420;  and  the  Falls  of  Princes,  written 
between  1422  and  1433.] 

Lydgate  seems  to  have  been  stimulated  to  write  partly  by  the 
example  and  renown  of  Chaucer,  partly  by  a  predilection  for  the 
French  poets  of  that  day — Christine  de  Pisan,  Machault,  Granson, 
&c. — and  the  desire  to  emulate  them.  He  was  a  monk  of  that 
monastery  of  St.  Edmund  king  and  martyr,  at  Bury,  into  the 
interior  life  of  which  Jocelyn  de  Brakelonde,  much  helped  by  his 
modern  editor^,  has  enabled  us  to  look  so  clearly.  But  Abbot 
Hubert  and  Abbot  Samson  had  laboured  and  gone  to  their  account 
more  than  two  centuries  before,  and  though  his  rule  remained  the 
same,  the  conditions  of  life  were  much  changed  in  the  interval, 
even  for  a  monk  of  Bury.  In  particular,  the  dazzling  and  distract- 
ing images  <:>{ Literattire  besieged  his  cell,  and  haunted  his  thoughts, 
with  a  persistency  unknown  at  the  earlier  period.  Then  the  ver- 
nacular literatures  were  in  their  infancy,  and  sober  Latin  was  the 
ordinary  dress  of  a  cultivated  man's  thought  ;  now,  in  France  and 
Italy,  and  in  England,  numerous  works,  bearing  the  imprint  of 
the  newest  spirit  of  the  day,  decked  also  with  sallies  of  wit  and 
beautiful  imagery  which  came  directly  from  the  heart  and  brain, 
through  the  familiar  mother-tongue,  were  circulating  amongst  and 
influencing  all  who  could  think  and  feel.     Lydgate,  who  by  his 

'  Mr.  Carljlc,  in  I'ail  11  of  his  I'asi  and  Present. 


LYDGATE.  115 

own  account  had  little  vocation  for  the  cloister,  whose  boyhood 
had  been  mischievous  \  his  youth  lazy  and  riotous ",  and  his  early 
manhood  disedifying '\  for  a  long  time  cared  little  about  St. 
Edmund  and  the  special  duties  of  the  monastic  life.  He  had  an 
intense  admiration  for  Chaucer,  and  his  first  large  work  seems  to 
have  been  The  Storie  of  Thebes,  which  he  represents  as  a  new 
Canterbur}^  tale,  told  by  himself  soon  after  his  joining  the  company 
of  pilgrims  at  Canterbury.  It  is  founded  on  the  Thebaid  of  Statius 
and  the  Teseide  of  Boccaccio,  and  written  in  the  ten-syllable 
rhyming  couplet  which  Chaucer  had  used  with  such  effect  in  The 
Knightes  Tale.  The  prologue  is  spirited,  but  when  the  body  of 
the  poem  is  reached  the  attention  soon  flags.  Chaucer  versifies 
with  facility,  and  also  with  power  ;  Lydgate  has  the  facility  without 
the  power.  His  next  considerable  work,  on  the  story  of  Troy,  was 
undertaken  about  a.d.  1412,  at  the  request  of  Prince  Henry,  after- 
wards Henry  V.,  and  finished  in  1420.  The  prince  desired  that 
the  '  noble  storye '  of  Troye  should  be  as  well  known  in  England 
as  elsewhere,  and  as  well  written  in  English — 

'  As  in  the  Latyn  and  the  Frenshe  it  is.' 

Troy  was  then  regarded  as  the  'antiqua  mater'  of  every  European 
nation.  It  would  therefore  seem  very  fitting,  that  since  Wace  and 
his  English  translators,  following  Geoffrey  of  Alonmouth,  had 
given  in  the  vernacular  the  story  of  the  original  Trojan  settlement 
of  England  under  Brutus  the  great-grandson  of  Aeneas,  the  moving 
vicissitudes  of  the  city  to  which  Brutus  and  Aeneas  belonged  should 
also  now  be  told  in  English.  This  poem  is  in  five  books,  and 
written,  like  The  Storie  of  Thebes,  in  the  ten-syllable  couplet.  It 
is  founded  on  the  Latin  prose  history  of  Troy  by  Guido  di  Colonna, 
a  Sicilian  jurist  of  the  thirteenth  century.     The  austere  old  layman 

'  '  To  my  bettre  did  no  reverence. 
Of  my  sovereyns  gafe  no  fors  at  al, 
Wex  obstinat  by  inobedience. 
Ran  into  gardyns,  applys  ther  I  stal.' 

*  '  Loth  to  ryse,  lother  to  bedde  at  eve, 
With  unwash  handys  reedy  to  dyneer, 
My  Pater-noster,  my  crede,  or  my  beleeve. 
Cast  at  the  cok ;    loo !   this  was  my  manere.' 

'  '  Of  religioun  I  weryd  a  blak  habite, 
Oonly  outward  as  by  apparence.' 
Lydgate's  Testament,  among  his  Minor  Poems,  edited  by  Mr.  Ilalliwell. 
I  2 


Ii6  rilE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

wrote  many  things  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  fair  sex  which  are 
painful  to  the  politeness  of  the  monk,  who  declares  that  he  trans- 
lates them  unwillingly,  and  would  give  their  author,  were  he  alive, 
a  'bitter  penance'  for  his  crabbed  language.  In  the  third  book, 
where  the  story  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  is  introduced,  Lydgate 
seizes  the  opportunity  of  paying  an  ardent  tribute  of  praise,  love, 
and  admiration  to  his  '  maister  Chaucer,'  who  had  chosen  that 
subject  for  a  poem. 

The  versification  of  Lydgate,  in  this  Troy-book  and  in  The  Storie 
of  Thebes,  as  well  as  in  his  numerous  shorter  pieces,  is  extremely 
rough.  If  the  structure  of  the  lines  is  attentively  considered,  it 
will  be  seen  that  he  did  not  regard  them  as  consisting  of  ten 
syllables  and  five  feet,  or  at  least  that  he  did  not  generally  so 
regard  them,  but  rather  as  made  up  of  two  halves  or  counter- 
balancing members,  each  containing  two  accents.  Remembering 
this,  the  reader  can  get  through  a  long  passage  by  Lydgate  or 
Barclay  with  some  degree  of  comfort  ;  though,  if  he  were  to  read 
the  same  passage  with  the  expectation  of  meeting  always  the  due 
number  of  syllables,  his  ear  would  be  continually  disappointed  and 
annoyed.  This  vicious  mode  of  versification  was  probably  a  legacy 
from  the  alliterative  poets,  whose  popularity,  especially  in  the 
North  of  England,  was  so  great  that  their  peculiar  rhythm  long 
survived  after  rhyme  and  measure  had  outwardly  carried  the  day. 
Not  to  mention  Layamon's  Brut,  where  we  see  a  curious  mixture 
of  rhyme  and  alliteration, — the  former,  as  the  poem  proceeds, 
gradually  edging  out  the  latter, — romances  and  other  pieces  of 
much  later  date  can  be  pointed  out,  in  which  not  only  rhyme  and 
measure  but  even  the  stanza  form  is  adopted  (for  instance,  in  the 
Aiders  of  Arthur,  published  by  the  Camden  Society,  1842),  yet 
still  alliteration  is  carefully  practised,  and  the  syllabic  lawlessness 
which  the  alliterator  held  to  be  his  privilege,  maintained.  In  the 
South  of  England,  where  the  influences  of  French  and  Italian 
literature  were  more  powerful,  alliteration  was  repudiated  ;  thus 
we  find  Chaucer  making  his  '  Pcrsone '  say, — 

'  I  am  a  solhcrnc  man, 
I  cannot  gcslc,  ram,  ram,  ruf,  by  my  Idler.' 

'To  geste'  meant  to  write  in  alliterative  style,  because  of  the 
great  number  of  romances  or  gcstes  so  written  which  were  then  in 
circulation. 

Lydgatc's  last  notable  work  was  Tlie  Falls  of  Princes,  founded 


Z  VDGJ  TE.  117 

on  a  French  version  of  the  Latin  treatise  by  Boccaccio,  De  Casibus 
Virorum  Illustriuin.  It  is  dedicated  to  Humphrey  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  brother  to  Henry  V,  whom  he  speaks  of  as  dead,  and 
mentions  his  having  written  his  Troy-book  at  his  desire.  The 
subject  of  this  vast  poem,  which  is  in  nine  books,  and  was  printed 
in  foho  in  1558,  may  be  gathered  from  the  old  title-page,  which 
runs,  '  The  Tragedies  gathered  by  Jhon  Bochas  of  all  such  Princes 
as  fell  from  theyr  Estates  throughe  the  Mutability  of  Fortune  since 
the  creation  of  Adam  until  his  time  ;  wherin  may  be  seen  what 
vices  bring  menne  to  destruccion,  wyth  notable  warninges  howe 
the  like  may  be  avoyded.  Translated  into  English  by  John 
Lidgate,  Monke  of  Burye.'  The  Monk's  Tale  of  Chaucer  proceeds 
on  the  same  lines  ;  and  a  company  of  Marian  or  Elizabethan  poets, 
Sackville,  Baldwin,  Ferrers,  &c.,  working  out  the  same  idea,  but 
with  a  more  distinct  ethical  purpose,  produced  that  stupendous 
but  forgotten  work,  the  Myrrour  for  Magistrates.  In  this  work 
Lydgate  adopted  the  seven-line  stanza  so  much  employed  by 
Chaucer,  and  also  seems  to  have  taken  more  pains  than  before  to 
emulate  the  rhythmic  excellence  of  his  master's  work.  Hence  the 
Falls  of  Princes  is,  of  his  three  principal  poems,  by  far  the  most 
readable.  In  the  beginning  of  the  eighth  book  he  complains  of 
age  and  poverty  ;  and  one  of  the  minor  poems,  written  while  he 
was  employed  on  this  work,  is  in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  the  Duke 
of  Gloucester,  saying  that  his  'purs  was  falle  in  gi-eat  rerage' 
(arrears),  and  asking  for  money. 

In  his  old  age  the  genius  loci,  and  the  saintly  memories  which 
clung  round  the  monastery,  appear  to  have  influenced  the  poet 
more  than  in  his  youth.  We  find  him  composing  a  metrical  '  Life 
of  St.  Edmund,'  which  still  reposes  in  MS.,  and  writing  the 
'  Legend  of  St.  Alban  '  for  the  monks  of  that  famous  monastery. 

Of  his  minor  poems  a  large  and  not  uninteresting  selection 
was  edited  some  forty  years  ago  for  the  Percy  Society  by  Mr. 
H  alii  well.  They  are  mostly  written  in  an  octave  stanza,  not  the 
ottava  rima,  but  one  in  which  the  second  rhyme  embraces  the 
second,  fourth,  fifth  and  seventh  lines,  whilst  the  third  rhyme 
connects  the  sixth  and  eighth.  A  considerable  number  are  in  the 
'  rhyme  royal,'  or  seven-line  stanza.  Two  or  three  of  them  are 
satirical,  not  to  say  cynical  ;  several  are  descriptive ;  but  the 
majority  are  either  versions  of  French  or  Latin  fabliaux,  or  moral- 
izing pieces  based  on  proverbs  and  old  saws.  There  is  much  that 
is  vivid  and  forcible  in  the  picture  of  the  manners  and  humours  of 


Il8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

London  and  Westminster  given  in  London  Lickpenny.  Pur 
le  Roy  may  remind  us  of  the  eifusions  of  Elkanah  Settle  the 
city  poet,  unmercifully  ridiculed  by  Pope  in  the  Duftciad.  If  it 
may  certainly  be  attributed  to  Lydgate,  it  proves  that  he  was  living 
in  1433,  ill  which  year  occurred  the  visit  of  Henry  VI  to  London 
after  his  coronation,  when  the  citizens  received  him  with  extra- 
ordinary demonstrations  of  joy  and  loyalty.  The  pageants,  dresses, 
uniforms,  speeches,  &c.,  are  described  by  the  poet  with  a  weari- 
some minuteness.  It  is  unlikely  that  Lydgate  lived  long  after 
writing  this  poem,  but  the  exact  year  of  his  death  has  never  been 
ascertained.  It  happened  while  he  was  engaged  in  translating 
into  rhyme  royal  a  French  version  of  the  supposed  work  of  Aris- 
totle, addressed  to  Alexander,  which  is  variously  entitled  O71  the 
Gover7iinent  of  Princes,  The  Secret  of  Secrets,  and  The  Philosophers 
Stone.  At  the  head  of  one  of  the  MSS.  of  this  work^  (which 
has  never  been  printed)  there  is  a  small  picture  of  Lydgate  :  he 
is  represented  as  an  old  man,  dressed  in  the  black  habit  of  the 
Benedictines,  and  tendering,  bare-headed  and  on  his  knees,  his 
book  to  some  august  personage  above  him,  who  is  meant  either 
for  Henry  VI  or  St.  Edmund  the  patron  of  his  monastery. 

T.  Arnold. 

I  Harl.  4S26. 


LYDGATE.  1 19 


London  Lickpenny. 

To  London  once  my  stepps  I  bent, 
Where  trouth  in  no  wyse  should  be  faynt, 
To  Westmynster-ward  I  forthwith  went, 
To  a  man  of  law  to  make  complaynt  ; 
I  sayd,  '  for  Marys  love,  that  holy  saynt ! 
Pity  the  poore  that  wold  proceede '  ; 
But  for  lack  of  mony  I  cold  not  spede. 

[After  visiting  all  the  courts  at  Westminster  one  after  another,  and  finding 
that  everjvvhere  want  of  cash  is  the  one  insuperable  impediment,  he 
passes  eastward  to  the  City.] 

Then  unto  London  I  dyd  me  hye. 

Of  all  the  land  it  beareth  the  pryse  : 

'  Hot  pescodes,'  one  began  to  crye, 

'  Strabery  rype,  and  cherryes  in  the  ryse '  ; 

One  bad  me  come  nere  and  by  some  spyce, 

Peper  and  safforne  they  gan  me  bede  ^, 

But  for  lack  of  mony  I  myght  not  spede. 

Then  to  the  Chepe  I  began  me  drawne, 
Where  mutch  people  I  saw  for  to  stand  ; 
One  ofred  me  velvet,  sylke,  and  lawne, 
An  other  he  taketh  me  by  the  hande, 
'Here  is  Parys  thred,  the  fynest  in  the  land'; 
I  never  was  used  to  such  thyngs  indede, 
And  wanting  mony,  I  might  not  spede. 

Then  went  I  forth  by  London  stone, 

Th[o]roughout  all  Canwyke  streete  ; 

Drapers  mutch  cloth  me  ofifred  anone  ; 

Then  comes  me  one,  cryed,  '  Hot  shepes  feete ' ; 

One  cryde  'makerell,'  'ryshes'*  grene,'  an  other  gan  greete^ ; 

On  bad  me  by  a  hood  to  cover  my  head, 

But  for  want  of  mony  I  myght  not  be  sped. 

•  began  to  offer  me.  ^  rushes.  ^  cry. 


120  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Then  I  hyed  me  into  Est-Chepe  ; 

One  cryes  rybbs  of  befe,  and  many  a  pye  : 

Pewter  pottes  they  clattered  on  a  heape  ; 

There  was  harpe,  pype,  and  mynstralsye. 

'  Yea,  by  cock !  nay,  by  cock  ! '  some  began  crye  ; 

Some  songe  of  Jenken  and  Julyan  for  there  mede ; 

But  for  lack  of  mony  I  myght  not  spede. 

Then  into  Corn-Hyll  anon  I  yode\ 
Where  was  mutch  stolen  gere  amonge  ; 
I  saw  where  honge  myne  owne  hoode, 
That  I  had  lost  amonge  the  thronge  ; 
To  by  my  own  hood  I  thought  it  wronge, 
I  knew  it  well  as  I  dyd  my  crede, 
But  for  lack  of  mony  I  could  not  spede. 

The  taverner  tooke  me  by  the  sieve, 
'  Sir,'  sayth  he,  '  wyll  you  our  wyne  assay '  ? 
I  answered,  '  That  can  not  mutch  me  greve : 
A  peny  can  do  no  more  then  it  may ' ; 
I  drank  a  pynt,  and  for  it  did  paye  ; 
Yet  sone  a-hungerd  from  thence  I  yede. 
And  wantyng  mony,  I  cold  not  spede. 

Then  hyed  I  me  to  Belyngsgate  ; 

And  one  cr^^ed,  '  Hoo  !  go  we  hence  !' 

I  prayd  a  barge-man,  for  God's  sake, 

That  he  wold  spare  me  my  expence. 

'  Thou  scapst  not  here,'  quod  he,   '  under  two  pence  ; 

I  lyst  not  yet  bestow  my  almes  dede.' 

Thus,  lackyng  mony,  I  could  not  spede. 

Then  I  convayd  me  into  Kent  ; 

For  of  the  law  wold  I  meddle  no  more  ; 

Because  no  man  to  me  tooke  entent, 

I  dyght  me  to  do  as  I  dyd  before. 

Now  Jesus,  that  in  Bethlem  was  bore. 

Save  London,  and  send  trew  lawyers  there  mede  ! 

For  who  so  wantcs  mony  with  them  shall  not  spede. 

'  went. 


L  YD  GATE. 


From  Lydgate's  '  Dietary,'  or  Rules  for  Health. 

And  if  so  be  that  lechis  done  the  faile\ 

Thanne  take  good  hede,  and  use  thynges  three, 
Temperat  diete,  temperat  travaile, 

Nat  maHcious  for  none  adversity  ; 
Meke  in  trouble,  gladde  in  povertd  ; 

Riche  with  Htel,  content  with  sufifisaunce  ; 
Nat  grucchyng^,  but  mery  Hke  thi  degr^  : 

If  phisyk  lak,  make  this  thy  governaunce. 
****** 

Fyre  at  morowe,  and  towards  bed  at  eve, 

For  mystis  blak,  and  eyre^  of  pestilence; 
Betime  at  masse,  thow  shalt  the  better  preve, 

First  at  thi  risyng  do  to  God  reverence, 
Visite  the  poor  with  intyre  diligence, 

On  al  nedy  have  thow  compassioun. 
And  God  shal  sende  grace  and  influence. 

To  encrease  the  and  thy  possessioun. 

Suffre  no  surfetis  in  thy  house  at  nyght. 

Ware  of  rere-soupers  *,  and  of  grete  excesse. 
Of  noddyng  hedes,  and  of  candel  light. 

And  sloth  at  morow,  and  slomberyng  idelnes, 
Whiche  of  al  vices  is  chief  porteresse  ; 

Voyde  al  drunklew,  lyers,  and  lechours  ; 
Of  al  unthriftes  exile  the  mastres, 

That  is  to  say,  dyse,  players,  and  haserdours. 

After  mete  beware,  make  not  to  longe  slepe, 

Hede,  foote,  and  stomak  preserve  ay  from  cold  ; 

Be  not  to  pensyf,  of  thought  take  no  kepe  ; 
After  thy  rent,  mayntene  thyn  houshold, 

Sufifre  in  tyme,  in  thi  right  be  bold  ; 
Swere  none  othis  no  man  to  begyle  ; 

In  thy  youth  be  lusty,  sad  whan  thow  art  olde. 

•  if  physicians  make  tlice  fall  ill.  ^  munnuring. 

■'  air.  *  late  suppers. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Dyne  nat  at  morwe  afome  thyn  appetite, 

Clere  eyre  and  vvalkyng  makith  goode  digestioun, 
Between  males  drynk  nat  for  no  froward  delite, 

But  ^  thurst  or  travaile  yeve  the  occasion  ; 
Over-salt  mete  doth  grete  oppressioun 

To  feble  stomakes,  whan  they  can  nat  refrayne  ; 
For  nothing  more  contrary  to  theyr  complexioun, 

Of  gredy  handes  the  stomak  hath  grete  peyne. 

Thus  in  two  thinges  standith  al  the  welthe 

Of  sowle  and  body,  whoso  lust  to  sewe '-, 
Moderat  foode  gevith  to  man  his  helthe, 

And  al  surfetis  doth  from  hym  remeue', 
And  charite  unto  the  sowle  is  dewe  : 

This  ressayt*  is  bought  of  no  poticarye, 
Of  maister  Antony,  nor  of  maister  Hewe, 

To  all  indifferent,  richest  diatorye\ 


Description  of  the  Golden  Age. 

\Falh  of  Princes,  book  vii.] 

Rightwisenes  chastised  al  robbours, 

By  egall  balaunce  of  execucion. 

Fraud,  false  mede,  put  backward  fro  jurours. 

True  promes  holde,  made  no  delacioun " ; 

Forswearing  shamed  durst  enter  in  no  toun, 

Nor  lesingmongers,  because  Attemperaunce 

Had  in  that  world  wholy  the  governaunce. 

That  golden  world  could  love  God  and  drede, 
All  the  seven  dedes  of  mercy  for  to  use, 
The  rich  was  ready  to  do  almes  dede, 
Who  asked  harbour,  men  did  him  not  refuse  ; 
No  man  of  malice  would  other  tho  accuse, 
Defame  his  neighbour,  because  Attemperaunce 
Had  in  that  world  wholy  the  governaunce. 

'  unless.  ^  follow.  -  remove.  *  receipt,  for  recipe. 

'  dietary.  "  no  informers  at  work. 


Z  YDGA  TE. 

The  true  marchant  by  measure  bought  and  sold, 
Deceipt  was  none  in  the  artificer, 
Making  no  bailees,  the  plough  was  truely  hold, 
Abacke  stode  Idlenes,  farre  from  labourer, 
Discrecion  marcial  at  diner  "and  supper. 
Content  with  measure,  because  Attemperaunce 
Had  in  that  world  wholy  the  governaunce. 

Of  wast  in  clothing  was  that  time  none  excesse  ; 
Men  might  the  lord  from  his  subjectes  know  ; 
A  difference  made  twene  povertie  and  richesse, 
Twene  a  princesse  and  other  states  lowe  ; 
Of  horned  boastes  no  boast  was  tho  blowe, 
Nor  counterfeit  feining,  because  Attemperaunce 
Had  in  that  world  wholy  the  governaunce. 

This  golden  world  long  whylc  dyd  endure. 

Was  none  allay  in  that  metall  sene, 

Tyll  Saturne  ceased,  by  record  of  scripture, 

Jupiter  reygned,  put  out  his  father  clene, 

Chaunged  obrison  into  silver  shene, 

Al  up  so  downe,  because  Attemperaunce 

Was  set  asyde,  and  loste  her  governaunce. 


THOMAS     OCCLEVE. 


[Thomas  Occleve,  or  Hoccleve  (the  name  is  spelt  both  ways  in  the  MSS. 
of  his  works),  was  born  between  1365  and  1370.  He  is  thought  to  have 
been  of  north-country  parentage,  deriving  his  name  from  the  village  of 
Hocclough  in  Northumberland.  One  of  his  minor  poems,  addressed  to 
Richard  duke  of  York,  cannot  well  have  been  written  before  I448,  since 
the  young  prince  Edward  (bom  in  1441)  and  his  French  tutor  Picard  are 
mentioned  in  it.  Occleve  must  therefore  have  lived  to  a  great  age,  but  the 
precise  year  of  his  death  is  unknown.  His  principal  poem,  De  Regimine 
Principum,  was  written  in  141 1  or  1412.  The  ascertainable  dates  of  his 
minor  poems,  of  which  only  a  portion  has  been  printed,  range  between 
1400  and  1448.] 

The  principal  work  of  Thomas  Occleve  is  the  poem  De 
Regimine  Principum,  a  free  version  of  the  Latin  treatise  written 
under  that  title  by  Aegidius  or  Giles,  a  native  of  Rome  and  a 
disciple  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  which  he  dedicated  to  Philip  le 
Hardi,  son  of  St.  Louis.  This  poem  is  in  the  rhyme  royal,  and 
contains  between  five  and  six  thousand  lines.  Nearly  a  third  part 
of  it  is  taken  up  with  a  Prelude  or  proem,  which  is  considerably 
more  interesting  than  the  work  itself  A  slight  analysis  of  this 
proem  will  bring  Occleve  before  us,  both  as  a  man  and  a  writer, 
more  clearly  than  anything  else  could. 

After  a  restless  night,  spent  in  painful  and  fruitless  musing  on 
the  insecurity  of  all  things  here  below,  the  poet  goes  forth  into  the 
fields  near  his  lodging  in  the  Strand.  A  poor  old  man  meets  him, 
and  plies  him  with  questions  as  to  the  reason  of  his  dejection. 
After  naming  various  causes  of  trouble,  he  says — 

*  If  thou  fele  the  in  any  of  thise  ygreved. 
Or  elles  what,  tel  on  in  Goddcs  name ; 
Thou  seest,  al  day  the  hegger  is  releved, 
That  syt  and  beggith,   crookyd,  blynd,  and  lame ; 
And  whi  ?   for  he  ne  letlith  for  no  shame 
His  harmes  and  his  povcrl  to  bewreye 
To  folke,  as  the!  goon  bi  hym  bi  the  wove.' 


OCCLEVE.  125 

The  old  man  goes  on  to  warn  him  against  indulgence  in  too 
prolonged  and  solitary  meditations.  By  these,  he  says,  men  are 
sometimes  led  on  to  deny  the  faith,  as  happened  in  the  case  of  a 
heretic  '  not  longe  agoo,'  who  denied  that  after  consecration  the 
eucharistic  bread  was  Christ's  body.  For  this  he  was  burnt, 
though  the  prince  (Henr)')  tried  hard  to  save  him,  and  promised 
to  obtain  his  full  pardon  and  the  means  of  living  from  the  king,  if 
he  would  return  to  the  faith  \  He  speaks  also  of  the  folly  of 
extravagance  in  dress, — that  costly  and  '  outragious  array,'  which 
will  ruin  England  if  it  is  not  stopped, — on  the  thoughtlessness  and 
wantonness  of  youth,  and  so  on.  The  author,  much  consoled  and 
edified,  tells  his  mentor  who  he  is,  and  how  he  lives.  He  is  a 
writer  to  the  Pri\-y  Seal'^,  and  has  an  annuity  of  twenty  marks 
a  year  in  the  Exchequer,  granted  him  by  Henry  IV.  But  his  mis- 
fortune is  that  he  can  never  depend  on  this  being  paid  regularly,  • 
so  that  he  is  sometimes  in  danger  of  starving.  If  this  be  so  now, 
what  will  be  his  plight  when  he  is  grown  old,  and  has  no  other 
resource  but  the  annuity?  Herein  lies  the  secret  cause  of  his 
dejection.  The  old  man,  after  counselling  a  religious  resignation 
to  the  divine  will,  questions  him  still  further,  and  finding  that  he 
is  a  literary  man,  and  had  known  Chaucer,  advises  him  to  compose 
some  new  work  and  present  it  to  the  Prince,  who  will  perhaps 
graciously  accept  it  and  relieve  the  author  from  his  distress  : 

'  Write  him  no  thinge  that  sowneth  unto  vice, 
Kithe-'  thi  love  in  mater  of  saddenesse*, 
Loke  if  thou  finde  canst  any  tretice 
Grounded  on  his  astates  holsomnesse ; 
Suche  thing  translate,  and  unto  his  highnesse, 
As  humbely  as  thou  canst,  present ; 
Do  this,  my  sone.'     '  Fadir,  I  assent.' 

But  he  laments  that  '  the  honour  of  English  tounge  is  deed,'  with 
whom  he  might  have  taken  counsel  ;  then  follows  the  celebrated 
passage  on  Chaucer,  which  will  be  found  among  our  extracts*. 
The  poet  returns  home,  takes  parchment,  and  writes  a  dedication 

'  This  was  Thomas  Badby,  executed  in  April  1410,  under  the  statute  of 
1 401. 

^  Among  the  Additional  MSS.  in  the  British  Museum  may  be  seen  a 
large  volume,  No.  24,062.  the  documents  in  which,  or  the  greater  part 
of  them,  are  said  to  be  in  Occleve's  handwriting. 

'  Make  known.  *  a  serious  subject.  ''  See  pp.  IJ7,  128. 


126  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

of  his  work  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  Shakspere's  Prince  Hal.  It  is 
founded,  he  says,  on  Aristotle's  '  boke  of  governaunce'  (the  supposed 
correspondence  between  Aristotle  and  Alexander  which  made  so 
deep  an  impression  on  the  medieval  mind),  and  the  work  of 
Aegidius  above  mentioned ;  he  has  also  studied  the  work  of  Jacobus 
de  Cessolis  (Casali)  called  The  Chess-moralized'^;  and  the  fruits 
of  these  studies  he  now  presents  to  the  Prince.  The  poem  is  not 
interesting.  The  various  aspects  under  which  his  duty  presents, 
or  ought  to  present,  itself  to  the  mind  of  a  ruler  are  considered 
successively  under  the  heads  of  justice,  good  faith,  temperance, 
mercy,  prudence,  deliberation,  and  so  forth. 

Other  poems  ascribed  to  Occleve  are — the  story  of  Gerelaus 
emperor  of  Rome  and  his  virtuous  empress,  and  that  of  Jonathas 
and  the  three  jewels.  Both  these  are  from  the  Gesta  Ronanoritm: 
they  have  never  been  printed,  but  the  story  of  Jonathas  was 
modernised  by  Browne  and  introduced  into  the  Shepherd's  Pipe 
(1614).  Some  of  his  minor  poems  were  edited  in  179S  by  a 
Mr.  Mason.  The  longest  of  them,  La  male  regie  de  T.  H occleve, 
exhibits  a  picture  of  the  jovial  and  riotous  life  led  by  the  poet  in 
his  younger  days,  which  is  in  complete  accordance  with  that 
presented  in  the  proem  to  the  De  Regimine. 

T.  Arnold. 

*  One  of  the  first  books  printed  by  Caxton.  under  the  name  of  The  Game 
and  Play  of  the  Chesse, 


OCCLEVE,  127 


From  the  Proem  to  the  'De  Regimine  Principum.' 

But  wele  awaye,  so  is  myn  herte  wo, 
That  the  honour  of  Enghsh  tounge  is  deed, 
Of  which  I  was  wonte  have  counseil  and  rede. 

O  maister  dere  and  fader  reverent. 

My  maister  Chaucer !  floure  of  eloquence, 

Mirrour  of  fructuous  entendement, 

O  universal  fadir  in  science. 

Alias  !  that  thou  thyne  excellent  prudence 

In  thy  bedde  mortel  myghtest  not  bequethe  ; 

What  eyled  Dethe?  alias,  why  wold  he  sle  the? 

O  Dethe,  that  didest  not  harme  singulere 

In  slaughtre  of  hym,  but  alle  this  lond  it  smerteth  ; 

But  natheles  yit  hast  thow  no  powere 

His  name  to  slee  ;  his  hye  vertu  asterteth 

Unslayne  fro  the,  whiche  ay  us  lyfly  herteth^ 

With  bookes  of  his  ornat  endityng. 

That  is  to  alle  this  londe  enlumynyng. 

Hastow-  nat  eek  my  maistre  Gower  slayne? 

Whos  vertu  I  am  insufficient 

For  to  descreyve,  I  wote  wel  in  certeyne  : 

For  to  sleen  alle  this  world  thow  hast  y-ment. 

But  syn  oure  Lord  Christ  was  obedient 

To  thee,  in  feyth  I  can  no  better  seye, 

His  creatures  musten  thee  obeye. 


encourages.  2  Hast  thou. 


128  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


From  the  '  De  Regimine  Prinxipum.' 

Symple  is  my  goste,  and  scars  my  letterure, 

Unto  youre  excellence  for  to  write 

Myne  'nward  love,  and  yit  in  aventure 

Wol  I  me  put,  thogh  I  can  but  lyte  ; 

r\Iy  dere  maister, — God  his  soule  quyte, — 

And  fader,  Chaucer,  fayne  wold  have  me  taught, 

But  I  was  dulle,  and  lerned  lyte  or  naught. 

Alias  !  my  worthy  maister  honorable, 
This  londes  verray  tresour  and  richesse, 
Dethe  by  thy  dethe  hath  harme  irreperable 
Unto  us  done  :  hir  vengeable  duresse 
Dispoiled  hath  this  londe  of  the  swetnesse 
Of  rethoryk,  for  unto  Tullius 
Was  never  man  so  like  amonges  us. 

Also,  who  was  hyer  in  phylosofye 

To  Aristotle  in  our  tunge  but  thow? 

The  steppes  of  Virgile  in  poysye 

Thou  folwedest  eke  :  men  wote  well  ynow. 

That  Gombre-worlde  ^,  that  the  my  maister  slowe^, 

(Wolde  I  slayne  were  !)  dethe  was  to  hastyf 

To  renne  on  the,  and  revii  the  thy  lyf. 


She  myght  han  taryed  hir  vengeaunce  a  whyle, 

Tyl  sum  man  hadde  egal  to  the  be  ; 

Nay,  let  be  that ;  she  wel  knew  that  this  ylc 

May  never  man  forth  bringe  lik  to  the, 

And  hir  office  nedys  do  must  she  ; 

(iod  bad  hire  soo,  I  trustc  as  for  the  beste, 

O  mayslir,  maystir,  God  thy  soule  restc  ! 

'  Ijanc  of  the  world ;   viz.  death.  *  slew. 


JAMES   THE   FIRST 

OF  SCOTLAND. 


[Born  1394.  Captured  by  the  English  in  time  of  peace  1405,  and  kept  a 
prisoner  in  the  Tower,  in  Nottingham  Castle,  at  Croydon,  and  at  Windsor, 
till  1 4  24,  when  he  was  released.  In  that  year  he  married  Lady  Jane 
Beaufort,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  and  granddaughter  of  John 
of  Gaunt.  She  was  the  heroine  of  his  principal  poem,  The  King's  Qnair. 
In  1437,  after  reigning  thirteen  years  in  Scotland,  the  king  was  assassinated 
at  Perth.  Besides  The  King's  Quair,  he  is  commonly  supposed  to  have 
written  one  or  two  other  poems,  notably  the  humorous  ballad  Christ's  Kirk 
on  the  Green.~[ 

James  the  First  of  Scotland  is  one  of  the  earliest  and  one  of 
the  best  of  the  imitators  of  Chaucer,  and  is  the  first  of  that  line 
of  Scottish  poets  who  kept  the  lamp  of  poetry  burning  during  the 
darkness  of  the  fifteenth  century.  His  chief  poem,  The  King's 
Qnair,  or  the  King's  Book,  seems  to  have  been  written  in  1423  or 
1424,  about  the  time  of  his  marriage  ;  when  he  was  thirty  years 
old  and  when  Chaucer  had  been  in  his  grave  nearly  a  quarter  of 
a  century.  The  King's  Quair,  written  in  the  seven-lined  stanza,  is 
about  200  stanzas  long,  and  it  tells  in  a  style  that  is  a  curious 
mixture  of  autobiographical  fact  and  allegorical  romance  the  story 
of  the  captive  king's  courtship  of  the  lady  who  became  his  wife, 
Lady  Jane  Beaufort.  The  royal  prisoner,  after  a  sleepless  night 
spent  in  reading  Boethius,  rises  at  the  sound  of  the  matins  bell 
and  begins  to  complain  of  his  fortune.  Suddenly  in  the  garden 
beneath  he  sees  a  lady,  so  beautiful  that  he  who  has  never  known 
love  till  now  is  instantly  subdued,  the  nightingale  and  all  the 
other  birds  singing  in  harmony  with  his  passion.  The  lady  dis- 
appears, and  half-sleeping,  half-swooning,  he  dreams  of  a  strange 
sequel.  He  seems  to  be  carried  up  'fro  spere  to  spere'  to  the 
Empire  of  Venus ;  he  wins  her  favour,  but  since  his  desperate  case 
requires  'the  help  of  other  mo  than  one  goddesse,'  he  is  sent  on 
with  Good  Hope  for  guide  to  the  Palace  of  Minerva.    The  goddess 

VOL.  I.  K 


130  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

of  Wisdom  receives  him  with  a  speech  on  Free  Will ;  and  finally, 
after  an  interview  with  the  great  goddess  Fortune  herself,  he 
wakes  to  find  a  real  messenger  from  Venus,  '  a  turture,  quhite  as 
calk,'  bringing  him  a  flowering  branch,  joyful  evidence  that  his 
suit  is  to  succeed  : — 

'  "  Awake !   awake  !   I  bring,  lover,  I  bring 
The  newis  glad  that  blissful  ben  and  sure 

Of  thy  confort ;    now  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing, 
That  art  beside  so  glad  an  aventure ; 
For  in  the  hevyn  decretit  is  the  cure." 

And  unto  me  the  flouris  did  present ; 

"With  wyngis  spred  hir  wayis  furth  sche  went.' 

With  this  and  with  the  poet's  song  of  thankfulness  The  Kings 
Quair  ends. 

No  subject  could  be  better  fitted  than  the  love-story  of  the 
captive  king  for  a  poem  in  the  accepted  trouvere  style.  The 
paganism  of  romance  was  fond  of  representing  man  as  passive 
material  in  the  hands  of  two  supernatural  powers,  Fortune  and 
Love ;  and  poetry  for  two  centuries  was  for  ever  returning  to  the 
theme.  James  the  First  was  neither  original  enough  to  depart 
from  the  poetical  conventions  of  his  time,  nor  artist  enough  to 
work  out  his  subject  without  confusion  and  repetition ;  and  yet 
the  personal  interest  of  his  story  and  its  adaptability  to  the  chosen 
form  of  treatment  would  be  enough  to  save  TJie  King's  Quair  from 
oblivion,  even  without  the  unquestionable  beauty  of  much  of  the 
verse.  The  dress  is  the  common  tinsel  of  the  time,  but  the  body 
beneath  is  real  and  human. 

We  have  said  that  King  James  was  an  early  and  close  imitator 
of  Chaucer  ^  His  nineteen  years  of  captivity  allowed  him  to  steep 
himself  in  Chaucer's  poetry,  and  any  Chaucerian  student  who 
reads  The  King^s  Quair  is  constantly  arrested  by  a  line  or  a  stanza 
or  a  whole  episode  that  exactly  recalls  the  master.     It  is  unneces- 

'  The  concluding  stanza  of  the  poem  is  as  follows: — 
'  Vnto  impnis  of  my  maisteris  dere, 

Gowere  and  Chaiicere,  that  on  the  steppis  satt 
Of  rethorike,  quhill  thai  were  lyvand  here, 

Supcilaliue  as  poctis  laureate, 
In  moralitee  and  elofpicnce  ornate, 
I   recommend  my  buk  in  lynis  seven. 
And  eke  ihair  saulis  vnto  the  blisse  of  hevin.' 


JAMES  I.   OF  SCOTLAND.  131 

sary  to  point  out,  for  instance,  the  close  resemblance  of  the  passage 
which  we  here  quote,  the  King's  first  sight  of  Lady  Jane,  to  the 
passage  in  The  Knightes  Tale  (see  p.  )  where  Palamon  and  Arcite 
first  see  Emilye.  Not  only  the  general  idea  but  the  details  are 
copied ;  for  example,  the  King,  like  Palamon,  doubts  whether  the 
beautiful  vision  be  woman  or  goddess.  The  ascent  to  the  Empire 
of  Venus  is  like  an  abridgement  of  The  Hous  of  Fame.  Minerva's 
discussion  of  Free  Will  is  imitated  from  Chaucer's  rendering  of 
the  same  theme,  after  Boethius,  in  Troylus  and  Creseyde.  The 
catalogue  of  beasts  near  the  dwelling  of  Fortune,  is  an  echo  of 
Chaucer's  catalogue  of  birds  in  The  Parlement  of  Foules.  Isolated 
instances  of  imitation  abound  ;  thus 

'  Til  Phebus  endit  had  his  hemes  brycht, 
And  bad  go  farewel  every  lefe  and  floure, 
That  is  to  say,  approchen  gan  the  night,' 

is  a  repetition  of  a  well-known  passage  in  The  Frankeleynes  Tale : — 

'  For  the  orizont  had  left  the  sonne  his  liht, 
(That  is  as  much  to  sayn  as  it  was  nyht).' 

A  passage  in  Troylus  is  recalled  by 

'  O  besy  goste,  ay  flikering  to  and  fro ' ; 

and  another  by  the  King's  concluding  address  to  his  book — '  Go, 
litel  tretis.'  Outside  The  King's  Qiiair,  the  'gude  and  godlie 
ballate'  here  given  (although  it  would  be  difficult  to  prove  that 
it  belongs  to  King  James)  is  obviously  modelled  on  the  '  good 
counseil  of  Chaucer'  which  we  have  quoted  above  (p.  ).  These 
examples  of  the  influence  of  Chaucer  upon  so  rich  a  mind  as  that 
of  the  young  King  of  Scotland  are  strong  evidence  of  the  greatness 
of  the  earlier  poet  and  of  the  instantaneousness  with  which  his 
genius  made  itself  felt. 

Editor. 


K  2 


132  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  King's  Quair. 

(St.  30  et  seqq.) 

Bewailling  in  my  chamber  thus  allone, 
Despeired  of  all  joye  and  remedye, 

For-tiret  of  my  thought  and  wo-begone, 
And  to  the  wyndow  gan  I  walk  in  hye, 

To  see  the  warld  and  folk  that  went  forbye, 
As  for  the  tyme  though  I  of  mirthis  fude 
Mycht  have  no  more,  to  lake  it  did  me  gude. 

Now  was  there  maid  fast  by  the  Touris  wall 
A  gardyn  faire,  and  in  the  corneris  set 

Ane  herbere  grene,  with  wandis  long  and  small 
Railit  about,  and  so  with  treis  set 

Was  all  the  place,  and  hawthorn  hegis  knet, 
That  lyf^  was  non  walkyng  there  forbye, 
That  mycht  within  scarce  any  wight  aspy. 

So  thick  the  beuis^  and  the  leves  grene 
Beschadit  all  the  allyes  that  there  were, 

And  myddis  every  herbere  mycht  be  sene 
The  scharpe  grene  suete  jenepere, 

Growing  so  fair  with  branchis  here  and  there, 
That,  as  it  semyt  to  a  lyf  without. 
The  bewis  spred  the  herbere  all  about. 

And  on  the  smalii  grene  twistis  sat 
The  lytil  suctci  nyghtingale,  and  song 

So  loud  and  clere,  the  ympnis  consecrat 
Of  luvis  use,  now  soft  now  lowd  among, 

That  all  the  gardynis  and  the  wallis  rong 
Ryght  of  thaire  song,  and  on  the  copill  next 
Of  thaire  suete  armony,  and  lo  the  text : — 

'  living  thing.  "  boughs. 


JAMES  I.   OF  SCOTLAND.  133 

'  Worschippe,  ye  that  loveris  bene,  this  May, 
For  of  your  bliss  the  kalendis  are  begonne, 

And  sing  with  us,  away  winter,  away, 

Come  somer,  come,  the  suete  seson  and  sonne, 

Awake,  for  schame  !  that  have  your  hevynis  wonne. 
And  amourously  lift  up  your  hedis  all. 
Thank  Lufe  that  list  you  to  his  merci  call.' 

Ouhen  thai  this  song  had  song  a  littil  thrawe', 
Thai  stent  a  quhile,  and  therewith  unafraid. 

As  I  beheld,  and  kest  myn  eyen  a-lawe^. 

From  beugh  to  beugh  thay  hippit  and  thai  plaid. 

And  freschly  in  thair  birdis  kynd  araid 

Thaire  fatheris'  new,  and  fret  thame  in  the  sonne, 
And  thankit  Lufe,  that  had  thair  makis*  wonne. 

This  was  the  plane  ditie  of  thair  note. 
And  therewithall  unto  myself  I  thought, 

Ouhat  lufe  is  this,  that  makis  birdis  dote? 

Ouhat  may  this  be,  how  cummyth  it  of  ought  ? 

Quhat  nedith  it  to  be  so  dere  ybought  ? 
It  is  nothing,  trowe  I,  bot  feynit  chere^, 
And  that  one  list  to  counterfeten  chere. 

Eft  wold  I  think,  O  Lord,  quhat  may  this  be? 

That  Lufe  is  of  so  noble  mycht  and  kynde, 
Lufing  his  folk,  and  suich  prosperitee 

Is  it  of  him,  as  we  in  bukis  fynd, 
May  he  oure  hertis  setten  and  unbynd : 

Hath  he  upon  our  hertis  suich  maistrye? 

Or  all  this  is  bot  feynit  fantasye? 

For  gifF  he  be  of  so  grete  excellence. 

That  he  of  every  wight  hath  cure  and  charge, 

Quhat  have  I  gilt  to  him,  or  doon  offense 
That  I  am  thrall,  and  birdis  gone  at  large? 

Sen  him  to  serve  he  mycht  set  my  corage. 
And,  gif  he  be  not  so,  than  may  I  seyne 
Quhat  makis  folk  to  jangill  of  him  in  veyne  ? 

space.  *  below.  ^  feathers.  *  mates.  '  mirth. 


134  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Can  I  not  ellis  fynd  bot  gifif  that  he 

Be  lord,  and,  as  a  god,  may  lyve  and  regne. 

To  bynd,  and  louse,  and  maken  thrallis  free, 
Than  wold  I  pray  his  blissful  grace  benigne 

To  hable  ^  me  unto  his  service  digne, 
And  evermore  for  to  be  one  of  tho 
Him  trewly  for  to  serve  in  wele  and  wo. 

And  therewith  kest  I  doun  myn  eye  ageyne, 
Ouhare  as  I  saw  walkyng  under  the  Toure, 

Full  secretely,  new  cumyn  hir  to  pleyne. 
The  fairest  or  the  freschest  younge  floure 

That  ever  I  sawe,  methought,  before  that  houre, 
For  quhich  sodayne  abate,  anon  astert 
The  blude  of  all  my  body  to  my  hert. 

And  though  I  stood  abaisit  tho  a  lyte. 
No  wonder  was  ;  for  quhy?  my  wittis  all 

Were  so  ouercome  with  plesance  and  delyte, 
Only  through  latting  of  myn  eyen  fall, 

That  sudaynly  my  hert  become  hir  thrall, 
For  ever  of  free  wyll,  for  of  manace  ^ 
There  was  no  takyn^  in  her  suete  face. 

And  in  my  hede  I  drew  r^'cht  hastily. 
And  eft  sones  I  lent  it  out  ageyne, 

And  saw  hir  walk  that  verray  womanly, 

With  no  wight  mo,  bot  only  women  tueyne, 

Than  gan  I  studye  in  myself  and  seyne, 
Ah  !  suete,  are  ye  a  warldly  creature, 
Or  hevinly  thing  in  likeness  of  nature  ? 

Or  ar  ye  god  Cupidis  owin  princesse  ? 

And  cumyn  are  to  louse  me  out  of  band, 
Or  are  ye  veray  Nature  the  goddesse. 

That  have  depayntit  with  your  hevinly  hand 
This  gardyn  full  of  flouris,  as  they  stand .'' 

Quhat  sail  I  think,  allace  !  quhat  reverence 

Sail  I  minister  to  your  excellence. 

'  enable.  '  pride,  lit.  mcn.icc.  '  token. 


i^a 


JAMES  I.    OF  SCOTLAND. 

Giff  ye  a  goddesse  be,  and  that  ye  like 

To  do  me  payne,  I  may  it  not  astert  ; 
Giff  ye  be  warldly  wight,  that  dooth  me  sike', 

Quhy  lest'^  God  mak  you  so,  my  derest  hert, 
To  do  a  sely  prisoner  thus  smert, 

That  kifis  you  all,  and  wote  of  nought  but  wo  ? 

And,  therefore,  merci,  suete  !  sen  it  is  so. 

Quhen  I  a  lytill  thrawe  had  maid  my  mone, 
Bewailing  myn  infortune  and  my  chance, 

Unknawin  how  or  quhat  was  best  to  done, 
So  ferre  I  fallyng  into  lufis  dance, 

That  sodeynly  my  wit,  my  contenance, 

My  hert,  my  will,  my  nature,  and  my  mynd, 
Was  changit  clene  rycht  in  ane  other  kind. 


In  hir  was  youth,  beautee,  with  humble  aport, 
BouHtee,  richesse,  and  womanly  faiture, 

God  better  wote  than  my  pen  can  report  ; 
Wisdome,  largesse,  estate,  and  conyng  sure 

In  every  point,  so  guydit  hir  mesure. 

In  word,  in  dede,  in  schap,  in  contenance. 
That  nature  mycht  no  more  hir  childe  auance. 

Throw  quhich  anon  I  knew  and  understude 
Wele  that  sche  was  a  wardly  creature. 

On  quhom  to  rest  myn  eye,  so  much  gude 
It  did  my  wofuU  hert,  I  yow  assure 

That  it  was  to  me  joye  without  mesure, 
And,  at  the  last,  my  luke  unto  the  hevin 
I  threwe  furthwith,  and  said  thir  versis  sevin : 

O  Venus  clere !  of  goddis  stellifyit. 

To  quhom  I  yelde  homage  and  sacrifise, 

Fro  this  day  forth  your  grace  be  magnifyit, 
That  me  ressauit^  have  in  such  [a]  wise. 

To  lyve  under  your  law  and  your  seruise  ; 
Now  help  me  furth,  and  for  your  merci  lede 
My  hert  to  rest,  that  deis  nere*  for  drede. 

>  causes  me  to  sigh,        *  did  it  please.         ^  received.         *  nearly  dies. 


\ 


136  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Quhen  I  with  gude  entent  this  orison 
Thus  endit  had,  I  stynt  a  lytill  stound, 

And  eft  myn  eye  full  pitously  adoun 
I  kest,  behalding  unto  hir  lytill  hound, 

That  with  his  bellis  playit  on  the  ground. 
Than  wold  I  say,  and  sigh  therewith  a  lyte, 
Ah  !  wele  were  him  that  now  were  in  thy  plyte  ! 

An  other  quhile  the  lytill  nyghtingale, 
That  sat  upon  the  twiggis,  wold  I  chide, 

And  say  rycht  thus,  Quhare  are  thy  notis  smale. 
That  thou  of  love  has  song  this  morowe  tyde  ? 

Seis  thou  not  hir  that  sittis  the  besyde  ? 
For  Venus'  sake,  the  blisfull  goddesse  clere, 
Sing  on  agane,  and  make  my  Lady  chere. 

From  'The  Gud-e  and  Godlie  Ballates'  (1570). 

Sen  throw  vertew  incressis  dignitie. 

And  vertew  is  flour  and  rute  of  nobles  ay, 
Of  ony  wit,  or  quhat  estait  thou  be 

Ris  ^  steppis  few,  and  dreid  for  none  effray : 

Exill  al  vice,  and  follow  treuth  alway  ; 
Lufe  maist  thy  God,  that  first  thy  lufe  began, 
And  for  ilk  inche  He  will  th^  quyte  ane  span. 
Be  not  ouir  proude  in  thy  prosperitie. 

For  as  it  cummis,  sa  will  it  pass  away  ; 
The  tyme  to  compt  is  schort,  thou  may  weill  se, 

For  of  grene  gress  sone  cummis  wallowit  hay. 

Labour  in  treuth,  quhilk  suith  is  of  thy  fay; 
Traist  maist  in  God,  for  He  best  gyde  th^  can, 
And  for  ilk  inche  He  will  thd  quyte  ane  span. 
Sen  word  is  thrall,  and  thocht  is  only  fre, 

Thou  dant^  thy  toung,  that  power  hes  and  may. 
Thou  steik  thy  ene'  fra  warldis  vanitie, 

Refraine  thy  lust,  and  harkin  quhat  I  say ; 

Graip  or  thou  slyde'',  and  keip  furth  the  hie  way. 
Thou  hald  thi^  fast  upon  thy  God  and  man. 
And  for  ilk  inche  He  will  the?  quyte  ane  span. 
'  rise.         °  daiiul   i  c.  t.imc,  rcstiain.  ^  eyes.         '  grip  ere  thou  blitlc. 


ROBERT    HENRYSON. 


[Of  Robert  Henryson,  the  charming  fabulist,  Chaucer's  aptest  and 
brightest  scholar,  almost  nothing  is  known.  David  Laing  conjectures 
him  to  have  been  born  about  1425,  to  have  been  educated  at  some  foreign 
university,  and  to  have  died  towards  the  closing  years  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  It  is  certain  that  in  1462,  being  then  'in  Artibus  Licentiatus  et  in 
Decretis  Bacchalarius,'  he  was  incorporated  of  the  University  of  Glasgow ; 
and  that  he  was  afterwards  schoolmaster  in  Dunfermline,  and  worked  there 
as  a  notary-public  also] 

Henryson  was  an  accomplished  man  and  a  good  and  genuine 
poet.  He  had  studied  Chaucer  with  the  ardour  and  insight  of  an 
original  mind,  and  while  he  has  much  in  common  with  his  master, 
he  has  much  that  is  his  own.  His  verse  is  usually  well-minted 
and  of  full  weight.  Weak  lines  are  rare  in  him  ;  he  had  the 
instinct  of  the  refrain,  and  was  fond  of  doing  feats  in  rhythm  and 
rhyme  ;  he  is  close,  compact,  and  energetic.  Again,  he  does  not 
often  let  his  learning  or  his  imagination  run  away  with  him  and 
divert  him  from  his  main  issue.  He  subordinates  himself  to  the 
matter  he  has  in  hand  ;  he  keeps  himself  to  the  point,  and  never 
seeks  to  develope  for  development's  sake  ;  and  so,  as  it  appears  to 
me,  he  approves  himself  a  true  artist.  It  follows  that,  as  a  story- 
teller, he  is  seen  to  great  advantage.  He  narrates  with  a  gaiety, 
an  ease,  a  rapidity,  not  to  be  surpassed  in  English  literature 
between  Chaucer  and  Burns.  That,  moreover,  he  was  a  born 
dramatist,  there  is  scarce  one  of  his  fables  but  will  prove.  It  is 
to  be  noted  that  he  uses  dialogue  as  a  good  playwright  would  use 
it  ;  it  is  a  means  with  him  not  only  of  explaining  a  personage  but 
of  painting  a  situation,  not  only  of  introducing  a  moral  but  of 
advancing  an  intrigue.  He  had  withal  an  abundance  of  wit, 
humour,  and  good  sense  ;  he  had  considered  life  and  his  fellow 


138  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

men,  nature  and  religion,  the  fashions  and  abuses  of  his  epoch,  with 
the  grave,  observant  amiabihty  of  a  true  poet ;  he  was  directly  in 
sympathy  with  many  things  ;  he  loved  to  read  and  to  laugh  ; 
it  was  his  business  to  moralise  and  teach.  It  was  natural  that 
he  should  choose  the  fable  as  a  means  of  expressing  himself  It 
was  fortunate  as  well ;  for  his  fables  are  perhaps  the  best  in  the 
language,  and  are  worthy  of  consideration  and  regard  even  after 
La  Fontaine  himself 

To  a  modern  eye  his  dialect  is  distressingly  quaint  and  crabbed. 
In  his  hands,  however,  it  is  a  right  instrument,  narrow  in  com- 
pass, it  may  be,  but  with  its  every  note  sonorous  and  responsive. 
To  know  the  use  he  made  of  it  in  dialogue,  he  must  be  studied 
in  Robyne  and  Makyne,  the  earliest  English  pastoral ;  or  at  such 
moments  as  that  of  the  conversation  between  the  widows  of  the 
Cock  who  has  just  been  snatched  away  by  the  Fox  ;  or  in  the 
incomparable  Taile  of  the  Wolf  that  got  the  Nek-Herring  throw 
the  Wrinkis  of  the  Fox  that  Begylit  the  Cadgear,  which,  outside 
La  Fontaine,  I  conceive  to  be  one  of  the  high-water  marks  of  the 
modern  apologue.  In  such  poems  as  The  Three  Deid  Poivis^, 
where  he  has  anticipated  a  something  of  Hamlet  at  Yorick's  grave, 
as  The  Abbey  Walk.,  the  Garmotid  of  Fair  Ladies,  the  Reasotiing 
between  Age  and  Youth,  it  is  employed  as  a  vehicle  for  the  expres- 
sion of  austere  thought,  of  quaint  ■  conceitedness,  of  solemn  and 
earnest  devotion,  of  satirical  comment,  with  equal  ease  and  equal 
success.  As  a  specimen  of  classic  description  —  as  the  classic 
appeared  to  the  mediaeval  mind — I  should  like  to  quote  at  length 
his  dream  of  ^sop.  As  a  specimen  of  what  may  be  called  the 
choice  and  refined  realism  that  informs  his  work,  we  may  give 
a  few  stanzas  from  the  prelude  to  his  Testament  of  Cresseid.  It 
was  winter,  he  says,  when  he  began  his  song,  but,  he  adds,  in 
despite  of  the  cold, 

'Within  mine  orature 
I  stiide,  when  Titan  with  his  bemis  bricht 

Withdrawin  doun,  and  sylit'-'  undercure, 

And  fair  Venus,  the  beauty  oj  the  nicht, 
Uprais,  and  set  unto  the  west  full  richt 

Ilir  goldin  face,  in  oppositioun 

Of  God  rhoebus,  direct  discending  doun. 

'skulls.  '  hidden. 


FIENRYSOA".  139 


Throwout  the  glass  hir  bemis  brast  so  fair 

That  I  micht  se  on  everie  side  me  by. 
The  northin  wind  had  purifyit  the  air, 

And  sched  the  misty  claudis  jra  the  sky^. 

The  frost  freisit,  the  blastis  bitterly 
Fra  Pole  Artick  came  quhistling  loud  and  schill, 
And  caiisit  me  reniufe  aganist  my  will. 

4:  4:  :{:  4:  :f: 

/  mend  the  fire,  and  beikit-  me  about. 

Than  ttiik  a  drink  my  spreitis  to  comfort, 

And  armit  me  weill  fra  the  cauld  thairoiit ; 

To  cut  the  winter  nicht  and  mak  it  schort, 
I  tuik  ane  Quair^,  and  left  all  uther  sport, 

Writtin  be  worthie  Chaucer  glorious 

Of  fair  Cresseid  and  lusty  Troilus.' 

In  this  charming  description  Henryson,  by  the  use  of  simple 
and  natural  means  and  by  the  operation  of  a  principle  of  selection 
that  is  nothing  if  not  artistic,  has  produced  an  impression  that 
would  not  disgrace  a  poet  skilled  in  the  knacks  and  fashions  of 
the  most  pictorial  school.  Indeed  I  confess  to  having  read  in  its 
connection  a  poem  that  might  in  many  ways  be  imitated  from  it 
{La  Bojine  Soiree),  and  to  feeling  and  seeing  more  with  Henry- 
son  than  with  Theophile  Gautier. 

W.  E.  Henley. 

*  '  The  wind  had  swept  from  the  wide  atmosphere, 

Each  vapour  that  obscured  the  sunset's  ray.'     Shelley. 
'  bustled.  '  book. 


140  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Garmond  of  Fair  Ladies 

Wald  my  gud  Lady  lufe  me  best, 

And  wirk  eftir  my  will, 
I  suld  ane  Garmond  gudliest 

Gar  mak  hir  body  till. 

Off  hie  honour  suld  be  hir  hud, 

Upoun  hir  heid  to  weir, 
Garneist  with  governance  so  gud, 

Na  demyng  suld  hir  deir. 

Hir  sark  suld  be  hir  body  nixt, 

Of  chestetie  so  quhyt, 
With  schame  and  dreid  togidder  mixt, 

The  same  suld  be  perfyt. 

Hir  kirtill  suld  be  of  clene  Constance, 

Lasit  with  lesum^  lufe. 
The  mailyheis  ^  of  continuance 

For  nevir  to  remufe. 

Hir  gown  suld  be  of  gudliness 

Weill  ribband  with  renowne, 
Purfillit  with  plesour  in  ilk  place, 

Furrit  with  fyne  fassoun  ^ 

Hir  belt  suld  be  of  benignitie, 

About  hir  middill  meit ; 
Hir  mantill  of  humilitie, 

To  tholP  bayth  wind  and  weit. 

Hir  hat  suld  be  of  fair  having 

And  hir  tepat  °  of  trewth, 
Hir  patelet "  of  gude  pansing'', 

Hir  hals-ribbane  *  of  rewth. 

lawful.  '■' cylct-holcs.  '  good  manners.  'withstand. 

■■  tippet.  *  ruffct.  '  fair  thouijht.  '  ncck-iibband. 


HENRYSON.  141 


Hir  slevis  suld  be  of  esperance, 

To  keip  hir  fra  dispair  ; 
Hir  gluvis  of  the  gud  govirnance, 

To  hyd  hir  fyngearis  fair. 

Hir  schone  ^  suld  be  of  sickernes^, 
In  syne  that  scho  nocht  slyd  ; 

Hir  hoiss  ^  of  honestie,  I  ges, 
I  suld  for  hir  provyd, 

Wald  scho  put  on  this  Garmond  gay, 
I  durst  sweir  by  my  seill  *, 

That  scho  woir  nevir  grene  nor  gray 
That  set  ^  hir  half  so  weill. 


The  Taill  of  the  Lyoun  and  the  Mous. 

Ane  Lyoun  at  his  pray  wery  foirrun  ^, 
To  recreat  his  limmis  and  to  rest, 

Beikand  ^  his  breist  and  bellie  at  the  sone. 
Under  ane  tree  lay  in  the  fair  forrest, 
Swa  *  come  ane  trip  ^  of  Myis  out  of  thair  nest, 

Rycht  tait  and  trig  ^'',  all  dansand  in  ane  gyis  '^, 

And  ouer  the  Lyoun  lansit  ^'■^  twyis  or  thrys. 

He  lay  so  still,  the  Myis  wes  nocht  effeird 
Bot  to  and  fro  out  ouer  him  tuke  thair. trace, 

Sum  tirllit  at  the  campis  ^^  of  his  beird. 

Sum  spairit  nocht  to  claw  him  on  the  face  ; 
Merie  and  glaid,  thus  dansit  thay  ane  space. 

Till  at  the  last  the  nobill  Lyoun  woke. 

And  with  his  pow"  the  maister  Mous  he  tuke. 

'  shoes.  ^  security.  ^  hosen.  *  knowledge.  *  suited, 

foundered,  spent.  '  basking;  as  a  transitive  verb.  "  So. 

'  band.  '"  gamesome  and  dainty.  "  figure.  ^^  darted. 


"  band.  '"  gamesome  ana 

"  long  hair,  locks.  "  paw. 


142  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Scho  gaif  ane  cry,  and  all  the  laif  ^  agast 

Thair  dansing  left,  and  hid  thame  sone  allquhair ; 
Scho  that  wes  tane,  cryit  and  weipit  fast, 

And  said,  AUace  !   oftymes,  that  scho  come  thair ; 

'  Now  am  I  tane  ane  wofull  presonair, 
And  for  my  gilt  traistis  "^  incontinent. 
Of  lyfe  and  deith  to  thoill  ^  the  jugement.' 
Than  spak  the  Lyoun  to  that  cairfull  *  Mous, 

'Thou  cative  wretche,  and  vile  unworthie  thing, 
Ouer  malapert,  and  eik  presumpteous 

Thow  wes,  to  mak  out  ouer  me  thy  tripping. 

Knew  thow  nocht  weill,  I  wes  baith  lord  and  king 
Of  Beistis  all?'     'Yes,'  quod  the  Mous.     'I  knaw  ; 
But  I  misknew,  because  ye  lay  so  law. 
'  Lord  !    I  beseik  thy  kinglie  royaltie, 

Heir  quhat  I  say,  and  tak  in  pacience  ; 
Considder  first  my  simple  povertie. 

And  syne  thy  mychtie  hie  magnificence  : 

See  als  how  thingis  done  of  negligence, 
Nouther^  of  malice  nor  presumptioun, 
Erar  '^  suld  half  grace  and  remissioun. 
'  We  wir  repleit,  and  had  grit  haboundance 

Of  alkin "'  thingis,  sic  as  to  us  effeird  *. 
The  sweit  sesoun  provokit  us  to  dance, 

And  mak  sic  mirth  as  Nature  to  us  leird  *. 

Ye  lay  so  still,  and  law  upon  the  eird, 
That,  be  my  saull,  we  wend  "  ye  had  bene  deid, 
Ellis  wald  we  nocht  half  dancit  ouer  your  hcid.' 
'Thy  fals  excuse,'  the  Lyoun  said  agane, 

'  Sail  nocht  availl  ane  myte,  I  underta  "  : 
I  put  the  case,  I  had  bene  deid  or  slane 

And  syne  my  skyn  bene  stoppit^'^  full  of  stra, 

Thocht  thow  had  found  my  figure  lyand  swa, 
Because  it  bair  the  prent  of  my  persoun, 
Thow  suld  for  feir  on  knees  half  fallin  doun. 

'  rest.  ^  expect.  ^  cmliire.  *  sorrowful.  '  And  not. 

*  rather.  '  all  manner  of.  "  api)erlaine(I.  "  laughl. 

*"  thought.  "  undertake,  vow.  "  stuffed. 


henryson:  143 


'For  thy  trespas  thow  sail  male  na  defence, 

My  nobill  persoun  thus  to  vilipend  ; 
Of  thy  feiris,  nor  thy  awin  negligence, 

For  to  excuse,  thow  can  na  cause  pretend  ; 

Thairfoir  thow  suffer  sail  ane  schamefuU  end. 
And  deith,  sic  as  to  tressoun  is  decreit, 
On  to  the  gallons  harlit  ^  be  the  feit.' 
'  A  mercie.  Lord  !   at  thy  gentrice  ^  I  ase  ^ : 

As  thow  art  king  of  beistis  coronat  *, 
Sober  thy  wraith,  and  let  thy  yre  ouerpas. 

And  mak  thy  mynd  to  mercy  inclynat ; 

I  grant  offence  is  done  to  thyne  estait, 
Ouhairfoir  I  worthie  am  to  suffer  deid, 
Bot^  gif  thy  kinghe  mercie  reik''  remeid^ 
'  In  everie  juge  mercy  and  reuth  suld  be 

As  assessouris,  and  collaterall. 
Without  mercie  Justice  is  crueltie, 

As  said  is  in  the  Lawis  Spirituall ; 

Ouhen  rigour  sittis  in  the  tribunall, 
The  equitie  of  Law  quha  may  sustene  ? 
Richt  few  or  nane,  but  ^  mercie  gang  betwene. 
Alswa  ye  knaw  the  honour  triumphall 

Of  alP"  victour  upon  the  strenth  dependis 
Of  his  conqueist,  quhilk  manlie  in  battell 

Throw  jeopardie  of  weir  lang  defendis. 

Quhat  price  or  loving  ^^  quhen  the  battell  endis 
Is  said  of  him,  that  ouercummis  ane  man 
Him^^  to  defend  quhilk  nouther  may  nor  can? 
'  Ane  thousand  myis  to  kill,  and  eke  devoir, 

Is  lytill  manheid  to  ane  strong  Lyoun  ; 
Full  lytill  worschip  haif  ye  wyn  thairfoir, 

To  quhais  strenth  is  na  comparisoun  : 

It  will  degraid  some  part  of  your  renoun, 
To  slay  ane  Mous  quhilk  may  mak  na  defence, 
Bot^^  askand  mercie  at  your  Excellence. 

'  dragged,  trundled.  '■'  nobleness,  magnanimity.  '  ask. 

'  crowned.  '•"  and  *  unless.  ''  and  "  bestow  pardon.  "  unless, 

'"every.  "praise.  "  For 'himself.'  '^  unless  it  be  that  of. 


144  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Also,  it  semis  ^  nocht  your  celsitude  ^, 
Quhilk  usis  daylie  meittis  delitious, 

To  syle  your  teith,  or  lippis,  with  my  blude, 
Quhilk  to  your  stomok  is  contagious  : 
Unhailsum  meit  is  of  ane  sairie'  Mous, 

And  that  namelie  untill  ane  Strang  Lyoun 

Wont  till  be  fed  with  gentill  vennisoun. 

'  My  lyfe  is  lytill  worth,  my  deith  is  less, 

Yet  and  I  leif,  I  may  peradventure 
Supple  your  Hienes  beand  in  destres  ; 

For  oft  is  sane,  ane  man  of  small  stature 

Reskewit  has  ane  Lord  of  hie  honour, 
Keipit  that  wes  in  point  to  be  ouerthrawin  *, 
Throw  misfortune.     Sie  cace  may  be  your  awin.' 

Ouhen  this  was  said,  the  Lyoun  his  language 
Paissit  ^  and  thocht  according  to  ressoun, 

And  gart  marcie  his  cruell  yre  asswage, 
And  to  the  Mous  grantit  remissioun, 
Opinnit  his  pow,  and  scho  on  kneis  fell  doun, 

And  baith  his  handis  unto  the  hevin  upheld, 

Cryand  'Almychtie  God,  mot  you  foryeild^!' 

Quhen  scho  wes  gone,  the  Lyoun  held  to  hunt, 
For  he  had  nocht,  bot  lavit  on  his  pray, 

And  slew  baith  tayme  and  wylde,  as  he  was  wont, 
And  in  the  cuntrie  maid  ane  grait  deray " ; 
Till  at  the  last,  the  pepill  fand  the  way 

This  cruell  Lyoun  how  that  they  mycht  tak. 

Of  hempyn  cordis  Strang  nettis  couth  thay  mak. 

And  in  ane  rod,  quhair  he  wes  wont  to  ryn, 
With  raipis  rude  fra  tre  to  tre  it  band  : 

Syne  kest  ane  range  on  raw  the  wod*  within, 
With  hornis  blast,  and  kennettis  **  fast  calland  : 
The  Lyoun  fled,  and  throw  the  rone  ^°  rynnand, 

'  it  does  not  become.               '■'  highness.  •'  sorry.              ^  tli.al  w.is 

just  upon  the  point  of  being  ovcrlhrovvn.  ''  apjicased.            "  Almighty 

God  reward  you.                    '  disorder.  *  i.e.  they  drove  the  wood. 
'  hounds.             '"  sciub. 


HENJiYSON:  145 


Fell  in  the  nett,  and  hankit^  fute  and  held, 
For  all  his  strenth  he  couth  mak  na  remeid, 
Welterand  about  with  hiddeous  rummissing", 

Ouhyles  to,  quhyles  fra,  gif  he  mycht  succour  get ; 
Bot  all  in  vane,  it  vailyeit  him  na  thing. 
The  mair  he  flang^,  the  safter  wes  the  net; 
The  raipis  rude  wes  sa  about  him  plet  *, 
On  everilk  syde,  that  succour  saw  he  none, 
Bot  still  lyand,  and  mumand  maid  his  mone. 
'  O  lamit  Lyoun  !    liggand  ■'  heir  sa  law, 
Quhair  is  the  mycht  of  magnificence  ? 
Of  quhome  all  brutall  beistes  in  eird  stude  aw, 
And  dreid  to  luke  upon  thy  excellence  ! 
But*^  hoip  or  help,  but  succour  or  defence, 
In  bandis  Strang  heir  mon  I  ly,  allace  ! 
Till  I  be  slane — I  see  nane  uther  grace. 
'Thair  is  na  wy^  that  will  my  harmis  wreck", 

Nor  creature  do  confort  to  my  croun  ; 
Quha  sail  me  bute "  ?   quha  sail  my  bandis  brek  ? 
Ouha  sail  me  put  fra  pane  of  this  presoun  ?' — 
Be  he  had  mide  this  lamentatioun, 
Throw  aventure^"  the  lytill  Mous  come  neir, 
And  of  the  Lyoun  hard  the  pietuous  beir ". 
And  suddandlie  it  come  in  till  hir  mynd 

That  it  suld  be  the  Lyoun  did  hir  grace, 
And  said,  '  Now  ever  I  fals,  and  richt  unkynd. 
But  gif  I  quit  sum  part  of  thy  gentrace  '^'^ 
Thow  did  to  me  :'   and  on  this  way  scho  gais 
To  hir  fellowis,  and  on  thame  fast  can  cry, 
'Cum  help,  cum  help;'   and  they  come  all  in  hy'\ 
'Lo!'   quod  the  Mous,  'this  is  the  samin  Lyoun 

That  grantit  grace  to  me  quhcn  I  wes  tane ; 
And  now  is  fast  heir  bundin  in  presoun, 

Brekand  his  heart,  with  sair  murning  and  mane  ; 
Bot  we  him  help  of  succour  wait  '*  he  nane  ; 

'  entangled.                   ^  roaring.                    3  struggled.  *  woven. 

»  lying.              6  Without.             ^  No  man.              «  avenge.  »  help. 

'»  By  chance.           "  Noise.           »^  kindness.           "  i^  ii^g^g  ,,  i^^^^^.^^ 

VOL.  I.  L 


146  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Cum  help  to  quyte  ane  gude  turne  for  ane  uther  ; 

Go,  louse  him  sone  ;' — and  they  said,  'Yea,  gude  brother.' 

They  tuke  na  knyfe,  their  teith  vves  scharp  aneuch  : 
To  se  that  sicht,  forsuith  it  wes  greit  wonder, 

How  that  thay  ran  amang  the  raipis  teuch 
Befoir,  behind,  sum  yeild '  about,  sum  under, 
And  schuir^  the  raipis  of  the  nett  in  schunder  ; 

Syne  bad  him  ryse,  and  he  start  up  anone. 

And  thankit  thame,  syne  on  his  way  is  gone. 

^  went.  ^  cut. 


WILLIAM    DUNBAR. 

[Bom  145-,  died    1513  (?).] 

M.  Taine,  in  his  History  of  English  Literahire,  leaps  from 
Chaucer  to  Surrey  with  the  remark,  '  Must  we  quote  all  these 
good  people  who  speak  without  having  anything  to  say  ? .  .  dozens 
of  translators,  importing  the  poverties  of  French  poetry,  rhyming 
chroniclers,  most  commonplace  of  men.'  Of  this  period  he  men- 
tions only  and  merely  names  Gower  and  Lydgate  and  Skelton. 
The  more  genuine  successors  of  Chaucer  were  the  Scotch  poets, 
who,  almost  alone  in  our  island,  lit  up  the  dusk  of  the  15th  century 
with  some  flashes  of  native  power.  Neither  James  I  nor  Henryson 
was  commonplace,  and  Dunbar,  the  most  conspicuous  of  the 
group,  displays  in  his  best  work  a  distinct  original  genius. 

Wilham  Dunbar  was  born,  probably  in  East  Lothian,  between 
1450  and  1460.  He  entered  the  University  of  St.  Andrews  in 
1475,  and  took  his  full  degree  in  1479.  In  early  life,  according  to 
his  own  account,  he  went  about  from  Berwick  to  Dover,  and 
passed  over  to  Calais  and  Picardy,  preaching  and  alms-gathering 
as  a  Franciscan  noviciate  ;  but  he  became  dissatisfied  with  this 
life  and  does  not  seem  to  have  taken  the  vows  of  the  order.  It 
has  been  inferred  from  allusions  in  his  verse  that  he  was  for  some 
years  employed  in  connection  with  foreign  embassies.  Toward 
the  close  of  the  century  we  find  him  in  attendance  on  the  Scotch 
Court,  a  poet  with  an  established  reputation,  and  a  continual 
suitor  for  place.  In  1500  he  received  from  the  king  (James  IV) 
a  pension  of  ^10,  raised  by  degrees,  during  the  next  ten  years  to 
£Zo  —  then  a  respectable  annuity:  but  he  never  obtained  the 
Church  promotion,  to  which  on  somewhat  irrelevant  grounds  he 
constantly  laid  claim. 

Dunbar  revisited  England  in  1501,  when  the  king's  marriage 
with  the  Princess  Margaret  was  being  negotiated.  The  Thistle 
and  the  Rose  in  commemoration  of  that  event  was  composed  on 
the  9th  of  May,  1503.    The  Golden  Targe  and  the  Lament  /or  the 

L  2 


148  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Makars  were  issued  from  Chepman's — the  first  Scotch — press  in 
1508.  The  poet  must  have  accompanied  the  Queen,  in  whose 
favour  he  stood  fast,  to  the  north  in  1 5 1 1 ;  for  he  celebrates  her 
reception  at  Aberdeen.  There  is  a  record  of  an  instalment  of  his 
pension  being  paid  in  August,  1513  :  the  rest  is  a  blank,  and  it  has 
been  plausibly  conjectured  that  he  may,  a  month  later,  have  fallen 
at  Flodden  with  the  King.  If  he  li\'ed  to  write  the  Orison  on  the 
passing  of  Albany  to  France  (doubtfully  attributed  to  him)  the 
absence  of  any  other  reference  to  the  great  national  disaster  is 
remarkable.  We  are,  however,  only  certain  from  an  allusion  in 
Lyndesay's  Papy7igo  that  he  must  have  been  dead  in  1530. 

The  writings  of  Dunbar — on  the  whole  the  most  considerable 
poet  of  our  island  in  the  interval  between  Chaucer  and  Spenser — 
are  mainly  Allegorical,  Satirical,  and  Occasional.  Allegory,  a 
disease  of  the  middle  ages  infecting  most  poets  down  to  the  end 
of  the  1 6th  century,  was  rife  in  our  old  Scotch  verse,  much  of 
which  is  cast  on  the  model  of  The  Rotnaunt  of  the  Rose  and  The 
Flower  and  the  Leaf.  In  The  Goldeji  Targe  the  influence  of  those 
works  is  conspicuous,  though  much  of  the  imitation  is  indirect, 
through  The  King's  Qiiair.  Like  the  royal  minstrel,  the  poet 
represents  himself  as  being  roused  from  his  slumbers  by  the  morn- 
ing, and  led  to  the  bank  of  a  stream  where  presently  a  ship  lands  a 
hundred  ladies  (v.  the  '  world  of  ladies '  in  The  Floiver  and  the  Leaf) 
in  green  kirtles  :  among  them  are  Nature,  Dame  Venus,  the  fresh 
Aurora,  Latona,  Proserpine,  &c.  Then  Cupid  appears,  leading  a 
troop  of  gods  to  dance  with  the  goddesses.  Love  detecting  the 
poet  orders  his  arrest.  Reason  defends  him  with  the  Golden 
Targe,  till  Presence  comes  and  throws  dust  into  the  eyes  of 
Reason  and  leaves  Venus  victrix.  The  plot  is  no  more  barren  than 
those  of  Chaucer's  own  contributions  to  the  literature  of  the  Courts 
of  Love  :  but  the  Targe  is  farther  beset  by  an  unusual  number  of 
the  '  aureate '  terms  or  affected  Latinisms  with  which  the  Scotch 
poets  of  the  century  disfigured  their  language,  planting  them,  as 
Campbell  says,  like  children's  flowers  in  a  mock  garden.  The 
merit  of  the  piece  almost  wholly  consists  in  its  riches  of  de- 
scription; but  this  is  enough  to  preserve  it:  the  ship  'like  a 
blossom  on  the  spray,'  the  skies  that  '  rang  with  shouting  of  the 
larks,'  recall  Chaucer's  Orient  and  anticipate  Burns.  The  Thistle 
and  the  Rose  has  the  same  pictorial  charm,  with  the  added  merit 
of  being  inspired  l)y  a  genuine  national  enthusiasm.  It  is  perhaps 
the  happiest  political  allegory  in  our  tongue.     Heraldry  has  never 


DUNBAR.  149 

been  more  skilfully  handled,  nor  compliments  more  gracefully 
paid,  nor  fidelity  more  persuasively  preached  to  a  monarch  than 
in  this  poem,  which  has  under  its  southern  dress  a  strong  northern 
body.  This  remark  applies  to  the  author's  work  in  general,  and 
more  especially  to  those  compositions  in  which  he  mingles  allegory 
with  satire.  His  masterpiece.  The  Dance  of  the  Deadly  Sins,  may 
have  been  suggested  by  passages  in  Piers  Ploivjnan,  as  it  in  turn 
transmitted  its  influence  through  Sackville  to  The  Faery  Queen  : 
but  the  horrid  crew  of  vices,  summoned  from  their  dens  by  lines 
each  vigorous  as  the  crack  of  a  whip,  are  real,  and  Scotch,  and 
contemporary,  drawn  from  a  knowledge  of  the  world,  not  from 
books  :  these  supplied  Dunbar  with  his  terminology,  that  with  his 
thought.  His  most  elaborate  composition,  and  that  which  ranks 
next  in  originality  to  The  Dance,  The  Two  Married  Women  and 
the  Widow,  has  a  tincture  of  Boccaccio  and  The  Wife  of  Bath,  but 
the  scene  is  again  a  northern  summer  eve,  and  the  gossips  are  con- 
temporaries of  Queen  Margaret.  The  poet's  satire,  which  is  here 
subtle,  is  often  furious.  Half  his  minor  poems  are  vollies  of  abuse, 
unprecedented  in  English  literature,  unless  by  some  of  the  almost 
contemporaneous  outbursts  of  Skelton,  mainly  directed  against 
those  who  had,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  been  promoted  over  him  ; 
the  other  half  are  religious  and  moral  reveries,  those  of  a  good 
Catholic  who  lived  when  the  first  mutters  of  the  Reformation 
were  in  the  air,  and  are  the  finest  devotional  fragments  of  their 
age. 

The  special  characteristics  of  Dunbar's  genius  are  v^ariety  and 
force.  His  volume  is  a  medley  in  which  tenderness  and  vindic- 
tiveness;  blistering  satire  and  exuberant  fancy  meet.  His  writings 
are  only  in  a  minor  degree  bound  up  with  the  politics  of  his  age, 
and  though  they  reflect  its  fashions,  they  for  the  most  part  appeal 
to  wider  human  sympathies.  He  has  not  wearied  us  with  any 
very  long  poem.  His  inspiration  and  his  personal  animus  find 
vent  within  moderate  bounds,  but  they  are  constantly  springing 
up  at  different  points  and  assuming  various  attitudes.  At  one 
time  he  is  a  quiet  moralist  praising  the  golden  mean,  at  another 
he  is  as  fierce  as  Juvenal.  Devoid  of  the  subtlety  and  the  dra- 
matic power  of  Chaucer,  his  attacks,  often  coarse,  are  always 
direct  and  sincere.  His  drawing,  like  that  of  the  Ballads,  is  in 
the  fore-ground  :  there  is  no  chiaroscuro  in  his  pages,  no  more 
than  in  those  of  his  countrymen  from  Barbour  to  Burns.  The 
story  of  the  battle  between  The  Tailor  and  Souter  might  have  been 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


written  by  Rabelais  :  Tlie  Devil's  Inquest  is  the  original  of  The 
Devil's  Drive:  the  meditation  on  A  Winter's  Walk  is  not  un- 
worthy of  Cowper,  nor  the  best  stanzas  in  The  Merle  and  the 
Nightijigale  of  Wordsworth. 

Like  Erasmus,  Dunbar  railed  against  the  friars  and  their  indul- 
gences '  quorum  pars  fuit  : '  but  there  is  no  reason  to  suspect  that 
he  was  more  or  less  than  a  large-hearted  Roman  Catholic  in  his 
creed.  He  had  none  of  the  protagonist  spirit  which  is  required  to 
assail  the  traditions  of  a  thousand  years.  Of  a  generally  buoyant 
temper  he  appears,  like  most  satirists,  to  have  taken  at  times  a 
view  of  the  world,  in  which  the  Epicurean  gloom  dominates  the 
Epicurean  gaiety.  'AH  earthly  joy  returns  in  pain'  is  the  refrain 
of  one  of  his  poems  ;  '  Timor  mortis  conturbat  me '  of  another. 
The  shadow  of  the  '  atra  dies '  falls  aslant  his  most  luxuriant 
moods.     In  the  sonnet  beginning  : — 

'  What  is  this  life  but  ane  straucht  way  to  deid, 
Whilk  has  a  time  to  pass  and  nane  to  dwell ' ; 

there  is  something  of  the  satiety  of  a  disappointed  worldling  ;  but 
in  others — 

'  Be  merry,  man,  and  tak  not  sare  in  mind 
The  wavering  of  this  wretched  warld  of  sorrow,' — 

we  have  the  manlier  temper  :  on  the  one  side  Vanitas  vanitatiem, 
et  omnia  vanitas^  on  the  other  the  Philosophie  Douce. 

J.    NiCHOL. 

Note.  In  the  following  extracts,  the  text  of  Mr.  David  Laing,  Ed.  1834, 
has  been  generally  adhered  to.  Where  there  are  difTereut  readings,  that  has 
been  adopted  which  gives  the  best  metre. 


DUNBAR. 


From  'The  Thrissill  and  the  Rois.' 

Quhen  Merche  wes  with  variand  windis  past 
And  Appryle  had,  \\-ith  her  silver  schouris, 

Tane  leif  at  Nature  with  ane  orient  blast, 
And  lusty  May,  that  muddir  is  of  flouris, 
Had  maid  the  birdis  to  begyn  thair  houris^ 

Amang  the  tendir  odouris  reid  and  quhj-t, 

Ouhois  armony  to  heir  it  wes  delyt  : 

In  bed  at  morrow,  sleiping  as  I  lay, 
Me  thocht  Aurora,  with  hir  cristall  ene 

In  at  the  window  lukit  by  the  day, 
And  halsit  me,  with  visage  paill  and  grene  ; 
On  quhois  hand  a  lark  sang  fro  the  splene  ^ 

Awalk,  luvaris,  out  of  your  slomering 

Se  hou  the  lusty  morrow  dois  up  spring. 

Me  thocht  fresche  May  befoir  my  bed  up  stude. 
In  weid  depaynt  of  mony  diverss  hew, 

Sobir,  ben>Tig,  and  full  of  mansuetude 
In  br)-cht  atteir  of  flouris  forgit  new 
Hevinly  of  color,  quh^t,  reid,  broun   and  blew, 

Balmit  in  dew,  and  gilt  with  Phebus  bemys  ; 

Quhyll  all  the  house  illumynit  of  her  lemys  K 

Slugird,  scho  said,  awalk  annone  for  schame. 

And  in  my  honour  sum  thing  thou  go  wr)'t ; 
The  lark  has  done  the  mirry  day  proclame. 

To  raise  up  luvaris  with  confort  and  delyt ; 

Yit  nocht  incressis  thy  curage  to  indyt, 
Quhois  hairt  sum  tyme  hes  glaid  and  blisfull  bene, 
Sangis  to  mak  undir  the  levis  grene. 

****** 

»  morning  orisons.  *  from  the  heart.  =  rays. 


152  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Than  callit  scho  all  flouris  that  grew  on  feild 
Discirnyng  all  thair  fassionis  and  ^ffeiris 

Upone  the  awfull  Thrissil  scho  beheld 
And  saw  him  kepit  with  a  busche  of  speiris  ; 
Considering  him  so  able  for  the  weiris 

A  radius  croun  of  rubeis  scho  him  gaif, 

And  said,  In  feild  go  furth  and  fend  the  laif^ : 

And  sen  thou  art  a  King,  thou  be  discreit  ; 

Herb  without  vertew  thow  hald  nocht  of  sic  prycc 

As  herb  of  vertew  and  of  odour  sueit ; 
And  lat  no  nettill  vyle,  and  full  of  vyce, 
Hir  fallow^  to  the  gudly  flour-de-lyce  ; 

Nor  latt  no  wyld  weid,  full  of  churlicheness, 

Compair  hir  till  the  lilleis  nobilness. 

Nor  hald  non  udir  flour  in  sic  denty' 

As  the  fresche  Rois,  of  cullour  reid  and  quhyt  : 

For  gife  thow  dois,  hurt  is  thyne  honesty ; 
Considring  that  no  flour  is  so  perfyt, 
So  full  of  vertew,  plesans,  and  delyt, 

So  full  of  blisful  angeilik  bewty, 

Imperiall  birth,  honour  and  dignitd 

From  '  The  Goldyn  Targe.' 

Bryght  as  the  stern  of  day  begouth  to  schyne 
Quhen  gone  to  bed  war  Vesper  and  Lucyne, 

I  raise,  and  by  a  rosere  *  did  me  rest  : 
Up  sprang  the  goldyn  candill  matutyne, 
With  clere  depurit  hemes  cristallync 

Glading  the  mery  foulis  in  thair  nest  ; 

Or  Phebus  was  in  purpur  cape  revest 
Up  raise  the  lark,  the  hevyn's  menstrale  fyne 
In  May,  in  till  a  morow  myrthfullest. 

Full  angellike  thir  birdis  sang  thair  houris 
Within  thair  courtyns  grene,  in  to  thair  bouris, 
Apparalit  quhite  and  red,  wyth  blomes  sucte  ; 

lest.  ^  match  herself.  ^  favour.  *  robe  bush. 


DUNBAR.  153 

Anamalit  was  the  felde  with  all  colouris, 

The  perly  droppis  schuke  in  silvir  schouris  ; 

Ouhill  all  in  balme  did  branch  and  levis  flete^, 
To  part  fra  Phebus  did  Aurora  grete  ^ ; 

Hir  cristall  teris  I  saw  hyng  on  the  flouris 

Ouhilk  he  for  lufe  all  drank  up  with  his  hete. 

For  mirth  of  May,  wyth  skippis  and  wyth  hoppis, 
The  birdis  sang  upon  the  tender  croppis, 

With  curiouse  notis,  as  Venus  chapell  clerkis  ; 
The  rosis  yong,  new  spreding  of  their  knoppis  ^ 
War  powderit  brjxht  with  hevinly  beriall  droppis 

Throu  hemes  rede,  birnyng  as  ruby  sperkis  ; 

The  skyes  rang  for  schoutyng  of  the  larkis. 

The  Dance  of  the  Sevin  Deidly  Syxnis. 

Off  Februar  the  fyiftene  nycht, 
Full  lang  befoir  the  dayis  lycht, 

I  lay  in  till  a  trance  ; 
And  than  I  saw  baith  Hevin  and  Hell : 
Me  thocht,  amangis  the  feyndis  fell, 

Mahoun  gart  cry  ane  Dance 
Off  Schrewis*  that  were  nevir  schrevin, 
Aganis  the  feist  of  Fasternis  evin^ 

To  mak  thair  observance  ; 
He  bad  gallandis  ga  graith  a  gyiss  ® 
And  kast  up  gamountis"  in  the  Skyiss 

As  varlotis  dois  in  France. 
****** 
Heilie  Harlottis  on  hawtane  wyiss 
Come  in  with  mony  sindrie  gyiss, 

Bot  yit  luche*  nevir  Mahoun, 
Ouhill "  prcistis  come  in  with  hair  schevin  nekkis, 
Than  all  the  Feyndis  Icwche,  and  made  gekkis  "*, 

Blak-belly  and  Bawsy-Broun. 
****** 

*  gloat.  '  weep.  '  buds.  ^  Outcasts.  '  Easterns  Evening, 

the  eve  of  Lent.  *  prepare  a  guise  or  mask.  '  gambols. 

»  laughed.  »  till.  '»  mocks. 


1.54  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Lat  s^,  quoth  he,  now  quha  begynnis, 
With  that  the  fowll  Sevin  Deidly  synnis 

Begowth  to  leip  at  anis. 
And  first  of  all  in  Dance  was  Pryd, 
With  hair  wyld  bak,  and  bonet  on  syd, 

Lyk  to  mak  vaistie  ^  wanis  ^  ; 
And  round  abowt  him,  as  a  quheill, 
Hang  all  in  rumpillis  to  the  heill 

His  kethat  ^  for  the  nanis  : 
Mony  prowd  trumpour  with  him  trippit 
Throw  skaldand  *  fyre,  ay  as  thay  skippit 

Thay  gyrnd  with  hyddous  granis. 
Than  Yre  come  in  with  sturt  and  stryfe  ; 
His  hand  wes  ay  upoun  his  knyfe, 

He  brandeist  lyk  a  beir^  : 
Bostaris,  braggaris,  and  barganeris, 
Eftir  him  passit  in  to  pairis, 

All  bodin  '^  in  feir  of  weir 
In  jakkis,  and  scryppis  and  bonettis  of  steill 
Thair  leggis  wer  chenyeit  to  the  heill, 

Frawart  was  their  affair  : 
Sum  upoun  uder  with  brandis  beft''. 
Sum  jagit  uthers  to  the  heft 

With  knyvis  that  scherp  cowd  scheir. 

Nixt  in  the  Dance  followite  Invy, 
Fild  full  of  feid**  and  fellony. 

Hid  malyce  and  dispyte. 
For  pryvie  hatrent  that  tratour  trymlit  ; 
Him  folio  wit  mony  frcik ''  dissymlit 

With  fcnyeit  wordis  quhyte  : 
And  flattereris  in  to  menis  facis  ; 
And  bak-byttaris  in  sccreit  placis, 

To  ley  that  had  delyte  ; 
And  rownaris'"  of  false  lesingis, 
Allace  !    that  courtis  of  noble  kingis 

Of  tliame  can  ncvir  be  quyte. 
'  waste.  "  abodes.  '  robe.  *  northern  participial  form. 

'  oliserve  that  ei  represents  several  southern  vowel  sounds.  ''  arrayed. 

^  struck.  »  feud.  '  petulant  fellow.  ^^  whisperers. 


DUNBAR.  ^ao 

Nixt  him  in  Dans  come  Cuvatyce 
Rute  of  all  evill,  and  grund  of  vycc, 

That  nevir  cowd  be  content  : 
Catyvis,  wrechis,  and  ockeraris\ 
Hud-pykis^  hurdaris^-and  gadderaris  *, 

All  with  that  warlo  went  : 
Out  of  thair  throttis  thay  schot  on  udder 
Rett  moltin  gold,  me  thocht,  a  fudder^ 

As  fyre-fiawcht  ^  maist  fervent  ; 
Ay  as  thay  tumit'^  them  of  schot, 
Feyndis  fild  thame  new  up  to  the  thrott 

With  gold  of  allkin  -  prent. 

Syne  Sweirnes^  at  the  secound  bidding, 
Come  lyk  a  sow  out  of  a  midding. 

Full  slepy  wes  his  grunyie^^ 
Mony  sweir  bumbard  belly  huddroun^', 
Mony  slute  daw^-,  and  slepy  duddroun '', 

Him  servit  ay  with  sounyie". 
He  drew  thame  forth  in  till  a  cheny.e 
And  Belliall  with  a  brydill  renyie 

Evir  lascht  thame  on  the  lunyie  ^^ : 
In  Dans  thay  war  so  slaw  of  feit, 
Thay  gaif  thame  in  the  fyre  a  heit. 

And  made  them  quicker  of  counyie'l 

Than  Lichery,  that  lathly  corse, 
Came  berand^'  lyk  a  bagit  horse, 

And  Ydilness  did  him  leid  ; 
Thair  wes  with  him  ane  ugly  sort. 
And  mony  stynkand  fowl!  tramort^** 

That  had  in  syn  bene  deid  : 
Quhen  they  were  enterit  in  the  Dance, 
Thay  wer  full  strenge  of  countenance, 
Lyke  tortchis  byrnand  reid, 

***** 

»  usurers  '  misers.  '  hoarders.  ♦  gatherers.  '  load, 

properly  of  i  28  lbs.  weight.        «  wild-fire.         ^  emptied.         «  of  all  kiads. 

«  sloth.  '"  g'unt.  "  tun-bellied  sloven.  ''  slothful  wench. 

"  slut.       "  care.       *^  loins.       '"^  apprehension.       "  snorting.       "  corpse. 


156  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Than  the  fowl!  monstir  Gluttony 
Of  wame  unsasiable  and  gredy, 

To  Dance  he  did  him  dress  : 
Him  followit  mony  fowl!  drunckart, 
With  can  and  collep  \  cop  and  quart, 

In  surffet  and  excess  ; 
Full  mony  a  waistless  wally-drag  ^, 
With  wamis  unweildable,  did  furth  wag, 

In  creische  ^  that  did  incress 
Drynk  !    ay  thay  cryit  with  many  a  gaip, 
The  Feyndis  gaif  thame  hait  leid  to  laip 

Thair  leveray  ^  wes  na  less. 


Na  menstrallis  playit  to  thame  but  dowt, 
For  gle-men  thair  wer  haldin  owt, 

Be  day,  and  eik  by  nycht  : 
Except  a  menstrall  that  slew  a  man, 
Swa  till  his  heretage  he  wan. 

And  enterit  by  breif  of  richt. 

Than  cryd  Mahoun  for  a  Heleand  Padyane  ^ : 
Syne  ran  a  Feynd  to  feche  Makfadj'ane, 

Far  northwart  in  a  nuke  ; 
Be  he  the  Correnoch  had  done  schout, 
Ersche  men  so  gadderit  him  abowt, 

In  Hell  grit  rowme  thay  tuke  ; 
Thae  tarmegantis,  with  tag  and  tatter, 
Full  lowd  in  Ersche  begowth  to  clatter 

And  rowp  ^  lyk  revin  and  ruke. 
The  Devill  sa  devt  wes  with  thair  yell, 
That  in  the  depest  pot  of  hell, 

He  5morit "  thame  with  smukc. 

(Irinkiiif^  cups.  ^  outcast.  ^  yicnse.  *  reward. 

^  Highland  pageant.  '  cioak.  '  smothc;ed. 


DUNBAR.  157 


From  'The  Lament  for  the  Makaris  Ouhen 
he  was  seik.' 

I  that  in  heill^  wes  and  glaidness, 
Am  trublit  now  with  gret  seikness, 
And  feblit  with  infirmitie  ; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Our  plesance  heir  is  all  vane  glory 
This  fals  Warld  is  bot  transitory 
The  flesche  is  brukle  ^,  the  Feynd  is  sle  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

The  stait  of  Man  dois  change  and  vary 
Now  sound,  now  seik,  now  blyth,  now  sary, 
Now  dansand  mirry,  now  like  to  die  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

No  Stait  in  Erd  heir  standis  sicker, 
As  with  the  wynd  wavis  the  wickir% 
So  wavis  this  warldis  vanite  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Unto  the  Deid  gois  all  Estaitis 
Princis,  Prellattis,  and  Potestaitis, 
Baith  riche  and  puire  of  all  degre  ; 
Timor  mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  takis  the  knychtis  in  to  feild, 
Anarmit  under  helme  and  scheild, 
Victour  he  is  at  all  mellie  ; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 


I  see  that  Makaris  amang  the  laif* 
Playis  heir  thair  padyanis,  syne  gois  to  graif; 
Spairit  is  nocht  thair  faculty  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

'  health.  ^  brittle.  ^  osier.  *  poets  among  the  rest. 


158  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

He  hes  done  peteouslie  devour 
The  noble  Chawcer  of  makaris  flouir 
The  Monk  of  Bery,  and  Govver,  all  thre  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 
****** 

He  hes  Blind  Hary,  and  Sandy  Traill 
Slaine  with  his  schot  of  mortall  haill 
Quhilk  Patrick  Johnestoun  mycht  nocht  fid 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  hes  reft  Merseir  his  endyte, 
That  did  in  luve  so  lifly  write, 
So  schort,  so  quyk,  of  sentence  hie  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  hes  tane  Roull  of  Abirdene, 
And  gentil  Roull  of  Corstorphine  ; 
Two  bettir  fallowis  did  no  man  sd  ; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 
In  Dumfermelyne  he  hes  tane  Brown 
With  Maister  Robert  Henrisoun 
Schir  Johne  the  Ross  embraist  hes  hd  ; 

Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

And  he  hes  now  tane,  last  of  aw, 
Gud  gentill  Stobo  and  Ouintyne  Schaw 
Of  quhome  all  wichtis  hes  petie  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Gud  Maister  Walter  Kennedy, 
In  poynt  of  dede  lyis  veraly, 
Gret  reuth  it  were  that  so  suld  be  ; 
Timon  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Sen  he  has  all  my  Brether  tane, 
He  will  nocht  lat  me  leif  alane, 
On  forse  I  mon  his  nyxt  pray  be  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Sen  for  the  Deid  remeid  is  non, 
Best  is  that  we  for  deid  dispone, 
Kftir  our  deid  that  Icif  may  we  ; 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 


GAWAIN    DOUGLAS. 


[Gawain  Douglas  (born  1474-75)  was  a  younger  son  of  the  famous  Earl 
of  Angus,  called  '  Bell  the  Cat.'  Though  e;ven  elementary  education  was 
rare  in  his  noble  family, 

('  Thanks  to  St.  Bothan,  son  of  mine. 
Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line,') 

Gawain  devoted  himself  to  study,  matriculated  at  the  University  of  St. 
Andrews  in  1489,  and  took  his  degree  in  1494.  He  published  his  Police  of 
Honour  in  1501,  and  finished  his  translation  of  the  Aeneid  in  151.^  He 
seems  now  to  have  abandoned  poetry,  and  after  many  stormy  intrigues, 
was  consecrated  Bishop  of  Dunkeld  in  1515.  He  was  carried  do\\Ti  the 
'druinly'  stream  of  Scotch  politics,  and  died  in  exile  in  London  in  1522. 
The  date  of  his  unpublished  poem  King  Hart  is  uncertain ;  it  was  probably 
composed  between  1501  and  1512.  An  admirable  edition  of  Douglas'  works 
has  lately  been  made,  in  four  volumes,  by  Mr.  John  Small  of  Edinburgh.] 

Gawain  Douglas  attempted  the  poet's  art  amidst  the  clash  of 
arms  ;  he  was  learned  in  an  age  and  among  a  people  that  de- 
spised literature.  The  revival  of  letters,  when  it  reached  Scotland, 
was  crushed  out  by  the  nobles,  who  hated  dominies  and  Italians. 
Classical  Hterature  and  Erasmus  had  a  pupil  in  the  young  Arch- 
bishop of  St.  Andrews,  a  Stuart  who  fell  under  the  English  arrows, 
when  'groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight'  around  the  king 
at  Flodden.  Gawain  Douglas,  noble  by  birth  and  ambitious  of 
nature,  ceased  to  court  poetry,  after  poetry  had  done  her  best  for 
him, — had  helped  the  recommendations  of  the  English  Court  to 
win  him  a  bishopric  from  Leo  X.  The  lilies  and  laurels  of  Italy, 
the  sweet  Virgilian  measures,  were  soon  bhghted  and  silenced 
by  the  wind  and  hail  of  Scotland,  by  clerical  austerity,  and  the 
storms  of  war  that  in  those  days  beat  round  even  episcopal 
palaces.  Among  all  the  poets  beheld  by  Douglas  in  vision  (in 
the  Palice  of  Honour),  but  two  or  three  were  countrymen  of  his 
own. 


i6o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  chief  original  poem  of  Douglas,  The  Palice  of  Honour, 
is  an  allegory  of  the  sort  which  had  long  been  in  fashion.  Moral 
ideas  in  allegorical  disguises,  descriptions  of  spring,  and  scraps 
of  mediaeval  learning  were  the  staple  of  such  compositions.  Like 
the  other  poets,  French  and  English,  of  the  last  two  centuries, 
Douglas  woke  on  a  morning  of  May,  wandered  in  a  garden,  and 
beheld  various  masques  or  revels  of  the  goddesses,  heroes,  poets, 
virtues,  vices  (such  as  '  Busteousness '),  and  classical  and  Biblical 
worthies.  In  his  vision  he  characteristically  confused  all  that 
he  happened  to  know  of  the  past,  made  Sinon  and  Achitophel 
comrades  in  guilt  and  misfortune,  while  Penthesilea  and  Jeptha's 
daughter  ranged  together  in  Diana's  company,  and  '  irrepreuabill 
Susane '  rode  about  in  the  troop  of  '  Cleopatra  and  worthie  Mark 
Anthone.'  The  diverting  and  pathetic  combinations  of  this  sort 
still  render  Douglas's  poems  rich  in  surprises,  and  he  occasionally 
does  poetical  justice  on  the  wicked  men  of  antiquity,  as  when 
he  makes  Cicero  knock  down  Catiline  with  a  folio.  To  modern 
readers  his  allegory  seems  to  possess  but  few  original  qualities. 
His  poem,  indeed,  is  rich  with  descriptions  of  flowers  and  stately 
palaces,  his  style,  like  Venus's  throne,  is  'with  stones  rich  over 
fret  and  cloth  of  gold,'  his  pictures  have  the  quaint  gorgeousness 
and  untarnished  hues  that  we  admire  in  the  paintings  of  Crivelli. 
But  these  qualities  he  shares  with  so  many  other  poets  of  the 
century  which  preceded  his  own,  that  we  find  him  most  original 
when  he  is  describing  some  scene  he  knew  too  well,  some  hour 
of  storm  and  surly  weather,  the  bleakness  of  a  Scotch  winter,  or 
a  '  desert  terribill,'  like  that  through  which  '  Childe  Roland  to  the 
dark  tower  came.'     (See  extracts  i  and  2.) 

A  poem  of  Douglas's  which  was  not  printed  during  his  lifetime, 
King  Hart,  is  also  allegorical.  King  Hart,  or  the  heart  of  man, 
dwells  in  a  kind  of  city  of  Mansoul  ;  he  is  attended  by  five 
servants — the  five  senses, — besieged  and  defeated  by  Dame  Plea- 
sance,  visited  by  Age,  deserted  by  Youthhead,  Disport,  and  Fresh 
Delight.  There  is  nothing  particularly  original  in  an  allegory  of 
which  the  form  was  common  before,  and  not  unfrequently  employed 
after  the  age  of  Douglas.  (Compare  'the  Bewitching  Mistress 
Heart '  in  The  Legal  Proceedings  against  Sin  in  Man-shire,  1640.) 

The  little  piece  of  verse  called  Conscience  is  not  bad  in  its 
quibbling  way.  When  the  Church  was  young  and  flourishing, 
Conscience  ruled  her.  Men  wearied  of  Conscience,  and  cut  off  the 
Con,  leaving  Science.    Then  came  an  age  of  ecclesiastical  learning, 


DOUGLAS.  l6l 

which  lasted  till  the  world  '  thought  that  Science  was  too  long  a 
jape,'  and  got  rid  of  Sci.  Nothing  was  left  now  but  etis,  worldly 
substance,  '  riches  and  gear  that  gart  all  grace  go  hence.'  The 
Church  in  Scotland  did  not  retain  even  ens  long  after  the  age  of 
Douglas.     Grace,  on  the  other  hand,  waxed  abundant. 

The  work  by  which  Douglas  lives,  and  deserves  to  live,  is  his 
translation  of  the  Aeneid.  It  is  a  singular  fruit  of  a  barren  and 
unlearned  time,  and,  as  a  romantic  rendering  of  the  Aeneid,  may 
still  be  read  with  pleasure.  The  two  poets  whom  Douglas  most 
admired  of  all  the  motley  crowd  who  pass  through  The  Palice  of 
Honour  were  Virgil  and  Chaucer.  Each  of  these  masters  he  calls 
an  a  per  se.  He  imitated  the  latter  in  the  manner  of  his  allegorical 
verse,  and  he  translated  the  former  with  complete  success.  We 
must  not  ask  the  impossible  from  Douglas, — we  must  not  expect 
exquisite  philological  accuracy;  but  he  had  the  'root  of  the 
matter,'  an  intense  delight  in  Virgil's  music  and  in  Virgil's  nar- 
rative, a  perfect  sympathy  with  *  swt  at  Dido,'  and  that  keen  sense 
of  the  human  life  of  Greek,  Trojan,  and  Latin,  which  enabled 
him  in  turn  to  make  them  live  in  Scottish  rhyme.  If  he  talks 
of  '  the  nuns  of  Bacchus,'  and  if  his  Sibyl  admonishes  Aeneas  to 
'  tell  his  beads,'  Douglas  is  merely  using  what  he  thinks  the 
legitimate  freedom  of  the  translator.  He  justifies  his  method, 
too,  by  quotations  from  Horace  and  St.  Gregory.  He  is  giving 
a  modern  face  to  the  ancient  manners,  a  face  which  his  readers 
would  recognise.  In  his  prologues,  his  sympathy  carries  him  be- 
yond orthodox  limits,  and  he  defends  the  behaviour  of  Aeneas 
to  Dido  against  the  attacks  of  Chaucer.  He  is  so  earnest  a 
'  humanist '  that  he  places  himself  in  the  mental  attitude  of  Virgil, 
and  avers  that  Aeneas  only  deserted  Dido  at  the  bidding  of  the 
gods  : — 

'  Certes,  Virgill  schawls  Enee  did  na  thing, 
Frome  Dido  of  Cartaige  at  his  departing, 
Bot  quhilk  the  goddes  commandit  him  to  foine : 
And  gif  that  thair  command  maid  him  mansworne, 
That  war  repreif  to  thair  divinitee 
And  na  repioche  unto  the  said  Enee.' 

But  though  Douglas  is  a  humanist  in  verse,  all  the  Bishop 
asserts  himself  in  prose.  In  his  prose  note  he  observes  that 
'  Enee  falit  then  gretly  to  the  sueit  Dido,  quhilk  fait  reprefit 
nocht  the  goddessis  divinite,  for  they  had  na  divinite,  as  said 
VOL.  I.  M 


1 62  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

is  before.'  Though  he  adores  the  Olympians  in  verse,  Douglas 
adopts  the  Euhemeristic  theory  in  prose  :  '  Juno  was  hot  ane 
woman,  dochter  to  Saturn,  sistir  and  spows  to  Jupiter  king  of 
Crete.'  In  spite  of  these  edifying  notes,  Douglas's  conscience 
pricked  him,  'for  he  to  Gentiles'  bukis  gaif  sik  keip.'  Even  if 
he  knew  Greek,  he  probably  would  not  have  translated  Homer, 
as  a  friend  asked  him  to  do.  The  prologue  to  the  Thirteenth 
Book  of  the  Aeneid  (i.e.  of  the  book  'ekit'  to  Virgil  by  Mapheus 
Vegius,)  proves  that  there  were  moments  when  he  thought  even 
Virgil  a  perilous  and' unprofitable  heathen. 

The  language  of  Douglas,  as  he  observes  (Prologue  to  the  First 
Book),  is  '  braid  and  plane,'  that  is  to  say,  it  is  good  broad  Scotch, 
and  still  '  plain '  enough  to  a  Scotch  reader.  He  does  not,  how- 
ever, '  clere  all  sudroun  refuse,'  when  no  Scotch  word  served 
his  turn,  and  he  frankly  admits  that 

'  the  ryme 
Causis  me  to  mak  digressioun  sum  tyme.' 

Douglas's  rank  is  that  of  an  accomplished  versifier,  who  deserted 
poetry  with  no  great  regret  for  the  dangerous  game  of  politics. 

A.  Lang. 


DOUGLAS.  163 


A  Desert  Terrible. 

[From  The  Police  of  Honour. "] 

My  rauist  spreit^  in  that  desert  terribill, 
Approchit  neir  that  vglie  flude  horribill, 
Like  till  ^  Cochyte  the  riuer  infernall, 
With  vile  water  quhilk  maid  a  hiddious  trubil, 
Rinnand  ouirheid,  blude  reid,  and  impossibill 
That  it  had  been  a  riuer  naturall ; 
With  brayis^  bair,  raif*  rochis  like  to  fall, 
Quhairon  na  gers^  nor  herbis  were  visibill, 
Bot  swappis  ^  brint  with  blastis  boriall. 

This  laithlie  flude  rumland  as  thonder  routit, 
In  quhome  the  fisch  5elland"  as  eluis  schoutit, 
Thair  Jelpis  wilde  my  heiring  all  fordeifit, 
Thay  grym  monstures  my  spreits  abhorrit  and  doutit. 
Not  throw  the  soyl  bot  muskane  *  treis  sproutit, 
Combust,  barrant,  vnblomit  and  vnleifit, 
Auld  rottin  runtis  quhairin  na  sap  was  leifit, 
Moch,  all  waist,  widderit  with  granis  moutit, 
A  ganand^  den,  quhair  murtherars  men  reifit^". 

Ouhairfoir  my  seluin  was  richt  sair  agast, 
This  wildernes  abhominabill  and  waist, 
(In  quhome  nathing  was  nature  comfortand) 
Was  dark  as  rock,  the  quhilk  the  sey  vpcast. 
The  quhissilling  wind  blew  mony  bitter  blast, 
Runtis  rattillit  and  vneith'^  micht  I  stand. 
Out  throw  the  wod  I  crap  on  fute  and  hand, 
The  riuer  stank,  the  treis  clatterit  fast. 
The  soyl  was  nocht  bot  marres  ",  slike  ",  and  sand. 

'  mvished  spirit.  "  to.  '  braes,  slopes.  *  riven. 

*  grass.  *  sedges  '  screaming.  *  rotten.  '  proper. 

'"  rob.  "  scarcely.  '*  marsh.  *■■  slime. 

M  2 


1 64  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

A  Scottish  Winter  Landscape. 

[From  the  Prologue  to  the  Aeneid,  Bk.  vii.] 

The  frosty  regioun  ringis  of  the  3eir, 

The  tyme  and  sessoune  bitter  cald  and  paill, 

Thai  schort  days  that  clerkis  clepe  brumaill ; 

Quhen  brym^  blastis  of  the  northyne  art^ 

Ourquhelmit  had  Neptunus  in  his  cart, 

And  all  to  schaik  the  levis  of  the  treis, 

The  rageand  storm  ourvvalterand  wally  seis  ^  ; 

Reveris  ran  reid  on  spait  with  watteir  broune, 

And  burnis  hurlis  all  thair  bankis  downe, 

And  landbrist  rumland  *  rudely  wyth  sic  beir^, 

So  loud  ne  rummist  wyld  lioun  or  beir. 

Fludis  monstreis,  sic  as  meirswyne  or  quhailis  ®, 

For  the  tempest  law ''  in  the  deip  devallyis  ^ 

Mars  Occident,  retrograide  in  his  speir, 

Provocand  stryff,  regnit  as  lord  that  5eir ; 

Rany  Orioune  wyth  his  stormy  face 

Bewalit  of  the  schipman  by  his  rays  ; 

Frawart  Saturne,  chill  of  complexioune, 

Throw  quhais  aspect  derth  and  infectioune 

Bene  causit  oft,  and  mortale  pestilens, 

Went  progressiue  the  greis  ^  of  his  ascens  ; 

And  lusty  Hebe,  Junois  douchtir  gay, 

Stud  spul3eit  ^"  of  hir  office  and  array. 

The  soill  ysowpit  into  wattir  wak^^. 

The  firmament  ourkest  with  rokis  blak. 

The  ground  fadyt,  and  fauch  wolx^'^  all  the  feildis, 

Montayne  toppis  sleikit  wyth  snaw  ourheildis. 

On  raggit  reikis  of  hard  harsk  quhyne  stane^'. 

With  frosyne  frontis  cauld  clynty  clewis  ^*  schane  ; 

Bewtic  wes  lost,  and  barrand  schew  the  landis, 

With  froslis  hairc  "*  ourfret  the  feildis  standis. 

'  violent.         '^  (|iiarter  of  the  heaven.  '  ovcrwhchning  the  wavy  seas. 

'  the  (looti  roarinp.  ^  cry,  noise.  "  porpoises  or  whales.  '  low. 

"  descends.  "  degrees.  '"  sjioiled.  "  wet.  "*  became 

reddish.  "  rough  whin-stones.  "  stony  clilTs.  ''•'  hoar. 


DOUGLAS.  165 

Soure  bittir  bubbis^,  and  the  schowris  snell 

Semyt  on  the  sward  ane  simihtude  of  hell, 

Reducyng  to  our  mynd,  in  every  steid, 

Goustly  schaddois  of  eild  and  grisly  deid, 

Thik  drumly  scuggis^  dirknit  so  the  hevyne. 

Dym  skyis  oft  furth  warpit  feirfull  levyne', 

Flaggis  of  fyir,  and  mony  felloun  flawe, 

Scharp  soppis  of  sleit,  and  of  the  snypand  *  snawe. 

The  dowy^  dichis  war  all  donk  and  wait, 

The  law  vaille  flodderit  all  wyth  spait, 

The  plane  stretis  and  every  hie  way 

Full  of  fluschis,  doubbis ",  myre  and  clay. 

*****  ^*  * 

Our  craggis,  and  the  front  of  rochis  seyre, 

Hang  gret  isch  schoklis  lang  as  ony  spere  ; 

The  grund  stude  barrand,  widderit,  dosk  and  gray, 

Herbis,  flouris,  and  gersis  wallowit  away  ; 

Woddis,  forestis,  wyth  nakyt  bewis  blout'', 

Stud  strypyt  of  thair  weyd  in  every  hout  *. 

So  bustuysly  Boreas  his  bugill  blew, 

The  deyr  full  dern  ^  dovne  in  the  dalis  drew  ; 

Smal  byrdis,  flokand  throw  thik  ronnis  ^**  thrang, 

In  chyrmyng  and  with  cheping  changit  thair  sang, 

Sekand  hidlis  and  hirnys"  thaim  to  hyde 

Era  feirfull  thudis  of  the  tempestuus  tyde. 

The  wattir  lynnis  ^^  routtis,  and  every  lynde 

(2uhyslyt  and  brayt  of  the  swouchand  wynde. 

Puire  laboraris  and  byssy  husband  men 

Went  wayt  and  wery  draglyt  in  the  fen  ; 

The  silly  scheip  and  thair  lytill  hyrd  gromis 

Lurkis  vndir  le  of  bankis,  wodys,  and  bromys  ; 

And  wthir^^  dantit  gretar  bestial, 

Within  thair  stabillis  sesyt  into  stall, 

Sic  as  mulls,  horsis,  oxin  and  ky. 

Fed  tuskit  baris'*,  and  fat  swyne  in  sty, 


nipping. 


'  blasts.  ^  gloomy  shadows.  =  lightning. 

'  dreary.  *  pools.  '  naked.  «  jj^jj^  wood.  '  secretly. 

'*  branribles.  "  corners.  '^  waterfalls.  "  other.  "  boars. 


1 66  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Sustenit  war  by  mannis  gouernance 
On  hervist  and  on  symmeris  purviance. 
Widequhair  with  fors  so  Eolus  schouttis  schyll 
In  this  congelyt  sessioune  scharp  and  chyll, 
The  callour  air,  penetrative  and  puire, 
Dasyng  the  bluide  in  every  creature, 
Maid  seik*  warm  stovis,  and  beyne^  fyris  hoyt, 
In  double  garmont  cled  and  wyly  coyt^, 
Wyth  mychty  drink,  and  meytis  confortive, 
Agayne  the  storme  wyntre  for  to  strive. 


The  Fete  Champetre. 

[From  The  Police  of  Honour.'] 

Our  horsis  pasturit  in  ane  plesand  plane, 
Law  at  the  fute  of  ane  faire  grene  montane, 
Amid  ane  meid  schaddowit  with  ceder  treis, 
Saif  fra  all  heit,  thair  micht  we  weill  remane. 
All  kinde  of  herbis,  flouris,  frute,  and  grane. 
With  euerie  growand  tre  thair  men  micht  cheis, 
The  beriall*  stremis  rinnand  ouir  stanerie  greis^ 
Made  sober  noyis,  the  schaw "  dinnit  agane 
For  birdis  sang,  and  sounding  of  the  beis. 

The  ladyis  fair  on  diuers  instrumentis. 
Went  playand,  singand,  dansand  ouir  the  bentis'', 
Full  angellike  and  heuinlie  was  thair  soun. 
Quhat  creature  amid  his  hart  imprentis, 
The  fresche  bewtie,  the  gudelie  representis. 
The  merie  speiche,  fair  hauingis'*,  hie  renoun 
Of  thame,  wald  set  a  wise  man  half  in  swoun, 
Thair  womanlines  wryithit"  the  elementis, 
Stoneist  "*  the  heuin,  and  all  the  cirth  adoun. 

'   made  men  seek.  °  genial.  '  secret  uiulergarmcnt. 

like  beryl.  "  gravelly  ledges.  "  thicket.  '  open  fields. 

manners.  *  disturbed.  '*  astonished. 


DOUGLAS.  i6y 

A  Ballade  in  Commendation  of  Honour. 

[From  The  Palice  of  Honour. 1 

O  hie  honour,  sweit  heuinlie  flour  degest^, 
Gem  verteous,  maist  precious,  gudliest. 
For  hie  renoun  thow  art  guerdoun  conding^, 
Of  worschip  kend  the  glorious  end  and  rest, 
But  quhome^  in  richt  na  worthie  wicht  may  lest. 
Thy  greit  puissance  may  maist  auance  all  thing, 
And  pouerall  to  mekill  auaill  sone  bring*. 
I  the  require  sen  thow  but  peir'^  art  best, 
That  efter  this  in  thy  hie  blis  we  ring. 

Of  grace  thy  face  in  euerie  place  sa  schynis, 
That  sweit  all  spreit  baith  held  and  feit  inclynis, 
Thy  gloir  afoir"  for  till  imploir  remeid. 
He  docht  '  richt  nocht,  quhilk  out  of  thocht  the  tynis ' ; 
Thy  name  but  ^  blame,  and  royal  fame  diuine  is  ; 
Thow  port  at  schort  of  our  comfort  and  reid, 
TilP'^  bring  all  thing  till  glaiding  efter  deid, 
All  wicht  but  sicht  of  thy  greit  micht  ay  crynis ", 
O  schene  I  mene,  nane  may  sustene  thy  feid  '-. 

Haill  rois  maist  chois  till  clois  thy  fois  greit  micht, 
Haill  stone  quhilk  schone  vpon  the  throne  of  licht, 
Vertew,  quhais  trew  sweit  dew  ouirthrew  al  vice, 
Was  ay  ilk  day  gar  say  the  way  of  licht  ; 
Amend,  offend,  and  send  our  end  ay  richt. 
Thow  stant,  ordant  as  sanct,  of  grant '''  maist  wise, 
Till  be  supplie,  and  the  hie  gre  '^  of  price. 
Delite  the  tite^'  me  quite  of  site'"  to  dicht. 
For  I  apply  schortlie  to  thy  deuise. 

'  grave.  ^  condign.  ^  without  whom.  *  bring  the  poor  to 

great  prosperity.  *  without  a  peer.  *  before  thy  glory.  '  avails. 

'  loses.  "  without.  '"  to.  "  diminishes.  '-  hatred. 

'■'  giving.  '*  degree.  '•''  quickly.  '^  shame. 


I  68  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Ghost  of  Creusa. 

[From  The  Aeneid.'] 

Hoiv  Eneas  socht  his  spoils,  all  the  cost, 
And  how  to  him  apperis  hir  grete  gost. 

To  Priamus  palice  eftir  socht  I  than, 

An  syne  onto  the  temple  fast  I  ran  : 

Ouhar,  at  the  porchis  or  closter  of  Juno, 

Than  all  bot  waist,  thocht  it  was  girth  ^,  stude  tho 

Phenix  and  dour  Vlixes,  wardanes  tway, 

For  to  observe  and  keip  the  spreith^  or  pray: 

Thiddir  in  ane  help  was  gaderit  precius  geir, 

Riches  of  Troy,  and  wther  jewellis  seir 

Reft  from  all  partis  ;  and,  of  templis  brynt, 

Of  massy  gold  the  veschale  war  furth  hynt 

From  the  goddis,  and  goldin  tabilHs  all, 

With  precius  vestmentis  of  spuilBe  triumphal! : 

The  5ing  childring^,  and  frayit  matrounis  eik, 

Stude  all  on  raw,  with  mony  peteous  screik 

About  the  tresour  quhymperand  woundir  sair. 

And  I  also  my  self  so  bald  wox  thair. 

That  I  durst  schaw  my  voce  in  the  dirk  nycht. 

And  cleip  and  cry  fast  throw  the  stretis  on  hycht 

Full  dolorouslie,  Creusa  !    Creusa  ! 

Agane,  feil  sise  *,  in  vane  I  callit  swa  ®, 

Throw  howsis  and  the  citie  quhar  I  Joid, 

But  ^  outhir  rest  or  resoun,  as  I  war  woid  ^ ; 

Quhill  that  the  figour  of  Creusa  and  gost, 

Of  far  mair  statur  than  air  quhcn  scho  was  lost, 

Before  me,  catife,  hir  scikand,  apperit  thair. 

Abaisit  I  wolx,  and  widdersyns'*  start  my  hair, 

Speik  mycht  I  nocht,  the  voce  in  my  hals"  sa  stak. 

Than  sclic,  bclifc,  on  this  wise  to  me  spak, 

'  though  it  was  a  sanctuary.  '^  booty.  ^  yount,'  children. 

*  many  times.  '  so.  *■'  without.  '  mad.  "  in  extraordinary 

fashion.  °  neck. 


DOUGLAS.  169 

With  sic  wourdis  my  thochtis  to  assuage  : 

O  my  suete  spous,  into  sa  furious  raige 

Quhat  helpis  thus  thi  selfin  to  turment  ? 

This  chance  is  nocht,  but  goddis  wilHs  went ' ; 

Nor  it  is  nocht  [a]  lefull  thing,  quod  sche, 

Fra  hyne  Creuse  thou  turs^  away  with  the, 

Nor  the  hie  governour  of  the  hevin  abufe  is 

Will  suffir  it  so  to  be  ;  bot  the  behufis 

From  thens  to  wend  full  far  into  exile, 

And  our  the  braid  see  saile  full  mony  a  myle. 

Or  thou  cum  to  the  land  Hesperia, 

Quhar,  with  soft  cours,  Tybris  of  Lidia 

Rynnis  throw  the  riche  feildis  of  peple  stout. 

Thair  is  grete  substaunce  ordanit  the,  but  dowt, 

Thair  sail  thou  haue  ane  realme,  thair  sail  thou  ryng^, 

And  wed  to  spous  the  dochtir  of  a  kyng. 

Thy  weping  and  thi  teris  do  away, 

Ouhilk  thou  makis  for  thi  luifit  Crewsay : 

For  I,  the  nece  of  mychty  Dardanus, 

And  guide  dochtir  vnto  the  blissit  Venus, 

Of  Mirmidonis  the  realme  sail  neuir  behald, 

Nor  5it  the  land  of  Dolopes  so  bald. 

Nor  go  to  serve  na  matroun  Gregioun  ; 

Bot  the  grete  moder  of  goddis  ilk  one 

In  thir  cuntreis  withhaldis  me  for  evir. 

Adew,  fair  weile,  for  ay  we  man  dissevir! 

Thou  be  guide  frend,  luif  wele,  and  keip  fra  skaith 

Our  a  3ong  sone,  is  comoun  till  ws  baith. 

Quhen  this  was  spokin,  away  fra  me  she  glaid. 
Left  me  weping  and  fell  wordis  wald  haue  said  : 
For  sche  sa  lichtlie  wanyst  in  the  air, 
That  with  myne  armes  thrise  I  pressit  thair 
About  the  hals  hir  for  to  haue  bilappit. 
And  thryse  all  wais  my  handis  togiddir  clappit  \ 
The  figour  fled  as  lycht  wynd,  or  son  beyme, 
Or  mast  liklie  a  waverand  sweving  or  dreyme. 


'  the  way  of  the  gods'  will.  *  draw. 


reign. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Dido's  Hunting. 

[From  The  Aeneid.'] 

Quhou  that  the  Queue  to  hiinteyii  raid  at  jnoroTV, 
And  of  the  first  day  of  hyr  joy  and  sorow. 

Furth  of  the  see,  with  this,  the  dawing  ^  springis. 

As  Phebus  rais,  fast  to  the  5ettis  ^  thringis 

The  chois  galandis,  and  huntmen  thaim  besyde, 

With  rahs  and  with  nettis  Strang  and  wyde. 

And  hunting  speris  stif  with  hedis  braid  ; 

From  Massylyne  horsmen  thik  thiddir  raid, 

With  rynning  hundis,  a  full  huge  sort. 

Noblis  of  Cartage,  hovand^  at  the  port, 

The  quene  awatis  that  lang  in  chalmer  dwellis  : 

Hir  fers  steid  stude  stamping,  reddy  ellis, 

Rungeand  the  fomy  goldin  bitt  jingling  ; 

Of  goldin  pall  wrocht  his  riche  harnissing  ; 

And  scho,  at  last,  of  palice  ischit  out. 

With  huge  men5e  walking  hir  about, 

Lappit  in  ane  brusit  *  mantill  of  Sydony, 

With  gold  and  perle  the  bordour  all  bewry, 

Hingand  by  hir  syde  the  cais  with  arrowis  ground  ; 

Hir  brycht  tressis  envolupit  war  and  wound 

Intill  a  kuafe  of  fyne  gold  wyrin  ^'  thrcid  ; 

The  goldin  buttoun  claspit  hir  purpour  weid. 

And  furth  scho  passit  with  all  hir  company  : 

The  Troiane  peple  forgadderit,  by  and  by 

Joly  and  glaid  the  freschc  Ascanius  jing. 

Bot  first  of  all,  most  gudlie,  hym  self  thar  king, 

Enee  gan  entir  in  falloschip,  but  dout. 

And  vnto  thaim  adionyt  his  large  rowt. 

Lyk  quhen  Apollo  list  depart  or  ga 

Furth  of  his  wintring  realm  of  Lisia, 

(lawn.         '■'  gales.         ^  wailiiit;.        *  cnibroklcicd.         *  made  of  wire. 


DOUGLAS.  171 

And  leif  the  flude  Exanthus  for  a  quhile, 

To  vesy^  Delos  his  moderis  land  and  ile, 

Renewand  ringis  and  dancis,  mony  a  rovvt  ; 

Mixt  togiddir,  his  altaris  standing  abowt, 

The  peple  of  Crete,  and  thaim  of  Driopes, 

And  eik  the   payntit  folkis  Agathirces, 

Schowtand  on  ther  gise  with  clamour  and  vocis  hie  ; 

Apon  thi  top,  mont  Cynthus,  walkis  he, 

His  wavand  haris,  sum  tyme,  doing  down  thring'^ 

With  a  soft  garland  of  lawrere  sweit  smelling, 

And  wmquhile  thaim  gan  balmyng  and  anoynt, 

And  into  gold  addres,  at  full  gude  poynt  '^  ; 

His  grundin  dartis  clattering  by  his  syde. 

Als  fresch,  als  lusty  did  Eneas  ryde  ; 

With  als  gret  bewtie  in  his  lordlie  face. 

Sleep. 

[From  The  Aeneid.~\ 

Qtthat  soroiu  dreis^  qiieyne  Dido  all  the  nycht, 
And  qiihow  Mercidr  bad  Enee  tak  the  jlycht. 

The  nycht  followis,  and  euery  wery  wicht 
Throw  out  the  erd  has  caucht  anone  richt 
The  sound  plesand  slepe  thame  likit  best  ; 
Woddis  and  rageand  seis  war  at  rest  ; 
And  the  sternis  thar  myd  cours  rollis  down  ; 
All  feyldis  still,  but  othir  noyis  or  sown  ; 
And  bestis  and  birdis  of  diuers  culloris  seir\ 
And  quhatsumevir  in  the  braid  lochis  weir, 
Or  amang  buskis  harsk  leyndis "  ondir  the  spray. 
Throw  nichtis  silence  slepit  quhar  thai  lay, 
Mesing"  ther  besy  thocht  and  curis  smart. 
All  irksum  laubour  for3et  and  out  of  hart. 
Bot  the  onrestles  fey*  spreit  did  nocht  so 
Of  this  wnhappy  Phenician  Dido  : 

'  to  visit.  '  making  his  hair  hang  thickly  clown.  '  in  j^ood  order 

*  suffers.  '"  several.         °  dwells  among  rough  bushts.         '^  diminishing,' 

»  fated. 


172  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

For  neuir  mair  may  scho  sleip  a  wynk, 
Nor  nychtis  rest  in  ene  nor  breist  lat  synk : 
The  hevy  thochtis  multiplyis  euir  onane '  ; 
Strang  luif  begynis  to  rage  and  ryse  agane, 
And  felloun  stormis  of  ire  gan  hir'to  schaik 
Thus  fynaly  scho  out  bradis  ^,  alaik ! 
Rollinfr  allane  sere  thingis  in  hir  thocht. 


Spring. 

[From  the  Prologue  to  the  Aeneid,  Bk.  v.] 

Glad  is  the  ground  of  the  tender  florist  grene, 

Birdis  the  bewis  and  thir  schawis  ^  schene, 

The  wery  hunter  to  fynd  his  happy  pray, 

The  falconer  the  riche  riveir  our  to  flene, 

The  clerk  reiosis  his  buikis  our  to  seyne, 

The  luiffar  to  behald  his  lady  gay, 

5oung  folk  thaim  schurtis*  with  gam,  solace,  and  play;  . 

Ouhat  maist  delytis  or  likis  every  wycht, 

Therto  steris  thar  curage  day  or  nycht. 

Knychtis  delytis  to  assay  sterand^  stedis, 
Wantoun  gallandis  to  traill  in  sumptuus  wedis  ; 
Ladeis  desyris  to  behald  and  be  sene  ; 
Quha  wald  be  thrifty  courteouris  sais  few  credis  ; 
Sum  plesance  takis  in  romanis  that  he  redis, 
And  sum  has  lust  to  that  was  never  sene  : 
How  mony  hedis  als  feil  consatis  ®  bene  ; 
Tua  appetitis  vneith  accordis  with  vther  ; 
This  likis  the,  perchance,  and  nocht  thi  brodir. 

Plesance  and  joy  rycht  halesum  and  perfyte  is, 
So  that  the  wys  therof  in  prouerb  writis, 
Ane  biyth  spreit  makis  greyn  and  flurist  age. 
Myn  author  eik  in   Bucolikis '^  enditis. 
The  joung  infant  first  with  lauchter  delytis 

*  one  another.  '■'  starts.  ^  thickets.  *  amuse.  *  restive. 

•  so  many  fancies.  '  See  Virfjil,  Eel.  4. 


DOUGLAS.  17.1 

To  knaw  his  modir,  quhen  he  is  Htil  page  ; 
Ouha  lauchis  nocht,  quod  he,  in  his  barnage, 
Genyus,  the  God,  dehtith  nocht  their  table, 
Nor  Juno  thaim  to  keip  in  bed  is  able. 


The  Tribes  of  the  Dead. 

[From  The  Aeneid.] 

During  this  tyme  Eneas  gan  aduert, 
Within  a  vaill  fer  thens  closit  apert, 
Ouhair  stude  a  wod  with  sowchand^  bewis  schcne. 
The  flude  Lethe  flowand  throw  the  fair  grene  ; 
About  the  quhilk  peple  vnnomerable. 
And  silly  saulis,  fleis  fast,  but  fabill, 
Ouhill  all  the  feildis  of  thar  dyn  resoundis  : 
Lyke  as  in  medowis  and  fresche  fluris  boundis, 
The  byssy  beis  in  schene  symmeris  tyde. 
On  diuers  colorit  flouris  scalit  wyde, 
Flokkis  about  the  blomyt  lillyis  quhyte, 
And  vthir  fragrant  blosumys  redemytel 


The  Destiny  of  Rome. 

[From  The  Aeneid.'] 

Anchises  gyffis  Eneas  gud  teiching, 
To  gyde  the  peple  ondir  his  goxierning. 

The  peple  of  vdyr  realmis,  son,  sayd  he. 
Bene  moyr  expert  in  craftis,  and  moir  sle^ 
To  forge  and  carve  lyflyk  staturis  of  bras. 
Be  countinance  as  the  spreit  tharin  was  ; 
I  traist,  forsuith  heyreftyr  mony  ane 
Sail  hew  quyk  facis  furth  of  marbyll  stane  ; 

rustling.  '  adorned.  *  sly,  clever. 


174  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Sum  wtheris  better  can  thair  causis  pleid  ; 
Sum  bene  mair  crafty  in  ane  wthir  steid, 
With  I'evvlis  and  with  mesouris  by  and  by 
For  til  excers  the  art  of  geometry  ; 
And  sum  moir  subtel  to  discrive  and  prent 
The  sternis  movingis  and  the  hevynis  went '  : 
Bot  thow,  Romane,  remember,  as  lord  and  syre, 
To  rewle  the  pepill  vndir  thyne  impyre  ; 
Thir  sail  thi  craftis  be  at^  weil  may  seme, 
The  paix  to  modyfy  and  eik  manteme, 
To  pardoun  all  cumis  3oldin  and  recreant, 
And  prowd  rabellis  in  batale  for  to  dant. 

*  path.  2  ijjat. 


STEPHEN    HAWES. 


[Of  Stephen  IIawes  little  is  known  beyond  the  facts  that  he  was  a 
native  of  Suffolk,  that  he  was  educated  at  Oxford,  had  travelled  in  f'rance, 
and  was  Groom  of  the  Privy  Chamber  to  Henry  VII.  We  can  gather  also 
that  he  was  alive  in  January  1520-21,  and  that  he  was  dead  in  1530.  He 
was  the  author  of  several  minor  poems  which  are  treasured  by  collectors, 
but  are  of  no  literary  value.  It  is  a  proof  of  the  carelessness  of  those  who 
have  dealt  with  Hawes,  that  they  have  assigned  to  him  The  Temple  of 
Glasse,  though  Hawes  has  himself  expressly  stated  {Pastime  of  Pleasure, 
canto  xiv.)  that  Lydgate  was  the  author.  Hawes'  great  work  is  The 
Pastime  of  Pleasure,  or  the  Historie  of  Graunde  Amour e  and  La  Belle  Pucel, 
written  in  or  about  1506,  and  first  printed  in  1509.  It  is  an  allegorical 
poem  describing  the  education  and  history  of  one  Grande  Amoure, 
who  learns  in  the  Tower  of  Doctrine  and  in  the  Tower  of  Chivalry  those 
accomplishments  which  are  necessary  to  constitute  a  perfect  knight  worthy 
of  a  perfect  love— La  Belle  Pucel.  His  career  through  the  world  is  then 
delineated — his  combats  with  monsters,  his  strange  adventures,  his  mar- 
riage, his  death,  his  fame.  The  poem  is  dedicated,  with  an  elaborate 
apology  for  its  deficiencies,  to  Henry  VII,  and  terminates  with  another 
apology  '  unto  all  Poets '  on  the  same  grounds.] 

Hawes  belongs  to  the  Provengal  School.  His  model  and 
master  was,  as  he  is  constantly  reiterating,  Lydgate,  though  he 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Chaucer,  whose  comic  vein 
he  occasionally  affects,  with  the  verses  of  Gower,  and  with  the 
narrative  poetry  of  France  and  Italy.  His  poem  is  elaborately 
allegorical,  though  the  allegory  is  not  alway  easy  to  follow  in 
detail,  and  is  obviously  much  impeded  with  extraneous  matter. 
The  style  has  little  of  the  fluency  of  Lydgate,  and  none  of  his 
vigour ;  the  picturesqueness  and  brilliance  which  are  characteristic 
of  Chaucer  are  not  less  characteristic  of  Chaucer's  Scotch  dis- 
ciples who  were  Hawes'  contemporaries.  The  narrative,  though 
by  no  means  lacking  incident,  and  by  no  means  unenlivened  with 
beauties  both  of  sentiment  and  expression,  too  often  stagnates  in 


176  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

prolix  discussions,  and  wants  as  a  rule  life  and  variety.  The  com- 
position is  often  loose  and  feeble,  the  vocabulary  is  singularly 
limited,  and  bad  taste  is  conspicuous  in  every  canto.  But  Hawes, 
with  all  his  faults,  is  a  true  poet.  He  has  a  sweet  simplicity,  a 
pensive  gentle  air,  a  subdued  cheerfulness  about  him  which  have 
a  strange  charm  at  this  distance  of  dissimilar  time.  Though  the 
hand  of  the  artist  is  not  firm,  and  the  colouring  sometimes  too 
sober,  his  pictures  are  very  graphic.      Take  one  out  of  many  : — 

'  The  way  was  troublous  and  ey  nothyng  playne, 
Tyll  at  the  last  I  came  into  a  dale, 
Behold)Tig  Phoebus  declinying  lowe  and  pale. 
With  my  greyhoundes,  in  the  fayre  twylight 
I  sate  me  downe.' 

His  verse  is  sometimes  harsh,  but  it  often  breathes  a  plaintive 
music,  and  has  a  weirdly  beautiful  rhythm  '  which  falls  on  the 
ear  like  the  echo  of  a  vanished  world,'  and  seems  to  transport  us 
back  to  the  dim  cloister  of  some  old  mediaeval  abbey.  One 
such  stanza  we  give  : — 

'  O  mortall  folke  you  may  beholde  and  see 
Howe  I  lye  here,  sometime  a  mighty  knight, 
The  end  of  joye  and  ail  prosperite 
Is  death  at  last,  thorough  his  course  and  mighte, 
After  the  daye  there  cometh  the  darke  nighte. 
For  thojigh  the  daye  he  never  so  long. 
At  last  the  belle  ringeth  to  evensong.^ 

That  couplet  alone  should  suffice  for  immortality.  We  may  claim 
also  for  this  neglected  poet  complete  originality  at  an  age  when 
English  poetry  at  least  had  degenerated  into  mere  translations, 
into  feeble  narratives,  or  into  sickly  imitations  of  Chaucer. 

But  there  are  two  other  interesting  points  connected  with  The 
Pastime  of  Pleasure.  It  marks  with  singular  precision  a  great 
epoch  in  our  literature.  It  is  the  last  expiring  echo  of  Medi- 
aevalism  ;  it  is  the  first  articulate  prophecy  of  the  Renaissance. 
It  is  the  link  between  The  Ca)itcrbury  Talcs  and  The  Faery  Queen. 
Hawes  is  in  poetry  what  Philippe  de  Commines  is  in  prose : 
he  belongs  to  the  old  world  and  he  breathes  its  atmosphere — he 
belongs  also  to  the  new,  for  its  first  rays  are  falling  on  him.  He 
connects  the  two.  The  weeds  of  a  time  sad  and  sombre  indeed 
hang  about  him,  but  Hope  is  the  refrain  of  his  song. 


HA  IVES.  177 

'  Drive  despaire  away. 
And  live  in  hope  which  shall  do  you  good. 
Joy  Cometh  after  when  the  payne  is  past, 
Be  ye  pacient  and  sober  in  mode : 
To  wepe  and  waile,  all  is  for  you  in  waste. 
Was  never  payne,  but  it  had  joy  at  last 
In  the  fayre  morrowe.' 

The  dawn  had  broken,  the  morning  he  felt  was  near.  Again, 
The  Pastime  of  Pleasure  was  the  precursor  of  The  Faery  Qiieen. 
The  two  poems  are  similar  in  allegorical  purpose,  similar  in  the 
developm.ent  of  their  allegory.  Some  of  the  incidents,  though  not 
identical,  are  of  the  same  character,  and  if  it  would  be  going  too 
far  to  say  that  Spenser  was  a  disciple  of  Hawes,  it  would  not  be 
going  too  far  to  say  that  Spenser  had  been  a  careful  student  of 
The  Pastime  of  Pleasure,  had  been  indebted  to  it  for  many  a 
useful  hint,  many  a  slight  preliminary  sketch,  many  a  pleasing 
effect  of  rhythm  and  cadence.  We  have  dealt  with  some  minute- 
ness on  Hawes,  because  of  the  injustice  which  all  his  critics  have 
so  inexplicably  done  him.  '  He  is,'  says  Scott,  '  a  bad  imitator 
of  Lydgate,  ten  times  more  tedious  than  his  original.'  'Even  his 
name  may  be  omitted,'  adds  Campbell,  'without  any  treason  to 
the  cause  of  taste.'  Our  extracts  are,  we  may  add,  selected  from 
The  Pastime  of  Pleasure  :  his  minor  poems  are  best  forgotten. 

J.  Churton  Collins. 


VOL.   I. 


178  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Dialogue  between  Graunde  Amoure  and  La  Pucel. 

[From  Cantos  xviii.  and  xix.] 

Arnoure. 
O  swete  lady,  the  good  perfect  starre 
Of  my  true  hart,  take  ye  nowe  pitie, 
Thinke  on  my  paine,  whiche  am  tofore  you  here, 
With  your  swete  eyes  beholde  you  and  se, 
Howe  thought  and  wo,  by  great  extremitie 
Hath  chaunged  my  hue  into  pale  and  wanne. 
It  was  not  so  when  I  to  loue  began. 

Pucel. 
So  me  thinke,  it  dothe  right  well  appeare 
By  your  coloure,  that  loue  hath  done  you  wo, — 
Your  heuy  countenaunce,  and  your  doleful  cheare, — 
Hath  loue  suche  might,  for  to  aray  you  so 
In  so  short  space  ?    I  maruell  muche  also 
That  you  woulde  loue  me,  so  sure  in  certayne 
Before  ye  knew  that  I  woulde  loue  agayne. 

Avioure. 
My  good  deare  hart,  it  is  no  maruaile  why  ; 
Your  beauty  cleare  and  louely  lokes  swete, 
My  hart  did  perce  with  loue  so  sodainely, 
At  the  firste  time,  that  I  did  you  mete 
In  the  olde  temple,  when  I  did  you  grete. 
O  lady  deare,  that  pers'd  me  to  the  root  ; 
O  floure  of  comfort,  all  my  heale  and  boote'. 

Pucel. 
Your  wo  and  paine,  and  all  your  languishyng 
Continually,  ye  shall  not  spende  in  vaync, 
Sithe  I  am  cause  of  your  great  mournyng. 
Nothinge  exile  you  shall  I  by  disdaine, 
Your  hart  and  mine  shall  neucr  part  in  twaine, 

'  For  these  two  lines  the  Ed.  of  1555  reads : — 

Your  bcautc  my  lierte  so  surely  assayde 
That  sylh  tliat  tyme  it  hath  to  you  obayde. 


HA  WES.  179 

Thoughe  at  the  first  I  wouldne  not  condescende, 
It  was  for  feare  ye  did  some  yll  entende. 

Amoure. 
With  thought  of  yll  my  minde  was  neuer  mixt 
To  you,  madame,  but  always  cleare  and  pure 
Bothe  daye  and  nyght,  vpon  you  whole  perfixt 
Put  I  my  minde,  yet  durst  nothing  discure 
Howe  for  your  sake  I  did  such  wo  endure, 
Till  nowe  this  houre  with  dredfull  hart  so  faint, 
To  you,  swete  hart,  I  haue  made  my  complaint. 

Pucel. 
I  demed  oft  you  loued  me  before  ; 
By  your  demenoure  I  did  it  espye, 
And  in  my  minde  I  judged  euermore 
That  at  the  last  ye  woulde  full  secretely 
Tell  me  your  minde,  of  loue  right  gentilly  : 
All  ye  haue  done  so  my  mercy  to  craue 
In  all  worship,  you  shall  my  true  loue  haue. 

Amoure. 
O  gemme  of  vertue,  and  lady  excellent 
Aboue  all  other  in  beauteous  goodlines, 
O  eyen  bright  as  starre  refulgent, 

0  profounde  cause  of  all  my  sickenes, 
Nowe  all  my  joye  and  all  my  gladnes, 
Wouldne  God  that  we  were  joyned  in  one 
In  mariage,  before  this  daye  were  gone. 

Amoure  Laments  the  Absence  of  La  Belle  Pucel. 

[From  Canto  xx.] 

Then  agayne  I  went  to  the  tower  melodious 
Of  good  dame  Musicke,  my  leaue  for  to  take  ; 
And  priuely  with  these  wordes  dolorous 

1  saicd  ;  O  tower,  thou  maiest  well  aslake 
Suche  melody  nowe  ;   in  the  more  to  make 
The  gemme  is  gone  of  all  famous  port 
That  was  chefe  cause  of  the  great  comfort. 

N   2 


i8o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Whilome  thou  was  the  faire  tower  of  light, 
But  nowe  thou  art  replete  with  darkenes, 
She  is  nowe  gone,  that  shone  in  the  so  bright 
Thow  wast  sometime  the  tower  of  gladnes, 
Now  maist  thou  be  the  tower  of  heauines. 
For  the  chefe  is  gone  of  all  thy  melody, 
Whose  beauty  cleare  made  most  swete  armony. 

The  faire  carbuncle,  so  full  of  clearenes. 
That  in  the  truely  did  most  purely  shine. 
The  pearle  of  pitie,  replete  with  swetenes, 
The  gentle  gillofloure,  the  goodly  columbine, 
The  redolent  plante  of  the  dulcet  vyne. 
The  dede  aromatike  may  no  more  encense, 
For  she  is  so  farre  out  of  thy  presence. 

Ah,  ah  !  truely,  in  the  time  so  past 
Mine  errande  was,  the  often  for  to  se  ; 
Nowe  for  to  enter  I  may  be  agast 
When  thou  art  hence,  the  starre  of  beauty, 
For  all  my  delite  was  to  beholde  the  : 
Ah  Tower,  Tower !  all  my  ioye  is  gone  ; 
In  me  to  enter  comfort  there  is  none. 

So  then  inwardly  my  selfe  bewaylyng 

In  the  tower  I  went,  into  the  habitacle 

Of  dame  Musicke,  where  she  was  singyng 

The  ballades  swete,  in  her  fayre  tabernacle  ; 

Alas,  thought  I,  this  is  no  spectacle 

To  fede  mine  eyen,  whiche  are  nowe  all  blynde. 

She  is  not  here,  that  I  was  wont  to  finde. 

Then  of  dame  Musicke,  with  all  lowlines, 

I  did  take  my  leaue,  withouten  tariyng  ; 

She  thanked  me  with  all  her  mekenes. 

And  all  alone,  forthe  I  went  musyng  : 

Ah,  ah,  quoth  I,  my  loue  and  likyng 

Is  none  faire  hence,  on  whom  my  whole  delite 

Daicly  was  set  vpon  her  to  haue  sight. 


HA  WES.  l8i 

P'arewell,  swete  harte,  farewell,  farewel,  farewel, 
Adieu,  adieu,  I  wouldne  I  were  you  by  ; 
God  geue  me  grace  with  you  sone  to  dwell 
Like  as  I  did  for  to  se  you  dayly ; 
Your  lowly  cheare  and  gentle  company 
Reioysed  my  hart  with  fode  most  delicate, 
Mine  eyen  to  se  you  were  insaciate. 


The  Character  of  a  true  Knight. 

[From  Canto  xxviii.] 

For  knyghthode  is  not  in  the  feates  of  warre 
As  for  to  fight  in  quarrell  ryght  or  wrong, 
But  in  a  cause  which  trouthe  can  not  defarre. 
He  ought  himselfe  for  to  make  sure  and  strong 
Justice  to  kepe,  myxt  with  mercy  among. 
And  no  quarell  a  knyght  ought  to  take 
But  for  a  trouthe,  or  for  a  womman's  sake. 

For  first  good  hope  his  legge  harneyes  shoulde  be, 

His  habergion,  of  perfect  ryghteousnes 

Gyrde  fast  wyth  the  girdle  of  chastitie. 

His  riche  placarde  shoulde  be  good  busines 

Brodred  with  almes  so  full  of  larges  ; 

The  helmet,  mekenes,  and  the  shelde,  good  fayeth, 

His  swerde  God's  word,  as  Saynt  Paule  sayeth. 

Also  true  wydowes,  he  ought  to  restore 
Unto  their  ryght,  for  to  attayne  their  dower ; 
And  to  vpholde,  and  maytayne  euermore 
The  wealth  of  maydens,  wyth  his  myhty  power. 
And  to  his  souerayne  at  euery  maner  hower 
To  be  ready,  true,  and  eke  obeysaunt, 
In  stable  loue  fyxte,  and  not  variaunt. 


1 82  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Description  of  La  Belle  Pucel. 

[From  Canto  xxx.] 

I  sawe  to  me  appeare 
The  flower  of  comfort,  the  starre  of  vertue  cleare, 
Whose  beauty  brj^ght  into  my  hart  did  passe, 
Like  as  fayre  Phebus  dothe  shyne  in  the  glasse. 

So  was  my  harte  by  the  stroke  of  loue 

With  sorowe  persed  and  with  mortall  payne, 

That  vnneth  I  myght  from  the  place  remoue 

Where  as  I  stode,  I  was  so  take  certayne. 

Yet  vp  I  loked  to  se  her  agayne, 

And  at  aduenture,  with  a  sory  mode 

Up  then  I  went,  where  as  her  person  stode. 

And  first  of  all,  my  harte  gan  to  learne 
Right  well  to  regester  in  remembraunce 
Howe  that  her  beauty  I  might  then  decerne 
From  toppe  to  tooe  endued  with  pleasaunce, 
Whiche  I  shall  shewe  withouten  variaunce  ; 
Her  shining  heere  so  properly  she  dresses 
Aloft  her  forheade  with  fayre  golden  tresses. 

Her  forheade  stepe,  with  fayre  browes  ybent. 

Her  eyen  gray,  her  nose  straight  and  fayre. 

In  her  white  chekes  the  faire  blonde  it  went 

As  among  the  wite  the  redde  to  repayre  ; 

Her  mouthe  right  small,  her  breathe  swete  of  ayre 

Her  lippes  soft  and  ruddy  as  a  rose  ; 

No  hart  alive  but  it  woulde  him  appose. 

With  a  little  pitte  in  her  well  fauoured  chynne, 

Her  necke  long,  as  white  as  any  lillye, 

With  vayncs  blewe  in  which  the  bloude  ranne  in, 

Her  pappes  rounde,  and  therto  right  pretye  ; 

Her  armes  slender,  and  of  goodly  bodye, 

Her  fingers  small  and  therto  right  long, 

White  as  the  milke,  with  blewe  vaynes  among. 


HA  IVES. 

Her  fete  proper,  she  gartred  well  her  hose  : 
I  neuer  sawe  so  fayre  a  creature  ; 
Nothing  she  lacketh,  as  I  do  suppose, 
That  is  longyng  to  faire  dame  Nature. 
Yet  more  ouer  her  countenaunce  so  pure, 
So  swete,  so  louely,  woulde  any  hart  enspire 
With  feruent  loue  to  attayne  his  desire. 

But  what  for  her  maners  passeth  all, 
She  is  bothe  gentle,  good,  and  vertuous, 
Alas,  what  fortune  did  me  to  her  call 
Without  that  she  be  to  me  pitifull? 
With  her  so  fettred,  in  paynes  dolorous. 
Alas,  shall  pitie  be  from  her  exiled, 
Whiche  all  vertus  hath  so  vndefiled? 


JOHN    SKELTON. 


[The  date  of  Skelton's  birth  is  not  known  ;  it  probably  took  place  some- 
where about  1460.  He  began  his  career  as  a  sober  scholar;  he  ended  it  as 
a  ribald  priest.  In  his  first  capacity  he  was  tutor  to  Prince  Henry  (after- 
wards Henry  VIII),  the  Laureate  of  three  Universities,  and  the  friend  of 
Caxton  and  Erasmus,  who  has  described  him  as  litterarum  Anglicarum 
lumen  et  decus.  In  his  second  capacity  he  was  rector  of  Diss  in  Norfolk 
and  a  hanger-on  about  the  Court  of  Henry  VIII.  He  died  at  Westminster, 
where  he  had  taken  sanctuary  to  escape  the  wrath  of  Wolsey,  in  1529. 
Some  of  his  poems  are  said  to  have  been  printed  in  London  in  1512; 
a  completer  collection  of  them  appeared  in  1568,  but  it  was  not  until  Dyce's 
admirable  collection  in  1843  that  they  were  published  in  their  integrity.] 

Skelton's  claims  to  notice  lie  not  so  much  in  the  intrinsic  ex- 
cellence of  his  work  as  in  the  complete  originality  of  his  style,  in 
the  variety  of  his  powers,  in  the  peculiar  character  of  his  satire, 
and  in  the  ductility  of  his  expression  when  ductility  of  expression 
was  unique.  His  writings,  which  are  somewhat  voluminous,  may 
be  divided  into  two  great  classes  —  those  which  are  written  in 
his  own  peculiar  measure,  and  which  are  all  more  or  less  of  the 
same  character,  and  those  which  are  written  in  other  measures  and 
in  a  different  tone.  To  this  latter  class  belong  his  serious  poems, 
and  his  serious  poems  are  now  deservedly  forgotten.  Two  of  them, 
however,  T^e  Bowge  of  Court,  a  sort  of  allegorical  satire  on  the 
court  of  Henry  VIII,  and  the  morality  oi Magnijiceticc,  which  gives 
him  a  creditable  place  among  the  fathers  of  our  drama,  contain 
some  vigorous  and  picturesque  passages  which  have  not  been 
thrown  away  on  his  successors.  As  a  lyrical  poet  Skelton  also 
deserves  mention.  His  ballads  are  easy  and  natural,  and  though 
pitched  as  a  rule  in  the  lowest  key,  evince  touches  of  real  poetical 
feeling.  When  in  the  other  poems  his  capricious  muse  breaks  out 
into  lyrical  singing,  as  she  sometimes  does,  the  note  is  clear,  the 
music  wild  and  airy.  The  Garlande  of  Lmircll  for  example  con- 
tains  amid  all   its   absurdities   some   really  exquisite  fragments. 


SA'ELTOJV.  185 

But  it  is  as  the  author  of  The  Boke  0/ Colin  Clout,  Why  come  ye 
nat  to  Court,  Ware  the  Hawke,  The  Boke  of  Philipp  Sparoiue,  and 
The  Tunny ng  of  Elinore  Rummyng,  that  Skelton  is  chiefly  inter- 
esting. These  poems  are  all  wTitten  in  that  headlong  voluble 
breathless  doggrel  which,  rattling  and  clashing  on  through  quick- 
recurring  rhymes,  through  centos  of  French  and  Latin,  and  through 
every  extravagant  caprice  of  expression,  has  taken  from  the  name 
of  its  author  the  title  of  Skeltonical  verse.  The  three  first  poems 
are  satires.  Colin  Clout  is  a  general  attack  on  the  ignorance  and 
sensuality  of  the  clerg}^  The  second  is  a  fierce  invective  against 
Cardinal  Wolsey,  and  the  third  is  directed  against  a  brother 
clerg>TOan  who  was,  it  appears,  in  the  habit  of  flying  his  hawks 
in  Skelton's  church.  These  three  poems  are  all  in  the  same  strain, 
as  in  the  same  measure— grotesque,  rough,  intemperate,  but  though 
gibbering  and  scurrilous,  often  caustic  and  pithy,  and  sometimes 
rising  to  a  moral  earnestness  which  contrasts  strangely  with  their 
uncouth  and  ludicrous  apparel. 

'  Though  my  rime  be  ragged, 
Tatter'd  and  jagged, 
Rudely  raine-beaten. 
Rusty  and  moth-eaten ; 
If  ye  take  wel  therewith, 
It  hath  in  it  some  pith.' 

And  the  attentive  student  of  Skelton  will  soon  discover  this. 
Indeed  he  reminds  us  more  of  Rabelais  than  any  author  in  our 
language.  In  The  Boke  of  Philipp  Sparowe  he  pours  out  a  long 
lament  for  the  death  of  a  favourite  sparrow  which  belonged  to  a 
fair  lay  nun.  This  poem  was  probably  suggested  by  Catullus' 
Dirge  on  a  similar  occasion.  In  Skelton,  however,  the  whole  tone 
is  burlesque  and  extravagant,  though  the  poem  is  now  and  then 
relieved  by  pretty  fancies  and  by  graceful  touches  of  a  sort  of 
humorous  pathos.  In  The  Tunnyng  of  Elinore  Rummyno-e  his 
powers  of  pure  description  and  his  skill  in  the  lower  walks  of 
comedy  are  seen  in  their  highest  perfection.  In  this  sordid  and 
disgusting  delineation  of  humble  life  he  may  fairly  challenge  the 
supremacy  of  Swift  and  Hogarth,  But  Skelton  is,  with  all  his 
faults,  one  of  the  most  versatile  and  one  of  the  most  essentially 
original  of  all  our  poets.  He  touches  Swift  on  one  side,  and  he 
touches  Sackville  on  the  other. 

J.  Churton  Collins. 


1 86  THE   ENGLISH  POETS. 


A    LULLABYE. 

With  Lullay,  lullay,  lyke  a  chylde 

Thou  slepyst  to  long,  thou  art  begylde. 
My  darlyng  dere,  my  daysy  floure, 

Let  me,  quod  he,  ly  in  your  lap. 
Ly  styll,  quod  she,  my  paramoure, 

Ly  styll  hardely,  and  take  a  nap. 

Hys  hed  was  hevy,  such  was  his  hap, 
All  drowsy,  dremyng,  dround  in  slepe, 
That  of  hys  love  he  toke  no  kepe. 

With  Hey,  lullay,  &c. 
With  ba,  ba,  ba,  and  bas,  bas,  bas. 

She  cheryshed  hym  both  cheke  and  chyn, 
That  he  wyst  neuer  where  he  was  : 

He  had  forgotten  all  dedely  syn. 

He  wantyd  wyt  her  love  to  wyn, 
He  trusted  her  payment,  and  lost  all  hys  pray': 
She  left  hym  slepyng,  and  stale  away, 

Wyth  Hey,  lullay,  &c. 
The  ryvers  rowth  ^,  the  waters  wan  ; 

She  sparyd  not  to  wete  her  fete  ; 
She  wadyd  over  she  found  a  man 

That  halsyd^  her  hartely,  and  kyst  her  swete. 

Thus  after  her  cold  she  cought  a  hete. 
My  lafe,  she  sayd,  rowtyth  *  in  hys  bed  : 
1  wys  he  hath  a  hevy  hed, 

Wyth  Hey,  lullay,  &c. 

What  dremyst  thou,  drunchard,  drowsy  pate  ! 

Thy  lust '''  and  lykyng  is  from  th^  gone  : 
Thou  blynkerd  blowboll ",  thou  wakyst  to  late  ; 

Behold  thou  lyeste,  luggard,  alone  ! 

Well  may  thou  sygh,  well  may  thou  grone, 
To  dele  wyth  her  so  cowardly  : 
I   wys,  powlc  hachct,  she  blcryd  thyne  I  ". 

Or  pay  (?)  '^  rough.  "  embraced.  *  snorelh. 

*  pleasure.  "  drunkard.  '  deceived  you. 


SKELTON.  i»7 


Picture  of  Riot. 

[From  The  Bowge  of  CourleK] 

Wyth  that  came  Ryott,  russhymge  all  at  once, 

A  rusty  gallande,  to-ragged  and  to-rente  : 
And  on  the  horde  he  whyrled  a  payre  of  bones  ; 
Quater  treye  dews  he  clatered  as  he  wente  : 
Now  have  at  all,  by  Sainte  Thomas  of  Kente  ! 
And  ever  he  threwe  and  kyst"  I  wote  nere  what, 
His  here-^  was  grovven  thorowe  oute  his  hat. 

Thenne  I  behelde  how  he  dysgj'sed  was  : 

His  hede  was  hevy  for  watchynge  over  nyghte, 
His  eyen  blereed,  his  face  shone  lyke  a  glas, 
His  gowne  so  shorte  that  it  ne  cover  myghte 
His  rumpe,  he  wente  so  air  for  somer  lyghte. 
His  hose  was  garded  *  wyth  a  lyste  of  grene, 
Yet  al  the  knee  they  were  broken  I  wene. 

His  cote  was  checked  with  patches  red  and  blewe. 

Of  Kyrkeby  Kendall  was  his  shorte  demye", 

And  ay  he  sange,  '  In  fayth,  decon  thow  ere  we' 

His  elbowe  bare,  he  ware  his  gere  so  nye^ : 

His  nose  a  droppynge,  his  lyppes  were  full  drye, 

And  by  his  syde  his  whynarde^  and  his  pouche 

The  devyll  myghte  daunce  therein  for  ony  crowche". 

To  Maystress  Margaret  Hussey. 

[From  The  Garlande  oj  Laurell.] 

Mirry  Margaret, 

As  mydsomer  flowre  ; 

Jentill  as  fawcoun 

Or  hawke  of  the  towere  : 

»  i.  e.  The  Rewards  of  a  Court.    Bowge  is  properly  '  allowance  of  meat  :\nd 
drink'  (Fr.  boucke).  '  cast.  '  hair.  *  trimmed.  ^  wai:.t- 

coat,  or  jacket.  «  so  short  (?).  dagger.  »  without  meetm- 

with  any  cross,  i.  e.  piece  of  money  so  marked. 


1 88  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

With  solace  and  gladnes, 
Moche  mirthe  and  no  madness, 
All  good  and  no  badness, 
So  joyously, 
So  maydenly, 
So  womanly, 
Her  demenyng    " 
In  every  thynge, 
Far,  far  passynge 
That  I  can  endyght, 
Or  suffyce  to  wryghte, 
Of  mirry  Margarete, 
As  mydsomer  flowTe, 
Jentyll  as  fawcoun 
Or  hawke  of  the  towre  : 
As  pacient  and  as  styll, 
And  as  full  of  good  wyll 
As  faire  Isaphill ; 
Colyaunder, 
Swete  pomaunder, 
Goode  Cassaunder ; 
Stedfast  of  thought, 
Wele  made,  wele  wrought ; 
Far  may  be  sought. 
Erst  that  ye  can  fynde 
So  corteise,  so  kynde. 
As  mirry  Margaret, 
This  mydsomer  floure, 
Jentyll  as  fawcoun 
Or  hawke  of  the  towre. 

From  Colyn  Cloute. 

I  Colyn  Clout 
As  I  go  about 
And  wandryng  as  I  walke 
I  heare  the  people  talke  ; 
Men  say  for  syluer  and  golde 
Miters  are  bought  and  sold  ; 


SK ELTON.  189 

There  shall  no  clergy  appose 
A  myter  nor  a  crosse 
But  a  full  purse. 

A  straw  for  Goddes  curse ! 
What  are  they  the  worse  ? 
For  a  simoniake, 
Is  but  a  hermoniakeS 
And  no  more  ye  make 
Of  symony  men  say 
But  a  childes  play. 

Over  this,  the  forsayd  raye 
Report  how  the  pope  maye 
A  holy  anker  ^  call 
Out  of  the  stony  wall, 
And  hym  a  bysshopp  make 
If  he  on  him  dare  take 
To  kepe  so  hard  a  rule, 
To  ryde  vpon  a  mule 
Wyth  golde  all  betrapped, 
In  purple  and  paule  belapped. 
Some  hatted  and  some  capped, 

Rychely  be  wrapped, 
God  wot  to  theyt  great  paynes, 
In  rochettes  of  fine  raynes  ^  ; 
Whyte  as  morowes  mylke, 
Their  tabertes  of  fine  silke. 
Their  stirops  of  mixt  golde  begared  *, 
Their  may  no  cost  be  spared. 
Their  moyles  ^  golde  doth  eate, 
Theyr  neighbours  dye  for  meat. 

What  care  they  though  Gill  sweat, 
Or  Jacke  of  the  Noke  ? 
The  pore  people  they  yoke 
With  sommons  and  citacions 
And  excommunications 

>  A  word  unexplained  by  Dyce.  Mr.  Skeat  suggests  that  harmoniac  = 
promoter  of  harmony;  a  man  who  makes  things  pleasant  all  round. 
»  anchorite.  ^  hnen  made  at  Rennes  in  Brittany.  *  adorned. 

'  mules. 


19°  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Aboute  churches  and  market ; 

The  bysshop  on  his  carpet 

At  home  full  soft  doth  syt, 

This  is  a  feareful  fyt, 

To  heare  the  people  iangle  ! 

How  warely  they  wrangle, 

Alas  why  do  ye  not  handle, 

And  them  all  mangle  ? 

Full  falsly  on  you  they  lye 

And  shamefully  you  ascry^, 

And  say  as  untruly, 

As  the  butterfly 

A  man  might  say  in  mocke 

Ware^  the  wethercocke 

Of  the  steple  of  Poules ', 

And  thus  they  hurt  their  soules 

In  sclaunderyng  you  for  truth, 

Alas  it  is  great  ruthe  ! 

Some  say  ye  sit  in  trones 

Like  prynces  aquilonis  ^, 
And  shryne  your  rotten  bones 
With  pearles  and  precious  stones, 

But  now  the  commons  grones 
And  the  people  mones 
For  preestes  *  and  for  lones 
Lent  and  neuer  payde, 
But  from  day  to  day  delaid, 
The  commune  welth  decayd. 
Men  say  ye  are  tunge  tayde  ^, 
And  therof  speake  nothing 
But  dissimuling  and  glosing. 
Wherfore  men  be  supposing 
That  ye  geue  shrewd*  counsel 
Against  the  commune  wel, 
By  pollyng ''  and  pillage 
In  cities  and  village, 

'  call  out  against.  »  were.  '  Like  so  many  Liicifers. 

•  advances.  '  tied.  «  evil.  '  plundering. 


SKELTOX.  191 

By  taxyng  and  tollage, 

Ye  have  monks  to  have  the  culerage 

For  coueryng  of  an  old  cottage, 

That  committed  is  a  collage, 

In  the  charter  of  dottage, 

Tenure  par  service  de  sottage. 

And  not  par  service  de  socage. 

After  old  segnyours 

And  the  learning  of  Litleton  tenours, 

Ye  haue  so  ouerthwarted 

That  good  lawes  are  subuerted, 

And  good  reason  peruerted. 


SIR    DAVID    LYNDESAY. 

[Bom  circ.  1490,  died  1558.] 

Dunbar's  attitude  toward  the  change  of  religion,  in  his  time 
impending,  is  that  of  a  wholly  unconscious  precursor  ;  he  is 
a  minor  Chaucer,  who  would  have  had  less  sympathy  with  men 
like  Wyclyfife  than  his  master  had.  Sir  David  Lyndesay  was 
a  '  spirit  of  another  sort ' — a  child  of  the  new  age,  when  the 
trumpets  of  the  Reformation  had  summoned  the  strong  minds 
of  the  time  to  take  their  sides  for  or  against  the  old  order. 
Indefinitely  less  of  a  poet,— hardly  a  poet  at  all, — he  was  yet 
a  literary  power  filling  a  place  and  discharging  a  function  of 
his  own  ;  a  trenchant  satirist,  almost  a  dramatist ;  a  political  and 
moral  pamphleteer,  whose  versified  pamphlets  are  ahvays  sus- 
tained at  a  high  level  by  vigour  and  courage,  and  occasionally 
illumined  by  gleams  of  imagination. 

Lyndesay's  life  is  part  of  the  history  of  his  time.  The  following 
dates  are  its  mere  landmarks.  He  was  born  at  The  Mount  in 
Fifeshire  about  the  year  1490,  the  junior  by  ten  years  of  Luther 
and  Sir  Thomas  More,  the  senior  by  fifteen  of  Knox.  He  was 
a  student  of  St.  Andrews  in  1508,  and  passed  from  the  Uni- 
versity to  the  service  of  the  court.  In  1513  he  was  present 
with  James  IV  at  Linlithgow  when  a  supposed  apparition  came 
to  warn  the  monarch  against  his  fatal  expedition.  Subsequently 
he  was  gentleman-usher  to  the  young  prince — a  fact  to  which 
he  alludes  in  one  of  those  appeals  for  promotion,  which  recall 
the  similar  petitions  of  Dunbar  : — 

'  When  thou  was  young,  I  bore  thee  in  mine  arm, 
Full  tenderly  till  thou  bcgowth  to  gang.' 

In  1530  he  was  knighted  and  made  Lyon  King  of  Arms,  or  chief 
court  herald,  in  which  capacity  he  served  in  several  foreign 
embassies.  In  1535  his  Thric  Estates  was  acted  at  Cupar  Fife, 
the  court  and  company  sitting  nine  hours  to  listen  to  it.  1536 
must   have   been   the   date    of  the   King's  Flyting,   one   of  the 


LYXDESAY.  193 

most  audacious  compositions  in  the  language.  Next  year  the 
king's  wife,  Magdalene,  died  before  her  coronation,  and  Lyndesay 
wrote  the  Deploratioun,  which  may  be  compared,  though  un- 
favourably, with  Chaucer's  Lament  for  the  Duchess.  The  metre 
is  the  rhyme  royal,  and  the  147th  line, 

'  Twynkling  lyke  stems  in  ane  frostie  nycht,' 

is  transcribed  verbatim  from  the  Prologue  to  the  Canterbur)- 
Tales.  In  1542  the  poet  witnessed  at  Falkland  the  death  of 
the  king  (James  V),  who  had  been  his  consistent  patron.  In  1547, 
after  the  assassination  of  Beaton,  he  was  present  with  the  garri- 
son in  the  castle  of  St.  Andrews,  and  was  among  the  most  urgent 
of  those  there  assembled  in  persuading  Knox  to  assume  the  direc- 
tion of  affairs.  In  1555  we  hear  of  his  presiding  over  a  meeting 
of  heralds  to  pronounce  on  some  point  of  their  pseudo-science. 
In  1558  he  died  at  his  family  seat,  having  mingled  in  all  the 
great  movements  of  his  age. 

Lyndesay's  verse,  on  which  his  reputation  as  a  writer  depends, 
is  all  connected  with  the  contemporary  state  of  his  country.  To 
the  lightest  as  well  as  the  gravest — ranging  from  tedious  allegory 
to  lively  ridicule — he  has  attached  political  and  social  applications. 
More  than  half  his  works  are  allegories.  In  the  earliest,  and  as 
regards  imaginative  decoration  the  richest,  The  Dre?!ie,  he  is  led 
through  a  series  of  dissolving  views  of  the  past  ages  of  the  world, 
a  journey  to  Hades,  and  a  flight  beyond  the  stars  to  an  interview 
with  '  Sir  Commonweal,'  who  joins  with  him  in  lamentation  over 
a  realm  misgoverned  by  an  'ouir  young  king'  and  dissolute  priests. 
In  the  same  strain  he  harps  in  his  Complay7it,  in  the  direct  attack 
on  ecclesiastical  corruption  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  dying  parrot, 
under  the  title  of  Tlie  Testaiiient  of  the  Papyngo,  and  in  TJie  Tra- 
gedy of  the  Cardinal^  the  last  of  which  passes  on  the  moral  of  the 
Fall  of  Princes  from  Lydgate  to  Sackville.  In  all  of  these,  and 
elsewhere,  he  preaches,  with  less  consistency,  the  old  sermon  of 
Wyclyffe  against  the  corruptions  of  wealth,  and  upholds,  for  the 
admiration  of  his  readers,  the  poverty  of  the  Apostolic  age.  In 
Kitteis  Confession  (c.  1541)  he  crosses  the  line  drawn  by  Dunbar, 
and  commits  himself  to  a  direct  attack  on  one  of  the  still  esta- 
blished institutions  of  the  Church,  glancing  incidentally  at  her 
foreign  ceremonial — 

'And  mekle  Latin  he  did  mummil, 
1  hard  11a  thing  but  hummil  bummil' — 
VOL.  I.  O 


194  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

and  referring,  as  professed  reformers  in  most  ages  have  been  wont 
to  do,  to  the  better  practice  of  the  'gude  kirk  primitive.'  In  the 
Complaynt  of  Bagsc/ie,  an  old  dog  who  has  to  give  place  to  a  new 
favourite,  we  have  a  reflection  on  the  fickleness  of  court  favour  ; 
in  The  Joicsiiiig  of  Watsoti  and  Barbour  a  satire  on  the  medical 
profession  ;  in  the  attack  on  Syde  Taillis  a  rough  exposure  of  the 
affected  fashions  of  the  day.  In  his  Squire  Meldruvi,  the  most 
pleasing  and  lively  of  his  narrative  pieces,  Lyndesay  appears  as 
a  late  metrical  romancer,  taking  as  the  basis  of  his  story  the 
career  and  exploits  of  a  contemporary  Scotch  laird.  The  Satyre 
of  the  Thrie  Estates,  a  well-sustained  invective  against  the  follies 
and  vices  of  the  time,  the  first  approach  to  a  regular  dramatic 
composition  in  Scotland,  and  the  most  considerable  of  our  Moral- 
ities, abounds  in  exhibitions  of  the  author's  unrestrained  Ra- 
belaisian humour.  It  is  impossible  to  read  three  pages  without 
laughing,  but  there  are  many  pages  which  it  would  be  impossible 
to  read  at  all  to  any  modern  audience.  In  his  latest  work,  the 
Dialog  concerning  the  Monarchic  (c.  1553)  Lyndesay  reverts  to 
the  allegorical  manner  of  his  Dretne,  and  represents  himself  in  con- 
verse with  an  old  man.  Experience,  on  '  the  miserable  estate  of  the 
world.'  After  a  polemical  defence  of  the  use  of  his  native  tongue 
(v.  inf.),  the  poem  glides  into  a  somewhat  tiresome  metrical  his- 
tory of  the  ancient  kingdoms  of  the  earth  ;  it  ends  with  an  attack 
on  that  of  the  Pope  as  Antichrist,  and  a  prophecy  of  the  mil- 
lennium, which  he  anticipates  in  the  year  2000  A.D.  In  the  Pro- 
logue to  this— his  most  elaborate  composition — the  author  speaks 
modestly  of  his  own  artistic  skill.  He  has  never  slept  on  Par- 
nassus, nor  kept  company  with  the  Muses,  nor  drunk  of  Helicon  : 
his  inspiration  is  drawn  from  Calvary  ;  and  he  prays  that  the 
miracle  of  Cana  may  be  renewed  in  converting  the  water  of  his 
instruction  into  wine.  This  candid  self-criticism  is  on  the  whole 
correct.  Lyndesay  was  rather  a  man  of  action  bent  on  popular- 
ising his  keen  convictions  than  a  professional  writer.  The  bias 
of  his  mind  and  the  temper  of  his  time  were  alike  unfavourable 
to  finished  works  of  art.  His  superabundant  energy  and  ready 
humour  made  him  a  power,  but  he  had  no  inclination  to  philo- 
sophise in  solitude  or  to  refine  at  leisure.  His  life  was  spent 
amid  stormy  politics,  and  we  need  not  wonder  that  a  pressure 
of  affairs  similar  to  that  which  for  a  space  held  even  the  genius 
of  Milton  in  abeyance,  should  have  marred  the  literary  produc- 
tions of  a  man  who  had  more  talent  than  genius,  and  who  wrote 


L  YNDESA  Y. 


195 


'currente  calamo'  on  such  various  themes  with  an  almost  fatal 
fluency.  His  greatest  admirers  have  confessed  that  'he  has 
written  so  many  verses  that  they  cannot  always  be  expected  to 
reach  a  very  high  standard.'  Passages  in  The  Dreme,  Squire 
Meldrum,  and  The  Monarchic^  may  for  grace  of  description  be 
set  beside  any  corresponding  to  them  in  the  works  of  his  pre- 
decessors ;  but  his  writings  are  in  the  main  more  distinguished  for 
trenchant  sense,  vivacity,  courage,  and  observing  power  than  by 
high  imagination.  He  himself  speaks  of  his  'raggit  rural  verse,' 
and  he  willingly  passes  from  more  delicate  fancies  to  discourse  on 
the  grave  matters  with  the  rehearsal  of  which  he  desires  rather  to 
edify  than  to  delight  his  readers.  His  style  is  generally  incisive, 
and  though  frequently  disfigured  by  'aureate'  terms,  leaves  us 
little  room  to  doubt  of  the  authors  meaning.  Unlike  Dunbar, 
L>Tidesay  may  almost  be  said  to  have  been  bom  a  Protestant ; 
but  he  never  ventured  beyond  the  range  of  the  leading  Reformers 
of  his  age.  He  is  a  Calvinist,  more  tolerant  of  sins  of  blood  than 
errors  of  brain,  rejoicing  like  Tertullian  over  the  agonies  of  the 
damned.  His  mission  was  to  amuse  and  arouse  the  people  of 
his  time,  to  affront  them  with  a  reflection  of  their  vices,  and  to 
set  to  rough  music  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  of  sixteenth- 
century  iconoclasm. 

J.   NiCHOL. 


02 


196  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


From  the  Prologue  to  'The  Dreme.' 

Efter  that  I  the  lang  vvynteris  nycht 

Had  lyne  walking^,  in  to  my  bed,  allone, 

Throuch  hevy  thocht,  that  no  way  sleip-  I  mycht, 
Rememberyng  of  divers  thyngis  gone ; 
So,  up  I  rose,  and  clethit  me  anone  ; 

Be  this,  fair  Tytane  with  his  lemis^  lycht 

Ouer  all  the  land  had  spred  his  baner  brycht. 

With  cloke  and  hude  I  dressit  me  belyve*. 

With  dowbyll  schone,  and  myttanis  on  my  handis  ; 

Howbeit  the  air  was  rycht  penetrative, 

Yit  fure  I  furth,  lansing  ouirhorte^  the  landis. 
Toward  the  see,  to  schorte  ^  me  on  the  sandis  ; 

Because  unblomit  was  baith  bank  and  braye, 

And  so,  as  I  was  passing  be  the  waye, 

I  met  dame  Flora,  in  dale  weid  dissagysit ''j 
Quhilk  into  May  wes  dulce,  and  delectabyll  ; 

With  stalwart  stormis,  hir  sweitnes  wes  supprisit  ; 
Hir  hevynlie  hewis  war  turnit  into  sabyll, 
Quhilkis  umquhile  war  to  luffaris  *  amiabyll. 

Fled  frome  the  froste,  the  tender  flouris  I  saw, 

Under  dame  Naturis  mantyll,  lurking  law ". 

Pensyve  in  hart,  passing  full  soberlie 
Unto  the  see,  ordward  I  fure  anone  ; 

The  see  was  furth,  the  sand  wes  smooth  and  drye  ; 
Then  up  and  doune  I  musit  myne  allone, 
Tyll  that  I  spyit  ane  lyttill  cave  of  stone, 

Heych  in  ane  craig  :    upwart  I  did  approche. 

But  tarying,  and  clam  up  in  the  roche  : 

'  waking.  *  Observe  the  use  of  ei  for  several  soulhcrn  vowel-sounds. 

'  rays.  *  at  once.  '  athwart.  *  amuse.  ''  disguised. 

'  lovers.  *  low. 


LYNDESAY.  ^97 


And  purposit,  for  passing  of  the  tyme, 

Me  to  defend  from  ociositie 
With  pen  and  paper  to  register  in  ryme 

Sum  mery  mater  of  Antiquitie  : 

Bot  Idelnes,  ground  of  iniquitie, 
Scho  maid  so  dull  my  spreitis,  me  within, 
That  I  wyste  nocht  at  quhat  end  to  begin. 

But  satt  styll  in  that  cove,  quhare  I  mycht  see 
The  wolteryng  of  the  wallis  ^  up  and  down  ; 

And  this  fals  Warldis  instabylytie 

Unto  that  see  makkand^  comparisoun. 
And  of  this  Warldis  wracheit  variatioun 

To  thame  that  fixis  all  thair  hole  intent, 

Consideryng  quho  most  had  suld  most  repent. 

So,  with  my  hude  my  hede  I  happit  warme, 
And  in  my  cloke  I  fauldit  boith  my  feit  ; 

I  thocht  my  corps  with  cauld  suld  tak  no  harme, 
My  mittanis  held  my  handis  weill  in  heit  ; 
The  skowland  craig  me  coverit  frome  the  sleit  : 

Thare  styll  I  satt,  my  bonis  for  to  rest, 

Tyll  Morpheus,  with  sleip,  my  spreit  opprest. 

So  throw  the  bousteous  ^  blastis  of  Eolus, 
And  throw  my  walkyng  on  the  nycht  before. 

And  throw  the  seyis  movyng  marvellous 
Be  Neptunus,  with  mony  route  and  rore, 
Constrainit  I  was  to  sleip,  withouttin  more  : 

And  quhat  I  dremit,  in  conclusion 

I  sail  you  tell,  ane  marvellous  Visioun. 

^  waves.  *  Northern  participial  form.  '  boisterous. 


198  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

From  'The  Testament  and  Complaynt  of  the  Papingo.' 

Kyng  James  the  First,  the  patroun  of  prudence, 
Gem  of  ingyne,  and  peirll  of  polycie, 

Well  of  Justice,  and  flude  of  eloquence, 
Quhose  vertew  doith  transcende  my  fantasie 
For  tyll  discryve  ;  yit  quhen  he  stude  most  hie 

Be  fals  exhorbitant  conspiratioun 

That  prudent  Prince  was  pieteouslie  put  down. 

Als,  James  the  Secunde,  roye  of  gret  renoun, 

Beand  in  his  superexcelland  glore, 
Throuch  reakless  schuttyng  of  one  gret  cannoun 

The  dolent  deith,  allace  !    did  hym  devore. 

One  thyng  thare  bene,  of  quhilk  I  marvell  more, 
That  Fortune  had  at  hym  sic  mortall  feid^ 
Throuch  fyftie  thousand,  to  wailP  him  by  the  heid. 

My  hart  is  peirst  with  panes,  for  to  pance^. 
Or  wrytt,  that  courtis  variatioun 

Of  James  the  Third,  quhen  he  had  governance, 
The  dolour,  dreid,  and  desolatioun. 
The  change  of  court  and  conspiratioun  ; 

And  quhon  that  Cochrane,  with  his  companye, 

That  tyme  in  courte  clam  so  presumpteouslye. 
****** 

Allace  !   quhare  bene  that  rycht  redoutit  roye. 

That  potent  prince,  gentyll  King  James  the  Feird*? 

I  pray  to  Christe  his  saule  for  to  convoye  : 
Ane  greater  nobyll  rang  nocht  in  to  the  eird. 
O  Atropus  !    warye®  we  maye  thy  weird; 

For  he  wes  myrrour  of  humylitie, 

Lode  Sterne  and  lampe  of  liberalytie. 

And  of  his  court,  throuch  Europe  sprang  the  fame, 
Of  lustie  Lordis  and  lufesum  Ladyis  ying, 

Tryumphand  tornayis,  justyng,  and  kychtly  game. 
With  all  pastyme,  accordyng  for  ane  kyng  : 
He  wes  the  glore  of  princelie  governyng, 

*  feud.  '  choose.  '  think.  '  fourth.  ^  curse. 


LYXDESAY.  199 

Ouhilk,  throuch  the  ardent  lufe  he  had  to  France, 
Agane  Ingland  did  mov^e  his  ordinance. 

Of  Floddoun  Feilde  the  rew^iie  to  revolve, 
Or  that  most  dolent  daye  for  tyll  deplore, 

I  nyll,  for  dreid  that  dolour  yow  dissolve, 

Schaw  how  that  prince,  in  his  trj-umphand  glorc, 
Distroyit  was,  quhat  nedeith  proces  more  ? 

Nocht  be  the  vertew  of  Inglis  ordinance 

Bot,  be  his  awin  wylfull  mysgovernance. 

From  'Ane  Satyre  of  the  Threi  Estaitis.' 
Verilie. 

For  our  Christ's  saik,  I  am  richt  weill  content 
To  suffer  all  thing  that  sail  pleis  his  grace, 

Howbeit,  ye  put  ane  thousand  till  torment. 
Ten  hundreth  thowsand  sail  ryse  into  thair  place. 

[Veritie  sits  down  on  hir  knies  and  sajds:] 
Yet  up,  thow  slepis  all  too  lang,  O  Lord, 

And  mak  sum  ressonabill  reformatioun, 
On  thame  that  dois  tramp  dowTi  thy  gracious  word, 

And  hes  ane  deidlie  indignatioun, 

At  them,  quha  maks  maist  trew  narratioun  : 
Suffer  me  not,  Lord,  mair  to  be  molest, 

Gude  Lord,  I  mak  the  supplicatioun. 
With  thy  unfriends  let  me  nocht  be  supprest. 
****** 

Pardoner. 
My  patent  pardouns,  ye  may  se. 
Cum  fra  the  Cane  of  Tartarei, 

Weill  seald  with  ester  schellis  ; 
Thocht  ye  have  na  contritioun. 
Ye  sail  have  full  remissioun. 

With  help  of  buiks  and  bellis. 
Heir  is  ane  relict,  lang  and  braid. 
Of  Fine  Macoult  the  richt  chaft  blaid', 

With  teith  and  al  togidder : 
'  jaw-bone. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Of  Colling's  cow,  heir  is  ane  home, 
For  eating  of  Mackonnal's  come 

Was  slain  into  Baquhidder. 
Heir  is  ane  coird,  baith  great  and  lang, 
Ouhilk  hangit  Johne  the  Armistrang  : 

Of  gude  hemp  soft  and  sound  : 
Gude,  halie  peopill,  I  stand  for'd, 
Quha  ever  beis  hangit  with  this  cord 

Neids  never  to  be  dround. 
The  culum '  of  Sanct  Bryd's  kovv, 
The  gruntill-  of  Sanct  Antonis  sow, 

Quhilk  buir  his  haly  bell ; 
Quha  ever  he  be  heiris  this  bell  clinck, 
Gif  me  ane  dacat  for  till  drink, 

He  sail  never  gang  to  hell. 

Pmiper. 

Marie  !    I  lent  my  gossop  my  mear  to  fetch  hame  coills, 

And  he  hir  drounit  into  the  Querrell  hollis  ; 

And  I  ran  to  the  Consistorie,  for  to  pleinze^ 

And  thair  I  happinit  amang  ane  greidie  meinze*. 

Thay  ga\'e  me  first  ane  thing  thay  call  Citandiim, 

Within  aucht  dayis,  I  gat  bot  Lybellandum, 

Within  ane  moneth,  I  gat  ad  Opponcndtwt 

In  half  ane  yeir  I  gat  Interloqiiejidiiin, 

And  syne,  I  gat,  how  call  ye  it  ?   ad  Replicandtait. 

Bot,  I  could  never  ane  word  yit  understand  him  ; 

And  than,  thay  gart  me  cast  out  many  plackis, 

And  gart  me  pay  for  four-and-twentie  actis  : 

Bot,  or  thay  came  half  gait  to  Cojicbtdendum 

The  Fcind  ane  plack  was  left  for  to  defend  him. 

Thus,  thay  post-ponit  me  twa  yeir,  with  thair  trainc, 

Sync,  Hodie  ad  octo,  bad  me  cum  againe. 

And  than,  thir  ruiks,  thay  roupit'  wonder  fast, 

For  sentence  silver,  thay  cryit  at  the  last. 

Of  Promina'atiduin  they  maid  me  wonder  fainc  ; 

Bot  I  got  never  my  gude  gray  meir  againe. 

tail.  '  snout.  ^  comiilniii.  *  crew.  '  cio.ikcd. 


LYNDESAY. 


From  '  The  Monarchie.' 
Christ,  efter  his  glorious  Ascentioun, 

Tyll  his  DiscipHs  send  the  Holy  Spreit, 
In  toungis  of  fyre,  to  that  intentioun, 

Thay,  beand  of  all  languages  repleit, 

Throuch  all  the  warld,  with  wordis  fair  and  swcit, 
Tyll  every  man  the  faith  thay  suld  furth  schaw 
In  thare  owin  leid\  delyverand  thame  the  Law. 
Tharefore  I  thynk  one  gret  dirisioun, 

To  heir  thir  Nunnis  and  Systeris  nycht  and  day 
Syngand  and  sayand  Psalmes  and  Orisoun, 

Nocht  understandyng  quhat  thay  syng  nor  say. 

Bot  lyke  one  Stirlyng  or  ane  Papingay, 
Quhilk  leirnit  ar  to  speik  be  lang  usage  : 
Thame  I  compair  to  byrdis  in  ane  cage. 
Rycht  so  childreyng  and  ladyis  of  honouris 

Prayis  in  Latyne,  to  thame  ane  uncuth "  leid, 
Mumland  thair  Matynis,  Evinsang,  and  thair  Houris, 

Thare  Pater  Noster,  Ave,  and  thare  Creid. 

It  wer  als  plesand  to  thare  spreit,  in  deid, 
God  have  mercy  on  me,  for  to  say  thus, 
As  to  say,  Miserere  mei  Dcus. 
Sanct  Jerome  in  his  propir  toung  Romane 

The  Law  of  God  he  trewlie  did  translait. 
Out  of  Hebrew  and  Greik,  in  Latyne  plane, 

Ouhilk  hes  bene  hid  from  us  lang  tyme,  God  wait, 

Onto  this  tyme  :   bot,  efter  myne  consait. 
Had  Sanct  Jerome  bene  borne  in  tyll  Argyle 
In  to  Yrische  toung  his  bukis  had  done  compyle. 
Prudent  Sanct  Paull  doith  mak  narratioun 

Twychcyng  ihe  divers  leid  of  every  land, 
Sayand,  there  bene  more  edificatioun 

In  fyve  wordis  that  folk  doith  understand. 

Nor  to  pronounce  of  wordis  ten  thousand 
In  strange  langage,  sine  wait  not  quhat  it  mcnis  : 
I  thynk  sic  pattryng  is  not  worth  twa  prenis^ 
****** 
*  language.  ''  unknown.  ^  pins. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Hope  of  Immortality. 

All  creature  that  ever  God  creat, 

As  wryttis  Paull,  thay  wys  to  se  that  day 

Quhen  the  childryng  of  God,  predestinat, 
Sail  do  appeir  in  thare  new  fresche  array  ; 
Quhen  corruptioun  beis  clengit  clene  away, 

And  changeit  beis  thair  mortall  qualitie 

In  the  gret  glore  of  immortalitie. 

And,  moreattonr,  all  dede  thyngis  corporall, 
Vnder  the  concave  of  the  Hevin  impyre. 

That  now  to  laubour  subject  ar,  and  thrall, 

Sone,  mone,  and  sterris,  erth,  waiter,  air,  and  fyre, 
In  one  maneir  thay  have  ane  hote  desyre, 

Wissing  that  day,  that  thay  may  be  at  rest, 

As  Erasmus  exponis  manifest. 

We  s€  the  gret  Globe  of  the  Firmament 

Continuallie  in  moveyng  marvellous  ; 
The  sevin  Planetis,  contrary  thare  intent, 

Are  reft  about,  with  course  contrarious  ; 

The  wynd,  and  see,  with  stormys  furious, 
The  trublit  air,  with  frostis,  snaw  and  rane, 
Unto  that  day  thay  ti-avell  evir  in  pane. 

And  all  the  Angellis  of  the  Ordouris  Nyne, 
Haveand  compassioun  of  our  misereis, 

Thay  wys  after  that  day,  and  to  that  fyne  ^, 
To  sd  us  freed  frome  our  infirmeteis. 
And  clengit^  frome  thir  gret  calamiteis 

And  trublous  lyfc,  quhilk  never  sail  have  end 

On  to  that  day,  I  mak  it  to  thee  kend''. 

'  cud.  ^  cleaned.  '  known. 


BALLADS. 


In  treating  of  the  Ballads,  or  old  popular  poetry  of  England,  it 
is  impossible  to  follow  the  plan  generally  adopted  in  this  col- 
lection. We  cannot  arrange  them  by  date  of  composition,  for, 
while  the  plots  and  situations  are  often  of  immemorial  age,  the 
language  is  sometimes  that  of  the  last  century.  They  are  therefore 
inserted  here,  as  they  were  first  committed  to  the  press  and  sold 
as  broad-sheets  not  much  later  than  the  period  at  which  we  have 
arrived.  About  the  authors  of  the  ballads,  and  their  historical 
date,  we  know  nothing.  Like  the  Volks-lieder  of  other  European 
countries,  the  popular  poems  of  England  were  composed  by  the 
people  for  the  people.  Again,  the  English  ballads,  and  those 
of  the  Lowland  Scotch,  deal  with  topics  common  to  the  peasant 
singers  of  Denmark,  France,  Greece,  Italy,  and  the  Slavonic 
countries.  The  wide  distribution  of  these  topics  is,  like  the  dis- 
tribution of  mdrchen  or  popular  tales,  a  mark  of  great  antiquity. 
We  cannot  say  when  they  originated,  or  where,  or  how  ;  we  only 
know  that,  in  one  shape  or  other,  the  themes  of  romantic  ballads 
are  very  ancient.  There  are  certain  incidents,  like  that  of  the 
return  of  the  dead  mother  to  her  oppressed  children  ;  like  the 
sudden  recovery  of  a  fickle  bridegroom's  heart  by  the  patient 
affection  of  his  first  love  ;  like  the  adventure  of  May  Colvin  with 
a  lover  who  has  slain  seven  women,  and  tries  to  slay  her ;  like 
the  story  of  the  bride  who  pretends  to  be  dead  that  she  may 
escape  from  a  detested  marriage,  which  are  in  all  European 
countries  the  theme  of  popular  song.  Again,  the  pastimes  and 
labours  of  the  husbandmen  and  shepherd  were,  long  ago,  a  kind 
of  natural  opera.  Each  task  had  its  old  song, — ploughing,  harvest, 
seed-time,  marriage,  burial,  had  appropriate  ballads  or  dirges. 
Aubrey,  the  antiquary,  mentions  '  a  song  sung  in  the  ox-house, 
when  they  wassel  the  oxen.'  A  similar  chant  survives  in  Berry. 
Further,  each  of  the  rural  dance-tunes  had  its  ballad-accompani- 
ment, and  the  dance  was  sometimes  a  rude  dramatic  representa- 
tion of  the  action  described  in  the  poem.     Many  of  the  surviving 


204  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

volks-lieder  are   echoes  from  the   music  of  this  idyllic  world  of 
dance  and  song  from  the  pleasant  England  in  which 
'  When  Tom  came  home  from  labour, 
And  Cis  from  milking  rose, 
Merrily  went  the  tabor, 

And  merrily  went  their  toes.' 

Other  European  ballads  are  echoes  from  the  same  stage  of 
social  life,  but  they  are  clearer,  sweeter,  more  full  and  unbroken 
in  tone  than  the  lays  of  rural  England.  Our  ballads  speak  of 
adventures  known  to  Romaic,  Danish,  and  Italian  peasants  ;  but 
in  listening  to  them  we  hear  the  drawl  of  the  dull  rustic,  and 
catch  the  snivelling  drone  of  the  provincial  moralist.  Unlike 
the  Provengal,  or  Romaic,  or  Lowland  Scotch  ballads,  the  English 
remains  are  too  often  flat,  garrulous,  spiritless,  and  didactic.  They 
lack  the  picturesqueness,  the  simplicity,  the  felicitous  choice  of 
expression,  the  fire,  the  speed  of  the  best  European  volks-lieder. 
The  probable  reason  of  this  flatness  and  languor  will  be  stated 
presently  ;  in  the  meantime  we  must  note  that  the  ballads  of  the 
Lowland  Scotch,  recovered  from  oral  tradition,  have  the  fire  which 
we  miss  in  English  popular  poems.  It  is  for  this  reason  that 
many  of  our  selected  ballads  are  chosen  from  the  northern  Border. 
The  poets  were  none  the  less  English  in  blood  and  language. 

Before  attempting  to  assign  the  causes  of  the  poverty  of  English 
ballads,  it  may  be  as  well  to  prove  the  fact.  The  death  of  Douglas 
in  the  English  ballad  of  Chevy  Chase  is  a  passage  that  has  won 
the  praise  of  Addison.     It  runs  thus  : — 

'  With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keene 
Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Erie  Douglas  on  the  breast, 
A  deepe  and  deadlye  blow; 

Who  never  said  more  words  than  these, 

"  Fight  on,  my  merrymen  all ! 
For  why.  my  life  is  at  an  end, 

Loid  Pcarcy  sees  my  fall."  ' 

Tn  the  Scotch  ballad  this  event  is  prepared  for  by  a  dream 
which  visits  Douglas,  a  dream  singularly  impressive  and  romantic. 

'  But  I  hae  dreamed  a  dreary  dream, 
Beyond  the  Isle  of  Sky; 
I  saw  a  dead  man  win  a  fight. 
But  I  think  that  man  was  I.' 


BALLADS.  205 

This  supernatural  effect  is  repeated  at  the  moment  of  Douglas's 
fall,  and  thus  a  new  charm  is  won  for  the  poem,  which  is  missed 
in  Chevy  Chase.  The  supernatural  is  almost  invariably  treated 
in  a  gross  and  flat  style  by  the  English  balladist.  He  never 
thrills  the  reader  with  that  shudder  of  awe  which  is  caused  by 
Clerk  Satmdcrs,  the  Wife  of  Usher's  Well,  the  Demon  Lover, 
and  Sir  Roland.  To  give  another  example  :  the  story  of  the 
Dead  Man^s  Ride  is  common  in  European  popular  poetry.  The 
German  popular  version  has  been  lost  in  the  fame  of  Burger's 
Lenore.  Everywhere  the  ballad  tells  how  a  dead  lover  (in  Greece 
it  is  a  dead  brother),  is  roused  from  the  sleep  of  death  by  the 
grief  of  a  mistress  or  a  mother,  how  the  dead  man  carries  his 
bride,  or  his  sister,  behind  him  on  the  saddle  in  a  swift  night 
ride,  while  the  birds  in  the  roadside  cry,  'who  is  the  fair  girl 
that  rides  with  the  corpse?'  'who  is  the  lover,  perfumed  with 
the  incense  of  the  dead  ?'  The  Romaic  version  is  perhaps  the 
most  moving  of  all.  The  dead  brother  gallops  with  the  living 
sister  to  the  house  of  the  bereaved  mother  ;  she  hears  his  knock, 
and  comes  to  the  door,  thinking  that  he  is  Charon,  the  emissary 
of  death — Charon,  who  need  not  visit  her,  for  she  has  already 
given  him  all  her  children  but  one  daughter,  and  she  is  in  a  dis- 
tant land, 

"Ai/  TJaa  Xapus  SiaPaive,  Kal  ciWa  iratSia  div  e'xcu ; 

Thus  she  speaks  ;  and  even  as  she  speaks,  she  recognises  the 
ghost  of  her  son,  and  dies  of  terror  in  the  presence  of  the  living 
and  the  dead.  In  England  this  ballad  becomes  The  Suffolk 
Miracle  (Child,  English  and  Scotch  Ballads,  vol.  i.  p.  217);  'a 
relation  of  a  young  man,  who,  two  months  after  his  death,  appeared 
to  his  sweetheart,  and  carried  her  on  horse-back  behind  him  for 
forty  miles  in  two  hours,  and  was  never  seen  after  but  in  her  grave.' 
The  ballad  tells  us  how  the  young  people  loved  each  other,  and 
how  the  father  of  the  girl  disapproved  of  the  engagement : — • 

'  Forty  miles  distant  was  she  sent 
Unto  his  brother,  with  intent 
That  she  should  there  so  long  remain, 
Till  she  had  changed  her  mind  again.' 

The  lover  dies  of  grief,  and  his  ghost  pays  a  morning  visit  to 
the  house  where  the  lady  is  living, 

♦  Which,  when  her  uncle  understood. 
He  hoped  it  would  be  for  her  good ; ' 


2o6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

and  gave  his  consent  to  the  homeward  ride,  which  the  spectre 
accomplished  at  the  creditable  pace  of  twenty  miles  an  hour. 
It  would  be  easy,  but  it  is  perhaps  superfluous,  to  go  on  mul- 
tiplying examples  of  the  poetic  flatness  of  the  English  ballad. 
The  enthusiasm  of  the  specialist  and  the  collector  may  be  fired 
by  the  combat  between  Robin  Hood  and  'the  bloody  Butcher,' 
but  who  can  call  this  sort  of  thing — poetry  1 

'  Robin  he  marcht  in  the  greene  forest, 
Under  the  greenwood  spray, 
And  there  he  was  ware  of  a  proud  bucher, 
Came  dri\dng  flesh  that  way ; 

The  Bucher  he  had  a  cut-tailed  dogg,'  &c. 

If  this  be  not  enough,  consider  the  exquisite  final  stanza  of  T/ie 
Ladyes  Fall  :— 

'  Take  heed  you  dainty  damsells  all. 
Of  flattering  words  beware  ; 
And  to  the  honour  of  your  name, 
Have  you  a  specyal  care ! ' 

As  a  general  rule  the  Lowland  Scotch  ballads  have  escaped  the 
didactic  drivel  and  the  long-drawn  whine  of  the  English  examples. 
It  is  true  that  in  one  of  them  we  learn,  from  a  marvellously  prosaic 

bard,  how 

'  John  Thomson  fought  against  the  Turks,' 

and  how  '  this  young  chieftain '  (namely  Thomson)  '  sat  alone.' 
But  this  weakness  is  rare  enough  in  the  poetry  of  the  Northern 
Border.  Even  in  a  comparatively  modern  ballad,  composed  on 
a  murder  committed  at  Warristoun,  near  Edinburgh  in  1600,  there 
are  picturesque  touches.  The  lady  of  Warristoun  had  procured 
the  death  of  her  cruel  husband.     In  the  ballad  she  exclaims  : — 

•  Warristoun,  Warristoun ! 

I  wish  that  ye  may  sink  for  sin, 
I  was  but  fifteen  years  auld, 
When  first  I  entered  your  gates  within.' 

To  any  one  who  knew  the  gloomy  house  of  Warristoun,  hanging 
over  the  deep  black  pool  below,  this  verse  must  have  seemed 
charged  with  the  sentiment  of  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher. 
The  ballad  is  a  fine  example  of  the  working  of  popular  fancy  on  a 
historical  datum. 

Popular  poetry  has  often  been  compared  to  the  wild  rose,  the 


BALLADS.  207 

wild  stock  out  of  which  the  richer  garden  roses  are  grown.     If 
the  wild  stock  be  so  poor  and  feeble  in  England,  how  comes  it, 
we  may  ask,  that  English  cultivated  poetry  is  so  rich  in  colour 
and  perfume  ?     In  simpler  language,  if  the  people  is  so  devoid 
of  poetry,  how  has  the  race  come  to  produce  so  many  great  poets 
and  the  noblest  poetic  literature  of  the  modem  world,  while  artistic 
poets  are  rare  indeed  among  races  which  have  great  wealth  of 
popular  song?     This  is  not  the  place  to  attempt  a  full  answer 
to  the  question  ;  we  can  only  defend  the  natural  imagination  of 
the  Enghsh  people  by  saying  that  we  do  not  really  possess  its 
unsophisticated  productions.     The  English  ballads  are  not,  or  are 
very  rarely,  pure  volks-licder.     The  vast  majority  of  them  have  not 
been  collected  from  oral  tradition,  Hke  the  ballads  of  the  Scotch 
Border,  of  Italy,  and  of  Greece.     As  soon  as  printing  was  firmly 
established  in  England,  the  traditional  songs  were  distributed  in 
cheap  broad-sheets.      The   people  'love  a  ballad  but   even   too 
well  ;  if  it  be  doleful  matter,  merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant 
thing  indeed,  and  sung  lamentably.'     Pedlars  like  Shakspeare's 
Autolycus  'had  songs  for  man  or  woman   of  all  sizes.'     These 
songs  may  originally  have  been  true  volks-lzeder—ma.r\y  of  them, 
indeed,  can  have  been  nothing  else.     In  passing,  however,  through 
the  hands  of  the  printers  and  poor  scholars  who  prepared  them 
for  the  press,  they  became  dull,  long-drawn,  and  didactic.     The 
loyalty,  good-humour,  and  love   of  the  free   air   and  the  green- 
wood remain,  but  the  clerks  have  spoiled  the  praise  of  '  Robin 
Hood,  the  good  outlaw.'     The  ballads  wandered  about  the  land, 
corrupted  from  the  simplicity  that  pleased  the  untaught,  into  har- 
mony with  the  roughest  educated  taste.      By  Addison's  time  these 
broad-sheet  ballads  had  been  pasted  on  the  walls  of  chambers  in 
country  houses.     In  the  countr>^,  says  The  Spectator  (No.  85,  June 
7    171 1),  'I  cannot,  for  my  Heart,  leave  a  Room  before  I  have 
thoroughly  studied   the  Walls   of  it,  and   examined   the   several 
printed  Papers  which   are    usually  pasted  upon  them.'      And  on 
a  wall,  Addison  says,  he  found  '  the  old  Ballad  of  The  two  Children 
in  the  Wood,  which  is  one  of  the  darling  songs  of  the  common 
People.'      Most   of  our   English  ballads    are   gathered  from   old 
broad-sheets   and   ancient   MS.    collections.      To   say  that   is   to 
say  that  they  are  dashed  with   the   humblest   literary  common- 
place, that  they  do  not  come  straight  from  the  heart  and  lips  of 
a  singing  people,  like  the  modern  Greeks  or  Italians.     They  have 
acquired,  in  the  hands  of  half-educated  printers  and  editors,  a 


2o8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


tone  which  is  not  the  tone  of  the  people.  They  are  ahnost  as 
bald,  often,  as  Dr.  Johnson  declared  them  to  be— as  bald  as 
Johnson's  parody  : — 

'  I  put  my  hat  upon  my  head,  and  went  into  the  Strand, 
And  there  I  saw  another  man,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.' 

The  history  of  English  ballad-collecting  may  be  summed  up 
very  briefly.  We  know  from  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Defence  of  Poesie, 
and  from  many  passages  in  the  Elizabethan  drama,  that  ballads 
were  both  sung  by  'blind  crowders,'  like  the  minstrels  on  the 
modern  Greek  frontier,  and  distributed  by  pedlars.  Addison  not 
only  studied  English  volks-lieder.  but  also  those  of  France  and 
Italy.  He  tells  us  that  Lord  Dorset  'had  a  numerous  collection  of 
old  English  Ballads,  and  took  a  particular  pleasure  in  the  reading 
of  them.'  Mr.  Dryden  was  of  the  same  humour,  so  was  Pepys  of 
the  famous  diary.  '  The  little  conceited  wits  of  the  age '  laughed 
at  Addison,  but  Dryden  ventured  to  publish  some  ballads  in  Mis- 
cella7iy  Poems  (1684-1708).  A  Collection  of  Old  Ballads  (since  re- 
printed) was  put  out  in  1723.  Ramsay's  Evergreen,  containing 
many  popular  songs,  appeared  in  1724.  The  great  event  in  the 
history  of  the  taste  for  ballads  was  the  publication  of  Percy's 
Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry,  in  1765.  Percy,  as  is  well  known, 
altered,  softened,  and  diluted  the  old  copies  which  he  found  in 
a  folio  MS.  that  came  into  his  possession.  A  correct  text  from 
the  folio,  with  excessively  copious  notes  and  prolegomena,  was 
published  by  Messrs.  Furnivall  and  Hales  (London,  1867-68,  3 
vols.).  Other  noteworthy  collections  are  those  of  Herd  (1769), 
Ritson,  Buchan,  Motherwell,  Kinloch,  Jamieson  (1806),  and  above 
all,  The  Border  Minstrelsy  of  Scott.  Perhaps  the  best  modern 
collection,  the  most  scholarly,  and  the  least  overladen  with  notes, 
is  that  of  Professor  F.  J.  Child  {English  and  Scotch  Ballads,  Bos- 
ton, U.S.  1864).  The  Ballad  Book  of  Mr.  W.  Allingham  (London, 
1864)  is  the  companion  of  every  true  ballad  lover. 

The  poetic  character  and  quality  of  the  ballads  will  be  best 
learned  from  these  poems  themselves.  They  have  the  imaginative 
daring  of  early  and  simple  minds  ;  they  often  deal  with  great  tragic 
situations,  with  deep  and  universal  passions.  They  are  most 
poetical  when  the  ardour,  the  anguish,  the  love,  the  remorse  of 
some  passionate  mind  becomes  for  once  articulate,  as  in  the  cry 
of  VValy,  ivaly,  the  regret  of  Edom  <?'  Cordon,  the  mysterious  wail 
of  The  Wife  o'  Usher's  Well,  or  the  monotonous  chant  of  The 
Lyhe-wa/cc  Dirge. 


BALLADS.  209 

In  selecting  Ballads  for  a  purely  poetical  collection,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  choose,  not  those  which  the  historian,  the  antiquary, 
the  student  of  early  society  might  prefer,  but  those  which  have 
most  poetical  power  and  charm,  and  are  least  embellished  by 
modern  editors.  We  may,  for  the  purposes  of  this  work,  divide 
Ballads  into  five  classes — the  Historical,  or  Mythico-historical, 
to  represent  which  we  pick  out  Sir  Patrick  Spc7is,  and  Edoni 
a'  Gordon.  In  each  of  these  poems  the  popular  fancy  works  on 
true  historical  data.  The  second  class  is  the  Romantic,  and  here 
Glasgerion,  The  Douglas  Tragedy.,  The  Twa  Corbies,  and  Waly, 
Waly  are  chosen.  As  specimens  of  the  popular  treatment  of 
the  Supernatural,  we  take  Clerk  Saunders,  The  Wife  of  Usher's 
Well,  and  the  fragment  of  a  popular  Dirge,  like  those  which  are 
still  sung  by  the  women  of  Corsica  and  the  Greek  isles.  Ballads 
of  the  adventures  of  outlaws  and  wild  marchmen  will  find  their 
representative  in  Kinrnont  Willie.  As  any  selection,  however 
limited,  is  incomplete  without  fragments  of  the  Robin  Hood  cycle, 
we  end  with  Robin  and  the  Widoiu's  Three  Sofis,  and  Robin 
Hood's  Death  and  Burial,  while  The  Bailiff's  Daughter  illustrates 
the  more  domestic  ballads  of  the  English  people.  These  are 
rerpresentatives  of  different  classes  of  volks-lieder,  but  few  poems 
suffer  so  much  in  the  process  of  selection.  Too  many  of  the 
highest  quality  have  to  be  omitted  for  want  of  space.  And  the 
ballads  are  wronged  too,  when  they  are  made  to  appear  among 
the  more  ornate  and  various  measures  of  cultivated  and  artistic 
poetry. 

A.  Lang. 


VOL.  T. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


HISTORICAL. 

Sir  Patrick  Spens. 

[This  ballad  is  a  confused  echo  of  the  Scotch  expedition  which  should 
have  brought  the  Maid  of  Norway  to  Scotland,  about  1285.  While  Dun- 
fermline is  still  spoken  of  as  the  favourite  Royal  residence,  the  Scotch 
nobles  wear  the  corh-heeled  skoon  of  a  later  century,  a  curious  example 
of  the  medley  common  in  traditional  poetry.] 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine  ; 

*  O  whare  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper, 

To  sail  this  new  ship  of  mine!' 

O  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight, 

Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee, — 
'  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor, 

That  ever  sail'd  the  sea.' 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  seal'd  it  with  his  hand, 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

*  To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 

To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem  ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 
'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame.' 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

Sae  loud  loud  laughed  he  ; 
The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read. 

The  tear  blinded  his  c'e. 

'  O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

And  tauld  the  king  o'  me, 
To  send  us  out,  at  this  time  of  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea  ? 


BALLADS.  211 

*  Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet  \ 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem  ; 

The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 

'Tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame.' 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monenday  morn, 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may  ; 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway, 

Upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week. 

In  Noroway,  but  twae. 
When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway 

Began  aloud  to  say, — 

*  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  king's  goud, 

And  a'  our  queenis  fee.' 

*  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud  ! 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie. 

'  For  I  brought  as  much  white  monie, 
As  gane^  my  men  and  me, 
.    And  I  brought  a  half-fou^  o'  gude  red  goud, 
Out  o'er  the  sea  wi'  me. 

'  Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merrymen  a'  ! 
Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn.' 

*  Now,  ever  alake,  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm  ! 

*  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen, 

Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm  ; 
And,  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 
I  fear  we  'II  come  to  harm.' 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud, 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

'  A  line  adapted  in  Kinmont  Willie,  as  the  formulae  of  the  Iliad  recurs 
in  the  Odyssey.  ^  suffice.  '  the  eighth  part  of  a  peclc. 

P  2 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts  lap, 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm  ; 
And  the  waves  cam  o'er  the  broken  ship, 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 

'  O  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor. 

To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 
Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  top-mast, 

To  see  if  I  can  spy  land?' 

'  O  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude. 

To  take  the  helm  in  hand, 
Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  top-mast ; 

But  I  fear  you  '11  ne'er  spy  land.' 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step  but  barely  ane, 
When  a  bout  flew  orut  of  our  goodly  ship, 

And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 

'  Gae,  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine. 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side, 

And  let  na  the  sea  come  in.' 

They  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith. 

Another  of  the  twine, 
And  they  wapped  them  round  that  gude  ship's  side, 

But  still  the  sea  came  in. 

O  laith,  laith,  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  weet  their  cork-heel'd  shoon  ! 
But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  play'd, 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather-bed. 

That  flattered  on  the  faem  ; 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son, 

That  never  mair  cam  hame. 


BALLADS.  213 


The  ladyes  wrang  their  fingers  white, 
The  maidens  tore  their  hair, 

A'  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves  ; 
For  them  they'll  see  na  mair. 

O  lang,  lang,  may  the  ladyes  sit, 
Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 

Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  strand  ! 

And  lang,  lang,  may  the  maidens  sit, 
Wi'  their  goud  kaims  in  their  hair, 

A'  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves  ! 
For  them  they  '11  see  na  mair. 

O  forty  miles  oft  Aberdeen, 

'Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep, 
And  there  Hes  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 


Edom  o'  Gordon. 

[Popular  version  of  the  storj'  of  the  burning  of  the  House  of  Towey, 
a  hold  of  the  Forbes's,  by  the  Gordons,  in  1571.  There  is  one  English 
version,  named  Captain  Car.'] 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas, 
When  the  wind  blew  shrill  and  cauld. 

Said  Edom  o'  Gordon  to  his  men, 
'  We  maun  draw  to  a  hauld. 

*  And  whatna  hauld  sail  we  draw  to. 

My  merry  men  and  me.-* 
We  will  gae  to  the  house  of  the  Rodes, 

To  see  that  fair  ladye.' 


214 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  lady  stood  on  her  castle  wa', 

Beheld  baith  dale  and  down  ; 
There  she  was  aware  of  a  host  of  men 

Came  riding  towards  the  town. 

'O  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men  a', 

0  see  ye  not  what  I  see  ? 
Methinks  I  see  a  host  of  men  ; 

1  marvel  who  they  be.' 

She  ween'd  it  had  been  her  lovely  lord, 

As  he  cam'  riding  hame  ; 
It  was  the  traitor,  Edom  o'  Gordon, 

Wha  reck'd  nor  sin  nor  shame. 

She  had  na  sooner  buskit  hersell, 

And  putten  on  her  gown. 
Till  Edom  o'  Gordon  an'  his  men 

Were  round  about  the  town\ 

They  had  nae  sooner  supper  set, 

Nae  sooner  said  the  grace. 
But  Edom  o'  Gordon  an'  his  men 

Were  lighted  about  the  place. 

The  lady  ran  up  to  her  tower-head. 

As  fast  as  she  could  hie, 
To  see  if  by  her  fair  speeches 

She  could  wi'  him  agree. 

*  Come  doun  to  me,  ye  lady  gay, 

Come  doun,  come  doun  to  me  ; 
This  night  sail  ye  lig  within  mine  arms, 
To-morrow  my  bride  sail  be.' 

*  I  vvinna  come  down,  ye  fausc  Gordon, 

I  winna  come  down  to  thee  ; 
I  winna  forsake  my  ain  dear  lord, — 
And  he  is  na  far  frae  me.' 

'  Town  is  used  in  .Scollaiid  fur  any  country  house  or  farm-buildings. 


BALLADS. 

'  Gie  owre  your  house,  ye  lady  fair, 

Gie  owre  your  house  to  me  ; 
Or  I  sail  burn  yoursell  therein, 

But  an  your  babies  three.' 

'  I  winna  gie  owre,  ye  fause  Gordon, 

To  nae  sic  traitor  as  thee  ; 
And  if  ye  bum  my  ain  dear  babes. 

My  lord  sail  male'  ye  dree. 

*  Now  reach  my  pistol,  Glaud,  my  man. 

And  charge  ye  weel  my  gun  ; 
For,  but  an  I  pierce  that  bluidy  butcher, 
My  babes,  we  been  undone  ! ' 

She  stood  upon  her  castle  wa'. 

And  let  twa  bullets  flee  : 
She  miss'd  that  bluidy  butcher's  heart. 

And  only  razed  his  knee. 

'  Set  fire  to  the  house  ! '  quo'  fause  Gordon, 

Wud  wi'  dule  and  ire  : 
'  Faus  ladye,  ye  sail  rue  that  shot 

As  ye  burn  in  the  fire  ! ' 

*  Wae  worth,  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man  ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  fee  ; 
Why  pu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa'  stane. 
Lets  in  the  reek  to  me  ? 

*  And  e'en  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  hire  ; 
Why  pu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa'  stane, 
To  me  lets  in  the  fire  ? ' 

*  Ye  paid  me  weel  my  hire,  ladye, 

Ye  paid  me  weel  my  fee  : 
But  now  I  'm  Edom  o'  Gordon's  man, — 
Maun  either  do  or  dee.' 


2i6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

O  then  bespake  her  Httle  son, 

Sat  on  the  nurse's  knee  : 
Says,  '  O  mither  dear,  gie  owre  this  house, 

For  the  reek  it  smothers  me.' 

*  I  wad  gie  a'  my  goud,  my  bairn, 

Sae  wad  I  a'  my  fee. 
For  ae  blast  o'  the  western  wind. 

To  blaw  the  reek  frae  thee.' 

O  then  bespake  the  daughter  dear, — 
She  was  baith  jimp  and  sma' : 

'  O  row'  me  in  a  pair  o'  sheets, 
A  tow  me  owre  the  wa' ! ' 

They  row'd  her  in  a  pair  o'  sheets, 
And  tow'd  her  owre  the  wa' ; 

But  on  the  point  o'  Gordon's  spear 
She  gat  a  deadly  fa'. 

0  bonnie,  bonnie  was  her  mouth, 
And  cherry  were  her  cheeks. 

And  clear,  clear  was  her  yellow  hair, 
Whereon  her  red  blood  dreeps. 

Then  wi'  his  spear  he  turn'd  her  owre  ; 

0  gin  her  face  was  wan  ! 

He  said,  '  Ye  are  the  first  that  e'er 

1  wish'd  alive  again.' 

He  cam  and  lookit  again  at  her  ; 
O  gin  her  skin  was  white  ! 

*  1  might  hae  spared  that  bonnie  face 

To  hae  been  some  man's  delight.' 

*  Busk  and  boun,  my  merry  men  a', 

For  ill  dooms  I  do  guess  ; — 

1  cannot  look  on  that  bonnie  face 
As  it  lies  on  the  grass.' 


BALLADS.  217 

'Wha  looks  to  freits,  my  master  dear, 

Its  freits  will  follow  them  ; 
Let  it  ne'er  be  said  that  Edom  o'  Gordon 

Was  daunted  by  a  dame.' 

But  when  the  ladye  saw  the  fire 

Come  flaming  o'er  her  head, 
She  wept,  and  kiss'd  her  children  twain, 

Says,  '  Bairns,  we  been  but  dead.' 

The  Gordon  then  his  bugle  blew, 

And  said,  '  Awa',  awa' ! 
This  house  o'  the  Rodes  is  a'  in  a  flame  ; 

I  hauld  it  time  to  ga'.' 

And  this  way  lookit  her  ain  dear  lord, 

As  he  came  owre  the  lea  ; 
He  saw  his  castle  a'  in  a  lowe, 

Sae  far  as  he  could  see. 

*  Put  on,  put  on,  my  wighty  men. 

As  fast  as  ye  can  dri'e  ! 
For  he  that 's  hindmost  o'  the  thrang 

Sail  ne'er  get  good  o'  me.' 

Then  some  they  rade,  and  some  they  ran, 

Out-owre  the  grass  and  bent ; 
But  ere  the  foremost  could  win  up, 

Baith  lady  and  babes  were  brent. 

And  after  the  Gordon  he  is  gane, 

Sae  fast  as  he  might  dri'e  ; 
And  soon  i'  the  Gordon's  foul  heart's  blude 

He  's  wroken  his  fair  ladye. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


ROMANTIC. 

Glasgerion. 

[Glasgerion,  or  Kurion  the  Pale,  was  a  Celtic  minstrel,  whom  Chaucer 
places  in  the  company  of  such  bards  as  '  blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Mae- 
onides.'  This  ballad  exists  in  the  Scotch  version  of  GlenVindie  (Jamieson, 
i.  93).     It  is  here  printed  from  Percy's  Reliques,  Bohn's  Ed.] 

Glasgerion  was  a  kings  owne  sonne, 

And  a  harper  he  was  goode  ; 
He  harped  in  the  kings  chambere, 

Where  cuppe  and  caudle  stoode, 

And  soe  did  hee  in  the  queens  chambere, 

Till  ladies  waxed  glad, 
And  then  bespake  the  kinges  daughter. 

And  these  wordes  thus  shee  sayd  : 

'  Strike  on,  strike  on,  Glasgerion, 

Of  thy  striking  doe  not  blinne  ; 
Theres  never  a  stroke  comes  oer  thy  harpe, 

But  it  glads  my  hart  withinne.' 

'  Faire  might  he  fall,'  quoth  hee, 

'  Who  taught  you  nowe  to  speake  ! 
I  have  loved  you,  ladye,  seven  longe  ycere, 

My  minde  I  neere  durst  breake.' 

'  But  come  to  my  bower,  my  Glasgerion, 

When  all  men  are  att  rest  : 
As  I  am  a  ladie  true  of  my  promise, 

Thou  shalt  bee  a  welcome  guest.' 

Home  then  came  Glasgerion, 

A  glad  man,  lord  !   was  hee  : 
*  And,  come  thou  hither,  Jacke  my  boy, 

Conic  hither  unto  mcc. 


BALLADS.  2 1 9 

'  For  the  kinges  daughter  of  Normandye 

Hath  granted  mee  my  boone  ; 
And  att  her  chambere  must  I  bee 

Beffore  the  cocke  have  crowen.' 

'O  master,  master,'  then  quoth  hee, 
'  Lay  your  head  downe  on  this  stone  ; 

For  I  will  waken  you,  master  deere, 
Afore  it  be  time  to  gone.' 

But  up  then  rose  that  lither  ladd, 

And  hose  and  shoone  did  on  ; 
A  coller  he  cast  upon  his  necke, 

He  seemed  a  gentleman. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  ladyes  chamber, 

He  thrild  upon  a  pinn  : 
The  lady  was  true  of  her  promise, 

And  rose  and  lett  him  inn. 

He  did  not  take  the  lady  gaye 

To  boulster  nor  to  bed  : 
Nor  thoughe  hee  had  his  wicked  wille, 

A  single  word  he  sed. 

He  did  not  kisse  that  ladyes  mouthc. 

Nor  when  he  came,  nor  yode  : 
And  sore  that  ladye  did  mistrust, 

He  was  of  some  churls  bloud. 

But  home  then  came  that  lither  ladd. 

And  did  off  his  hose  and  shoone  ; 
And  cast  the  coller  from  off  his  necke  : 

He  was  but  a  churles  sonne. 

•Awake,  awake,  my  deere  master, 

The  cock  hath  well-nigh  crowen  ; 
Awake,  awake,  my  master  deere, 

I  hold  it  time  to  be  gone. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


'  For  I  have  saddled  your  horse,  master, 
Well  bridled  I  have  your  steede, 

And  I  have  served  you  a  good  breakfast, 
For  thereof  ye  have  need.' 

Up  then  rose  good  Glasgerion, 

And  did  on  hose  and  shoone, 
And  cast  a  coUer  about  his  necke  : 

For  he  was  a  kinge  his  sonne. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  ladyes  chambere, 

He  thrilled  upon  the  pinne  ; 
The  lady  was  more  than  true  of  promise, 

And  rose  and  let  him  inn. 

*  O  whether  have  you  left  with  me 

Your  bracelet  or  your  glove  ? 

Or  are  you  returned  back  againe 

To  know  more  of  my  love  ?' 

Glasgerion  swore  a  full  great  othe, 
By  oake,  and  ashe,  and  thorne  ; 

*  Ladye,  I  was  never  in  your  chambere, 

Sith  the  time  that  I  was  borne.' 

*  O  then  it  was  your  lither  foot-page. 

He  hath  beguiled  mee  :' 
Then  shee  pulled  forth  a  little  pen-kniffe, 
That  hanged  by  her  knee. 

Sayes,  'There  shall  never  noe  churles  blood 

Within  my  bodye  spring : 
No  churlts  blood  shall  eer  defile 

The  daughter  of  a  kinge.' 

Home  then  went  Glasgerion, 
And  woe,  good  lord  !   was  hee  : 

Sayes,  'Come  thou  hither,  Jackc  my  boy, 
Come  hither  unto  mee. 


BALLADS. 

'  If  I  had  killed  a  man  to-night, 

Jacke,  I  would  tell  it  thee  : 
But  if  I  have  not  killed  a  man  to-night, 

Jacke,  thou  hast  killed  three.' 

And  he  puld  out  his  bright  browne  sword, 

And  diyed  it  on  his  sleeve. 
And  he  smote  off  that  lither  ladds  head. 

Who  did  his  ladye  grieve. 

He  sett  the  swords  poynt  till  his  brest, 

The  pummil  until  a  stone  : 
Throw  the  falsenesse  of  that  lither  ladd, 

These  three  lives  were  all  gone. 


The  Douglas  Tragedy. 

[This  ballad  exists  in  Denmark,  and  in  other  European  countries.  The 
Scotch  have  localised  it,  and  point  out  Blackhouse,  on  the  wild  Douglas 
Burn,  a  tributary  of  the  Yarrow,  as  the  scene  of  the  tragedy.] 

'  Rise  up,  rise  up,  now,  Lord  Douglas,'  she  says, 

'And  put  on  your  armour  so  bright  ; 
Let  it  never  be  said,  that  a  daughter  of  thine 

Was  married  to  a  lord  under  night. 

'  Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  seven  bold  sons, 

And  put  on  your  armour  so  bright. 
And  take  better  care  of  your  youngest  sister, 

For  your  eldest's  awa  the  last  night.' 

He  's  mounted  her  on  a  milk-white  steed. 

And  himself  on  a  dapple  grey. 
With  a  bugelet  horn  hung  down  by  his  side, 

And  lightly  they  rode  away. 

Lord  William  lookit  o'er  is  left  shoulder. 

To  see  what  he  could  see, 
And  there  he  spy'd  her  seven  brethren  bold. 

Come  riding  over  the  lee. 


222  THE  ENGLISH  FOETS. 

'  Light  down,  light  down,  Lady  Marg'ret,'  he  said, 

And  hold  my  steed  in  your  hand. 
Until  that  against  your  seven  brothers  bold. 
And  your  father,  I  mak  a  stand.' 

She  held  his  steed  in  her  milk-white  hand, 

And  never  shed  one  tear, 
Until  that  she  saw  her  seven  brethren  fa', 

And  her  father  hard  fighting,  who  loved  her  so  dear. 

'  O  hold  your  hand,  Lord  William  ! '  she  said, 
'  For  your  strokes  they  are  wond'rous  sair  ; 

True  lovers  I  can  get  many  a  ane. 
But  a  father  I  can  never  get  main' 

O  she 's  ta'en  out  her  handkerchief, 

It  was  o'  the  holland  sae  fine. 
And  aye  she  dighted  her  father's  bloody  wounds, 

That  were  redder  than  the  wine. 

*0  chuse,  O  chuse,  Lady  Marg'ret,'  he  said, 

*  O  whether  will  ye  gang  or  bide  ?' 
'I'll  gang,  I'll  gang.  Lord  William,'  she  said, 

'  For  ye  have  left  me  no  other  guide.' 

He's  lifted  her  on  a  milk-white  steed, 

And  himself  on  a  dapple  grey. 
With  a  bugelet  horn  hung  down  by  his  side, 

And  slowly  they  baith  rade  away. 

O  they  rade  on,  and  on  they  rade. 

And  a'  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Until  they  came  to  yon  wan  water. 

And  there  they  lighted  down. 

They  lighted  down  to  tak  a  drink 

Of  the  spring  that  ran  sae  clear  ; 
And  down  the  stream  ran  his  gude  heart's  blood, 

And  sair  she  gan  to  fear. 


BALLADS.  223 

'  Hold  up,  hold  up,  Lord  William,'  she  says, 
'For  I  fear  that  you  are  slain!' 

*  'Tis  naething  but  the  shadow  of  my  scarlet  cloak, 

That  shines  in  the  water  sae  plain.' 

O  they  rade  on,  and  on  they  rade, 

And  a'  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Until  they  cam'  to  his  mother's  ha'  door, 

And  there  they  lighted  down. 

*  Get  up,  get  up,  lady  mother,'  he  says, 

'  Get  up,  and  let  me  in  ! — 
Get  up,  get  up,  lady  mother,'  he  says, 
'For  this  night  my  fair  ladye  Fve  win. 

*  O  mak  my  bed,  lady  mother,'  he  says, 

'  O  mak  it  braid  and  deep  ! 
And  lay  Lady  Marg'ret  close  at  my  back, 
And  the  sounder  I  will  sleep.' 

Lord  William  was  dead  lang  ere  midnight, 

Lady  Marg'ret  lang  ere  day — ■ 
And  all  true  lovers  that  go  thegither, 

I\Iay  they  have  mair  luck  than  they  ! 

Lord  William  was  buried  in  St.  Mary's  kirk. 

Lady  Margaret  in  IMary's  quire  ; 
Out  o'  the  lady's  grave  grew  a  bonny  red  rose, 

And  out  o'  the  knight's  a  brier. 

And  they  twa  met,  and  they  twa  plat. 

And  fain  they  wad  be  near  ; 
And  a'  the  warld  might  ken  right  weel, 

They  were  twa  lovers  dear. 

But  bye  and  rade  the  Black  Douglas, 

And  wow  but  he  was  rough  ! 
For  he  pull'd  up  the  bonny  brier, 

And  flang'd  in  St.  Mary's  loch. 


224  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Twa  Corbies  \ 

[An  English  version  makes  the  lady  faithful, — • 

'  She  lifted  up  his  bloody  head, 
And  kissed  his  wounds  that  were  so  red  ; 
She  buried  him  before  the  prime, 
She  was  dead  herself  ere  evensong  time.'] 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane, 

I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane  ; 

The  tane  unto  the  t'other  say, 

'  Where  sail  we  gang  and  dine  to-day  ? ' 

'  In  behint  yon  auld  fail  dyke, 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight  ; 
And  nae  body  kens  that  he  lies  there, 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  lady  fair. 

'  His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame, 
His  lady's  ta'en  another  mate, 
So  we  may  make  our  dinner  sweet. 

'  Ye  '11  sit  on  his  white  hause  bane, 
And  I  'U  pike  out  his  bonny  blue  een  : 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  govvden  hair. 
We  '11  thcek  ^  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

'  Mony  a  one  for  him  makes  mane. 
But  nane  sail  ken  whare  he  is  gane  ; 
O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  cvcrmair.' 

'  crows.  *  thatch. 


BALLADS.  225 


Waly,  Waly. 

[This  fragment,  variously  corrupted,  is  often  printed  as  part  of  a  rather 
dull  ballad,  concerned  with  events  in  the  history  of  Lord  James  Douglas, 
of  the  Laird  of  Blackwood,  and  of  the  lady  who  utters  the  beautiful  lament 
here  printed.] 

0  waly,  waly,  up  the  bank, 

0  waly,  waly,  doun  the  brae, 
And  waly,  waly,  yon  burn-side, 

Where  I  and  my  love  were  wont  to  gae  ! 

1  lean'd  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

1  thocht  it  was  a  trustie  tree. 

But  first  it  bow'd  and  syne  it  brak', — 
Sae  my  true  love  did  lichtlie  me. 

O  waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonnie 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new  ! 
But  when  it 's  auld  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fadeth  awa'  like  the  morning  dew. 
O  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  heid, 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair  ? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he  '11  never  lo'e  me  mair. 

Noo  Arthur's  Seat  sail  be  my  bed, 

The  sheets  sail  ne'er  be  press'd  by  me  ; 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink  ; 

Since  my  true  love's  forsaken  me. 
Martinmas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  off  the  tree  .' 
O  gentle  death,  when  wilt  thou  come  .^ 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wearie. 

'Tis  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blawing  snaw's  inclemencie, 
'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry  ; 

But  my  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
VOL.  I.  Q 


2  26  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

When  we  cam'  in  by  Glasgow  toun, 
We  were  a  comely  sicht  to  see  ; 

My  love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 
An'  I  mysel'  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist  before  I  kiss'd 

That  love  had  been  so  ill  to  win, 
I'd  lock'd  my  heart  in  a  case  o'  goud, 

And  pinn'd  it  wi'  a  siller  pin. 
Oh,  oh  !    if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee  ; 
And  I  mysel'  were  dead  and  gane, 

And  the  green  grass  growing  over  me ! 


SUPERNATURAL. 
Clerk  S.\unders. 

Clerk  Saunders  and  may  Margaret 
Walked  ower  yon  garden  green  ; 

And  sad  and  heavy  was  the  love 
That  fell  thir  twa  between. 

'  A  bed,  a  bed,'  Clerk  Saunders  said, 
'  A  bed  for  you  and  me  ! ' 

*  Fye  na,  fye  na,'  said  may  Margaret, 

'  Till  anes  we  married  be. 

*  For  in  may  come  my  seven  bauld  brothers, 

*  Wi'  torches  burning  bright  ; 
They'll  say — "We  hae  but  ae  sister, 
And  behold  she's  wi'  a  knight  !"' 

'  Then  I  '11  take  the  sword  frae  my  scabbard, 

And  slowly  lift  the  pin  ; 
And  you  may  swear,  and  safe  your  aith, 

Ye  never  let  Clerk  Saunders  in. 


BALLADS.  2  2 

'And  take  a  napkin  in  your  hand, 

And  tie  up  baith  your  bonny  een  ; 
And  you  may  swear,  and  safe  your  aith, 

Ye  saw  me  na  since  late  yestreen.' 

It  was  about  the  midnight  hour, 

When  they  asleep  were  laid, 
When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers, 

Wi'  torches  burning  red. 

When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers, 

Wi'  torches  shining  bright  ; 
They  said,  *We  hae  but  ae  sister. 

And  behold  her  lying  with  a  knight !' 

Then  out  and  spake  the  first  o'  them, 
'  I  bear  the  sword  shall  gar  him  die !' 

And  out  and  spake  the  second  o'  them, 
'  His  father  has  nae  mair  than  he  !' 

And  out  and  spake  the  third  o'  them, 

'I  wot  that  they  are  lovers  dear!' 
And  out  and  spake  the  fourth  o'  them, 

'They  hae  been  in  love  this  mony  a  year!' 

Then  out  and  spake  the  fifth  o'  them, 
'It  were  great  sin  true  love  to  twain!' 

And  out  and  spake  the  sixth  o'  them, 
'It  were  shame  to  slay  a  sleeping  man!' 

Then  up  and  gat  the  seventh  o'  them. 

And  never  a  word  spake  he  ; 
But  he  has  striped  his  bright  brown  brand 

Out  through  Clerk  Saunders'  fair  bodye. 

Clerk  Saunders  he  started,  and  Margaret  she  turned 

Into  his  arms  as  asleep  she  lay  ; 
And  sad  and  silent  was  the  night 

That  was  at  ween  thir  twae. 

Q2 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


And  they  lay  still  and  sleeped  sound, 

Until  the  day  began  to  daw  ; 
And  kindly  to  him  she  did  say, 

'  It  is  time,  true  love,  you  were  awa'.' 

But  he  lay  still,  and  sleeped  sound. 

Albeit  the  sun  began  to  sheen  ; 
She  looked  atween  her  and  the  wa', 

And  dull  and  drowsie  were  his  een. 

Then  in  and  came  her  father  dear, 

Said — '  Let  a'  your  mourning  be  : 
I  '11  carry  the  dead  corpse  to  the  clay, 

And  I  '11  come  back  and  comfort  thee.' 

'  Comfort  weel  your  seven  sons  ; 

For  comforted  will  I  never  be  : 
I  ween  'twas  neither  knave  nor  loon 

Was  in  the  bower  last  night  wi'  me.' 

The  clinking  bell  gaed  through  the  town. 
To  carry  the  dead  corse  to  the  clay  ; 

And  Clerk  Saunders  stood  at  may  Margaret's  window, 
I  wot,  an  hour  before  the  day. 

'Are  ye  sleeping,  Margaret?'  he  says. 

Or  are  ye  waking  presentlie .'' 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth  again, 

I  wot,  true  love,  I  gied  to  thee.' 

*  Your  faith  and  troth  ye  sail  never  get, 

Nor  our  true  love  sail  never  twin, 
Until  ye  come  within  my  bower, 
And  kiss  me  chcik  and  chin.' 

*  My  mouth  it  is  full  cold,  Margaret, 

It  has  the  smell,  now,  of  the  ground  ; 
And  if  I  kiss  thy  comely  mouth. 
Thy  days  of  life  will  not  be  lang'. 

'  Al.  Tliy  (Jays  will  soon  be  at  an  end. 


I 


BALLADS. 

*  O,  cocks  are  crowing  a  merry  midnight, 

I  wot  the  wild  fowls  are  boding  day  ; 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth  again, 
And  let  me  fare  me  on  my  way.' 

*  Thy  faith  and  troth  thou  sail  na  get, 

And  our  true  love  shall  never  twin, 
Until  ye  tell  what  comes  of  women, 
I  wot,  who  die  in  strong  traivelling  ? ' 

'  Their  beds  are  made  in  the  heavens  high, 
Down  at  the  foot  of  our  good  lord's  knee, 

Weel  set  about  wi'  gillyflowers  : 
I  wot  sweet  company  for  to  see. 

*  O  cocks  are  crowing  a  merry  midnight, 

I  wot  the  wild  fowl  are  boding  day  ; 
The  psalms  of  heaven  will  soon  be  sung. 
And  I,  ere  now,  will  be  missed  away.' 

Then  she  has  ta'en  a  crystal  wand. 

And  she  has  stroken  her  troth  thereon  ; 

She  has  given  it  him  out  at  the  shot-window, 
Wi'  mony  a  sad  sigh,  and  heavy  groan. 

*  I  thank  ye,  Marg'ret  ;  I  thank  ye,  MargVet  ; 

And  aye  I  thank  ye  heartilie  ; 
Gin  ever  the  dead  come  for  the  quick. 
Be  sure,  Marg'ret,  I  'U  come  for  thee.' 

It 's  hosen  and  shoon,  and  gown  alone. 
She  climbed  the  wall,  and  followed  him, 

Until  she  came  to  the  green  forest, 
And  there  she  lost  the  sight  o'  him. 

*  Is  there  ony  room  at  your  head,  Saunders  ? 

Is  there  ony  room  at  your  feet  1 

Or  ony  room  at  your  side,  Saunders, 

Where  fain,  fain,  I  wad  sleep?' 


2  30  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  There 's  nae  room  at  my  head,  Marg'ret, 
There 's  nae  room  at  my  feet  ; 

My  bed  it  is  full  lowly  now  : 
Amang  the  hungry  worms  I  sleep. 

'  Cauld  mould  is  my  covering  now, 
But  and  my  winding-sheet ; 

The  dew  it  falls  nae  sooner  down, 
Than  my  resting-place  is  weet. 

'  But  plait  a  wand  o'  bonnie  birk, 

And  lay  it  on  my  breast  ; 
And  shed  a  tear  upon  my  grave, 

And  wish  my  saul  gude  rest. 

'And  fair  Marg'ret,  and  rare  Marg'ret, 

And  Marg'ret  o'  veritie. 
Gin  ere  ye  love  another  man, 

Ne'er  love  him  as  ye  did  me.' 

Then  up  and  crew  the  milk-white  cock, 
And  up  and  crew  the  gray  ; 

Her  lover  vanish'd  in  the  air, 
And  she  gaed  weeping  away. 


The  Wife  of  Usher's  Well. 

[Sometimes  printed  as  part  of  The  Three  Clerks  o*  Owsenford.] 

There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well, 

And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she  ; 
She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons, 

And  sent  them  o'er  the  sea. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  ane, 
When  word  came  to  the  carline  wife, 

That  her  three  sons  were  gane. 


BALLADS.  231 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  three, 
Whan  word  came  to  the  carhne  wife, 

That  her  sons  she  'd  never  see. 

*  I  wish  the  wind  may  never  cease, 

Nor  fishes  ^  in  the  flood, 
Till  my  three  sons  come  hame  to  me, 

In  earthly  flesh  and  blood  ! ' 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas, 

When  nights  are  lang  and  mirk. 
The  carline  wife's  three  sons  came  hame. 

And  their  hats  were  o'  the  birk. 

It  neither  grew  in  syke  nor  ditch, 

Nor  yet  in  ony  sheugh^; 
But  at  the  gates  o'  Paradise, 

That  birk  grew  fair  eneugh. 

'  Blow  up  the  fire,  my  maidens  ! 

Bring  water  from  the  well  ! 
For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  this  night, 

Since  my  three  sons  are  well.' 

And  she  has  made  to  them  a  bed, 

She  's  made  it  large  and  wide  ; 
And  she's  ta'en  her  mantle  her  about, 

Sat  down  at  the  bed-side. 
***** 
Up  then  crew  the  red  red  cock, 

And  up  and  crew  the  gray  ; 
The  eldest  to  the  youngest  said, 

'  'Tis  time  we  were  away.' 

The  cock  he  hadna  craw'd  but  once, 

And  clapp'd  his  wings  at  a'. 
When  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  said, 

'  Brother,  we  must  awa. 

*  Ah  -Nor  fish  be'  (?' Nor  freshets ').  *  trench. 


2  32  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  The  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth  daw, 
The  channerin'  worm  doth  chide  ; 

Gin  we  be  mist  out  o'  our  place, 
A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide. 

'  Fare  ye  weel,  my  mother  dear ! 

Fareweel  to  barn  and  byre  ! 
And  fare  ye  weel,  the  bonny  lass, 

That  kindles  my  mother's  fire.' 
•«•  *  *  *         * 


A  Lyke-Wake  Dirge. 

[Contains  popular  beliefs  common  to  Asiatic   and  European  races,  as  to 
the  trials  of  the  Dead.] 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 

Every  night  and  alle, 
Fire  and  sleet,  and  candle  lighte, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

When  thou  from  hence  away  are  paste, 

Every  night  and  alle  ; 
To  Whinny-muir  thou  comest  at  laste  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thye  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  hosen  and  shoon, 

Every  night  and  alle  ; 
Sit  thee  down,  and  put  them  on  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thye  saule. 

If  hosen  and  shoon  thou  ne'er  gavest  nane, 

Every  night  and  alle  : 
The  whinnes  shall  pricke  thee  to  the  bare  bane ; 

And  Christe  receive  thye  saule. 

From  Whinny-muir  when  thou  mayst  passe, 

Every  night  and  alle  ; 
To  Brigg  o'  Dread  thou  comest  at  laste  ;  J 

And  Christe  receive  thye  saule.  ^ 

♦  **:;:* 


BALLADS.  233 

From  Brigg  o'  Dread  when  thou  mayst  passe, 

Every  night  and  alle  ; 
To  Purgatory  fire  thou  comest  at  laste  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thye  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  meat  or  drink, 

Every  night  and  alle  ; 
The  fire  shall  never  make  thee  shrinke  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thye  saule. 

If  meate  or  drinke  thou  never  gavest  nane, 

Every  night  and  alle  ; 
The  fire  will  burn  thee  to  the  bare  bane  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 

Every  nighte  and  alle  ; 
Fire  and  sleet,  and  candle  lighte. 

And  Christe  receive  thye  saule. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SCOTCH   MARCHES. 
KiNMONT  Willie. 

[The  events  here  reported  occurred  in  1596.  The  ballad  is  the  best 
example  of  those  which  treat  of  rescues,  and  lawless  exploits  in  the  debate- 
able  land.] 

O  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  fause  Sakelde  ? 

O  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  keen  Lord  Scroop  ? 
How  they  hae  ta'en  bauld  Kinmont  Willie, 

On  Hairibee  to  hang  him  up? 

Had  Willie  had  but  twenty  men, 

But  twenty  men  as  stout  as  he, 
Fause  Sakelde  had  never  the  Kinmont  ta'en, 

Wi'  eight  score  in  his  cumpanie. 


2  34  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

They  band  his  legs  beneath  the  steed, 
They  tied  his  hands  behind  his  back  ; 

They  guarded  him,  fivesome  on  each  side, 
And  they  brought  him  ower  the  Liddel-rack. 

They  led  him  thro'  the  Liddel-rack, 

And  also  thro'  the  Carlisle  sands 
They  brought  him  to  Carlisle  castell, 

To  be  at  my  Lord  Scroop's  commands. 

'  My  hands  are  tied,  but  my  tongue  is  free, 
And  whae  will  dare  this  deed  avow  ? 

Or  answer  by  the  border  law  ? 

Or  answer  to  the  bauld  Buccleuch  !' 

'  Now  baud  thy  tongue,  thou  rank  reiver  ! 

There  's  never  a  Scot  shall  set  ye  free  : 
Before  ye  cross  my  castle  yate, 

I  trow  ye  shall  take  farewell  o'  me.' 

'  Fear  na  ye  that,  my  lord,'  quo'  Willie  : 

'  By  the  faith  o'  my  body.  Lord  Scroop,'  he  said, 

'  I  never  yet  lodged  in  a  hostelrie. 
But  I  paid  my  lawing  before  I  gaed.' 

Now  word  is  gane  to  the  bauld  Keeper, 
In  Branksome  Ha',  where  that  he  lay, 

That  Lord  Scroop  has  ta'en  the  Kinmont  Willie, 
Between  the  hours  of  night  and  day. 

He  has  ta'en  the  table  wi'  his  hand. 
He  garr'd  the  red  wine  spring  on  hie — • 

'  Now  Christ's  curse  on  my  head,'  he  said, 
'  But  avenged  of  Lord  Scroop  I  '11  be  ! 

'  O  is  my  basnet  ^  a  widow's  curch  ^  ? 

Or  my  lance  a  wand  of  the  willow  tree  ? 
Or  my  arm  a  ladye's  lilye  hand. 

That  an  English  lord  should  lightly  me  ! 

'  helmet.  *  coif. 


\ 


BALLADS.  235 

'And  have  they  ta'en  him,  Kinmont  Willie, 

Against  the  truCe  of  border  tide  ? 
And  forgotten  that  the  bauld  Buccleuch 

Is  Keeper  here  on  the  Scottish  side? 

'And  have  they  e'en  ta'en  him,  Kinmont  Willie, 

Withouten  either  dread  or  fear  ? 
And  forgotten  that  the  bauld  Buccleuch 

Can  back  a  steed,  or  shake  a  spear? 

'O  were  there  war  between  the  lands, 

As  well  I  wot  that  there  is  none, 
I  would  slight  Carlisle  castell  high, 

Tho'  it  were  builded  of  marble  stone. 

'  I  would  set  that  castell  in  a  low  \ 

And  sloken  it  with  Enghsh  blood  ! 
There 's  nevir  a  man  in  Cumberland, 

Should  ken  where  Carlisle  castell  stood. 

'  But  since  nae  war 's  between  the  lands, 
And  there  is  peace,  and  peace  should  be  ; 

I  '11  neither  harm  English  lad  nor  lass, 
And  yet  the  Kinmont  freed  shall  be  !' 

He  has  call'd  him  forty  marchmen  bauld, 

I  trow  they  were  of  his  ain  name, 
Except  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot  call'd. 

The  laird  of  Stobs,  I  mean  the  same. 

He  has  call'd  him  forty  marchmen  bauld. 

Were  kinsmen  to  the  bauld  Buccleuch  ; 
With  spur  on  heel,  and  splent  on  spauld'^, 

And  gleuves  of  green,  and  feathers  blue. 

There  were  five  and  five  before  them  a', 

Wi'  hunting  horns  and  bugles  bright ; 
And  five  and  five  came  wi'  Buccleuch, 

Like  warden's  men,  arrayed  for  fight  : 

*  flame.  "  armour  on  shoulder. 


236  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  five  and  five,  like  a  mason  gang, 
That  carried  the  ladders  lang  and  hie  ; 

And  five  and  five,  like  broken  men  ; 

And  so  they  reached  the  Woodhouselee. 

And  as  we  cross'd  the  Bateable  Land, 
When  to  the  EngHsh  side  we  held, 

The  first  o'  men  that  we  met  wi', 
Whae  sould  it  be  but  fause  Sakelde  ? 

*  Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  hunters  keen  ? ' 
Quo'  fause  Sakelde  ;   '  come  tell  to  me  ! ' 

*We  go  to  hunt  an  English  stag, 

Has  trespassed  on  the  Scots  countrie.' 

'  Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  marshal  men  ? ' 
Quo'  fause  Sakelde  ;   '  come  tell  me  true  ! ' 

'We  go  to  catch  a  rank  reiver, 

Has  broken  faith  wi'  the  bauld  Buccleuch.' 

'  Where  are  ye  gaun,  ye  mason  lads, 
Wi'  a'  your  ladders,  lang  and  hie  ? ' 

*We  gang  to  herry  a  corbie's  nest. 
That  wons  not  far  frae  Woodhouselee.' 

'Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  broken  men?' 
Quo'  fause  Sakelde  ;  'come  tell  to  me  !' 

Now  Dickie  of  Dryhope  led  that  band. 
And  the  never  a  word  o'  lear  had  he. 

'  Why  trespass  ye  on  the  English  side  ? 

Row-footed  outlaws,  stand!'   quo'  he; 
The  never  a  word  had  Dickie  to  say, 

Sae  he  thrust  the  lance  through  his  fause  bodie 

Then  on  we  held  for  Carlisle  toun. 

And  at  Staneshaw-bank  the  Eden  we  cross'd  ; 

The  water  was  great  and  meikle  of  spait, 
liut  the  nevir  a  horse  nor  man  we  lost. 


BALLADS.  237 

And  when  we  reached  the  Staneshaw-bank, 

The  wind  was  rising  loud  and  hie  ; 
And  there  the  laird  garr'd  leave  our  steeds, 

For  fear  that  they  should  stamp  and  nie. 

And  when  we  left  the  Staneshaw-bank, 

The  wind  began  full  loud  to  blaw, 
But  'twas  wind  and  weet,  and  fire  and  sleet, 

When  we  came  beneath  the  castle  wa'. 

We  crept  on  knees,  and  held  our  breath, 
Till  we  placed  the  ladders  against  the  wa' ; 

And  sae  ready  was  Buccleuch  himsell 
To  mount  the  first,  before  us  a'. 

He  has  ta'en  the  watchman  by  the  throat, 

He  flung  him  down  upon  the  lead — 
'  Had  there  not  been  peace  between  our  land, 

'  Upon  the  other  side  thou  hadst  gaed  ! — 

'Now  sound  out,  trumpets  !'   quo'  Buccleuch  ; 

'Let's  waken  Lord  Scroop,  right  merrilie  !' 
Then  loud  the  warden's  trumpet  blew — 

'' O  wha  dare  vieddle  wV  tne?' 

Then  speedilie  to  work  we  gaed, 

And  raised  the  slogan  ane  and  a', 
And  cut  a  hole  thro'  a  sheet  of  lead, 

And  so  we  wan  to  the  castle  ha'. 

They  thought  King  James  and  a'  his  men 

Had  won  the  house  wi'  bow  and  spear ; 
It  was  but  twenty  Scots  and  ten. 

That  put  a  thousand  in  sic  a  stear  ! 

Wi'  coulters,  and  wi'  fore-hammers, 

We  garr'd  the  bars  bang  merrilie, 
Untill  we  cam  to  the  inner  prison, 

Where  Willie  o'  Kinmont  he  did  lie. 


238  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  when  we  cam  to  the  lower  prison, 
Where  Willie  o'  Kinmont  he  did  lie — 

'  O  sleep  ye,  wake  ye,  Kinmont  Willie, 
Upon  the  morn  that  thou 's  to  die  ?' 

'  O  I  sleep  saft,  and  I  wake  aft ; 

Its  lang  since  sleeping  was  fleyed  frae  me  ! 
Gie  my  service  back  to  my  wife  and  bairns. 

And  a'  gude  fellows  that  spier  for  me.' 

Then  Red  Rowan  has  hente  him  up, 
The  starkest  man  in  Teviotdale — 

'  Abide,  abide  now,  Red  Rowan, 

Till  of  my  Lord  Scroope  I  take  farewell. 

*  Farewell,  farewell,  my  gude  Lord  Scroope  ! 

My  gude  Lord  Scroope,  farewell ! '  he  cried- 
'  I  '11  pay  you  for  my  lodging  maill  ^, 
When  first  we  meet  on  the  border  side.' 

Then  shoulder  high,  with  shout  and  cry. 
We  bore  him  down  the  ladder  lang  ; 

At  every  stride  Red  Rowan  made, 

I  wot  the  Kinmont's  aims  played  clang ! 

'  O  mony  a  time,'  quo'  Kinmont  Willie, 
I  have  ridden  horse  baith  wild  and  wood ; 

But  a  rougher  beast  than  Red  Rowan, 
I  ween  my  legs  have  ne'er  bestrode. 

*  O  mony  a  time,'  quo'  Kinmont  Willie, 

'  I've  pricked  a  horse  out  oure  the  furs^; 
But  since  the  day  I  backed  a  steed, 
I  never  wore  sic  cumbrous  spurs  !' 

We  scarce  had  won  the  Staneshaw-bank, 
When  a'  the  Carlisle  bells  were  rung. 

And  a  thousand  men,  in  horse  and  foot. 
Cam  wi'  the  keen  Lord  Scroope  along. 

'  rent.  ^  furrows. 


BALLADS.  239 


Euccleuch  has  turned  to  Eden  water, 
Even  where  it  flowed  frae  bank  to  brim, 

And  he  has  plunged  in  wi'  a'  his  band. 
And  safely  swam  them  thro'  the  stream. 

He  turned  him  on  the  other  side, 
And  at  Lord  Scroope  his  glove  flung  he- 

'If  ye  like  na  my  visit  in  merry  England, 
In  fair  Scotland  come  visit  me!' 


All  sore  astonished  stood  Lord  Scroope, 
He  stood  as  still  as  rock  of  stane  ; 

He  scarcely  dared  to  trew  his  eyes, 
When  thro'  the  water  they  had  gane. 

'  He  is  either  himself  a  devil  frae  hell, 
Or  else  his  mother  a  witch  maun  be  ; 

I  wad  na  ha  ridden  that  wan  water, 
For  a'  the  gowd  in  Christentie.' 


ROBIN    HOOD    BALLADS. 
Robin  Hood  rescuing  the  Widow's  Three  Sons. 

There  are  twelve  months  in  all  the  year, 

As  I  hear  many  say. 
But  the  merriest  month  in  all  the  year 

Is  the  merry  month  of  May. 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone, 

With  a  link  a  down,  and  a  day, 
And  there  he  met  a  silly  old  woman. 

Was  weeping  on  the  way. 

'  What  news  ?   what  news  ?   thou  silly  old  woman, 

What  news  hast  thou  for  me  ?' 
Said  she,  '  There 's  my  three  sons  in  Nottingham  town 

To-day  condemned  to  die.' 


2  40  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  O,  have  they  parishes  burnt  ?'   he  said, 

'  Or  have  they  ministers  slain  ? 
Or  have  they  robbed  any  virgin  ? 

Or  other  men's  wives  have  ta'en  ?' 

'  They  have  no  parishes  burnt,  good  sir, 

Nor  yet  have  ministers  slain. 
Nor  have  they  robbed  any  virgin, 

Nor  other  men's  wives  have  ta'en.' 

'  O,  what  have  they  done  ?'   said  Robin  Hood, 

'  I  pray  thee  tell  to  me.' 
'  It 's  for  slaying  of  the  king's  fallow  deer. 

Bearing  their  long  bows  with  thee.' 

'Dost  thou  not  mind,  old  woman,'  he  said, 
'  How  thou  madest  me  sup  and  dine  ? 

By  the  truth  of  my  body,'  quoth  bold  Robin  Hood, 
'You  could  not  tell  it  in  better  time.' 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone. 
With  a  link  a  down,  and  a  day, 

And  there  he  met  with  a  silly  old  palmer. 
Was  walking  along  the  highway. 

'  What  news  ?  what  news  ?   thou  silly  old  man. 

What  news,  I  do  thee  pray  ? ' 
Said  he,  'Three  squires  in  Nottingham  town 

Are  condemn'd  to  die  this  day.' 

•Come  change  thy  apparel  with  me,  old  man, 
Come  change  thy  apparel  for  mine  ; 

Here  is  ten  shillings  in  good  silvc;r, 
Go  drink  it  in  beer  or  wine.' 

'O,  thine  apparel  is  good,'  he  said, 

'And  mine  is  ragged  and  torn  ; 
Wherever  you  go,  wherever  you  ride, 

Laugh  not  an  old  man  to  scorn.' 


BALLADS.  241 

'  Come  change  thy  apparel  with  me,  old  churl, 

Come  change  thy  apparel  with  mine  ; 
Here  is  a  piece  of  good  broad  gold, 

Go  feast  thy  brethren  with  wine.' 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  hat, 

It  stood  full  high  on  the  crown  : 
'The  first  bold  bargain  that  I  come  at, 

It  shall  make  thee  come  down.' 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  cloak. 

Was  patch'd  black,  blue,  and  red  ; 
He  thought  it  no  shame,  all  the  day  long, 

To  wear  the  bags  of  bread. 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  breeks. 

Was  patch'd  from  leg  to  side  : 
'  By  the  truth  of  my  body,'  bold  Robin  can  say, 

*This  man  loved  little  pride.' 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  hose. 

Were  patch'd  from  knee  to  wrist : 
*By  the  truth  of  my  body,'  said  bold  Robin  Hood, 

'  I  'd  laugh  if  I  had  any  list.' 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  shoes, 
Were  patch'd  both  beneath  and  aboon  ; 

Then  Robin  Hood  swore  a  solemn  oath, 
'It's  good  habit  that  makes  a  man.' 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone. 

With  a  link  a  down  and  a  down., 
And  there  he  met  with  the  proud  sheriff, 

Was  walking  along  the  town. 

*  Save  you,  save  you,  sheriff ! '   he  said  ; 

'  Now  heaven  you  save  and  see  ! 
And  what  will  you  give  to  a  silly  old  man 
To-day  will  your  hangman  be?' 
VOL.  I.  R 


2  42  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  Some  suits,  some  suits,'  the  sheriff  he  said, 

'  Some  suits  I  '11  give  to  thee  ; 
Some  suits,  some  suits,  and  pence  thirteen. 

To-day  's  a  hangman's  fee.' 

Then  Robin  he  turns  him  round  about, 
And  jumps  from  stock  to  stone  : 

*By  the  truth  of  my  body,'  the  sheriff  he  said, 
'  That 's  well  jumpt,  thou  nimble  old  man.' 

*  I  was  ne'er  a  hangman  in  all  my  life, 

Nor  yet  intends  to  trade  ; 
But  curst  be  he,'  said  bold  Robin, 
'  That  first  a  hangman  was  made  ! 

*  I  've  a  bag  for  meal,  and  a  bag  for  malt. 

And  a  bag  for  barley  and  corn  ; 
A  bag  for  bread,  and  a  bag  for  beef, 
And  a  bag  for  my  little  small  horn. 

*  I  have  a  horn  in  my  pocket, 

I  got  it  from  Robin  Hood, 
And  still  when  I  set  it  to  my  mouth, 
For  thee  it  blows  little  good.' 

'  O,  wind  thy  horn,  thou  proud  fellow ! 

Of  thee  I  have  no  doubt. 
I  wish  that  thou  give  such  a  blast, 

Till  both  thy  eyes  fall  out.' 

The  first  loud  blast  that  he  did  blow. 

He  blew  both  loud  and  shrill  ; 
A  hundred  and  fifty  of  Robin  Hood's  men 

Came  riding  over  the  hill. 

The  next  loud  blast  that  he  did  give, 

He  blew  both  loud  and  amain, 
And  quickly  sixty  of  Robin  Hood's  men 

Came  shining  over  the  plain. 


BALLADS.  243 

*  O,  who  are  these,'  the  sheriff  he  said, 

'Come  tripping  over  the  lee?' 
'  They  're  my  attendants,'  brave  Robin  did  say  ; 

'  They  '11  pay  a  visit  to  thee.' 

They  took  the  gallows  from  the  slack, 

They  set  it  in  the  glen. 
They  hanged  the  proud  sheriff  on  that, 

Released  their  own  three  men. 


Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial. 

[The  close  of  this  ballad  singularly  resembles  a  Romaic  song   on  the 
death  of  a  famous  klepht,  or  brigand,  in  Fauriel's  collection.] 

When  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John, 

Down  a  dowjt,  a  down,  a  down, 
Went  o'er  yon  bank  of  broom, 
Said  Robin  Hood  to  Little  John, 

*  We  have  shot  for  many  a  pound : 

Hey  down,  a  dowtt,  a  down.  ^ 

•But  I  am  not  able  to  shoot  one  shot  more, 

My  arrows  will  not  flee  ; 
But  I  have  a  cousin  lives  down  below, 

Please  God,  she  will  bleed  me.' 

Now  Robin  is  to  fair  Kirkley  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  win  ; 
But  before  he  came  there,  as  we  do  hear, 

He  was  taken  very  ill. 

And  when  that  he  came  to  fair  Kirkley -hall, 

He  knock'd  all  at  the  ring, 
But  none  was  so  ready  as  his  cousin  herself 

For  to  let  bold  Robin  in. 

*  Will  you  please  to  sit  down,  cousin  Robin,'  she  said, 

*  And  drink  some  beer  with  me .'' 
'  No,  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink 

Till  I  am  blooded  by  thee.' 

R2 


244  ^^^  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  Well,  I  have  a  room,  cousin  Robin,'  she  said, 

'Which  you  did  never  see, 
And  if  you  please  to  walk  therein, 

You  blooded  by  me  shall  be.' 

She  took  him  by  the  lily-white  hand, 
And  led  him  to  a  private  room, 

And  there  she  blooded  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Whilst  one  drop  of  blood  would  run. 

She  blooded  him  in  the  vein  of  the  arm. 
And  locked  him  up  in  the  room  ; 

There  did  he  bleed  all  the  live-long  day, 
Until  the  next  day  at  noon. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  a  casement  door, 

Thinking  for  to  be  gone  ; 
He  was  so  weak  he  could  not  leap. 

Nor  he  could  not  get  down. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  his  bugle-horn, 
Which  hung  low  down  to  his  knee  ; 

He  set  his  horn  unto  his  mouth, 
And  blew  out  weak  blasts  three. 

Then  Little  John,  when  hearing  him, 

As  he  sat  under  the  tree, 
'I  fear  my  master  is  near  dead. 

He  blows  so  wearily.' 

Then  Little  John  to  fair  Kirkley  is  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  dri'e  ; 
But  when  he  came  to  Kirkley-hall, 

He  broke  locks  two  or  three  : 

Until  he  came  bold  Robin  to, 

Then  he  fell  on  his  knee  : 
*A  boon,  a  boon,'  cries  Little  John, 

*  Master,  I  beg  of  thee.' 


BALLADS.  245 

'  What  is  that  boon,'  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
'Little  John,  thou  begs  of  me?' 

*  It  is  to  bum  fair  Kirkley-hall, 

And  all  their  nunnery.' 

'  Now  nay,  now  nay,'  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

*  That  boon  I  '11  not  grant  thee  ; 
I  never  hurt  woman  in  all  my  life, 

Nor  man  in  woman's  company. 

*  I  never  hurt  fair  maid  in  all  my  time, 

Nor  at  my  end  shall  it  be  ; 
But  give  me  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand, 

And  a  broad  arrow  I  '11  let  flee  ; 
And  where  this  arrow  is  taken  up. 

There  shall  my  grave  digg'd  be. 

*  Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head. 

And  another  at  my  feet  ; 
And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side. 

Which  was  my  music  sweet  ; 
And  make  my  grave  of  gravel  and  green, 

Which  is  most  right  and  meet. 

'  Let  me  have  length  and  breadth  enough, 

With  a  green  sod  under  my  head  ; 
That  they  may  say,  when  I  am  dead, 

Here  Hes  bold  Robin  Hood.' 

These  words  they  readily  promis'd  him. 

Which  did  bold  Robin  please  ; 
And  there  they  buried  bold  Robin  Hood, 

Near  to  the  fair  Kirkleys. 


246  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


DOMESTIC. 

The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington. 

There  was  a  yout?ie,  and  a  well-beloved  youthe, 

And  he  was  a  squires  son  ; 
He  loved  the  bayliffes  daughter  deare, 

That  lived  in  Islington. 

Yet  she  was  coye,  and  would  not  believe 

That  he  did  love  her  soe, 
Noe  nor  at  any  time  would  she 

Any  countenance  to  him  showe. 

But  when  his  friendes  did  understand 

His  fond  and  foolish  minde, 
They  sent  him  up  to  faire  London, 

An  apprentice  for  to  binde. 

And  when  he  had  been  seven  long  yeares, 

And  never  his  love  could  see, — 
*  Many  a  teare  have  I  shed  for  her  sake, 

When  she  little  thought  of  mee.' 

Then  all  the  maids  of  Islington 

Went  forth  to  sport  and  playe, 
All  but  the  bayliffes  daughter  deare  ; 

She  secretly  stole  awaye. 

She  pulled  off  her  gowne  of  grecne, 

And  put  on  ragged  attire, 
And  to  faire  London  she  would  go 

Her  true  love  to  enquire. 

As  as  she  went  along  the  high  road, 
The  weather  being  hot  and  drye, 

She  sat  her  downe  upon  a  green  bank, 
And  her  true  love  came  riding  bye. 


BALLADS.  247 

She  started  up,  with  a  colour  soe  redd, 

Catching  hold  of  his  bridle-reine  ; 
'  One  penny,  one  penny,  kind  sir,'  she  sayd, 

'Will  ease  me  of  much  paine.' 

'Before  I  give  you  one  penny,  sweet-heart, 

Praye  tell  me  where  you  were  borne.' 
'At  Islington,  kind  sir,'  sayd  shee, 

'Where  I  have  had  many  a  scorne.' 

*  I  prythee,  sweet-heart,  then  tell  to  mee, 

O  tell  me,  whether  you  knowe 
The  baylififes  daughter  of  Islington.' 

'She  is  dead,  sir,  long  agoe.' 

'  If  she  be  dead,  then  take  my  horse. 

My  saddle  and  bridle  also  ; 
For  I  will  into  some  farr  countrye, 

Where  noe  man  shall  me  knowe.' 

♦O  staye,  O  staye,  thou  goodlye  youthe, 

She  standeth  by  thy  side  ; 
She  is  here  alive,  she  is  not  dead, 

And  readye  to  be  thy  bride.' 

'  O  farewell  griefe,  and  welcome  joye. 

Ten  thousand  times  therefore  ; 
For  nowe  I  have  founde  mine  owne  true  love. 

Whom  I  thought  I  shoilld  never  see  more.' 


SIR  THOMAS   WYATT. 


[Thomas  Wyatt,  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  Henry  Wyatt,  a  baronet  of  ancient 
family,  was  bom  at  Allington  Castle,  in  Kent,  in  1503.  In  the  Court  of 
Henry  VIII  he  soon  became  a  conspicuous  figure,  famous  for  his  wit,  his 
learning,  his  poetical  talents,  his  linguistic  attainments,  his  skill  in  athletic 
exercises,  his  fascinating  manners  and  his  handsome  person.  Frota  a 
courtier  he  developed  into  a  statesman  and  a  diplomatist,  and  in  the  duties 
incident  to  statesmanship  and  diplomacy  most  of  his  life  was  passed.  He 
died  at  Sherborne,  while  on  his  road  to  Falmouth,  and  was  buried  there 
October  nth,  1542.  His  poems  were  first  printed  in  Tottel's  Miscellany  in 
1557-] 

Wyatt  and  Surrey  are  usually  classed  together — ^ar  nobile 
fratruni — the  Dioscuri  of  the  Dawn.  They  inaugurated  that  im- 
portant period  in  our  literature  known  as  the  Era  of  Italian 
Influence,  or  that  of  the  Company  of  Courtly  Makers — the  period 
which  immediately  preceded  and  ushered  in  the  age  of  Spenser 
and  Shakespeare.  With  some  of  the  characteristics  of  expiring 
medirevalism  still  lingering  about  them,  the  prevailing  spirit  of 
their  poetry  is  the  spirit  of  the  Renaissance, — not  its  colour,  not 
its  exuberance,  not  its  intoxication  ;  but  its  classicism,  its  harmony, 
and  its  appreciation  of  form.  With  the  writings  of  Virgil,  Martial 
and  Seneca,  in  ancient,  and  with  the  writings  of  Petrarch  and 
his  school  in  modem  times,  they  were  evidently  familiar,  and 
they  have  as  evidently  made  them  their  models.  The  influence 
of  that  school  is  indeed  manifest  in  almost  everything  these  poets 
have  left  us,  sometimes  directly  in  translations,  in  professed  imi- 
tation, in  turns  of  expression,  still  oftener  indirectly  in  tone,  form 
and  style  :  but  they  owed  more  to  the  Italy  of  the  fourteenth  than 
to  the  Italy  of  the  first  century.  To  Wyatt  and  Surrey  our  debt  is 
a  great  one.  They  introduced  and  naturalised  the  Sonnet,  both 
the  Sonnet  of  the  true  Petrarchian  type  and  the  Sonnet  which  was 
afterwards  carried  to  such  perfection  in  the  hands  of  Shakespeare 


IVYATT.  249 

and  Daniel.  In  Surrey  we  find  the  first  germ  of  the  BucoHc 
Eclogue.  In  Wyatt  we  have  our  first  classical  satirist.  Of  our 
lyrical  poetry  they  were  the  founders.  Their  tone,  their  style, 
their  rhythm,  their  measures,  were  at  once  adopted  by  a  school 
of  disciples,  and  have  ever  since  maintained  their  popularity 
among  poets.  In  their  lyrics  indeed  is  to  be  found  the  seed  of 
everything  that  is  most  charming  in  the  form  of  Jonson  and  Her- 
rick,  of  Waller  and  Suckling,  of  Cowley  and  Prior.  They  gave 
us — but  this  is  the  glory  of  Surrey  alone — the  first  specimens  of 
blank  verse  that  our  language  can  boast.  They  were  the  creators  of 
that  majestic  measure  the  heroic  quatrain.  They  enriched  diction 
with  fulness  and  involution.  They  were  the  first  of  our  poets 
who  had  learned  the  great  secret  of  transfusing  the  spirit  of  one 
language  into  that  of  another,  who  had  the  good  taste  to  select  the 
best  models  and  the  good  sense  to  adhere  to  them.  They  gave  the 
deathblow  to  that  rudeness,  that  grotesqueness,  that  prolixity,  that 
diffuseness,  that  pedantry,  which  had  deformed  with  fatal  persist- 
ency the  poetry  of  mediasvalism,  and  while  they  purified  our 
language  from  the  Gallicisms  of  Chaucer  and  his  followers,  they 
fixed  the  permanent  standard  of  our  versification.  To  them  we 
are  indebted  for  the  great  reform  which  substituted  a  metrical 
for  a  rhythmical  structure.  Their  services  to  our  literature  may 
at  once  be  reaUsed  by  comparing  their  work  with  that  of  their 
immediate  predecessors,  and  by  observing  its  influence  on  the 
writers  in  the  four  Miscellanies  which  appeared  between  1557 
and  the  publication  of  Englajid''s  Helicon  in  1600.  Indeed  these 
interesting  men  stand  in  much  the  same  relation  to  the  poetical 
hterature  of  England  as  Boscan  and  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega  stand 
to  the  poetical  literature  of  Castile. 

It  is  unfortunately  not  possible  to  decide  how  far  these  two 
poets  acted  and  re-acted  on  each  other.  We  are  however  in- 
clined to  think  that  Wyatt  was  the  master-spirit,  and  that  Surrey 
has  been  enabled  to  throw  him  so  completely  and  so  unfairly  into 
the  shade,  mainly  because  he  had  his  friend's  patterns  to  work 
upon.  Wyatt  was  his  senior  by  at  least  fourteen  years,  and 
Wyatt's  poems,  if  we  except  at  least  the  Satires  and  the  Peni- 
tential Psalms,  were  in  all  probability  early  works. 

The  poems  of  Wyatt  consist  of  Sonnets,  Lyrics  in  all  varieties 
of  measure,  Rondeaux,  Epigrams,  Satires,  and  a  poetical  para- 
phrase of  the  Penitential  Psalms.  His  genius  is  essentially 
imitative.     His  Sonnets  are  either  direct  translations  or  servile 


250  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

imitations  of  Petrarch's.  Of  his  lyrics  some  are  borrowed  from 
the  Spanish,  some  from  the  French,  some  from  the  ItaHan  ;  all, 
with  the  exception  of  half  a  dozen  perhaps,  are  more  or  less 
modelled  on  writings  in  those  languages.  What  we  call  his 
Epigrams  are  for  the  most  part  versions  from  the  Strambotti  of 
Serafino  d'  Aquila.  One  of  his  Satires  is  an  abridged  imitation 
of  the  Tenth  Satire  of  Alamanni,  the  other  two  were  respectively 
suggested  by  Horace  and  Persius.  Even  in  his  version  of  the 
Penitential  Psalms  he  was  careful  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of 
Dante  and  Alamanni.  The  dignity  and  gravity  which  characterise 
the  structure  of  some  of  his  lyric  periods  appear  to  have  been 
caught  from  the  poets  of  Castile.  His  general  tone  is  sombre, 
sententious  and  serious,  and  he  is  too  often  reflecting  when  he 
ought  to  be  feeling.  The  greater  part  of  his  poetry  is  wasted  in 
describing  with  weary  minuteness  transports  of  slighted  and 
requited  affection,  but  his  true  place  is  among  observant  men  of 
the  world,  scholars  and  moralists.  His  versification  is  often  harsh 
and  uncouth,  except  in  some  of  his  lyrics,  which  are  occasionally 
very  musical,  and  in  his  Satires,  which  are  uniformly  terse  and 
smooth.  He  is  inferior  to  Surrey  in  diction,  in  taste,  in  origin- 
ality, and  in  poetical  feeling  ;  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  the 
more  delicate  genius  of  the  younger  poet  would  have  been  able  to 
achieve  so  complete  a  triumph  over  the  mechanism  of  expression 
had  he  not  been  preceded  by  his  robuster  brother. 

J,  Churton  Collins. 


K 


IVVA  TT. 


251 


[The  lover  having  dreamed  enjoying  of  his  love,  complaineth  that  the 
dream  is  not  either  longer  or  truer.] 

Unstable  dream,  according  to  the  place, 
Be  steadfast  once,  or  else  at  least  be  true  : 
By  tasted  sweetness  make  me  not  to  rue 
The  sudden  loss  of  thy  false  feigned  grace. 
By  good  respect,  in  such  a  dangerous  case, 
Thou  broughtest  not  her  into  these  tossing  seas  ; 
But  madest  my  sprite  to  live,  my  care  to  encrease. 
My  body  in  tempest  her  delight  to  embrace. 
The  body  dead,  the  spirit  had  his  desire  ; 
Painless  was  the  one,  the  other  in  delight. 
Why  then,  alas,  did  it  not  keep  it  right, 
But  thus  return  to  leap  into  the  fire  ; 

And  when  it  was  at  wish,  could  not  remain  ? 

Such  mocks  of  dreams  do  turn  to  deadly  pain. 


[The  lover  heseecheth  his  mistress  not  to  forget  his  stedfast  faith 
and  true  intent  ] 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant ; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  when  first  began 
The  weary  life  ye  know,  since  whan 
The  suit,  the  service  none  tell  can  ; 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways, 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 
Forget  not  yet ! 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Forget  not  !    oh  !   forget  not  this, 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss. 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved, 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved, 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved : 
Forget  not  yet  ! 


[The  lover  complaineth  of  the  unkindness  of  his  love.] 

My  lute,  awake  !   perform  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste  ; 
And  end  that  I  have  now  begun  : 
And  when  this  song  is  sung  and  past, 
My  lute  !   be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

As  to  be  heard  where  ear  is  none  ; 
As  lead  to  grave  in  marble  stone, 
My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon  ; 
Should  we  then  sing,  or  sigh,  or  moan  ? 
No,  no,  my  lute  !    for  I  have  done. 

The  rock  doth  not  so  cruelly, 
Repulse  the  waves  continually, 
As  she  my  suit  and  affection  : 
So  that  I  am  past  remedy  ; 
Whereby  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Proud  of  the  spoil  that  thou  hast  got 
Of  simple  hearts  thorough  Love's  shot. 
By  whom,  unkind,  thou  hast  them  won  ; 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow  forgot. 
Although  my  lute  and  1  have  done. 

Vengeance  shall  fall  on  thy  disdain. 
That  makest  but  game  of  earnest  pain  ; 
Trow  not  alone  under  the  sun 
Unquit  to  cause  thy  lovers  plain. 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 


May  chance  thee  lie  withered  and  old 
In  winter  nights,  that  are  so  cold, 
Plaining  in  vain  unto  the  moon  ; 
Thy  wishes  then  dare  not  be  told : 
Care  then  who  list,  for  I  have  done. 

And  then  may  chance  thee  to  repent 
The  time  that  thou  hast  lost  and  spent, 
To  cause  thy  lovers  sigh  and  swoon  : 
Then  shalt  thou  know  beauty  but  lent, 
And  wish  and  want,  as  I  have  done. 

Now  cease,  my  lute  !     This  is  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste  ; 
And  ended  is  that  we  begun  : 
Now  is  thy  song  both  sung  and  past ; 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 


On  his  Return  froim  Spain. 

Tagus  farewell !   that  westward  with  thy  streams 
Tunis  up  the  grains  of  gold  already  tried  ; 
For  I  with  spur  and  sail  go  seek  the  Thames 
Gainward  the  sun  that  showeth  her  wealthy  pride. 
And  to  the  town  that  Brutus  sought  by  dreams, 
Like  bended  moon  that  leans  her  lusty  side  ; 
My  king,  my  country  alone  for  whom  I  live, 
Of  mighty  Love  the  winds  for  this  me  give  ^ ! 


From  the  second  Satire. 

My  Poins,  I  cannot  frame  my  tongue  to  feign, 
To  cloak  the  truth  for  praise  without  desert 
Of  them  that  list  all  vices  to  retain. 
I  cannot  honour  them  that  set  their  part 

*  Al.  My  king,   my  country,  I  seek,  for  whom  I  live; 
O  mighty  Jove,  the  winds  for  this  me  give! 


253 


2  54  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

With  Venus,  and  Bacchus,  all  their  life  long, 

Nor  hold  my  peace  of  them  although  I  smart. 

I  cannot  crouch  nor  truckle  to  such  a  wrong. 

To  worship  them  like  God  on  earth  alone 

That  are  as  wolves  these  sely  lambs  among. 

I  cannot  with  my  words  complain  and  moan, 

And  suffer  nought  ;  nor  smart  without  complaint, 

Nor  turn  the  word  that  from  my  mouth  has  gone. 

I  cannot  speak  and  look  like  as  a  saint, 

Use  wiles  for  wit  and  make  deceit  a  pleasure. 

Call  craft  counsel,  for  lucre  still  to  paint  ; 

I  cannot  wrest  the  law  to  fill  the  coffer. 

With  innocent  blood  to  feed  myself  fat 

And  do  most  hurt  where  that  most  help  I  offer. 

I  am  not  he  that  can  allow  the  state 

Of  high  Caesar,  and  damn  Cato  to  die. 

That  by  his  death  did  scape  out  of  the  gate 

From  Caesar's  hands,  if  Livy  doth  not  lie, 

And  would  not  live  where  Liberty  was  lost; 

So  did  his  heart  the  common  wealth  apply. 

I  am  not  he,  such  eloquence  to  boast 

To  make  the  crow  in  singing  as  the  swan  ; 

Nor  call  the  lion  of  coward  beasts  the  most, 

That  cannot  take  a  mouse  as  the  cat  can  : 

And  he  that  dieth  for  hunger  of  the  gold, 

Call  him  Alexander,  and  say  that  Pan 

Passeth  Apollo  in  music  manifold. 

Praise  Sir  Topas  for  a  noble  tale 

And  scorn  the  story  that  the  Knight  told  ; 

Praise  him  for  counsel  that  is  drunk  of  ale ; 

Grin  when  he  laughs,  that  beareth  all  the  sway ; 

Frown  when  he  frowns,  and  groan  when  he  is  pale 

On  other's  lust  to  hang  both  night  and  day. 

None  of  these  points  could  ever  frame  in  me  ; 

My  wit  is  nought,  I  cannot  learn  the  way. 


I 


THE   EARL  OF   SURREY. 


[Henry  Howard  was  the  eldest  son  of  Thomas  Earl  of  Surrey,  by  his 
second  wife,  the  Lady  Elizabeth  Stafford,  daughter  of  Edward  Stafford, 
Duke  of  Buckingham.  The  date  and  place  of  his  birth  are  alike  unknown. 
It  probably  occurred  in  1517.  He  became  Earl  of  Surrey  on  the  accession 
of  his  father  to  the  dukedom  of  Norfolk  in  1524.  The  incidents  of  his 
early  life  are  buried  in  obscurity ;  the  incidents  of  his  later  life  rest  on 
evidence  rarely  trustworthy  and  frequently  apocryphal.  He  was  beheaded 
on  Tower  Hill  January  21,  1547,  nominally  on  a  charge  of  high  treason, 
really  in  consequence  of  having  fallen  a  victim  to  a  Court  intrigue,  the 
particulars  of  which  it  is  now  impossible  to  unravel.  With  regard  to  the 
chronology  of  his  various  poems  we  have  nothing  to  guide  us.  Though 
they  were  extensively  circulated  in  manuscript  during  his  lifetime,  they 
were  not  printed  till  June  1557,  when  they  made  their  appearance,  together 
with  Wyatt's  poems  and  several  fugitive  pieces  by  other  authors,  in  Tottel's 
Miscellany.'] 

The  works  of  Surrey,  though  not  so  numerous  as  those  of  his 
friend  Wyatt,  are  of  a  very  varied  character.  They  consist  of  son- 
nets, of  miscellaneous  poems  in  different  measures,  of  lyrics,  of 
elegies,  of  translations,  of  Scriptural  paraphrases,  of  two  long  ver- 
sions from  Virgil.  The  distinctive  feature  of  Surrey's  genius  is  its 
ductility ;  its  characteristic  qualities  are  grace,  vivacity,  pathos, 
picturesqueness.  He  had  the  temperament  of  a  true  poet,  refine- 
ment, sensibility,  a  keen  eye  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  a  quick 
and  lively  imagination,  great  natural  powers  of  expression.  His 
tone  is  pure  and  lofty,  and  his  whole  writings  breathe  that  chivalrous 
spirit  which  still  lingered  among  the  satellites  of  the  eighth  Henry. 
His  diction  is  chaste  and  perspicuous,  and  though  it  bears  all  the 
marks  of  careful  elaboration  it  has  no  trace  of  stiffness  or  pedantry. 
His  verse  is  so  smooth,  and  at  times  so  delicately  musical,  that 
Warton  questioned  whether  in  these  qualities  at  least  our  versifica- 
tion has  advanced  since  Surrey  tuned  it  for  the  first  time.  Without 
the  learning  of  Wyatt,  his  literary  skill  is  far  greater.     His  taste  is 


256  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

exquisite.  His  love  poetry,  which  is  distinguished  by  touches  of 
genuine  feehng,  is  modelled  for  the  most  part  on  the  Sonnetti  and 
Ballati  of  Petrarch,  though  it  has  little  of  Petrarch's  frigid  puerility 
and  none  of  his  metaphysical  extravagance.  The  Laura  of  Surrey 
is  the  fair  Geraldine.  We  may  perhaps  suspect  the  existence  of 
some  less  shadowy  object.  As  a  lyrical  poet,  when  he  permits 
himself  to  follow  his  own  bent  he  is  easy  and  graceful.  His  elegiac 
verses  and  his  epitaph  on  Clere  have  been  deservedly  praised  for 
their  pathos,  dignity,  and  terseness,  and  his  translation  from  Martial 
makes  us  regret  that  he  has  not  left  us  more  in  the  same  vein.  His 
versions  from  Virgil  we  are  not  inclined  to  rank  so  highly  as  Warton 
does,  but  they  are  interesting  as  being  the  first  Eitglish  versions 
from  the  poets  of  antiquity  worthy  of  the  name,  and  as  furnishing 
us  with  the  earliest  specimens  of  that  verse  which  was  to  become 
the  omnipotent  instrument  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  As  a  son- 
neteer he  follows  closely  in  the  footsteps  of  Petrarch,  though  he  is 
not,  like  Wyatt,  a  servile  copyist,  and  he  is  entitled  to  the  high 
praise  of  being  not  only  the  first  who  introduced  the  sonnet  into 
our  language,  but  of  having  made  that  difficult  form  of  composition 
the  obedient  interpreter  of  a  poet's  feelings  and  of  a  poet's  fancies. 
His  most  unsuccessful  pieces  are  his  Scriptural  paraphrases  and 
the  poems  written  in  Alexandrines,  though  one  of  these.  The  Com- 
plaint of  a  Dying  Lover,  is  valuable  as  being,  next  to  Henryson's 
Robine  and  Makyne,  the  first  pastoral  poem  in  British  literature. 

J.  Churton  Collins. 


EARL   OF  SURREY.  257 


Description  of  Spring, 

[Wherein  each  thing  renews,  save  only  the  lover.] 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings, 

With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale. 

The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings  ; 

The  turtle  to  her  make^  hath  told  her  tale. 

Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs, 

The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale  ; 

The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  slings  ; 

The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale  ; 

The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings  ; 

The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale  ; 

The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings'^  ; 

Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowers'  bale. 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs  ! 


A  Complaint  by  Night  of  the  Lover  not  beloved. 

Alas  !  so  all  things  now  do  hold  their  peace  ! 
Heaven  and  earth  disturbed  in  no  thing  ; 
The  beasts,  the  air,  the  birds  their  song  do  cease  ; 
The  nightes  car  the  stars  about  doth  bring. 
Calm  is  the  sea  ;  the  waves  work  less  and  less  : 
So  am  not  I,  whom  love,  alas  !  doth  wring, 
Bringing  before  my  face  the  great  increase 
Of  my  desires,  whereat  I  weep  and  sing. 
In  joy  and  woe,  as  in  a  doubtful  ease. 
For  my  sweet  thoughts  sometime  do  pleasure  bring  ; 
But  by  and  by,  the  cause  of  my  disease 
Gives  me  a  pang,  that  inwardly  doth  sting. 
When  that  I  think  what  grief  it  is  again, 
To  live  and  lack  the  thing  should  rid  my  pain. 

'  mate.  ^  mingles. 

VOL  I.  S 


258  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


[Prisoned  in  Windsor,  he  recounteth  his  pleasure  there  passed.] 

So  cruel  prison  how  could  betide,  alas, 

As  proud  Windsor?   where  I  in  lust  and  joy, 

With  a  King's  son,  my  childish  years  did  pass, 

In  greater  feast  than  Priam's  sons  of  Troy. 

Where  each  sweet  place  returns  a  taste  full  sour. 

The  large  green  courts,  where  we  were  wont  to  hove', 

With  eyes  cast  up  into  the  maiden's  tower, 

And  easy  sighs,  such  as  folk  draw  in  love. 

The  stately  seats,  the  ladies  bright  of  hue. 

The  dances  short,  long  tales  of  great  delight ; 

With  words  and  looks,  that  tigers  could  but  rue ; 

When  each  of  us  did  plead  the  other's  right. 

The  palme-pIay^  where,  despoiled  for  the  game. 

With  dazed  eyes  oft  we  by  gleams  of  love 

Have  missed  the  ball,  and  got  sight  of  our  dame. 

To  bait  her  eyes,  which  kept  the  leads  above. 

The  gravelled  ground,  with  sleeves  tied  on  the  helm, 

On  foaming  horse,  with  swords  and  friendly  hearts  ; 

With  cheer,  as  though  one  should  another  whelm, 

When  we  have  fought,  and  chased  oft  with  darts  ; 

With  silver  drops  the  mead  yet  spread  for  ruth. 

In  active  games  of  nimbleness  and  strength, 

Where  we  did  strain,  trained  with  swarms  of  youth, 

Our  tender  limbs,  that  yet  shot  up  in  length. 

The  secret  groves,  which  oft  we  made  resound 

Of  pleasant  plaint,  and  of  our  ladies'  praise  ; 

Recording  oft  what  grace  each  one  had  found. 

What  hope  of  speed,  what  dread  of  long  delays. 

The  wild  forest,  the  clothed  holts  with  green  ; 

With  reins  availed,  and  swift  ybreathed  horse, 

With  cry  of  hounds,  and  merry  blasts  between, 

When  we  did  chase  the  fearful  hart  of  force. 

The  void  walls  eke,  that  harboured  us  each  night : 

Wherewith,  alas  !  reviveth  in  my  breast 

The  sweet  accord,  such  sleeps  as  yet  delight  ; 

The  plcaiiant  dreams,  the  quiet  bed  of  rest ; — 

*  hover.  *  tennis. 


\ 


EARL   OF  SURREY.  259 

The  secret  thoughts,  imparted  with  such  trust  ; 
The  wanton  talk,  the  divers  change  of  play  ; 
The  friendship  sworn,  each  promise  kept  so  just, 
Wherewith  we  passed  the  winter  night  away. 
And  with  this  thought  the  blood  forsakes  the  face  ; 
The  tears  berain  my  cheeks  of  deadly  hue  : 
The  which,  as  soon  as  sobbing  sighs,  alas  ! 
Upsupped  have,  thus  I  my  plaint  renew  : 
'  O  place  of  bliss,  renewer  of  my  woes  ! 
Give  me  account,  where  is  my  noble  fere^, 
Whom  in  thy  walls  thou  dost  each  night  enclose, 
To  other  lief'^,  but  unto  me  most  dear.' 
Echo,  alas  !  that  doth  my  sorrow  rue 
Returns  thereat  a  hollow  sound  of  plaint. 
Thus  I  alone,  where  all  my  freedom  grew, 
In  prison  pine,  with  bondage  and  restraint ; 
And  with  remembrance  of  the  greater  grief. 
To  banish  the  less,  I  find  my  chief  relief. 

The  Means  to  Attain  Happy  Life. 

[Translated  from  Martial.] 
Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 

The  happy  life  be  these,  I  find  ; 
The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain  ; 

The  fruitful  ground,  the  quiet  mind. 
The  equal  friend,  no  grudge,  no  strife, 

No  charge  of  rule  nor  governance ; 
Without  disease,  the  healthful  life ; 

The  household  of  continuance. 
The  mean  ^  diet,  no  delicate  fare  ; 

True  wisdom  joined  with  simpleness ; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care. 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress. 
The  faithful  wife,  without  debate  ; 

Such  sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night  ; 
Contented  with  thine  own  estate, 

Ne  wish  for  death,  ne  fear  his  might. 
^  companion.  ^  dear.  '  moderate. 

S2 


2  6o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

A  Praise  of  his  Love. 

[Wherein  he  reproveth  them  that  compare  their  ladies  with  his.] 

Give  place,  ye  lovers,  here  before 

That  spent  your  boasts  and  brags  in  vain  ; 

My  lady's  beauty  passeth  more 

The  best  of  yours,  I  dare  well  sayen, 

Than  doth  the  sun  the  candle  light 

Or  brightest  day  the  darkest  night. 

And  thereto  hath  a  troth  as  just 
As  had  Penelope  the  fair  ; 
For  what  she  saith,  ye  may  it  trust, 
As  it  by  writing  sealed  were  : 
And  virtues  hath  she  many  moe 
Than  I  with  pen  have  skill  to  show. 

I  could  rehearse,  if  that  I  would, 
The  whole  effect  of  Nature's  plaint, 
When  she  had  lost  the  perfect  mould. 
The  like  to  whom  she  could  not  paint : 
With  wringing  hands,  how  she  did  cry, 
And  what  she  said,  I  know  it,  I. 

I  know  she  swore  with  raging  mind, 

Her  kingdom  only  set  apart. 

There  was  no  loss  by  law  of  kind 

That  could  have  gone  so  near  her  heart ; 

And  this  was  chiefly  all  her  pain  ; 

'  She  could  not  make  the  like  again.' 

Sith  Nature  thus  gave  her  the  praise. 
To  be  the  chiefest  work  she  wrought  ; 
In  faith,  mcthinks  !  some  better  ways 
On  your  behalf  might  well  be  sought, 
Than  to  compare,  as  ye  have  done, 
'I'o  match  the  candle  with  the  sun. 


EARL   OF  SURREY.  261 


An  Epitaph  on  Clere,  Surrey's  faithful  Friend  and 
Follower. 

Norfolk  sprung  thee,  Lambeth  holds  thee  dead  ; 
Clere,  of  the  Count  of  Cleremont,  thou  hight  ; 
Within  the  womb  of  Ormond's  race  thou  bred, 
And  saw'st  thy  cousin^  crowned  in  thy  sight. 
Sheltou  for  love,  Surrey  for  lord  thou  chase  ^. 
(Aye  me  !  whilst  life  did  last  that  league  was  tender) 
Tracing  whose  steps  thou  sawest  Kelsal  blaze, 
Landrecy  burnt,  and  battered  Boulogne  render. 
At  Montreuil  gates,  hopeless  of  all  recure, 
Thine  Earl,  half  dead,  gave  in  thy  hand  his  will  ; 
Which  cause  did  thee  this  pining  death  procure, 
Ere  summers  four  times  seven  thou  couldst  fulfill. 
Ah  !  Clere  !  if  love  had  booted,  care,  or  cost, 
Heaven  had  not  won,  nor  earth  so  timely  lost. 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt. 

Wyatt  resteth  here  that  quick  could  never  rest  : 
Whose  heavenly  gifts  increased  by  disdain, 

And  virtue  sank  the  deeper  in  his  breast ; 
Such  profit  he  by  envy  could  obtain. 

A  head  where  wisdom  mysteries  did  frame, 
Whose  hammers  beat  still  in  that  lively  brain, 

As  on  a  stithe  where  that  some  work  of  fame 
Was  daily  wrought,  to  turn  to  Britain's  gain. 

A  visage  stern  and  mild  :  where  both  did  grow 

Vice  to  contemn,  in  virtue  to  rejoice  ; 
Amid  great  storms  whom  grace  assured  so 

To  live  upright,  and  smile  at  fortune's  choice. 

A  hand  that  taught  what  might  be  said  in  rhyme  ; 

That  reft  Chaucer  the  glory  of  his  wit  ; 
A  mark,  the  which  (unperfected  for  time) 

Some  may  approach,  but  never  none  shall  hit. 

'  Thomas  Clere  was  first  cousin  of  Anne  Boleyn.  "  Didst  choose. 


262  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

A  tongue  that  served  in  foreign  realms  his  king  ; 

Whose  courteous  talk  to  virtue  did  inflame 
Each  noble  heart  :  a  worthy  guide  to  bring 

Our  English  youth  by  travail  unto  fame. 

An  eye  whose  judgment  none  affect  could  blind, 
Friends  to  allure  and  foes  to  reconcile, 

Whose  piercing  look  did  represent  a  mind 
With  virtue  fraught  reposed  void  of  guile. 

A  heart  where  dread  was  never  so  imprest 

To  hide  the  thought  that  might  the  truth  advance  ; 

In  neither  fortune  loft ',  nor  yet  represt, 
To  swell  in  wealth,  or  yield  unto  mischance. 

A  valiant  corpse,  where  force  and  beauty  met, 

Happy  alas,  too  happy  but  for  foes. 
Lived,  and  ran  the  race  that  nature  set  ; 

Of  manhood's  shape  where  she  the  mould  did  lose. 

But  to  the  heavens  that  simple  soul  is  fled. 

Which  left,  with  such  as  covet  Christ  to  know, 

Witness  of  faith  that  never  could  be  dead  ; 
Sent  for  our  health,  but  not  received  so. 

Thus  for  our  guilt  this  jewel  have  we  lost  ; 

The  earth  his  bones,  the  heavens  possess  his  ghost. 

'  exalted. 


GEORGE   GASCOIGNE. 


[George  Gascoigne  was  bom  circ.  1536;  died  1577.  The  dates  of  his 
poems  are:  — 

•  1572.  A  hundred  Sundry  Flowers  hound  up  in  one  small  Posy. 

1575.  The  Posies  corrected,  perfected,  and  augmented  by  the  Author. 
„        The  Glass  of  Government. 

1576.  The  Steel  Glass,  with  the  Complaint  of  Philomene. 

1587.   The  Pleasanlest  Worlis  of  George  Gascoigne,  newly  compiled  into  one 
volume^ 

Amongst  the  poets  that  immediately  preceded  the  great  Eliza- 
bethan Period,  which  may  be  said  to  begin  with  the  pubHcation 
of  The  ShephenVs  Caletidar  in  158c,  Gascoigne  occupied,  and 
occupies,  a  notable  place.  Bolton  indeed,  in  his  Hyfcrcritica, 
speaks  slightingly  of  him  :  '  Among  the  lesser  late  poets  George 
Gascoigne's  Works  may  be  endured ' ;  but  for  the  most  part  he  is 
mentioned  with  high  respect  and  praise.  Raleigh  commends  The 
Steel  Glass  in  what  are  his  earliest  known  verses.  Puttenham 
distinguishes  him  for  'a  good  metre  and  for  a  plentiful  vein.' 
Webbe  calls  him  '  a  witty  gentleman,  and  the  very  chief  of  our  late 
rimers';  'gifts  of  wit,'  he  says,  'and  natural  promptness  appear  in 
liim  abundantly.'  Amongst  other  eulogists  may  be  named  Nash, 
Gabriel  Harvey,  Whetstone. 

He  was  a  man  of  family  and  position,  well  known  to  and 
amongst  the  '  Inns  of  Court  men,'  who,  in  the  Elizabethan  age, 
as  in  that  of  Queen  Anne,  passed  for  the  arch  wits  and  critics  as 
well  as  the  first  gentlemen  of  the  day  ;  and  when  campaigning  in 
the  Low  Countries  he  met  with  adventures  which  added  to  his  per- 
sonal prestige.  Thus  he  was  a  conspicuous  figure  in  the  society 
of  his  time,  and  for  this  reason,  if  for  nothing  else,  his  verses 
would  win  esteem  and  circulation. 

Gascoigne,  then,  is  interesting  as  a  poet  who  was  popular  during 
Shakspere's  boyhood  and  Spenser's  adolescence.  But  he  is  yet 
more  important  as  one  who  did  real  service  in  the  way  of  extend- 
ing and  improving  the  form  of  literature  —  as  a  pioneer  of  the 


264  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Elizabethan  Period.  '  Whoever,'  says  Nash,  '  my  private  opinion 
condemns  as  faulty,  Master  Gascoigne  is  not  to  be  abridged  of 
his  deserved  esteem,  who  first  beat  the  path  to  that  perfection 
which  our  best  poets  have  aspired  to  since  his  departure  ;  whereto 
he  did  ascend  by  comparing  the  Italian  with  the  English,  as  Tully 
did  GrcBca  cum  Latinis?  He  is  the  author  of  our  earliest  extant 
comedy  in  prose — possibly  the  earliest  written — The  Supposes, 
a  translation  of  Ariosto's  Supposili,  and  in  part  the  author  of  one 
of  our  earliest  tragedies,  of  Jocasta — a  paraphrase  rather  than  a 
translation  of  the  Phoinissai  of  Euripides  ;  he  is  one  of  our 
earliest  v/riters  of  formal  satire  and  of  blank  verse,  and  in  his 
'  Certain  Notes  of  Instruction  concerning  the  making  of  verse 
or  rime  in  English  written  at  the  request  of  Master  Edouardo 
Donati,'  one  of  the  earliest  essayists,  if  not  the  earliest,  on 
English  metres. 

Happily,  we  can  add,  his  works  have  not  only  these  historical 
claims  on  our  attention  ;  they  have  intrinsic  merits.  His  lyrics 
are  occasionally  characterised  by  a  certain  lightness  and  grace, 
which  give  and  will  give  them  a  permanent  life.  Singing  of  all  a 
lover's  moods  and  experiences — how  he  passions,  laments,  com- 
plains, recants,  is  refused,  is  encouraged — he  is  never  a  mere  mimic 
of  his  Italian  masters,  or,  though  somewhat  monotonous,  wanting 
in  vigour  and  sincerity.  His  style  is  clear  and  unaffected.  The 
crude  taste  of  his  age  is  often  enough  apparent ;  and  in  this  re- 
spect his  '  poor  rude  lines,'  if  we  '  compare  them  with  the  bettering 
of  the  times,'  may  sometimes  make  but  no  great  show  ;  but  here 
too  he  rises  above  his  fellows,  who  are  often  simply  grotesque 
when  they  mean  to  be  fervent,  and  are  dull  when  they  are  not- 
grotesque.  He  writes  in  various  metres  with  various  facility  and 
skill.  Of  blank  verse  his  mastery  is  imperfect  ;  he  is  like  a  child 
learning  to  walk,  whose  progress  is  from  chair  to  chair  ;  he  lacks 
freedom  and  fluency.  The  metre  of  his  Complamt  of  Phtlotitctie  is 
ill  chosen  for  its  purpose.  It  is  a  jig,  not  a  movement  of  '  even 
step  and  musing  gait.'  Much  of  his  work  is  autobiographical. 
V/e  can  trace  him  '  from  gay  to  grave,'  perhaps  we  may  add  '  from 
lively  to  severe ' ;  for  in  his  later  years,  by  a  reaction  that  is  com- 
mon enough,  it  would  seem  he  took  a  somewhat  morbid  view  of 
the  life  he  was  leaving,  under-prizing  it,  after  the  manner  of  zealots, 
even  as  in  his  youth  he  had  prized  it  too  highly. 

John  W.  Hales. 


GASCOIGNE.  265 


The  Arraignment  of  a  Lover. 

At  Beauty's  bar  as  I  did  stand, 

When  false  Suspect  accused  me, 

George  (quoth  the  Judge),  hold  up  thy  hand, 

Thou  art  arraigned  of  flattery  : 

Tell  therefore:  how  thou  wilt  be  tried  : 

Whose  judgement  here  wilt  thou  abide  ? 

My  Lord  (quoth  I)  this  Lady  here, 
Whom  I  esteem  above  the  rest, 
Doth  know  my  guilt  if  any  were  : 
Wherefore  her  doom  shall  please  me  best. 
Let  her  be  Judge  and  Juror  both. 
To  try  me  guiltless  by  mine  oath. 

Quoth  Beauty,  no,  it  fitteth  not, 
A  prince  herself  to  judge  the  cause  : 
Will  is  our  Justice  well  you  wot, 
Appointed  to  discuss  our  laws  : 
If  you  will  guiltless  seem  to  go, 
God  and  your  country  quit  you  so. 

Then  Craft  the  crier  call'd  a  quest. 
Of  whom  was  Falsehood  foremost  fere, 
A  pack  of  pickthanks  were  the  rest, 
Which  came  false  witness  for  to  bear. 
The  jury  such,  the  judge  unjust, 
Sentence  was  said  I  should  be  trussed. 

Jealous  the  jailer  bound  me  fast, 

To  hear  the  verdict  of  the  bill, 

George  (quoth  the  Judge)  now  thou  art  cast, 

Thou  must  go  hence  to  Heavy  Hill, 

And  there  be  hanged  all  but  the  head, 

God  rest  thy  soul  when  thou  art  dead. 


266  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Down  fell  I  then  upon  my  knee, 
All  flat  before  Dame  Beauty's  face, 
And  cried  Good  Lady  pardon  me, 
Which  here  appeal  unto  your  grace, 
You  know  if  I  have  been  untrue. 
It  was  in  too  much  praising  you. 

And  though  this  Judge  do  make  such  haste, 
To  shed  with  shame  my  guiltless  blood  : 
Yet  let  your  pity  first  be  placed, 
To  save  the  man  that  meant  you  good, 
So  shall  you  show  yourself  a  Queen, 
And  I  may  be  your  servant  seen. 

(Quoth  Beauty)  well  :    because  I  guess, 
"What  thou  dost  mean  henceforth  to  be, 
Although  thy  faults  deserve  no  less. 
Than  Justice  here  hath  judged  thee, 
Wilt  thou  be  bound  to  stint  all  strife 
And  be  true  prisoner  all  thy  life  ? 

Yea  madam  (quoth  I)  that  I  shall, 

Lo  Faith  and  Truth  my  sureties  : 

Why  then  (quoth  she)  come  when  I  call, 

I  ask  no  better  w-arrantise. 

Thus  am  I  Beauty's  bounden  thrall, 

At  her  command  when  she  doth  call. 

A  Strange  Passion  of  a  Lover. 

Amid  my  bale  I  bathe  in  bliss, 

I  swim  in  Heaven,  I  sink  in  hell : 

I  find  amends  for  every  miss, 

And  yet  my  moan  no  tongue  can  tell. 

I  live  and  love  (what  would  you  more  }) 

As  never  lover  lived  before. 

I  laugh  sometimes  with  little  lust, 
So  jest  I  oft  and  feel  no  joy  : 
Mine  eye  is  builded  all  on  trust. 
And  yet  mistrust  breeds  mine  annoy. 


GASCOIGNE.  267 


I  live  and  lack,  I  lack  and  have  ; 
I  have  and  miss  the  thing  I  crave. 

These  things  seem  strange,  yet  are  they  true. 

Believe  me,  sweet,  my  state  is  such, 

One  pleasure  which  I  would  eschew, 

Both  slakes  my  grief  and  breeds  my  grutch. 

So  doth  one  pain  which  I  would  shun. 

Renew  my  joys  where  grief  begun. 

Then  like  the  lark  that  passed  the  night, 
In  heavy  sleep  with  cares  oppressed  ; 
Yet  when  she  spies  the  pleasant  light, 
She  sends  sweet  notes  from  out  her  breast. 
So  sing  I  now  because  I  think 
How  joys  approach,  when  sorrows  shrink. 

And  as  fair  Philomene  again 

Can  watch  and  sing  when  other  sleep  ; 

And  taketh  pleasure  in  her  pain, 

To  wray  the  woe  that  makts  her  weep. 

So  sing  I  now  for  to  bewray 

The  loathsome  life  I  lead  alway. 

The  which  to  thee  dear  wench  I  write, 
That  know'st  my  mirth  but  not  my  moan  : 
I  pray  God  grant  thee  deep  delight, 
To  live  in  joys  when  I  am  gone. 
I  cannot  live  ;   it  will  not  be  : 
I  die  to  think  to  part  from  thee. 


Piers  Plough]\ian. 

[From  The  Steel  Gla>i.] 

Behold  him,  priests,  and  though  he  stink  of  sweat. 
Disdain  him  not :   for  shall  I  tell  you  what  ? 
Such  climb  to  heaven  before  the  shaven  crowns  : 
But  how  ?   forsooth  with  true  humility. 
Not  that  they  hoard  their  grain  when  it  is  cheap. 
Nor  that  they  kill  the  calf  to  have  the  milk, 


2  68  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Nor  that  they  set  debate  between  their  lords, 
By  earing  up  the  balks  that  part  their  bounds  : 
Nor  for  because  they  can  both  crouch  and  creep 
(The  guileful'st  men  that  ever  God  yet  made) 
When  as  they  mean  most  mischief  and  deceit, 
Nor  that  they  can  cry  out  on  landlords  loud, 
And  say  they  rack  their  rents  an  ace  too  high. 
When  they  themselves  do  sell  their  landlord's  lamb 
For  greater  price  than  ewe  was  wont  be  worth. 
(I  see  you  Piers,  my  glass  was  lately  scoured.) 
But  for  they  feed  with  fruits  of  their  great  pains 
Both  king  and  knight  and  priests  in  cloister  pent : 
Therefore  I  say  that  sooner  some  of  them 
Shall  scale  the  walls  which  lead  us  up  to  heaven. 
Than  cornfed  beasts,  whose  belly  is  their  God, 
Although  they  preach  of  more  perfection. 


Epilogus. 

Alas,  (my  lord),  my  haste  was  all  too  hot, 

I  shut  my  glass  before  you  gazed  your  fill, 

And  at  a  glimpse  my  seely  self  have  spied, 

A  stranger  troop  than  any  yet  were  seen  : 

Behold,  my  lord,  what  monsters  muster  here, 

With  angels  face,  and  harmful  hellish  hearts, 

With  smiling  looks  ar,d  deep  deceitful  thoughts, 

With  tender  skins,  and  stony  cruel  minds. 

With  stealing  steps,  yet  forward  feet  to  fraud. 

Behold,  behold,  they  never  stand  content. 

With  God,  wilh  kind,  with  any  help  of  Art, 

But  curl  their  locks  with  bodkins  and  with  braids, 

But  dye  their  hair  with  sundry  subtle  sleights, 

But  paint  and  slick  till  fairest  face  be  foul, 

But  bumbast,  bolster,  frizzle  and  perfume  : 

They  marr  wilh  musk  the  balm  which  nature  made, 

And  dig  for  death  in  delicatest  dishes. 

The  younger  sort  come  piping  on  apace, 

In  whistles  made  of  fine  enticing  wood, 


GASCOIGNE.  269 


Till  they  have  caught  the  birds  for  Avhom  they  brided, 
And  on  their  backs  they  bear  both  land  and  fee, 
Castles  and  towers,  revenues  and  receipts, 
Lordships  and  manors,  fines,  yea  farms  and  all. 
What  should  these  be?    (speak  you  my  lovely  lord) 
They  be  not  men  :   for  why  they  have  no  beards. 
They  be  no  boys  which  wear  such  sidelong  gowns. 
They  be  no  Gods,  for  all  their  gallant  gloss. 
They  be  no  devils  (I  trow)  which  seem  so  saintish. 
What  be  they  ?   women  ?   masking  in  men's  weeds  ? 
With  dutchkin  doublets,  and  with  jerkins  jagged? 
With  Spanish  spangs  and  ruffs  set  out  of  France, 
With  high  copt  hats  and  feathers  flaunt  a  flaunt  ? 
They  be  so  sure  even  ivoe  to  Men  in  deed. 
Nay  then,  my  lord,  let  shut  the  glass  apace. 
High  time  it  were  for  my  poor  Muse  to  wink, 
Since  all  the  hands,  all  paper,  pen  and  ink, 
\Vhich  ever  yet  this  wretched  world  possest, 
Cannot  describe  this  sex  in  colours  due. 
No,  No,  my  lord,  we  gazed  have  enough, 
(And  I  too  much  ;    God  pardon  me  therefore), 
Better  look  off  than  look  an  ace  too  far  : 
And  better  mum  than  meddle  overmuch. 
But  if  my  glass  do  like  my  lovely  lord. 
We  will  espy  some  sunny  summers  day, 
To  look  again  and  see  some  seemly  sights. 
Meanwhile  my  muse  right  humbly  doth  beseech, 
That  my  good  lord  accept  this  vent'rous  verse 
Until  my  brains  may  better  stuff  devise.  • 


THOMAS    SACKVILLE. 


[Thomas  Sackville  was  bom  in  1536  at  Buckhurst  in  Sussex,  where  his 
family  had  been  settled  since  the  Conquest.  After  some  time  spent  at 
Oxford  and  Cambridge,  he  entered  parliament  (1557-58),  and  in  the  begin- 
ning of  Elizabeth's  reign  he  became  known  as  a  poetical  writer.  Between 
1557  and  1563  he  took  part  in  The  Tragedy  of  Gorbodiic.  and  also  planned  a 
work  called  The  Mirror  of  Magistrates,  a  series  of  poetical  examples,  show- 
ing '  with  how  grievous  plagues  vices  are  punished  in  Great  Princes  and 
Magistrates,  and  how  frail  and  unstable  worldly  prosperity  is  found,  where 
fortune  seemeth  most  highly  to  favour.'  He  wrote  the  Induclioii,  a  preface, 
and  the  vStory  of  Henry  Stafford,  Duke  of  Buckingham.  But  he  soon  threw 
himself  into  the  risks  of  public  life.  On  the  whole  he  was  successful.  In 
1567  he  was  created  Lord  Buckhurst.  He  experienced  the  fitful  temper  of 
the  Queen  in  various  public  employments.  He  sat  on  several  of  the  great 
state  trials  of  the  time — those  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 
the  Earl  of  Essex.  In  1.-99  he  was  made  Lord  High  Treasurer.  James  I 
created  him  Earl  of  Dorset  in  1604.  In  160S  he  died,  'while  sitting  at  the 
council  table  at  Whitehall.'] 

The  scanty  remains  of  Sackville's  poetry  are  chiefly  interesting 
because  they  show  a  strong  sense  of  the  defects  of  the  existing 
poetical  standard,  and  a  craving  after  something  better.  They 
show  an  effort  after  a  larger  and  bolder  creation  of  imagery  ;  as 
where  the  poet,  copying  Dante,  imagines  himself  guided  by  the 
Genius  of  Sorrow  through  the  regions  of  the  great  Dead,  there 
to  hear  from  their  own  mouths  the  sad  vicissitudes  of  their  various 
stories.  There  is  a  greater  restraint  and  severity  than  had  yet 
been  seen  in  the  choice  of  language  and  ornament,  though  stiffness 
and  awkwardness  of  phrase,  and  the  still  imperfect  sense  of 
poetical  fitness  and  grace,  show  that  the  writer  could  not  yet 
reach  in  execution  what  he  aimed  at  in  idea.  And  there  is  visible 
both  in  the  structure  of  the  seven-line  stanzas,  and  in  the  flow 
of  the  verses  themselves,  a  feeling  for  rhythmic  stateliness  and 
majesty  corresponding  to  his  solem.n  theme.  In  their  cadences, 
as  well  as  in  the  allegorical  figures  and  pathetic  moralising  of 
Sackville's  verses,  we  see  a  faint  anticipation  of  Spenser,  who 
inscribed  one  of  the  prefatory  Sonnets  of  the  Faery  (luccne  to  one 
who  may  have  been  one  of  his  masters  in  his  art. 

R.  W.  Church. 


SACKVILLE.  271 


From  'The  Induction.' 
[Sorrow  guides  the  poet  to  the  reahns  of  the  dead.] 

Then  looking  upward  to  the  heaven's  learns, 
With  nighted  stars  thick  powder'd  every  where, 
Which  erst  so  glisten'd  with  the  golden  streams, 
That  cheerful  Phoebus  spread  from  down  his  sphere, 
Beholding  dark  oppressing  day  so  near, 
The  sudden  sight  reduced  to  my  mind. 
The  sundry  changes  that  in  earth  we  find. 

That  musing  on  this  worldly  wealth  in  thought, 

Which  comes,  and  goes,  more  faster  than  we  see 

The  flickering  flame  that  with  the  fire  is  wrought, 

My  busy  mind  presented  unto  me 

Such  fall  of  peers  as  in  the  realms  had  be. 

That  oft  I  wish'd  some  would  their  woes  descrivc, 

To  warn  the  rest  whom  fortune  left  alive. 

And  straight  forth  stalking  with  redoubled  pace, 
For  that  I   saw  the  night  draw  on  so  fast. 
In  black  all  clad,  there  fell  before  my  face 
A  piteous  wight,  whom  woe  had  all  forewaste  : 
Forth  from  her  eyen  the  crystal  tears  out  brast : 
And  sighing  sore  her  hands  she  wrung  and  fold, 
Tare  all  her  hair,  that  ruth  was  to  behold. 

*  *  ;|:  *  *  * 

I  stood  aghast,  beholding  all  her  plight, 
'Tween  dread  and  dolour,  so  distrain'd  in  heart, 
That,  while  my  hairs  upstarted  with  the  sight. 
The  tears  outstream'd  for  sorrow  of  her  smart : 
But,  when  I  saw  no  end  that  could  apart 
The  deadly  dewle  which  she  so  sore  did  make, 
With  doleful  voice  then  thus  to  her  I  spake  : 

*0  Sorrow,  alas,  sith  Sorrow  is  thy  name, 
And  that  to  thee  this  drear  doth  well  pertain. 
In  vain  it  were  to  seek  to  cease  the  same  : 
But,  as  a  man  himself  with  sorrow  slain, 
So  I,  alas,  do  comfort  thee  in  pain, 


2  72  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


That  here  in  sorrow  art  foresunk  so  deep, 
That  at  thy  sight  I  can  but  sigh  and  weep.' 

:}:  H:  *  *  *  * 

For  forth  she  paced  in  her  fearful  tale  : 

'  Come,  come,'  quoth  she,  '  and  see  what  I  shall  show. 

Come,  hear  the  plaining  and  the  bitter  bale 

Of  worthy  men  by  Fortune  overthrow  : 

Come  thou  and  see  them  rueing  all  in  row. 

They  were  but  shades  that  erst  in  mind  thou  roll'd  : 

Come,  come  with  me,  thine  eyes  shall  them  behold.' 

****** 
Flat  down  I  fell,  and  with  all  reverence 
Adored  her,  perceiving  now  that  she, 
A  goddess,  sent  by  godly  providence, 
In  earthly  shape  thus  show'd  herself  to  me, 
To  wail  and  rue  this  world's  uncertainty  : 
And,  while  I  honour'd  thus  her  godhead's  might, 
With  plaining  voice  these  words  to  me  she  shright. 

'  I  shall  thee  guide  first  to  the  grisly  lake, 
And  thence  unto  the  blissful  place  of  rest. 
Where  thou  shalt  see,  and  hear,  the  plaint  they  make 
That  whilom  here  bare  swing  among  the  best  : 
This  shalt  thou  see  :    but  great  is  the  unrest 
That  thou  must  bide,  before  thou  canst  attain 
Unto  the  dreadful  place  where  these  remain.' 
****** 

Thence  come  we  to  the  horrour  and  the  hell, 
The  large  great  kingdoms,  and  the  dreadful  reign 
Of  Pluto  in  his  throne  where  he  did  dwell, 
The  wide  waste  places,  and  the  hugy  plain. 
The  wailings,  shrieks,  and  sundry  sorts  of  pain, 
The  sighs,  the  sobs,  the  deep  and  deadly  groan  : 
Earth,  air,  and  all,  resounding  plaint  and  moan. 

Here  pul'd  the  babes,  and  here  the  maids  unwed 
With  folded  hands  their  sorry  chance  bewail'd, 
Here  wept  the  guiltless  slain,  and  lovers  dead, 
That  slew  themselves  when  nothing  else  avail'd  : 
A  thousand  sorts  of  sorrows  here,  that  wail'd 


SACKVILLE.  273 


With  sighs,  and  tears,  sobs,  shrieks,  and  all  yfear, 
That,  oh,  alas,  it  was  a  hell  to  hear. 


Lo  here,  quoth  Sorrow,  princes  of  renown, 
That  whilom  sat  on  top  of  fortune's  wheel," 
Now  laid  full  low,  like  wretches  whirled  down, 
Ev'n  with  one  frown,  that  stay'd  but  with  a  smile : 
And  now  behold  the  thing  that  thou,  ere  while, 
Saw  only  in  thought  :  and  what  thou  now  shalt  hear, 
Recount  the  same  to  kesar,  king  and  peer.' 


Complaint  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham. 

So  long  as  fortune  would  permit  the  same, 
I  liv'd  in  rule  and  riches  with  the  best  : 
And  pass'd  my  time  in  honour  and  in  fame, 
That  of  mishap  no  fear  was  in  my  breast : 
But  false  fortune,  when  I  suspected  least, 
Did  turn  the  wheel,  and  with  a  doleful  fall 
Hath  me  bereft  of  honour,  life,  and  all. 

Lo,  what  avails  in  riches  floods  that  flows  ? 
Though  she  so  smil'd,  as  all  the  world  were  his  ; 
Even  kings  and  kesars  biden  fortune's  throws. 
And  simple  sort  must  bear  it  as  it  is. 
Take  heed  by  me  that  blith'd  in  baleful  bliss  : 
My  rule,  my  riches,  royal  blood  and  all. 
When  fortune  frown'd,  the  feller  made  my  fall. 

For  hard  mishaps,  that  happens  unto  such 
Whose  wretched  state  erst  never  fell  no  change, 
Agrieve  them  not  in  any  part  so  much 
As  their  distress,  to  whom  it  is  so  strange 
That  all  their  lives,  nay,  passed  pleasures  range. 
Their  sudden  woe,  that  aye  wield  wealth  at  will, 
Algates  their  hearts  more  piercingly  must  thrill. 
VOL,  I.  T 


2  74  TY/iS'  ENGLISH  POETS. 

For  of  my  birth,  my  blood  was  of  the  best, 
First  born  an  earl,  then  duke  by  due  descent : 
To  swing  the  sway  in  court  among  the  rest, 
Dame  Fortune  me  her  rule  most  largely  lent. 
And  kind  with  courage  so  my  corpse  had  blent. 
That  lo,  on  whom  but  me  did  she  most  smile  ? 
And  whom  but  me,  lo,  did  she  most  beguile  ? 

Now  hast  thou  heard  the  whole  of  my  unhap. 
My  chance,  my  change,  the  cause  of  all  my  care 
In  wealth  and  woe,  how  fortune  did  me  wrap, 
With  world  at  will,  to  win  me  to  her  snare  : 
Bid  kings,  bid  kesars,  bid  all  states  beware. 
And  tell  them  this  from  me  that  tried  it  true  : 
Who  reckless  rules,  right  soon  may  hap  to  rue. 


Sleep. 

By  him  lay  heavy  Sleep,  the  cousin  of  Death, 
Flat  on  the  ground,  and  still  as  any  stone, 
A  very  corpse,  save  yielding  forth  a  breath  : 
Small  keep  took  he,  whom  Fortune  frowned  on, 
Or  whom  she  lifted  up  into  the  throne 
Of  high  renown  :  but  as  a  living  death. 
So,  dead  alive,  of  life  he  drew  the  breath. 

The  body's  rest,  the  quiet  of  the  heart. 

The  travail's  ease,  the  still  night's  fear  was  he, 

And  of  our  life  on  earth  the  better  part  : 

Reaver  of  sight,  and  yet  in  whom  we  see 

Things  oft  that  tide,  and  oft  that  never  be  : 

Without  respect,  esteeming  equally 

King  Croesus'  pomp,  and  Irus'  poverty. 


EDMUND    SPENSER. 


[Edmund  Spenser  was  born  in  London  about  1552.  He  was  educated 
at  Merchant  Taylors'  School :  his  first  poetical  performances,  translations 
from  Petrarch  and  Du  Bellay,  published  without  his  name  in  a  miscella- 
neous collection,  belong  to  the  time  of  his  leaving  school  in  1569.  From 
that  year  to  1576  he  was  at  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge.  In  1579  he  was 
in  London,  acquainted  with  Philip  Sidney,  and  in  Lord  Leicester's  house- 
hold. In  1580  was  published,  but  without  his  name.  The  Shepheards 
Calender ;  and  in  the  autumn  of  that  year  he  went  to  Ireland  with  Lord 
Grey  of  Wilton,  as  his  private  secretary.  The  remainder  of  his  life,  with 
the  exception  of  short  visits  to  England,  was  spent  in  Ireland,  where 
he  held  various  subordinate  offices,  and  where  he  settled  on  a  grant  of 
forfeited  land  at  Kilcolman  in  the  county  of  Cork.  In  15S9  he  accom- 
panied Sir  Walter  Ralegh  to  London,  and  in  1590  published  the  first  three 
books  of  The  Faerie  Queene.  In  1 591  he  returned  to  Ireland,  and  a  miscel- 
laneous collection  of  compositions  of  earlier  and  later  dates  {Complaints) 
was  published  in  London.  In  June  1594  he  married,  and  the  next  year, 
1595,  he  again  visited  London,  and  in  Jan.  1595-6  published  the  second 
instalment  of  The  Faerie  Queene  (iv-vi).  With  the  same  date.  1595,  were 
published  his  Colin  Clouts  Come  Hotne  again,  an  account  of  his  visit  to  the 
Court  in  1589-90,  and  his  Ainoret/i  Sonnets,  and  an  Epithalamion,  relating  to 
his  courtship  and  marriage.  At  the  end  of  1598  his  house  was  sacked 
and  burnt  by  the  Munster  rebels,  and  he  returned  in  great  distress  to 
London.  He  died  at  Westminster,  Jan.  16,  159S-9,  and  was  buried  in  the 
Abbey.] 

Spenser  was  the  first  who  in  the  literature  of  England  since  the 
Reformation  made  himself  a  name  as  a  poet  which  could  be 
compared  with  that  of  Chaucer,  or  of  the  famous  Italians  who 
then  stood  at  the  head  of  poetical  composition.  National  energy 
had  revived  under  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  with  it  had  come 
a  burst  of  poetical  enthusiasm.  Many  persons  tried  their  hand  at 
poetry.  Versification  became  a  fashion.  It  was  encouraged  in  the 
Court  circles.  The  taste  for  poetry  shows  itself  in  a  popular  shape 
in  ballads,  and  among  scholars  in  translation  ;  and  amid  a  good 

T  2 


276  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

deal  of  bad  poetry  there  was  some  written  which  was  genuine  and 
beautiful,  and  which  has  survived  to  charm  us  still.  The  poetical 
spirit  and  feeling  came  out  most  naturally  in  short  love  poems,  of 
which  many  of  great  grace  and  fire  are  preserved  in  the  collec- 
tions of  the  time  ;  the  other  form  which  it  took  at  this  time  was 
the  expression  of  the  pathetic  incidents  and  conditions  of  human 
greatness  and  fortune.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  one  of  the  most  ac- 
complished and  most  rising  of  the  young  men  about  the  Court, 
encouraged  an  interest  in  poetry  in  his  circle  of  friends,  and  some  of 
them,  Edward  Dyer  and  Fulke  Greville,  have,  like  Sidney  himself, 
left  poems  of  merit.  But  while  there  was  much  poetical  writing, 
and  not  a  little  poetical  power  even  among  men  engaged  in  the 
business  and  wars  of  the  time,  such  as  Walter  Ralegh,  no  successful 
attempt  had  been  made  to  produce  a  great  poetical  work  which 
might  challenge  comparison  with  the  Ca7iterbury  Tales  at  home, 
or  the  Orlando  Furioso  abroad.  Spenser  was  the  first  who  had 
the  ambition  and  also  the  power  for  such  an  enterprise.  His 
earliest  work,  The  Shepherd's  Cale?idar,  a  series  of  what  were 
called  pastoral  poems,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Italian  models  and 
some  English  imitators,  partly  original,  partly  translated  or  para- 
phrased, though  very  immature  and  very  unequal  in  its  composition, 
was  at  once  felt  to  be  something  more  considerable  as  a  poetical 
achievement  than  anything  which  the  sixteenth  century  had  yet 
seen  in  England.  The  'new  poet'  became  almost  a  recognised 
title  for  the  man  who  had  shown,  not  merely  by  a  few  spirited 
fugitive  stanzas,  but  in  a  sustained  work,  that  he  could  write  so 
sweetly  and  so  well.  The  fame  and  the  associations  of  The 
Shepherd's  Calendar  clung  to  him  even  to  the  end  of  his  career. 
To  the  end  he  had  a  predilection  for  its  pastoral  colouring  and 
scenery  ;  to  the  end  he  liked  to  give  himself  the  rustic  name  by 
which  he  had  represented  himself  in  its  dialogues,  and  called 
himself  Colin  Cloitt. 

But  The  Faery  Queen  was  something  beyond  the  expectations 
raised  by  The  Shepherd's  Calendar.  In  its  plan,  its  invention,  and 
its  execution,  it  took  the  world  of  its  day  by  surprise.  It  opened 
a  new  road  to  English  poetry,  and  new  kingdoms  to  be  won  by  it. 
The  name  of  Spenser  stands  in  point  of  time  even  before  that  of 
Shakespeare  in  the  roll  of  modern  English  poets.  A  discoverer  of 
something  new  to  be  done,  he  first  did  what  all  were  trying  to  do, 
and  broke  down  the  difficulties  of  a  great  and  magnificent  art. 

But  the  first  are  not  always  the  greatest  in  poetry,  any  more  than 


SPEArSEE.  277 


in  painting,  in  music,  in  science,  in  geographical  discovery  :  they 
lead  the  way  and  make  it  possible  to  greater  men  and  greater 
things.  Spenser  delighted  Shakespeare :  he  was  the  poetical 
master  of  Cowley  and  then  of  Milton,  and,  in  a  sense,  of  Dryden 
and  even  Pope.  None  but  a  man  of  strength,  of  originality,  of 
rare  sense  of  beauty  and  power  of  imagination  and  music,  could 
have  been  this.  But  he  was  the  great  predecessor  of  yet  greater 
successors.  The  Faery  Queen  is  a  noble  and  splendid  work. 
When  we  think  that  it  was  the  first  of  its  kind,  and  that  Spenser 
had  no  master  of  English,  except  in  antiquity,  to  show  him  how 
to  write,  it  is  an  astonishing  one.  But  it  has  the  imperfections 
and  shortcomings  of  most  original  attempts  to  do  what  is  new  and 
hard,  and  what  none  have  yet  succeeded  in  ;  and  it  has  the  im- 
perfections M'hich  actually  belonged  to  the  genius,  the  mind  and 
character  of  the  writer. 

The  Faery  Queen  is,  as  every  one  knows,  an  allegorical  poem  ; 
and  in  this  it  differs  from  the  Italian  models  then  talked  of  and 
famous,  from  the  works  of  Ariosto  and  Tasso,  as  well  as  from 
Chaucer.  The  idea  and  framework  was  taken  from  them  ;  the 
machinery,  like  theirs,  was  borrowed  from  the  days,  or  rather  the 
literature,  of  chivalry  ;  and  like  theirs,  the  story  rolled  on  in 
stanzas,  and  Spenser  invented  for  his  purpose  a  new  form  of 
stanza,  one  of  nine  lines,  instead  of  the  eight-line  one  of  the 
Italians.  But,  unlike  them,  Spenser  avowedly  designed  to  him- 
self a  moral  purpose  and  meaning  in  his  poem.  It  was  not  merely 
a  brilliant  and  entertaining  series  of  adventures,  like  the  Orlando. 
It  was  not  merely  a  poetical  celebration  of  a  great  historical 
legend,  a  religious  epic,  like  the  Gerusalemme.  It  professed  to 
be  a  veiled  exposition  of  moral  philosophy.  It  was  planned,  and 
all  its  imaginative  wealth  unfolded,  in  order  to  pourtray  and 
recommend  the  virtues,  and  to  exhibit  philosophical  speculations. 
It  was  intended  to  be  a  book,  not  for  delight  merely,  but  for 
instruction.  Such  a  view  of  poetry  was  characteristically  in  har- 
mony with  the  serious  spirit  of  the  time  in  England,  which 
welcomed  heartily  all  intellectual  efforts,  but  which  expected  in 
them  a  purpose  to  do  more  than  amuse,  and  had  fashion  on  its 
side  in  putting  the  note  of  frivolity  on  what  did  not  bear  this 
purpose  distinctly  in  view.  Spenser  thought  it  right  to  declare  to 
his  friends,  and  to  set  down  in  writing,  the  aim  and  intention  of 
his  poem.  He  described  it  as  a  work  which  'is  in  hcroical  verse 
under  the   title   of  a  Faery  Queen  to   represent   all    the   moral 


2)8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

virtues,  assigning  to  every  virtue  a  knight  as  the  patron  and  de- 
fender of  the  same,  in  whose  actions  and  feats  of  arms  and 
chivalry  the  operations  of  that  virtue,  whereof  he  is  the  protector, 
are  to  be  expressed,  and  the  vices  and  unruly  appetites  that 
oppose  themselves  against  the  same,  to  be  beaten  down  or  over- 
come.' And  in  a  letter  to  Sir  Walter  Ralegh,  written  to  give  the 
key  to  the  poem,  he  says  that  the  general  end  of  his  'Allegory 
or  dark  conceit,'  and  of  all  his  book,  is  '  to  fashion  a  gentleman 
or  noble  person  in  virtuous  and  gentle  discipline.'  He  indeed 
sees  this  purpose  and  intention  in  the  'antique  poets  historical.' 
Homer  meant  to  represent  '  a  good  governor  and  virtuous  man ' 
in  Agamemnon  and  Ulysses,  Virgil  meant  the  same  in  Aeneas, 
Ariosto  in  Orlando.  Tasso  dissevered  them,  representing  the 
Ethical  part  of  Moral  Philosophy,  or  the  virtues  of  a  private  man, 
in  Rinaldo ;  the  other,  '  named  Politice^  the  public  virtues  of  a 
governor  in  Gofifredo.  In  King  Arthur,  Spenser  meant  once  more 
to  join  both.  '  By  example  of  which  excellent  poets,'  he  says, 
'  I  labour  to  pourtray  in  Arthur,  before  he  was  king,  the  image  of 
a  brave  knight,  perfected  in  the  XII  private  moral  virtues,  as 
Aristotle  hath  devised  ;  the  which  is  the  purpose  of  these  first 
twelve  books  ;  which  if  I  find  to  be  well  accepted,  I  may  be  per- 
haps encouraged  to  frame  the  other  part  oi politick  virtues  in  his 
person,  after  that  he  came  to  be  king.' 

Of  this  large  design  of  twenty-four  books,  each  of  twelve  cantos, 
little  more  than  a  fourth  part  was  accomplished,  or  at  any  rate 
has  survived.  The  first  three  books  were  published  in  1590; 
three  more,  books  iv,  v,  vi,  were  added  to  them  in  a  second 
edition  in  1596.  Two  cantos,  with  a  couple  of  stray  stanzas, 
were  published  after  his  death.  The  political  part  of  the  design 
does  not  seem  to  have  even  come  into  sight  of  the  poet. 

The  poem  was  designed  in  England,  but  it  was  mostly  written 
in  Ireland,  amid  scenes  of  disprder  and  wretchedness,  which  sorely 
tested  not  only  the  courage,  but  the  justice,  the  wisdom,  and  the 
humanity  of  the  Englishmen  who  had  any  share  in  the  govern- 
ment of  the  most  unfortunate  of  the  Queen's  dominions.  It  needed 
indeed  to  be  a  knight  as  perfect  in  strength  and  goodness  as  the 
ideal  Arthur,  to  deal  with  the  evils  of  Ireland.  Spenser,  as  men 
do  in  trying  times,  thought  he  saw  the  virtues  partially  realised  in 
the  friends  engaged  in  the  difficult  tasks  round  him  :  we,  at  our 
point  of  view,  are  obliged  to  see  how  far  the  best  and  noblest  of 
them  was  from  the  poet's  ideal.     But  the  presence   and  actual 


SPENSER.  279 


sight  of  all  this  energ>',  struggle,  danger,  courage,  doubtless  gave 
life  to  Spenser's  conception  of  the  life  of  warfare  which  he  pro- 
posed to  pourtray.  It  was  before  him  on  the  spot  ;  and  The  Faery 
Queen  is  the  reflection  of  it,  tempered  and  sobered  by  the  poet's 
purpose,  to  make  it  represent  his  conception  of  all  that  makes 
a  man  great  and  true  in  his  resistance  to  the  vices  and  evils  of 
the  world. 

The  Faery  Queen  purports  to  be  a  story,  and  the  outline  of  the 
story,  which  was  to  bind  it  together,  is  given  in  the  poet's  ex- 
planatory letter  to  Sir  Walter  Ralegh,  now  prefixed  to  the  poem. 
He  imagines  the  Faery  Queen,  by  whom  he  shadows  forth  Eliza- 
beth, holding  a  great  festival,  on  occasion  of  which  twelve  of  her 
knights,  each  the  example  and  champion  of  some  particular  virtue, 
undertake  separate  enterprises  at  her  appointment  and  in  her 
honour  ;  while  Prince  Arthur,  in  whom  is  represented  the  com- 
prehensive Aristotelic  virtue  of  magnificence,  or  greatness  of 
soul,  is  to  fall  in  with  them  one  by  one  in  his  quest  of  his  fated 
bride  the  Faery  Queen,  helping  and  saving  them  by  the  superior 
power  of  his  virtue  and  his  knightly  skill.  The  adventures  of  the 
twelve  knights  were  to  furnish  the  '  Legends '  of  the  twelve  books  of 
the  first  portion  of  his  design,  the  '  ethical '  portion.  He  thought  it 
inartificial  for  a  poet  to  begin  from  the  occasion  and  starting-point 
of  these  various  adventures  :  '  A  Poet,'  he  said,  '  thrusteth  him- 
self into  the  middest,  even  when  it  most  concerneth  him,  and  there 
recoursing  to  the  things  forepast,  and  divining  of  things  to  come, 
maketh  a  pleasant  analysis  of  all.'  So  he  starts  in  the  middle  of 
one  of  the  adventures,  reserving  his  poetical  account  of  the  origin 
of  them  all,  till  he  should  have  brought  all  his  Knights  back  again 
to  the  Faery  Queen's  Court  in  the  last  book.  The  arrangement 
was  an  awkward  one,  and  the  Twelfth  Book  was  never  reached. 
Though  we  know  the  framework  of  the  story,  we  do  not  know  it 
from  the  poem  itself.  And  as  he  went  on  with  his  work,  the  main 
story  is  soon  lost  in  the  separate  ones,  and  the  poem  becomes 
a  succession  of  adventures,  stories,  pictures,  and  allegories,  with 
little  attempt  to  keep  them  together. 

In  the  first  Book,  the  story  and  the  allegory, — the  dangers,  the 
combats,  the  defeats,  the  final  victory  of  the  Red  Cross  Knight  of 
Holiness,  the  champion  of  the  Virgin  Una  with  her  milk-white 
lamb, — and  that  which  all  this  shadowed,  the  struggle  of  true 
religion  and  godliness  with  its  foes,  its  vicissitudes,  and  its 
triumph,  both  in  the  visible  scene  of  the  world's  history,  and  in 


28o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

the  heart  of  man,  are  both  carried  on  clearly  and  consecutively. 
The  Second  Book,  which  takes  the  Knight  of  Temperance  through 
his  contest  with  violence,  with  the  falsehood  of  extremes,  with 
the  madness  of  uncontrolled  temper,  with  the  temptations  of 
Mammon,  of  riches  and  ambition,  to  the  closing  achievement, 
the  conquest  over  all  that  Pleasure  could  present  to  allure  and 
fascinate  him,  is  straightforward  and  distinct  in  its  construction. 
But  after  this  the  poet's  hold  over  his  story  relaxes.  The  legend 
of  Chastity  in  the  next  book  presents  the  same  idea  as  that  of  the 
second,  but  exhibited  in  the  persons  of  the  lady  knight  Britomart, 
and  the  virgin  huntress  Belphoebe,  both  of  them  in  various  aspects 
imaging  the  '  sacred  saint '  of  the  poet's  worship.  In  the  three 
later  books,  the  legend  of  Justice  is  marked  by  its  strong  and 
definite  representations  of  some  great  historical  events  of  Spenser's 
age,  the  administration  of  Lord  Grey  of  Wilton  in  Ireland,  the 
blows  dealt  at  the  Spanish  power  in  the  Channel  and  in  the 
Netherlands,  the  fate  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  The  legends  of 
'  Friendship  '  and  '  Courtesy '  certainly  exhibit  examples  of  friend- 
ship and  courtesy.  But  when  we  think  of  what  friendship  is,  we 
wonder  that  Spenser  has  so  little  to  say  about  it,  and  that  his 
imagination  found  nothing  more  to  work  upon  than  the  com- 
panionship in  love  or  war,  sometimes  loyal,  sometimes  false,  of 
men-at-arms  :  and  so  many  other  interests  and  incidents  come 
in  besides,  that  it  seems  rather  arbitrary  to  assign  the  legends 
specially  to  these  virtues.  And  then,  with  the  exception  of  the 
fragment  on  '  Mutability,'  which  is  part  of  a  projected  legend  of 
'  Constancy,'  the  poem  stops,  and  with  it  all  our  knowledge  of  the 
way  in  which  it  was  to  be  carried  forward. 

The  interest  in  The  Faery  Queen  is  twofold.  There  is  the  in- 
terest of  the  moral  picture  which  it  presents,  and  there  is  the 
interest  of  it  as  a  work  of  poetical  art. 

The  moral  picture  is  of  the  ideal  of  noble  manliness  in  Eliza- 
beth's time.  Besides  the  writers  and  the  thinkers,  the  statesmen 
and  the  plotters,  the  traders  and  the  commons,  of  that  fruitful  and 
vigorous  age,  there  were  the  men  of  action  :  the  men  who  fought 
in  France  and  the  Netherlands  and  Ireland,  the  men  who  created 
the  English  navy,  and  showed  how  it  could  be  used  :  the  men  who 
tried  for  the  north-west  passage  with  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  and 
sailed  round  the  world  with  Sir  Francis  Drake,  and  planted  colonics 
in  America  with  Sir  Walter  Ralegh  :  the  men  who  chased  the 
Armada  to  destruction,  and  dealt  the  return  buffet  to  Spanish  pride 


SPENSER.  281 

in  the  harbour  of  Cadiz  ;  men  who  treated  the  sea  as  the  rightful 
dominion  of  their  mistress,  and  seeking  adventures  on  it  far  and 
near,  with  or  without  her  leave,  reaped  its  rich  harvests  of  plunder, 
from  Spanish  treasure  ships  and  West  Indian  islands,  or  from  the 
exposed  towns  and  churches  of  the  Spanish  coast.  They  were  at 
once  men  of  daring  enterprise  and  sometimes  very  rough  execu- 
tion ;  and  yet  men  with  all  the  cultivation  and  refinement  of  the 
time,  courtiers,  scholars,  penmen,  poets.  These  are  the  men  whom 
Spenser  had  before  his  eyes  in  drawing  his  knights — their  ideas 
of  loyalty,  of  gallantry,  of  the  worth  and  use  of  life, — their  aims, 
their  enthusiasm,  their  temptations,  their  foes,  their  defeats,  their 
triumphs.  In  his  tales  of  perpetual  warfare,  of  perpetual  resistance 
to  evil,  of  the  snares  and  desperate  dangers  through  which  they 
have  to  fight  their  way,  there  is  a  picture  of  the  conditions 
which  affect  the  whole  life  of  man.  The  allegory  may  be  applied, 
and  was  intended  to  be  applied  generally,  to  the  difficulties  which 
beset  his  course  and  the  qualities  necessary  to  overcome  them. 
But  it  specially  exhibits  the  ideals  and  standards  and  aspirations 
— the  characteristic  virtues  and  the  characteristic  imperfections, 
the  simple  loyalty  and  the  frank  selfishness,  of  the  brilliant  and 
high-tempered  generation,  who  are  represented  by  men  like  Philip 
Sidney  and  Waher  Ralegh,  and  Howard  of  Effingham  and  Richard 
Grenville,  or  by  families  like  those  of  Vere  and  Norreys  and 
Carew. 

As  a  work  of  art  The  Faery  Qiieen  at  once  astonishes  us  by  the 
wonderful  fertility  and  richness  of  the  writer's  invention  and  imagin- 
ation, by  the  facility  with  which  he  finds  or  makes  language  for  his 
needs,  and  above  all,  by  the  singular  music  and  sweetness  of  his 
verse.  The  main  theme  seldom  varies  :  it  is  a  noble  knight,  fighting, 
overcoming,  tempted,  delivered  ;  or  a  beautiful  lady,  plotted  against, 
distressed,  in  danger,  rescued.  The  poet's  affluence  of  fancy  and 
speech  gives  a  new  turn  and  colour  to  each  adventure.  But  besides 
that  under  these  conditions  there  must  be  monotony,  the  poet's  art, 
admirable  as  it  is,  gives  room  for  objections.  Spenser's  style  is  an 
imitation  of  the  antique  ;  and  an  imitation,  however  good,  must  want 
the  master  charm  of  naturalness,  reality,  simple  truth.  And  in  his 
system  of  work,  with  his  brightness  and  quickness  and  fluency,  he 
wanted  self-restraint— the  power  of  holding  himself  in,  and  of  judg- 
ing soundly  of  fitness  and  proportion.  There  was  a  looseness  and 
carelessness,  partly  belonging  to  his  age,  partly  his  own.  In  the 
use  of  materials,  nothing  comes  amiss  to  him.    He  had  no  scruples 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


as  a  copyist.  He  took  without  ceremony  any  piece  of  old  metal, — 
word,  or  story,  or  image — which  came  to  his  hand,  and  threw  it 
into  the  melting-pot  of  his  imagination,  to  come  out  fused  with  his 
own  materials,  often  transformed,  but  often  unchanged.  The  effect 
was  sometimes  happy,  but  not  always  so. 

With  respect  to  his  diction,  it  must  ever  be  remembered  that 
the  language  was  still  in  such  an  uncertain  and  unfixed  state  as 
naturally  to  invite  attempts  to  extend  its  powers,  and  to  enrich, 
supple,  and  colour  it.  Spenser  avowedly  set  himself  to  do  this. 
The  editor  of  his  first  work,  The  Shepherd's  Calendar,  takes  credit 
on  his  behalf  for  attempting  'to  restore,  as  to  their  rightful  heritage, 
such  good  and  natural  English  words,  as  have  been  long  time  out 
of  use,  and  almost  clean  disherited.'  Spenser  draws  largely  on 
Chaucer,  both  for  his  vocabulary  and  his  grammar :  and  his  autho- 
rity and  popularity  have  probably  saved  us  a  good  many  words 
which  we  could  ill  afford  to  lose.  And  some  of  his  words  we 
certainly  have  forgotten  to  our  loss — such  words  as  'ingate'  (like 
'  insight,')  '  glooming,'  '  fool-happy,'  '  overgone,'  and  his  many  com- 
binations with  en-  ■ —  'empeopled,'  'engrieved,'  'enrace.'  But  it  is 
not  to  enrich  a  language  but  to  confuse  and  spoil  it,  when  a  writer 
forces  on  it  words  which  are  not  in  keeping  with  its  existing  usages 
and  spirit,  and  much  more  when  he  arbitrarily  deals  with  words  to 
make  them  suit  the  necessities  of  metre  and  rime  :  and  there  is 
much  of  this  in  Spenser.  He  overdoes,  especially  in  his  earlier 
books,  the  old  English  expedient  of  alliteration,  or  'hunting  the 
letter,'  as  it  was  called,  which  properly  belongs  to  a  much  earlier 
method  of  versification,  and  which  the  ear  of  his  own  generation 
had  already  learned  to  shrink  from  in  excess.  He  not  only  re- 
vives old  words,  but  he  is  licentious — as  far  as  we  are  able  to 
trace  the  usages  of  the  time — in  inventing  new  ones.  He  is 
unscrupulous  in  using  inferior  forms  for  better  and  more  natural 
ones,  not  for  the  sake  of  the  word,  but  for  the  convenience  of 
the  verse.  The  transfer  of  words — adjectives  and  verbs — from 
their  strict  use  to  a  looser  one, — the  passage  from  an  active  to  a 
neuter  sense, — the  investing  a  word  with  new  associations, — the 
interchange  of  attributes  between  two  objects,  with  the  feelings  or 
phrase  which  really  belong  to  one  reflected  back  upon  the  other 
— are,  within  limits,  part  of  the  recognised  means  by  which  language, 
and  especially  poetical  language,  extends  its  range.  But  Spenser 
was  inclined  to  make  all  limits  give  way  to  his  convenience,  and 
the  rapidity  of  his  work.     It  is  not  only  to  us  that  his  language  is 


SPENSER.  283 


both  strange  and  affectedly  antique  ;  it  looked  the  same  to  the 
men  of  his  own  time.  It  is  a  drawback  to  the  value  of  Spenser  as 
a  monument  of  the  English  of  his  day,  that  it  is  often  uncertain 
whether  a  form  or  a  meaning  of  word  may  not  be  due  simply  to 
his  own  wayward  and  arbitrary  use  of  it. 

77^!^  Faery  Qiteeii  has  eclipsed  all  Spenser's  other  writings  :  but 
his  other  writings  alone  would  be  enough  to  place  him,  as  his  con- 
temporaries placed  him,  at  the  head  of  all  who  had  yet  attempted 
English  poetry.  Tlie  Shepherd's  Calendar,  as  has  been  said,  with 
all  its  defects  and  affectations,  showed  force,  skill,  command  of  lan- 
guage and  music  as  yet  unknown.  In  it  were  shown  the  beginnings 
of  two  powers  characteristic  of  Spenser  :  the  power  of  telling  a 
story,  as  in  the  fables  of  The  Oak  and  Briar,  and  The  Fox  and 
Kid  ;  and  the  power  of  satire,  a  power  which  he  used  both  there 
and  afterwards  in  Mother  Hubberds  Tale,  to  lash  the  Church 
abuses  of  the  time  and  the  manners  of  the  Court,  and  in  using 
which  he  is  in  strong  contrast,  in  his  sobriety  and  self-restraint,  to 
the  coarse  extravagance  of  such  writing  in  his  time.  The  Fox 
and  Ape  of  Mother  Hiibberd^s  Tale  is  much  nearer  to  the  satire 
of  Dryden  and  Pope,  than  it  is  to  such  writers  as  Donne  and  Hall. 
He  did  his  necessary  share  of  work  in  writing  poems  of  salutation 
or  congratulation  for  the  great,  or  of  lamentation  for  their  mis- 
fortunes and  sorrows.  The  Prothalamioii  celebrates  the  marriage 
of  two  ladies  of  the  Worcester  family  ;  and  he  bewailed  the  death 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  the  Earl  of  Leicester.  Much  of  this 
poetry  was  conventional.  But  in  it  appear  fine  and  beautiful 
passages.  The  Prothalamion  has  great  sweetness  and  grace. 
The  Dirges  never  fail  to  show  his  deep  and  characteristic  feeling 
for  the  vicissitudes  of  our  human  state.  Finally,  his  own  love 
and  courtship  inspired  a  series  of  Sonnets,  and  a  Wedding  Hymn. 
The  Sonnets  on  the  whole  are  disappointing.  There  is  warmth  and 
sincerity  in  them ;  but  they  want  the  individual  stamp  which  makes 
such  things  precious.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Wedding  Hymn,  the 
Epithalamion,  is  one  of  the  richest  and  most  magnificent  composi- 
tions of  the  kind  in  any  language. 

R.  W.  Church. 


284  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Fable  of  the  Oak  and  the  Briar. 

[From  The  Shepheards  Calender,  1579-80.     February.] 

There  grewe  an  aged  Tree  on  the  greene, 
A  goodly  Oake  sometime  had  it  bene, 
With  armes  full  strong  and  largely  displayd, 
But  of  their  leaves  they  were  disarayde  : 
The  bodie  bigge,  and  mightely  pight, 
Throughly  rooted,  and  of  wonderous  hight ; 
Whilome  had  bene  the  King  of  the  field, 
And  mochell  mast  to  the  husband  did  yielde, 
And  with  his  nuts  larded  many  swine  : 
But  now  the  gray  mosse  marred  his  rine  ; 
His  bared  boughes  were  beaten  with  stormes, 
His  toppe  was  bald,  and  wasted  with  wormes, 
His  honor  decayed,  his  braunches  sere. 

Hard  by  his  side  grewe  a  bragging  Brere, 
Which  proudly  thrust  into  Thelement, 
And  seemed  to  threat  the  Firmament  : 
It  was  embellisht  with  blossomes  fayre. 
And  thereto  aye  wonned  to  repayre 
The  shepheards  daughters  to  gather  flowres, 
To  peinct  their  girlonds  with  his  colowres  ; 
And  in  his  small  bushes  used  to  shrowde 
The  sweete  Nightingale  singing  so  lowde  ; 
Which  made  this  foolish  Brere  wexe  so  bold, 
That  on  a  time  he  cast  him  to  scold 
And  snebbe  the  good  Oake,  for  he  was  old. 

'Why  standst  there  (quoth  he)  thou  brutish  blocke? 
Nor  for  fruict  nor  for  shadowe  serves  thy  stocke  ; 
Seest  how  fresh  my  flowers  bene  spredde, 
Dyed  in  Lilly  white  and  Cremsin  redde, 
With  Leaves  engrained  in  lusty  grecnc  ; 
Colours  meete  to  clothe  a  maydcn  Qucene  ? 
Thy  wast  bignes  but  combers  the  grownd, 
And  dirks  the  beauty  of  my  blossomes  rownd  : 
The  mouldie  mossc,  which  thee  accloicth, 


SPENSER.  2  8j 

My  Sinamon  smell  too  much  annoieth  : 
Wherefore  soone  I  rede  thee  hence  remove, 
Least  thou  the  price  of  my  displeasure  prove.' 
So  spake  this  bold  brere  with  great  disdaine  : 
Little  him  aunswered  the  Oake  againe, 
But  yeelded,  with  shame  and  greefe  adawed, 
That  of  a  weede  he  was  overcrawed. 

Yt  chaunced  after  upon  a  day, 
The  Hus-bandman  selfe  to  come  that  way. 
Of  custome  for  to  survewe  his  grownd, 
And  his  trees  of  state  in  compasse  rownd  : 
Him  when  the  spitefull  brere  had  espyed, 
Causelesse  complained,  and  lowdly  cryed 
Unto  his  lord,  stirring  up  sterne  strife. 

'  O,  my  liege  Lord  !  the  God  of  my  life  ! 
Pleaseth  you  ponder  your  vSupphants  plaint. 
Caused  of  wrong  and  cruell  constraint, 
Which  I  your  poore  Vassall  dayly  endure  ; 
And,  but  your  goodnes  the  same  recure, 
Am  like  for  desperate  doole  to  dye. 
Through  felonous  force  of  mine  enemie.' 

Greatly  aghast  with  this  piteous  plea, 
Him  rested  the  goodman  on  the  lea, 
And  badde  the  Brere  in  his  plaint  proceede. 
With  painted  words  tho  gan  this  proude  weede 
(As  most  usen  Ambitious  folke  :) 
His  colowred  crime  with  craft  to  cloke. 

'  Ah,  my  soveraigne  !   Lord  of  creatures  all. 
Thou  placer  of  plants  both  humble  and  tall, 
Was  not  I  planted  of  thine  owne  hand, 
To  be  the  primrose  of  all  thy  land  ; 
With  flowring  blossomes  to  furnish  the  prime, 
And  scarlot  berries  in  Sommer  time? 
How  falls  it  then  that  this  faded  Oake, 
Whose  bodie  is  sere,  whose  braunches  broke, 
Whose  naked  Armes  stretch  unto  the  fyre, 
Unto  such  tyrannic  doth  aspire  ; 
Hindering  with  his  shade  my  lovely  light. 
And  robbing  me  of  the  swete  sonnes  sight  ? 


2  86  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

So  beate  his  old  boughes  my  tender  side, 

That  oft  the  bloud  springeth  from  woundes  wyde  ; 

Untimely  my  flowres  forced  to  fall, 

That  bene  the  honor  of  your  Coronall : 

And  oft  he  lets  his  cancker-wormes  light 

Upon  my  braunches,  to  worke  me  more  spight ; 

And  oft  his  hoarie  locks  downe  doth  cast, 

Where-with  my  fresh  flowretts  bene  defast : 

For  this,  and  many  more  such  outrage, 

Craving  your  goodlihead  to  aswage 

The  ranckorous  rigour  of  his  might, 

Nought  aske  I,  but  onely  to  hold  my  right  ; 

Submitting  me  to  your  good  sufferance, 

And  praying  to  be  garded  from  greevance.' 

To  this  the  Oake  cast  him  to  replie 
Well  as  he  couth  ;  but  his  enemie 
Had  kindled  such  coles  of  displeasure, 
That  the  good  man  noulde  stay  his  leasure. 
But  home  him  hasted  with  furious  heate, 
Encreasing  his  ivrath  with  many  a  threate  ; 
His  harmefull  Hatchet  he  hent  in  hand, 
(Alas  !   that  it  so  ready  should  stand  !) 
And  to  the  field  alone  he  speedeth, 
(Ay  little  helpe  to  harme  there  needeth  !) 
Anger  nould  let  him  speake  to  the  tree, 
Enaunter^  his  rage  mought  cooled  bee  ; 
But  to  the  roote  bent  his  sturdy  stroake. 
And  made  many  wounds  in  the  wast  Oake. 
The  Axes  edge  did  oft  turne  againe, 
As  halfe  unwilling  to  cutte  the  graine  ; 
Semed,  the  sencelesse  yron  dyd  feare, 
Or  to  wrong  holy  eld  did  forbeare  ; 
For  it  had  bene  an  auncient  tree. 
Sacred  with  many  a  mysteree, 
And  often  crost  with  the  priestcs  crewe'', 
And  often  lialowed  with  holy-water  dewe  : 
But  sike  fancies  weren  foolerie, 
And  broughten  this  Oake  to  this  miserye  ; 
'  Itst.  -  holy  vessel,  cruise. 


SPENSER.  287 


For  nought  mought  they  quitten  him  from  decay, 

For  fiercely  the  good  man  at  him  did  laye. 

The  blocke  oft  groned  under  the  blow, 

And  sighed  to  see  his  neare  overthrow. 

In  fine,  the  Steele  had  pierced  his  pitth, 

Tho  downe  to  the  earth  he  fell  forthwith. 

His  wonderous  weight  made  the  ground  to  quake, 

Thearth  shronke  under  him,  and  seemed  to  shake  :- 

There  lyeth  the  Oake,  pitied  of  none  ! 

Now  stands  the  Brere  like  a  lord  alone. 
Puffed  up  with  pryde  and  vaine  pleasaunce  ; 
But  all  this  glee  had  no  continuaunce  : 
For  eftsones  Winter  gan  to  approche  ; 
The  blustering  Boreas  did  encroche. 
And  beate  upon  the  solitarie  Brere  ; 
For  nowe  no  succoure  was  seene  him  nere. 
Now  gan  he  repent  his  pryde  to  late  ; 
For,  naked  left  and  disconsolate, 
The  byting  frost  nipt  his  stalke  dead, 
The  watrie  wette  weighed  downe  his  head, 
And  heaped  snowe  burdned  him  so  sore, 
That  nowe  upright  he  can  stand  no  more  ; 
And,  being  downe,  is  trodde  in  the  durt, 
Of  cattell,  and  bronzed,  and  sorely  hurt. 
Such  was  thend  of  this  Ambitious  brere. 
For  scorning  Eld — 

Chase  after  Love. 

[March.] 
Tho.     It  was  upon  a  holiday. 
When  shepheardes  groomes  han  leave  to  playe, 

I  cast  to  goe  a  shooting. 
Long  wandring  up  and  downe  the  land, 
With  bowe  and  bolts  in  either  hand, 
P'or  birds  in  bushes  tooting^. 
At  length  within  an  Yvie  todde  "^^ 
(There  shrouded  was  the  little  God) 
1  heard  a  busie  bustling. 
'  looking  about.  ^  a  thick  bush. 


2  88  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

I  bent  my  bolt  against  the  bush, 
Listening  if  any  thing  did  rushe, 

But  then  heard  no  more  rusthng : 
Tho,  peeping  close  into  the  thicke, 
Might  see  the  moving  of  some  quicke, 

Whose  shape  appeared  not ; 
But  were  it  faerie,  feend,  or  snake, 
My  courage  earnd^  it  to  awake, 

And  manfully  thereat  shotte. 
With  that  sprong  forth  a  naked  swayne 
With  spotted  winges,  like  Peacocks  trayne, 

And  laughing  lope  to  a  tree  ; 
His  gylden  quiver  at  his  backe. 
And  silver  bowe,  which  was  but  slacke, 

Which  lightly  he  bent  at  me  : 
That  seeing,  I  levelde  againe 
And  shott  at  him  with  might  and  maine, 

As  thicke  as  it  had  hayled. 
So  long  I  shott,  that  al  was  spent ; 
Tho  pumie  stones  I  hastly  hent 

And  threwe  ;  but  nought  availed : 
He  was  so  wimble  and  so  wight, 
From  bough  to  bough  he  lepped  light, 

And  oft  the  pumies  latched". 
Therewith  affrayd,  I  ranne  away  : 
But  he,  that  earst  seemd  but  to  playc, 

A  shaft  in  earnest  snatched, 
And  hit  me  running  in  the  heele  : 
For  then  I  little  smart  did  feele, 

But  soone  it  sore  encreased  ; 
And  now  it  ranckleth  more  and  more, 
And  inwardly  it  festreth  sore, 

Ne  wote  I  how  to  cease  it. 
Wil.     Thomalin,  I  pittie  thy  plight, 
Perdie  with  Love  thou  diddest  fight  : 

I  know  him  by  a  token  ; 
For  once  I  heard  my  father  say. 
How  he  him  caught  upon  a  day, 

(Whereof  he  will  be  wroken) 
'  yearned.  ^  caught. 


SPENSER.  289 


Entangled  in  a  fowling  net, 

Which  he  for  carrion  Crowes  had  set 

That  in  our  Peere-tree  haunted  : 
The  sayd,  he  was  a  winged  lad, 
But  bowe  and  shafts  as  then  none  had, 

Els  had  he  sore  be  daunted. 
But  see,  the  Welkin  thicks  apace, 
And  stouping  Phebus  steepes  his  face  : 

Yts  time  to  hast  us  homeward. 


Description  of  Maying. 

[May.] 

Palinode.     Is  not  thilke  the  mery  moneth  of  May, 
When  love-lads  masken  in  fresh  aray .'' 
How  falles  it,  then,  we  no  merrier  bene, 
Ylike  as  others,  girt  in  gawdy  greene  ? 
Our  bloncket  liveryes^  bene  all  to  sadde 
For  thilke  same  season,  when  all  is  ycladd 
With  pleasaunce  :  the  grownd  with  grasse,  the  Woods 
With  greene  leaves,  the  bushes  with  bloosming  buds. 
Yougthes  folke  now  flocken  in  every  where, 
To  gather  May  bus-kets  and  smelling  brere : 
And  home  they  hasten  the  postes  to  dight, 
And  all  the  Kirke  pillours  eare  day  light, 
With  Hawthorne  buds,  and  swete  Eglantine, 
And  girlonds  of  roses,  and  Sopps  in  wine. 
Such  merimake  holy  Saints  doth  queme". 
But  we  here  sitten  as  drownd  in  a  dreme. 

Piers.     For  Younkers,  Palinode,  such  follies  fitte, 
But  we  tway  bene  men  of  elder  witt. 

Pal.     Sicker  this  morrowe,  no  lenger  agoe, 
I  sawe  a  shole  of  shepeheardes  outgoe 
With  singing,  and  shouting,  and  jolly  chere : 
Before  them  yode  a  lusty  Tabrere, 
That  to  the  many  a  Horne-pype  playd. 
Whereto  they  dauncen,  eche  one  with  his  mayd. 
'  gray  coats.  *  please. 

VOL.  I.  U 


290  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

To  see  those  folkes  make  such  jovysaunce, 
Made  my  heart  after  the  pype  to  daunce  : 
Tho  to  the  greene  Wood  they  speeden  hem  all, 
To  fetchen  home  May  with  their  musicall  : 
And  home  they  bringen  in  a  royall  throne, 
Crowned  as  king  :  and  his  Queene  attone 
Was  Lady  Flora,  on  whom  did  attend 
A  fayre  flocke  of  Faeries,  and  a  fresh  bend 
Of  lovely  Nymphs.     (O  that  I  were  there, 
To  helpen  the  Ladyes  their  Maybush  beare  !) 
Ah  !  Piers,  bene  not  thy  teeth  on  edge,  to  thinke 
How  great  sport  they  gaynen  with  little  swinck  ? 


The  Complaint  of  Age. 

[December.] 

Whilome  in  youth,  when  flowrd  my  joyfull  spring. 
Like  Swallow  swift  I  wandred  here  and  there  ; 
For  heate  of  heedlesse  lust  me  so  did  sting, 
That  I  of  doubted  daunger  had  no  feare  : 
I  went  the  wastefull  woodes  and  forest  wide, 
Withouten  dreade  of  Wolves  to  bene  espyed. 
***** 

How  often  have  I  scaled  the  craggie  Oke, 
All  to  dislodge  the  Raven  of  her  nest .? 
How  have  I  wearied  with  many  a  stroke 
The  stately  Walnut-tree,  the  while  the  rest 

Under  the  tree  fell  all  for  nuts  at  strife? 

P'or  ylike  to  me  was  libertee  and  lyfe. 
***** 

Tho  gan  my  lovely  Spring  bid  me  farewel, 
And  Sommer  season  sped  him  to  display 
(For  love  then  in  the  Lyons  house  did  dwell) 
The  raging  fyre  that  kindled  at  his  ray. 
A  comctt  stird  up  that  unkindly  heate. 
That  reigned  (as  men  sa)d)  in  Venus  seate. 


SFENSEIi. 


291 


Forth  was  I  ledde,  not  as  I  wont  afore, 
When  choise  I  had  to  choose  my  wandring  waye, 
But  whether  luck  and  loves  unbridled  lore 
Woulde  leade  me  forth  on  Fancies  bitte  to  playe  : 
The  bush  my  bedde,  the  bramble  was  my  bowre, 
The  Woodes  can  witnesse  many  a  wofull  stowre. 

Where  I  was  wont  to  seeke  the  honey  Bee, 
Working  her  formall  rowmes  in  wexen  frame. 
The  grieslie  Tode-stoole  growne  there  mought  I  se, 
And  loathed  Paddocks  ^  lording  on  the  same  : 
And  where  the  chaunting  birds  luld  me  asleepe, 
The  ghastlie  Owie  her  grievous  ynne  doth  keepe. 

Then  as  the  springe  gives  place  to  elder  time, 

And  bringeth  forth  the  fruite  of  sommers  pryde  ; 

Also  my  age,  now  passed  youngthly  pryme, 

To  thinges  of  r>'per  season  selfe  applyed. 
And  learnd  of  lighter  timber  cotes  to  frame. 
Such  as  might  save  my  sheepe  and  me  fro  shame. 

To  make  fine  cages  for  the  Nightingale, 

And  Baskets  of  bulrushes,  was  my  wont : 

Who  to  entrappe  the  fish  in  winding  sale 

Was  better  seene,  or  hurtful  beastes  to  hont  ? 
I  learned  als  the  signes  of  heaven  to  ken. 
How  Phcebe  fayles,  where  Venus  sittes,  and  when. 

And  tryed  time  yet  taught  me  greater  thinges  ; 
The  sodain  rysing  of  the  raging  seas, 
The  soothe  of  byrdes  by  beating  of  their  winges, 
The  power  of  herbs,  both  which  can  hurt  and  ease, 
And  which  be  wont  t'  enrage  the  restlesse  sheepe. 
And  which  be  wont  to  worke  eternall  sleepe. 

But,  ah  !    unwise  and  witlesse  Colin  Cloute, 
That  kydst  ^  the  hidden  kinds  of  many  a  wede. 
Yet  kydst  not  ene  to  cure  thy  sore  hart-roote, 
Whose  ranckling  wound  as  yet  does  rifelye  bleede. 
Why  livest  thou  stil,  and  yet  hast  thy  deathes  wound? 
Why  dyest  thou  stil,  and  yet  alive  art  founde  ? 
*  toads.  i  knewest. 

U  2 


>92  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Thus  is  my  sommer  wome  away  and  wasted, 
Thus  is  my  harvest  hastened  all  to  rathe  ; 
The  eare  that  budded  faire  is  burnt  and  blasted, 
And  all  my  hoped  gaine  is  turnd  to  scathe  : 
Of  all  the  seede  that  in  my  youthe  was  sowne 
Was  nought  but  brakes  and  brambles  to  be  mowne. 

My  boughes  with  bloosmes  that  crowned  were  at  firste, 
And  promised  of  timely  fruite  such  store. 
Are  left  both  bare  and  barrein  now  at  erst  ; 
The  flattring  fruite  is  fallen  to  grownd  before. 

And  rotted  ere  they  were  halfe  mellow  ripe  ; 

My  harvest,  wast,  my  hope  away  dyd  wipe. 

The  fragrant  flowres,  that  in  my  garden  grewe, 
Bene  withered,  as  they  had  bene  gathered  long ; 
Theyr  rootes  bene  dryed  up  for  lacke  of  dewe. 
Yet  dewed  with  teares  they  han  be  ever  among. 
Ah  !  who  has  wrought  my  Rosalind  this  spight. 
To  spil  the  flowres  that  should  her  girlond  dight .'' 

And  I,  that  whilome  wont  to  frame  my  pype 
Unto  the  shifting  of  the  shepheards  foote, 
Sike  follies  nowe  have  gathered  as  too  ripe, 
And  cast  hem  out  as  rotten  and  unsoote. 

The  loser  Lasse  I  cast  to  please  no  more  ; 

One  if  I  please,  enough  is  me  therefore. 

And  thus  of  all  my  harvest-hope  I  have 
Nought  reaped  but  a  weedye  crop  of  care  ; 
Which,  when  I  thought  have  thresht  in  swelling  sheave, 
Cockel  for  come,  and  chafife  for  barley,  bare  : 
Soone  as  the  chaffe  should  in  the  fan  be  fynd, 
All  was  blowne  away  of  the  wavering  wynd. 

So  now  my  yeare  drawes  to  his  latter  torme, 
My  spring  is  spent,  my  sommer  burnt  up  quite  ; 
My  harveste  hasts  to  stirre  up  Winter  sterne, , 
And  bids  him  clayme  with  rigorous  rage  hys  right : 

So  nowe  he  stormes  with  many  a  sturdy  stoure  ; 

So  now  his  bluslring  blast  cchc  coslc  dooth  scoure. 


SPENSER.  293 

The  carefull  cold  hath  nypt  my  rugged  rynde, 
And  in  my  face  deepe  furrowes  eld  hath  pight  : 
My  head  besprent  with  hoary  frost  I  fynd,  • 
And  by  myne  eie  the  Crow  his  clawe  dooth  wright : 

Dehght  is  layd  abedde  ;   and  pleasure  past  ; 

No  Sonne  now  shines  ;    cloudes  han  all  overcast. 

Now  leave,  ye  shepheards  boyes,  your  merry  glee  ; 
My  Muse  is  hoarse  and  wearie  of  thys  stounde  : 
Here  will  I  hang  my  pype  upon  this  tree  : 
Was  never  pype  of  reede  did  better  sounde. 
Winter  is  come  that  blowes  the  bitter  blaste, 
And  after  Winter  dreerie  death  does  hast. 

Gather  together  ye  my  little  flocke, 

IVIy  little  flock,  that  was  to  me  so  hefe  ; 

Let  me,  ah  !   lette  me  in  your  foldes  ye  lock, 

Ere  the  breme^  Winter  breede  you  greater  griefe. 
Winter  is  come,  that  blowes  the  balefull  breath, 
And  after  Winter  commeth  timely  death. 

Adieu,  delightes,  that  lulled  me  asleepe  ; 
Adieu,  my  deare,  whose  love  I  bought  so  deare  ; 
Adieu,  my  little  Lambes  and  loved  sheepe  ; 
Adieu,  ye  Woodes,  that  oft  my  witnesse  were : 

Adieu,  good  Hobbinoll,  that  was  so  true, 

Tell  Rosalind,  her  Colin  bids  her  adieu. 

[From  The  Faerie  Qneene,  Bk.  i.      1589-90.] 

The  Red  Cross  Knight  and  Una. 

A  gentle  Knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde, 
Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did  remaine, 
The  cruell  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde  ; 
Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield. 
His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt, 
As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield  : 
Full  jolly  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt. 
As  one  for  knightly  giusts  and  fierce  encounters  fitt. 
*  sharp. 


294 


THE  E.YGLISH  POETS. 


And  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  Crosse  he  bore, 
The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 
For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he  wore, 
And  dead,  as  living,  ever  him  ador'd  : 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd. 
For  soveraine  hope  which  in  his  helpe  he  had. 
Right  faithfull  true  he  was  in  deede  and  word, 
But  of  his  cheere  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad  ; 
Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was  ydrad. 

Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond, 
That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave, 
(That  greatest  Glorious  Oueene  of  Faery  lond) 
To  winne  him  worshippe,  and  her  grace  to  have, 
Which  of  all  earthly  thinges  he  most  did  crave  : 
And  ever  as  he  rode  his  hart  did  earne 
To  prove  his  puissance  in  battel!  brave 
Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learne, 
Upon  his  foe,  a  Dragon  horrible  and  stearne. 

A  lovely  Ladie  rode  him  faire  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  Asse  more  white  then  snow, 
Yet  she  much  whiter  ;   but  the  same  did  hide  * 
Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low  ; 
And  over  all  a  blacke  stole  shee  did  throw : 
As  one  that  inly  mournd,  so  was  she  sad. 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfrey  slow  ; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had, 
And  by  her,  in  a  line,  a  milkewhite  lambe  she  lad. 

So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lambe. 
She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore  ; 
And  by  descent  from  Royall  lynage  came 
Of  ancient  Kinges  and  Queenes,  that  had  of  yore 
Their  scepters  stretcht  from  East  to  Westerne  shore, 
And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held  ; 
Till  that  infernall  feend  with  foule  uprore 
Forwasted  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld  ; 
Whom  to  avenge  she  had  this  Knight  from  far  compeld. 


SPENSER.  295 


Behind  her  farre  away  a  Dwarfe  did  lag, 
That  lasie  seemd,  in  being  ever  last, 
Or  wearied  with  bearing  of  her  bag 
Of  needments  at  his  backe.     Thus  as  they  past. 
The  day  with  cloudes  was  suddeine  overcast, 
And  angry  Jove  an  hideous  storme  of  raine 
Did  poure  into  his  Lemans  lap  so  fast. 
That  everie  wight  to  shrowd  it  did  constrain  ; 
And  this  laire  couple  eke  to  shroud  themselves  were  fain. 

Enforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove  not  farr  away  they  spide, 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  withstand  ; 
Whose  loftie  trees,  yclad  with  sommers  pride, 
Did  spred  so  broad,  that  heavens  light  did  hide, 
Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  starr  : 
And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleles  wide. 
With  footing  worne,  and  leading  inward  farr. 
Faire  harbour  that  them  seems,  so  in  they  entred  ar. 

And  foorth  they  passe,  with  pleasure  forward  led. 
Joying  to  heare  the  birdes  sweete  harmony. 
Which,  therein  shrouded  from  the  tempest  dred, 
Seemd  in  their  song  to  scorne  the  cruell  sky. 
Much  can  they  praise  the  trees  so  straight  and  h)'. 
The  sayling  Pine  ;   the  Cedar  proud  and  tall  ; 
The  vine-propp  Elme  ;   the  Poplar  never  dry  ; 
The  builder  Oake,  sole  king  of  forests  all ; 
The  Aspine  good  for  staves  ;   the  Cypresse  funerall ; 

The  Laurell,  meed  of  mightie  Conquerours 
And  Poets  sage  ;   the  Firre  that  weepeth  still : 
The  Willow,  worne  of  forlorne  Paramours  ; 
The  Eugh,  obedient  to  the  benders  will  ; 
The  Birch  for  shaftes  ;   the  Sallow  for  the  mill  ; 
The  Mirrhe  sweete-bleeding  in  the  bitter  wound  ; 
The  warlike  Beech  ;   the  Ash  for  nothing  ill  ; 
The  fruitfuU  Olive  ;   and  the  Platane  round  ; 
The  carver  Holme  ;  the  Maple  seeldom  inward  sound. 


296  THE  ENGLISH  PaETS. 

Led  with  delight,  they  thus  beguile  the  way, 
Untill  the  blustring  storme  is  overblowne  ; 
When,  weening  to  returne  whence  they  did  stray, 
They  cannot  finde  that  path,  which  first  was  showne, 
But  wander  too  and  fro  in  waies  unknowne, 
Furthest  from  end  then,  when  they  neerest  weene. 
That  makes  them  doubt  their  wits  be  not  their  owne  : 
So  many  pathes,  so  many  turnings  seene, 
That  which  of  them  to  take  in  diverse  doubt  they  been. 

The  House  of  Pride. 

High  above  all  a  cloth  of  State  was  spred, 
And  a  rich  throne,  as  bright  as  sunny  day; 
On  which  there  sate,  most  brave  embellished 
With  royall  robes  and  gorgeous  array, 
A  mayden  Queene  that  shone  as  Titans  ray, 
In  glistring  gold  and  perelesse  pretious  stone  ; 
Yet  her  bright  blazing  beautie  did  assay 
To  dim  the  brightnesse  of  her  glorious  throne, 
As  envying  her  selfe,  that  too  exceeding  shone  : 

Exceeding  shone,  like  Phoebus  fayrest  childe. 
That  did  presume  his  fathers  fyrie  wayne. 
And  flaming  mouthes  of  steedes,  unwonted  wilde. 
Through  highest  heaven  with  weaker  hand  to  rayne : 
Proud  of  such  glory  and  advancement  vayne. 
While  flashing  beames  do  daze  his  feeble  eyen. 
He  leaves  the  welkin  way  most  beaten  playne. 
And,  rapt  with  whirling  wheeles,  inflames  the  skyen 
With  fire  not  made  to  burne,  but  fayrely  for  to  shyne. 

So  proud  she  shyned  in  her  princely  state. 
Looking  to  heaven,  for  earth  she  did  disdayne, 
And  sitting  high,  for  lowly  she  did  hate  : 
Lo  !    underneath  her  scornefull  feete  was  layne 
A  dreadful!  Dragon  with  an  hideous  trayne  ; 
And  in  her  hand  she  held  a  mirrhour  bright, 
Wherein  her  face  she  often  vewed  fayne, 
And  in  her  sclfc-lov'd  semblance  took  delight ; 
For  she  was  wondrous  faire,  as  any  living  wight. 


SPENSER.  297 

Of  griesly  Pluto  she  the  daughter  was, 
And  sad  Proserpina,  the  Queene  of  hell  ; 
Yet  did  she  thinke  her  pearelesse  worth  to  pas 
That  parentage,  with  pride  so  did  she  swell  ; 
And  thundring  Jove,  that  high  in  heaven  doth  dwell 
And  wield  the  world,  she  claymed  for  her  syre, 
Or  if  that  any  else  did  Jove  excell  ; 
For  to  the  highest  she  did  still  aspyre. 
Or,  if  ought  higher  were  than  that,  did  it  desyre. 

And  proud  Lucifera  men  did  her  call. 
That  made  her  selfe  a  Queene,  and  crownd  to  be  ; 
Yet  rightfull  kingdome  she  had  none  at  all, 
Ne  heritage  of  native  soveraintie  ; 
But  did  usurpe  with  wrong  and  tyrannie 
Upon  the  scepter  which  she  now  did  hold  : 
Ne  ruld  her  Realme  with  lawes,  but  pollicie, 
And  strong  advizement  of  six  wisards  old, 
That,  with  their  counsels  bad,  her  kingdome  did  uphold. 

Soone  as  the  Elfin  knight  in  presence  came, 
And  false  Duessa,  seeming  Lady  fayre, 
A  gentle  Husher,  Vanitie  by  name. 
Made  rowme,  and  passage  for  them  did  prepaire  : 
So  goodly  brought  them  to  the  lowest  stayre 
Of  her  high  throne  ;   where  they,  .on  humble  knee 
Making  obeysaunce,  did  the  cause  declare, 
Why  they  were  come  her  roiall  state  to  see, 
To  prove  the  wide  report  of  her  great  Majestee, 

With  loftie  eyes,  halfe  loth  to  looke  so  lowe, 
She  thancked  them  in  her  disdainefull  wise  ; 
Ne  other  grace  vouchsafed  them  to  showe 
Of  Princesse  worthy  ;   scarse  them  bad  arise. 
Her  Lordes  and  Ladies  all  this  while  devise 
Themselves  to  setten  forth  to  straungers  sight : 
Some  frounce  their  curled  heare  in  courtly  guise  ; 
Some  prancke  their  ruffes  ;   and  others  trimly  dight 
Their  gay  attyre  ;   each  others  greater  pride  does  spight. 
****** 


298  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Suddein  upriseth  from  her  stately  place 
The  roiall  Dame,  and  for  her  coche  doth  call  : 
All  hurtlen  forth  ;   and  she,  with  princely  pace, 
As  faire  Aurora  in  her  purple  pall 
Out  of  the  East  the  dawning  day  doth  call. 
So  forth  she  comes  ;   her  brightnes  brode  doth  blaze. 
The  heapes  of  people,  thronging  in  the  hall. 
Doe  ride  each  other  upon  her  to  gaze  : 
Her  glorious  glitterand  light  doth  all  mens  eies  amaze. 

So  forth  she  comes,  and  to  her  coche  does  clyme, 
Adorned  all  with  gold  and  girlonds  gay, 
That  seemd  as  fresh  as  Flora  in  her  prime  ; 
And  strove  to  match,  in  roiall  rich  array, 
Great  Junoes  golden  chayre  ;   the  which,  they  say, 
The  gods  stand  gazing  on,  when  she  does  ride 
To  Joves  high  hous  through  heavens  bras-paved  way, 
Drawne  of  fayre  Pecocks,  that  excell  in  pride, 
And  full  of  Argus  eyes  their  tayles  dispredden  wide. 

Una's  Marriage. 

Then  forth  he  called  that  his  daughter  fayre, 
The  fairest  Un',  his  onely  daughter  deare, 
His  onely  daughter  and  his  only  hayre  ; 
Who  forth  proceeding  with  sad  sober  cheare. 
As  bright  as  doth  the  morning  starre  appeare 
Out  of  the  East,  with  flaming  lockes  bedight, 
To  tell  that  dawning  day  is  drawing  neare. 
And  to  the  world  does  bring  long-wished  light  : 
So  faire  and  fresh  that  Lady  shewd  herselfe  in  sight. 

So  faire  and  fresh,  as  freshest  flovvre  in  May  ; 
For  she  had  layd  her  mournefull  stole  aside, 
And  widow-like  sad  wimple  throwne  away, 
Wherewith  her  heavenly  bcautic  she  did  hide, 
Whiles  on  her  wcarie  journey  she  did  ride  ; 
And  on  her  now  a  garment  she  did  wcare 
All  lilly  white,  withouttcn  spot  or  pride. 
That  seemd  like  silkc  and  silver  woven  ncare  ; 
13ul  neither  silke  nor  silver  therein  did  appcarc. 


SPENSER.  299 

The  blazing  brightnesse  of  her  beauties  beame, 

And  glorious  light  of  her  sunshyny  face, 

To  tell  were  as  to  strive  against  the  streame  : 

My  ragged  rimes  are  all  too  rude  and  bace 

Her  heavenly  lineaments  for  to  enchace. 

Ne  wonder  ;   for  her  own  deare  loved  knight, 

All  were  she  daily  with  himselfe  in  place, 

Did  wonder  much  at  her  celestial  sight  : 
Oft  had  he  seene  her  faire,  but  never  so  faire  dight. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

His  owne  two  hands  the  holy  knotts  did  knitt, 
That  none  but  death  for  ever  can  divide  ; 
His  owne  two  hands,  for  such  a  turne  most  fitt, 
The  housling  fire  did  kindle  and  provide, 
And  holy  water  thereon  sprinckled  wide  ; 
At  which  the  bushy  Teade^  a  groome  did  light. 
And  sacred  lamp  in  secret  chamber  hide, 
Where  it  should  not  be  quenched  day  nor  night, 
For  feare  of  evil  fates,  but  burnen  ever  bright. 

Then  gan  they  sprinckle  all  the  posts  with  wine, 
And  made  great  feast  to  solemnize  that  day  : 
They  all  perfumde  with  frankincense  divine. 
And  precious  odours  fetcht  from  far  away, 
That  all  the  house  did  sweat  with  great  aray : 
And  all  the  while  sweete  Musicke  did  apply 
Her  curious  skill  the  warbling  notes  to  play, 
To  drive  away  the  dull  Melancholy  ; 
The  whiles  one  sung  a  song  of  love  and  jollity. 

During  the  which  there  was  an  heavenly  noise 
Heard  sownd  through  all  the  Pallace  pleasantly, 
Like  as  it  had  bene  many  an  Angels  voice 
Singing  before  th'  eternall  majesty. 
In  their  trinall  triplicitics  on  hye  : 
Yett  wist  no  creature  whence  that  hevenly  sweet 
Proceeded,  yet  each  one  felt  secretly 
Himselfe  thereby  refte  of  his  sences  meet, 
And  ravished  with  rare  impression  in  his  sprite. 
*  torch. 


300  THE  ENGLISH  POETS.  .     . 

Great  joy  was  made  that  day  of  young  and  old, 
And  solemne  feast  proclaymd  throughout  the  land, 
That  their  exceeding  merth  may  not  be  told  : 
Suffice  it  heare  by  signes  to  understand 
The  usuall  joyes  at  knitting  of  loves  band. 
Thrise  happy  man  the  knight  himselfe  did  hold. 
Possessed  of  his  Ladies  hart  and  hand  ; 
And  ever,  when  his  eie  did  her  behold, 
His  heart  did  seeme  to  melt  in  pleasures  manifold. 

Her  joyous  presence,  and  sweet  company, 
In  full  content  he  there  did  long  enjoy  ; 
Ne  wicked  envy,  ne  vile  gealosy. 
His  deare  delights  were  hable  to  annoy  ; 
Yet,  swimming  in  that  sea  of  blisfull  joy, 
He  nought  forgott  how  he  whilome  had  sworne, 
In  case  he  could  that  monstrous  beast  destroy, 
Unto  his  Faery  Oueene  backe  to  retourne  ; 
The  which  he  shortly  did,  and  Una  left  to  mourne. 

Now,  strike  your  sailes,  yee  jolly  Mariners, 
For  we  be  come  unto  a  quiet  rode. 
Where  we  must  land  some  of  our  passengers, 
And  light  this  weary  vessell  of  her  lode  : 
Here  she  a  while  may  make  her  safe  abode, 
Till  she  repaired  have  her  tackles  spent. 
And  wants  supplide  ;   And  then  againe  abroad 
On  the  long  voiage  whereto  she  is  bent  : 
Well  may  she  speede,  and  fairely  finish  her  intent ! 

[From  The  Faerie  Queene,  Ek.  ii.] 

Phaedria  and  the  Idle  Lake. 
A  harder  lesson  to  learne  Continence 
In  joyous  pleasure  then  in  grievous  paine  ; 
For  sweetnesse  doth  allure  the  weaker  sence 
So  strongly,  that  uneathes  it  can  refraine 
From  that  which  feeble  nature  covets  faine : 
But  griefe  and  wrath,  that  be  her  enemies 
And  foes  of  life,  she  better  can  abstaine : 
Yet  vcrtue  vauntcs  in  both  her  victories. 
And  Guyon  in  them  all  shcwes  goodly  maysterics. 


SPENSER.  301 

Whom  bold  Cymochles  travelling  to  finde, 
With  cruell  purpose  bent  to  wreake  on  him 
The  wrath  which  Atin  kindled  in  his  mind, 
Came  to  a  river,  by  whose  utmost  brim 
Wayting  to  passe,  he  saw  whereas  did  swim 
Along  the  shore,  as  swift  as  glaunce  of  eye, 
A  litle  Gondelay,  bedecked  trim 
With  boughes  and  arbours  woven  cunningly, 
That  like  a  litle  forrest  seemed  outwardly. 

And  therein  sate  a  Lady  fresh  and  fayre, 
Making  sweet  solace"  to  herselfe  alone  : 
Sometimes  she  song  as  lowd  as  larke  in  ayre, 
Sometimes  she  laught,  as  merry  as  Pope  Jone  ; 
Yet  was  there  not  with  her  else  any  one, 
That  to  her  might  move  cause  of  meriment  : 
Matter  of  merth  enough,  though  there  were  none. 
She  could  devise  ;  and  thousand  waies  invent 
To  feede  her  foolish  humour  and  vaine  jolliment. 

Which  when  far  off  Cymochles  heard  and  saw, 
He  lowdly  cald  to  such  as  were  abord 
The  little  barke  unto  the  shore  to  draw, 
And  him  to  ferry  over  that  deepe  ford. 
The  merry  mariner  unto  his  word 
Soone  hearkened,  and  her  painted  bote  streightway 
Tumd  to  the  shore,  where  that  same  warlike  Lord 
She  in  receiv'd  ;  but  Atin  by  no  way 
She  would  admit,  albe  the  knight  her  much  did  pray. 

Eftsoones  her  shallow  ship  away  did  slide, 
More  swift  then  swallow  sheres  the  liquid  skye, 
Withouten  oare  or  Pilot  it  to  guide. 
Or  winged  canvas  with  the  wind  to  fly  : 
Onely  she  tumd  a  pin,  and  by  and  by 
It  cut  away  upon  the  yielding  wave, 
Ne  cared  she  her  course  for  to  apply  ; 
For  it  was  taught  the  way  which  she  would  have. 
And  both  from  rocks  and  flats  it  selfe  could  wisely  save. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


And  all  the  way  the  wanton  Damsell  found 
New  merth  her  passenger  to  entertaine  ; 
For  she  in  pleasaunt  purpose  did  abound, 
And  greatly  joyed  merry  tales  to  faine, 
Of  which  a  store-house  did  with  her  remaine  : 
Yet  seemed,  nothing  well  they  her  became  ; 
For  all  her  wordes  she  drownd  with  laughter  vaine. 
And  wanted  grace  in  utt'ring  of  the  same, 
That  turned  all  her  pleasaunce  to  a  scoffing  game. 

And  other  whiles  vaine  toyes  she  would  devize, 
As  her  fantasticke  wit  did  most  delight : 
Sometimes  her  head  she  fondly  would  aguize 
With  gaudy  girlonds,  or  fresh  flowrets  dight 
About  her  necke,  or  rings  of  rushes  plight : 
Sometimes,  to  do  him  laugh,  she  would  assay 
To  laugh  at  shaking  of  the  leaves  light 
Or  to  behold  the  water  worke  and  play 
About  her  little  frigot,  therein  making  way. 

Her  light  behaviour  and  loose  dalliaunce 
Gave  wondrous  great  contentment  to  the  knight, 
That  of  his  way  he  had  no  sovenaunce. 
Nor  care  of  vow'd  revenge  and  cruell  fight. 
But  to  weake  wench  did  yield  his  martiall  might : 
So  easie  was  to  quench  his  flamed  minde 
With  one  sweete  drop  of  sensuall  delight. 
So  easie  is  t' appease  the  stormy  winde 
Of  malice  in  the  calme  of  pleasaunt  womankind. 

Diverse  discourses  in  their  way  they  spent ; 
Mongst  which  Cymochles  of  her  questioned 
Both  what  she  was,  and  what  that  usage  ment. 
Which  in  her  cott  she  daily  practized  ? 
'  Vaine  man,'  (saide  she)  '  that  wouldest  be  reckoned 
A  slraunger  in  thy  home,  and  ignoraunt 
Of  Phacdria,  (for  so  my  name  is  red) 
Of  Phacdria,  thine  owne  fellow  sei'vaunt  ; 
For  thou  to  serve  Acrasia  thy  sclfc  doest  vaunt. 


SPENSER.  303 

*  In  this  wide  Inland  sea,  that  hight  by  name 
The  Idle  lake,  my  wandring  ship  I  row, 
That  knowes  her  port,  and  thither  sayles  by  ayme, 
Ne  care,  ne  feare  I  how  the  wind  do  blow, 
Or  whether  swift  I  wend,  or  whether  slow  : 
Both  slow  and  swift  alike  do  serve  my  toume  ; 
Ne  swelHng  Neptune  ne  lowd  thundring  Jove 
Can  chaunge  my  cheare,  or  make  me  ever  mourne  : 
My  httle  boat  can  safely  passe  this  perilous  bourne.' 

Whiles  thus  she  talked,  and  whiles  thus  she  toyd, 
They  were  far  past  the  passage  which  he  spake, 
And  come  unto  an  Island  waste  and  voyd. 
That  floted  in  the  midst  of  that  great  lake  ; 
There  her  small  Gondelay  her  port  did  make, 
And  that  gay  payre,  issewirig  on  the  shore, 
Disburdned  her.     Their  way  they  forward  take 
Into  the  land  that  lay  them  faire  before. 
Whose  pleasaunce  she  him  shewd,  and  plentifull  great  store. 

It  was  a  chosen  plott  of  fertile  land, 
Emongst  wide  waves  sett,  like  a  Htle  nest, 
As  if  it  had  by  Natures  cunning  hand 
Bene  choycely  picked  out  from  all  the  rest, 
And  laid  forth  for  ensample  of  the  best : 
No  daintie  flowre  or  herbe  that  growes  on  grownd. 
No  arborett  with  painted  blossomes  drest 
And  smelling  sweete,  but  there  it  might  be  fownd 
To  bud  out  faire,  and  throwe  her  sweete  smels  al  arownd. 

No  tree  whose  braunches  did  not  bravely  spring  ; 
No  braunch  whereon  a  fine  bird  did  not  sitt ; 
No  bird  but  did  her  shrill  notes  sweetely  sing  ; 
No  song  but  did  containe  a  lovely  ditt. 
Trees,  braunches,  birds,  and  songs,  were  framed  fitt 
For  to  allure  fraile  mind  to  carelesse  ease  : 
Carelesse  the  man  scone  woxe,  and  his  weakc  witt 
Was  overcome  of  thing  that  did  him  please  ; 
So  pleased  did  his  wrathful!  purpose  faire  appease. 


304 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Thus  when  shee  had  his  eyes  and  sences  fed 
With  false  delights,  and  fild  with  pleasures  vayn, 
Into  a  shady  dale  she  soft  him  led, 
And  layd  him  downe  upon  a  grassy  playn  ; 
And  her  sweete  selfe  without  dread  or  disdayn 
She  sett  beside,  laying  his  head  disarmd 
In  her  loose  lap,  it  softly  to  sustayn. 
Where  soone  he  slumbred  fearing  not  be  harmd : 
The  whiles  with  a  love  lay  she  thus  him  sweetly  charmd. 

'  Behold,  O  man  !  that  toilesome  paines  doest  take, 
The  flowrs,  the  fields,  and  all  that  pleasaunt  growes, 
How  they  them  selves  doe  thine  ensample  make. 
Whiles  nothing  envious  nature  them  forth  throwes 
Out  of  her  fruitfull  lap  ;  how  no  man  knowes, 
They  spring,  they  bud,   they  blossome  fresh  and  faire, 
And  decke  the  world  with  their  rich  pompous  showes  ; 
Yet  no  man  for  them  taketh  paines  or  care. 
Yet  no  man  to  them  can  his  carefuU  paines  compare. 

'  The  lilly.  Lady  of  the  flowring  field, 
The  flowre-deluce,  her  lovely  Paramoure, 
Bid  thee  to  them  thy  fruitlesse  labors  yield. 
And  soone  leave  off  this  toylsome  weary  stoure  : 
Loe,  loe  !  how  brave  she  decks  her  bounteous  boure, 
With  silkin  curtens  and  gold  coverletts, 
Therein  to  shrowd  her  sumptuous  Belamoure  ; 
Yet  nether  spinnes  nor  cards,  ne  cares  nor  fretts, 
But  to  her  mother  Nature  all  her  cares  she  letts. 

*  Why  then  doest  thou,  O  man  !  that  of  them  all 
Art  Lord,  and  eke  of  nature  Soveraine, 
Wilfully  make  thyselfe  a  wretched  thrall, 
And  waste  thy  joyous  howres  in  needelcsse  paine, 
Seeking  for  daunger  and  adventures  vaine  ? 
What  bootes  it  al  to  have,  and  nothing  use  ? 
Who  shall  him  rew  that  swimming  in  the  maine 
Will  die  for  thrist,  and  water  doth  refuse  ? 
Refuse  such  fruitlesse  toile,  and  present  pleasures  chusc.' 


SPENSER.  305 

By  this  she  had  him  lulled  fast  asleepe, 
That  of  no  worldly  thing  he  care  did  take  : 
Then  she  with  liquors  strong  his  eies  did  steepe, 
That  nothing  should  him  hastily  awake. 
So  she  him  lefte,  and  did  her  selfe  betake 
Unto  her  boat  again,  with  which  she  clefte 
The  slouthfull  wave  of  that  griesy  lake  : 
Soone  shee  that  Island  far  behind  her  lefte, 
And  now  is  come  to  that  same  place  where  first  she  wefte\ 


The  Cave  of  Mammon. 

As  Pilot  well  expert  in  perilous  wave. 
That  to  a  stedfast  starre  his  course  hath  bent, 
When  foggy  mistes  or  cloudy  tempests  have 
The  faithfull  light  of  that  faire  lampe  yblent, 
And  cover'd  heaven  with  hideous  dreriment, 
Upon  his  card  and  compas  firmes.his  eye, 
The  maysters  of  his  long  experiment. 
And  to  them  does  the  steddy  helme  apply, 
Bidding  his  winged  vessell  fairely  forward  fly  : 

So  Guyon  having  lost  his  trustie  guyde. 
Late  left  beyond  that  Ydle  lake,  proceedes 
Yet  on  his  way,  of  none  accompanyde  ; 
And  evermore  himselfe  with  comfort  feedes 
Of  his  own  vertues  and  praise-worthie  deedes. 
So,  long  he  yode,  yet  no  adventure  found. 
Which  fame  of  her  shrill  trumpet  worthy  reedes  ; 
For  still  he  traveild  through  wide  v/astfull  ground, 
That  nought  but  desert  wildernesse  shewed  all  around. 

At  last  he  came  unto  a  gloomy  glade, 
Cover'd  with  boughes  and  shrubs  from  heavens  light, 
Whereas  he  sitting  found  in  secret  shade 
An  uncouth,  salvage,  and  uncivile  wight, 
Of  griesly  hew  and  fowle  ill  favour'd  sight  ; 

*  was  wafted. 
VOL.  I.  X 


3o6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

His  face  with  smoke  was  tand,  and  eies  were  bleard, 

His  head  and  beard  with  sout  were  ill  bedight, 

His  cole-blacke  hands  did  seeme  to  have  been  seard 

In  smythes  fire-spitting  forge,  and  nayles  like  clawes  appeard. 

His  yron  cote,  all  overgrowne  with  rust. 
Was  underneath  enveloped  with  gold  ; 
Whose  glistring  glosse,  darkned  with  filthy  dust, 
Well  yet  appeared  to  have  beene  of  old 
A  worke  of  rich  entayle  and  curious  mould, 
Woven  with  antickes  and  wyld  ymagery  ; 
And  in  his  lap  a  masse  of  coyne  he  told. 
And  turned  upside  downe,  to  feede  his  eye 
And  covetous  desire  with  his  huge  threasury. 

And  round  about  him  lay  on  every  side 
Great  heapes  of  gold  that  never  could  be  spent ; 
Of  which  som.e  were  rude  owre,  not  purifide 
Of  Mulcibers  devouring  element ; 
Some  others  were  new  driven,  and  distent 
Into  great  Ingowes  and  to  wedges  square  ; 
Some  in  round  plates  withouten  moniment ; 
But  most  were  stampt,  and  in  their  metal  bare 
The  antique  shapes  of  kings  and  kesars  straunge  and  rare. 

Soone  as  he  Guyon  saw,  in  great  affright 
And  haste  he  rose  for  to  remove  aside 
Those  pretious  hils  from  straungers  envious  sight, 
And  downe  them  poured  through  an  hole  full  wide 
Into  the  hollow  earth,  them  there  to  hide. 
But  Guyon,  lightly  to  him  leaping,  stayd 
His  hand  that  trembled  as  one  tcrrifyde  ; 
And  though  himsclfe  were  at  the  sight  dismayd, 
Yet  him  perforce  restraynd,  and  to  him  doubtfull  sayd : 

'  What  art  thou,  man,  (if  man  at  all  thou  art) 
That  here  in  desert  hast  thine  habitaunce. 
And  these  rich  hils  of  wclth  doest  hide  apart 
From  the  worldcs  eye,  and  from  her  right  usauncc  ?' 
Thereat,  with  staring  eyes  fixed  askaunce, 


SPEiVSEI?.  207 

In  great  disdaine  he  answerd :  '  Hardy  Elfe, 

That  darest  view  my  direfull  countenaunce, ' 

I  read  thee  rash  and  heedlesse  of  thy  selfe, 

To  trouble  my  still  seate,  and  heapes  of  pretious  pelfe. 
'  God  of  the  world  and  worldlings  I  me  call, 

Great  Mammon,  greatest  god  below  the  skye, ' 

That  of  my  plenty  poure  out  unto  all, 

And  unto  none  my  graces  do  envye  : ' 

Riches,  renowme,  and  principality. 

Honour,  estate,  and  all  this  world'es  good, 

For  which  men  swinck  and  sweat  incessantly, 

Fro  me  do  flow  into  an  ample  flood. 

And  in  the  hollow  earth  have  their  eternall  brood. 

'Wherefore,  if  me  thou  deigne  to  serve  and  sew^ 
At  thy  commaund  lo  !  all  these  mountaines  bee  : 
Or  if  to  thy  great  mind,  or  greedy  vew, 
All  these  may  not  suffise,  there  shall  to'  thee 
Ten  times  so  much  be  nombred  francke  and  free ' 

Mammon,'  (said  he)  'thy  godheads  vaunt  is  vaine, 
And  idle  offers  of  thy  golden  fee  ; 
To  them  that  covet  such  eye-glutting  gaine 
Proffer  thy  giftes,  and  fitter  servaunts  entertaine. 

'  Me  ill  besits,  that  in  der-doing  armes 
And  honours  suit  my  vowed  dales  do  spend. 
Unto  thy  bounteous  baytes  and  pleasing  charmes, 
With  which  weake  men  thou  witchest,  to  attend ; 
Regard  of  worldly  mucke  doth  fowly  blend, 
And  low  abase  the  high  heroicke  spright, 
That  joyes  for  crownes  and  kingdomes  to  contend  • 
Faire  shields,  gay  steedes,  bright  armes  be  my  delight; 
Those  be  the  riches  fit  for  an  advent'rous  knight.' 

'Vaine  glorious  Elfe,'  (saide  he)  '  doest  not  thou  weet 
Ihat  money  can  thy  wantes  at  will  supply? 
Sheilds,  steeds,  and  armes,  and  all  things  for  thee  meet, 
It  can  purvay  in  twinckling  of  an  eye  ; 
And  crownes  and  kingdomes  to  thee  multiply. 

'  follow. 
X   2 


3o8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Do  not  I  kings  create,  and  throw  the  crowne 
Sometimes  to  him  that  low  in  dust  doth  ly, 
And  him  that  raignd  into  his  rowme  thrust  downe, 
And  whom  I  lust  do  heape  with  glory  and  renowne  ? ' 

'All  otherwise'  (saide  he)  'I  riches  read, 
And  deeme  them  roote  of  all  disquietnesse  ; 
First  got  with  guile,  and  then  preserv'd  with  dread, 
And  after  spent  with  pride  and  lavishnesse, 
Leaving  behind  them  griefe  and  heavinesse : 
Infinite  mischiefes  of  them  doe  arize. 
Strife  and  debate,  bloodshed  and  bitternesse, 
Outrageous  wrong,  and  hellish  covetize. 
That  noble  heart  as  great  dishonour  doth  despize. 

'  Ne  thine  be  kingdomes,  ne  the  scepters  thine  ; 
But  realmes  and  rulers  thou  doest  both  confound, 
And  loyall  truth  to  treason  doest  incline : 
Witnesse  the  guiltlesse  blood  pourd  oft  on  ground, 
The  crowned  often  slaine,  the  slayer  cround  ; 
The  sacred  Diademe  in  peeces  rent, 
And  purple  robe  gored  with  many  a  wound. 
Castles  surprizd,  great  cities  sackt  and  brent  ; 
So  mak'st  thou  kings,  and  gaynest  wrongfuU  government. 

'  Long  were  to  tell  the  troublous  stormes  that  tosse 
The  private  state,  and  make  the  life  unsweet  : 
Who  swelling  sayles  in  Caspian  sea  doth  crosse, 
And  in  frayle  wood  on  Adrian  gulf  doth  fleet, 
Doth  not,  I  weene,  so  many  evils  meet.' 
Then  Mammon  wexing  wroth  :  '  And  why  then,'  sayd, 
'  Are  mortall  men  so  fond  and  undiscreet 
So  evill  thing  to  seeke  unto  their  ayd. 
And  having  not  complainc,  and  having  it  upbrayd?' 

'  Indecde,'  (quoth  he)  'through  fowle  intcmpcrauncc, 
Frayle  men  are  oft  captiv'd  to  covctise  ; 
liut  would  they  thinke  with  how  small  allowauncc 
Untroubled  Nature  doth  her  selfc  suffise, 
Such  superfluities  they  would  despise, 


SPENSER. 

Which  with  sad  cares  empeach  our  native  joyes. 
At  the  well-head  the  purest  streames  arise  ; 
But  mucky  filth  his  braunching  armes  annoyes, 
And  with  uncomely  weedes  the  gentle  wave  accloyes. 

'  The  antique  world,  in  his  first  flowring  youth, 
Fownd  no  defect  in  his  Creators  grace  ; 
But  with  glad  thankes,  and  unreproved  truth, 
The  gifts  of  soveraine  bounty  did  embrace  : 
Like  Angels  life  was  then  mens  happy  cace  ; 
But  later  ages  pride,  like  corn-fed  steed, 
Abusd  her  plenty  and  fat  swolne  encreace 
To  all  licentious  lust,  and  gan  exceed 
The  measure  of  her  meane  and  naturall  first  need. 

'  Then  gan  a  cursed  hand  the  quiet  wombe 
Of  his  great  Grandmother  with  Steele  to  wound, 
And  the  hid  treasures  in  her  sacred  tombe 
With  Sacriledge  to  dig.     Therein  he  fownd 
Fountaines  of  gold  and  silver  to  abownd. 
Of  which  the  matter  of  his  huge  desire 
And  pompous  pride  eftsoones  he  did  compownd  ; 
Then  avarice  gan  through  his  veines  inspire 
His  greedy  flames,  and  kindled  life-devouring  fire.' 

*  Sonne,'  (said  he  then)  '  Ictt  be  thy  bitter  scorne, 
And  leave  the  rudenesse  of  that  antique  age 

To  them  that  liv'd  therin  in  state  forlorne  : 
Thou,  that  doest  live  in  later  times,  must  wage 
Thy  workes  for  wealth,  and  life  for  gold  engage. 
If  then  thee  list  my  offred  grace  to  use. 
Take  what  thou  please  of  all  this  surplusage  ; 
If  thee  list  not,  leave  have  thou  to  refuse: 
But  refused  doe  not  afterward  accuse.' 

*  Me  list  not'  (said  the  Elfin  knight)  'receave 
Thing  offred,  till  I  know  it  well  be  gott  ; 

Ne  wote  I  but  thou  didst  these  goods  bereave 
Yrom  rightfull  owner  by  unrighteous  lott, 
Or  that  bloodguiltincsse  or  guile  them  blott.' 


309 


3IO  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  Perdy,'  (quoth  he)  '  yet  never  eie  did  vew, 

Ne  tong  did  tell,  ne  hand  these  handled  not ; 

But  safe  I  have  them  kept  in  secret  mew 

From  havens  sight,  and  powre  of  al  which  them  poursevv.' 

'  What  secret  place '  (quoth  he)  '  can  safely  hold 
So  huge  a  masse,  and  hide  from  heaven's  eie  ? 
Or  where  hast  thou  thy  wonne,  that  so  much  gold 
Thou  canst  preserve  from  wrong  and  robbery  ? ' 
'  Come  thou,'  (quoth  he)  '  and  see.'     So  by  and  by 
Through  that  thick  covert  he  him  led,  and  fownd 
A  darkesome  way,  which  no  man  could  descry, 
That  deep  descended  through  the  hollow  grownd, 
And  was  with  dread  and  horror  compassed  arownd. 

At  length  they  came  into  a  larger  space, 
That  stretcht  itselfe  into  an  ample  playne  ; 
Through  which  a  beaten  broad  high  way  did  trace, 
That  streight  did  lead  to  Plutoes  griesly  rayne. 
By  that  wayes  side  there  sate  internal!  Payne, 
And  fast  beside  him  sat  tumultuous  Strife  : 
The  one  in  hand  an  yron  whip  did  strayne, 
The  other  brandished  a  bloody  knife  ; 
And  both  did  gnash  their  teeth,  and  both  did  threten  life. 

On  thother  side  in  one  consort  there  sate 
Cruell  Revenge,  and  rancorous  Despight, 
Disloyall  Treason,  and  hart-burning  Hate  ; 
But  gnawing  Gealosy,  out  of  their  sight 
Sitting  alone,  his  bitter  lips  did  bight  ; 
And  trembling  Feare  still  to  and  fro  did  fly, 
And  found  no  place  wher  safe  he  shroud  him  might : 
Lamenting  Sorrow  did  in  darkncs  lye. 
And  Shame  his  ugly  face  did  hide  from  living  eye. 

And  over  them  sad  Horror  with  grim  hew 
Did  alwaies  sore,  beating  his  yron  wings  ; 
And  after  him  Owles  and  Night-ravens  ficw, 
The  hateful!  messengers  of  heavy  things, 
Of  death  and  dolor  telling  sad  tidings, 


SPENSER.  '  31  r 

Whiles  sad  Celeno,  sitting  on  a  clifte, 
A  song  of  bale  and  bitter  sorrow  sings, 
That  hart  of  flint  asonder  could  have  rifte  ; 
Which  having  ended  after  him  she  flyeth  swifte. 

All  these  before  the  gates  of  Pluto  lay, 
By  whom  they  passing  spake  unto  them  nought ; 
But  th'  Elfin  knight  with  wonder  all  the  way 
Did  feed  his  eyes,  and  fild  his  inner  thought. 
At  last  him  to  a  litle  dore  he  brought, 
That  to  the  gate  of  Hell,  which  gaped  wide. 
Was  next  adjoyning,  ne  them  parted  ought : 
Betwixt  them  both  was  but  a  little  stride, 
That  did  the  house  of  Richesse  from  hell-mouth  divide. 

Before  the  dore  sat  selfe-consuming  Care, 
Day  and  night  keeping  wary  watch  and  ward, 
For  feare  least  Force  or  Fraud  should  unaware 
Breake  in,  and  spoile  the  treasure  there  in  gard  : 
Ne  would  he  suffer  Sleepe  once  thither-ward 
Approch,  albe  his  drowsy  den  were  next  ; 
For  next  to  death  is  Sleepe  to  be  compard  ; 
Therefore  his  house  is  unto  his  annext : 
Here  Sleep,  ther  Richesse,  and  Hel-gate  them  both  betwext. 

So  soon  as  Mammon  there  arrivd,  the  dore 
To  him  did  open  and  affoorded  way: 
Him  followed  eke  Sir  Guyon  evermore, 
Ne  darkenesse  him,  ne  daunger  might  dismay. 
Soone  as  he  entred  was,  the  dore  streight  way 
Did  shutt,  and  from  behind  it  forth  there  lept 
An  ugly  feend,  more  fowle  then  dismall  day, 
The  which  with  monstrous  stalke  behind  him  stept, 
And  ever  as  he  went  dew  watch  upon  him  kept. 

Well  hoped  hee,  ere  long  that  hardy  guest. 
If  ever  covetous  hand,  or  lustfull  eye. 
Or  lips  he  layd  on  thing  that  likte  him  best, 
Or  ever  sleepe  his  eie-strings  did  untye. 
Should  be  his  pray.     And  therefore  stili  on  hye 


3i: 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


He  over  him  did  hold  his  cruell  clavves, 
Threatning  with  greedy  gripe  to  doe  him  dye, 
And  rend  in  peeces  with  his  ravenous  pawes, 
If  ever  he  transgrest  the  fatall  Stygian  lawes. 

That  houses  forme  within  was  rude  and  strong, 
Lyke  an  huge  cave  hewne  out  of  rocky  cHfte, 
From  whose  rough  vaut  the  ragged  breaches  hong 
Embost  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  guifte, 
And  with  rich  metall  loaded  every  rifte, 
That  heavy  mine  they  did  seeme  to  threatt  ; 
And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lifte 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spred  her  subtile  nett, 
Enwrapped  in  fowle  smoke  and  clouds  more  black  than  Jett. 

Both  roofe,  and  floore,  and  walls,  were  all  of  gold, 
But  overgrowne  with  dust  and  old  decay, 
And  hid  in  darkenes,  that  none  could  behold 
The  hew  thereof;  for  vew  of  cherefull  day 
Did  never  in  that  house  it  selfe  display, 
But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertein  light : 
Such  as  a  lamp,  whose  life  does  fade  away. 
Or  as  the  Moone,  cloathed  with  clowdy  night. 
Does  show  to  him  that  walkes  in  feare  and  sad  affright. 

In  all  that  rowme  was  nothing  to  be  scene 
But  huge  great  yron  chests,  and  coffers  strong. 
All  bard  with  double  bends,  that  none  could  weene 
Them  to  efforce  by  violence  or  wrong : 
On  every  side  they  placed  were  along ; 
But  all  the  grovvnd  with  sculs  was  scattered, 
And  dead  mens  bones,  which  round  about  were  flong ; 
Whose  lives,  it  seemed,  whilome  there  were  shed, 
And  their  vile  carcases  now  left  unburied. 


SPENSER.  3 1 3 


The  Bower  of  Bliss. 


Thence  passing  forth,  they  shortly  doe  arryve 
Whereas  the  Bowre  of  Bhsse  was  situate  ; 
A  place  pickt  out  by  choyce  of  best  alyve, 
That  natures  worke  by  art  can  imitate  : 
In  which  whatever  in  this  worldly  state 
Is  sweete  and  pleasing  unto  living  sense, 
Or  that  may  dayntest  fantasy  aggrate^ 
Was  poured  forth  with  plentifull  dispence, 
And  made  there  to  abound  with  lavish  affluence. 

Goodly  it  was  enclosed  rownd  about, 
As  well  their  entred  guestes  to  keep  within, 
As  those  unruly  beasts  to  hold  without  ; 
Yet  was  the  fence  thereof  but  weake  and  thin  : 
Nought  feard  theyr  force  that  fortilage  to  win, 
But  wisedomes  powre,  and  temperaunces  might, 
By  which  the  mightiest  things  efforced  bin  : 
And  eke  the  gate  was  wrought  of  substaunce  light, 
Rather  for  pleasure  then  for  battery  or  fight. 

Yt  framed  was  of  precious  yvory. 
That  seemd  a  worke  of  admirable  witt ; 
And  therein  all  the  famous  history 
Of  Jason  and  Medea  was  ywritt  ; 
Her  mighty  charmes,  her  furious  loving  fitt ; 
His  goodly  conquest  of  the  golden  fleece. 
His  falsed  fayth,  and  love  too  lightly  flitt ; 
The  wondred  Argo,  which  in  venturous  peece 
First  through  the  Euxine  seas  bore  all  the  flowr  of  Greece. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

Eftsoones  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound. 
Of  all  that  mote  delight  a  daintie  eare, 
Such  as  attonce  might  not  on  living  ground. 
Save  in  this  Paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere  : 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  heare, 

*  please. 


ir4  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


To  read  what  manner  musicke  that  mote  bee  ; 

For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  eare 

Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmonee  ; 

Birdes,  voices,  instruments,  windes,  waters,  all  agree 

The  joyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  chearefull  shade 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet ; 
Th'  Angelicall  soft  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet ; 
The  silver  sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmure  of  the  waters  fall  ; 
The  waters  fall  with  difference  discreet. 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all. 

There,  whence  that  Musick  seemed  heard  to  bee, 
Was  the  faire  Witch  her  selfe  now  solacing 
With  a  new  Lover,  whom,  through  sorceree 
And  witchcraft,  she  from  farre  did  thither  bring  : 
There  she  had  him  now  laid  aslombering 
In  secret  shade  after  long  wanton  joyes  ; 
Whilst  round  about  them  pleasauntly  did  sing 
Many  faire  Ladies  and  lascivious  boyes, 
That  ever  mixt  their  song  with  light  licentious  toyes. 
****** 

The  whiles  some  one  did  chaunt  this  lovely  lay  : 
Ah  !  see,  whoso  fayre  thing  doest  faine  to  see, 
In  springing  flowre  the  image  of  thy  day. 
Ah  !  see  the  Virgin  Rose,  how  sweetly  shee 
Doth  first  peepe  foorth  with  bashfull  modestee, 
That  fairer  seemes  the  lesse  ye  see  her  may. 
Lo  !  see  soone  after  how  more  bold  and  free 
Her  bared  bosome  she  doth  broad  display ; 
Lo  !  see  soone  after  how  she  fades  and  falls  away. 

So  passeth,  in  the  passing  of  a  day, 
Of  mortall  life  the  leafc,  the  bud,  the  flowre  ; 
Ne  more  doth  florish  after  first  decay. 
That  earst  was  sought  to  deck  both  bed  and  bowre 
Of  many  a  lady',  and  many  a  Paramowre. 


Gather  therefore  the  Rose  whilest  yet  is  prime, 
For  soone  comes  age  that  will  her  pride  deflowre  ; 
Gather  the  Rose  of  love  whilest  yet  is  time, 
Whilest  loving  thou  mayst  loved  be  with  equall  crime. 

He  ceast  ;  and  then  gan  all  the  quire  of  birdes 
Their  diverse  notes  t'  attune  unto  his  lay, 
As  in  approvaunce  of  his  pleasing  wordes. 
The  constant  payre  heard  all  that  he  did  say, 
Yet  swarved  not,  but  kept  their  forward  way 
Through  many  covert  groves  and  thickets  close, 
In  which  they  creeping  did  at  last  display 
That  wanton  Lady  with  her  Lover  lose, 
Whose  sleepie  head  she  in  her  lap  did  soft  dispose. 


[From  Book  iv.  1595-6.] 
Gardens  of  Venus. 

'Thus  having  past  all  perill,  I  was  come 
Within  the  compassc  of  that  Islands  space  ; 
The  which  did  seeme,  unto  my  simple  doome, 
The  onely  pleasant  and  delightfull  place 
That  ever  troden  was  of  footings  trace  : 
For  all  that  nature  by  her  mother-wit 
Could  frame  in  earth,  and  forme  of  substance  base, 
Was  there  ;  and  all  that  nature  did  omit. 
Art,  playing  second  natures  part,  supplyed  it. 

'  No  tree,  that  is  of  count,  in  greenewood  growes, 
From  lowest  Juniper  to  Ceder  tall. 
No  flowre  in  field,  that  daintie  odour  throwes, 
And  deckes  his  branch  with  blossomes  over  all, 
But  there  was  planted,  or  grew  naturall  : 
Nor  sense  of  man  so  coy  and  curious  nice, 
But  there  mote  find  to  please  it  selfe  withall  ; 
Nor  hart  could  wish  for  any  queint  device, 
But  there  it  present  was,  and  did  fraile  sense  entice. 


3r6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  In  such  luxurious  plentie  of  all  pleasure, 
It  seem'd  a  second  paradise  to  ghesse, 
So  lavishly  enricht  with  Natures  threasure, 
That  if  the  happie  soules,  which  doe  possesse 
Th'  Elysian  fields  and  live  in  lasting  blesse, 
Should  happen  this  with  living  eye  to  see, 
They  soone  would  loath  their  lesser  happinesse, 
And  wish  to  life  return'd  againe  to  bee, 
That  in  this  joyous  place  they  mote  have  joj^ance  free. 

'  Fresh  shadowes,  fit  to  shroud  from  sunny  ray  ; 
Faire  lawnds,  to  take  the  sunne  in  season  dew  ; 
Sweet  springs,  in  which  a  thousand  Nymphs  did  play  ; 
Soft  rombling  brookes,  that  gentle  slomber  drew  ; 
High  reared  mounts,  the  lands  about  to  view  ; 
Low  looking  dales,  disloignd  from  common  gaze  ; 
Delightfull  bowres,  to  solace  lovers  trew  ; 
False  Labyrinthes,  fond  runners  eyes  to  daze  ; 
All  which  by  nature  made  did  nature  selfe  amaze. 

'  And  all  without  were  walkes  and  alleyes  dight 
With  divers  trees  enrang'd  in  even  rankes  ; 
And  here  and  there  were  pleasant  arbors  pight, 
And  shadie  seates,  and  sundry  flowring  bankes. 
To  sit  and  rest  the  walkers  wearie  shankes  : 
And  therein  thousand  payres  of  lovers  walkt, 
Praysing  their  god,  and  yeclding  him  great  thankcs, 
Ne  ever  ought  but  of  their  true  loves  talkt, 
Ne  ever  for  rebuke  or  blame  of  any  balkt. 

'All  these  together  by  themselves  did  sport 
Their  spotlesse  pleasures  and  sweet  loves  content. 
But,  farre  away  from  these,  another  sort 
Of  lovers  lincked  in  true  harts  consent, 
Which  loved  not  as  these  for  like  intent, 
But  on  chast  vertue  grounded  their  desire, 
Farre  from  all  fraud  or  fayncd  blandishment ; 
Which,  in  their  spirits  kindling  zealous  fire, 
Brave  thoughts  and  noble  decdcs  did  evermore  aspire. 


SPENSER.  3 1 7 


*  Such  were  great  Hercules  and  Hyllus  deare 
Trew  Jonathan  and  David  trustie  tryde 
Stout  Theseus  and  Pirithous  his  feare  ^ 
Pylades  and  Orestes  by  his  syde  ; 
Myld  Titus  and  Gesippus  without  pryde  ; 
Damon  and  Pythias,  whom  death  could  not  sever  : 
All  these,  and  all  that  ever  had  bene  tyde 
In  bands  of  friendship,  there  did  live  for  ever  ; 
Whose  lives  although  decay'd,  yet  loves  decayed  never. 

'Which  when  as  I,  that  never  tasted  blis 
Nor  happie  howre,  beheld  with  gazefuU  eye, 
I  thought  there  was  none  other  heaven  then  this  ; 
And  gan  their  endlesse  happinesse  envye, 
That  being  free  from  feare  and  gealosye 
Might  frankely  there  their  loves  desire  possesse  ; 
Whilest  I,  through  paines  and  perlous  jeopardie. 
Was  forst  to  seeke  my  lifes  deare  patronnesse  : 
Much  dearer  be  the  things  which  come  through  hard  distresse. 

'Yet  all  those  sights,  and  ail  that  else  I  saw, 
Might  not  my  steps  withhold,  but  that  forthright 
Unto  that  purposd  place  I  did  me  draw. 
Where  as  my  love  was  lodged  day  and  night, 
The  temple  of  great  Venus,  that  is  hight 
The  Oueene  of  beautie,  and  of  love  the  mother, 
There  worshipped  of  every  living  wight  ; 
Whose  goodly  workmanship  farre  past  all  other 
That  ever  were  on  earth,  all  were  they  set  together.' 

Wooing  of  Amoret. 
'  Into  the  inmost  Temple  thus  I  came. 
Which  fuming  all  with  frankensence  I  found 
And  odours  rising  from  the  altars  flame. 
Upon  an  hundred  marble  pillors  round 
The  roofe  up  high  was  reared  from  the  ground, 
All  deckt  with  crownes,  and  chaynes,  and  girlands  gay, 
And  thousand  pretious  gifts  worth  many  a  pound. 
The  which  sad  lovers  for  their  vowes  did  pay  ; 
And  all  the  ground  was  strow'd  with  flowres  as  fresh  as  May. 
*  companion. 


3i8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  An  hundred  Altars  round  about  were  set, 
All  flaming  with  their  sacrifices  fire, 
That  with  the  steme  thereof  the  Temple  swet, 
Which  rould  in  clouds  to  heaven  did  aspire, 
And  in  them  bore  true  lovers  vowes  entire  : 
And  eke  an  hundred  brasen  caudrons  bright, 
To  bath  in  joy  and  amorous  desire, 
Every  of  which  was  to  a  damzell  hight  ; 
For  all  the  Priests  were  damzels  in  soft  linnen  dight. 

'Right  in  the  midst  the  Goddesse  selfe  did  stand 
Upon  an  altar  of  some  costly  masse. 
Whose  substance  was  uneath  to  understand  : 
For  neither  pretious  stone,  nor  durefull  brasse, 
Nor  shining  gold,  nor  mouldring  clay  it  was  ; 
But  much  more  rare  and  pretious  to  esteeme, 
Pure  in  aspect,  and  like  to  christall  glasse. 
Yet  glasse  was  not,  i-f  one  did  rightly  deeme  ; 
But,  being  faire  and  brickie,  likest  glasse  did  seeme. 

'And  all  about  her  necke  and  shoulders  flew 
A  flocke  of  litle  loves,  and  sports,  and  joyes, 
With  nimble  wings  of  gold  and  purple  hew  ; 
Whose  shapes  seem'd  not  like  to  terrestriall  boyes, 
But  like  to  Angels  playing  heavenly  toyes. 
The  whilest  their  eldest  brother  was  away, 
Cupid  their  eldest  brother  ;  he  enjoyes 
The  wide  kingdome  of  love  with  lordly  sway. 
And  to  his  law  compels  all  creatures  to  obay. 

'And  all  about  her  altar  scattered  lay 
Great  sorts  of  lovers  piteously  complayning, 
Some  of  their  losse,  some  of  their  loves  delay, 
Some  of  their  pride,  some  paragons  disdayning, 
Some  fearing  fraud,  some  fraudulently  fayning, 
As  every  one  had  cause  of  good  or  ill. 
Amongst  the  rest  some  one,  through  Loves  constrayning 
Tormented  sore,  could  not  containe  it  still, 
But  thus  brake  forth,  that  all  the  temple  it  did  fill. 


SPENSER.  319 

'  "  Great  Venus  !  Oueene  of  beautie  and  of  grace, 
The  joy  of  Gods  and  men,  that  under  skie 
Doest  fayrest  shine,  and  most  adorne  thy  place  ; 
That  with  thy  smyHng  looke  doest  pacific 
The  raging  seas,  and  makst  the  stormes  to  flie  ; 
Thee,  goddesse,  thee  the  winds,  the  clouds  doe  feare, 
And,  when  thou  spredst  thy  mantle  forth  on  hie. 
The  waters  play,  and  pleasant  lands  appeare. 
And  heavens  laugh,  and  al  the  world  shews  joyous  cheare. 
^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

' "  So  all  the  world  by  thee  at  first  was  made, 
And  dayly  yet  thou  doest  the  same  repayre  ; 
Ne  ought  on  earth  that  merry  is  and  glad, 
Ne  ought  on  earth  that  lovely  is  and  fayre. 
But  thou  the  same  for  pleasure  didst  prepayre  : 
Thou  art  the  root  of  all  that  joyous  is  : 
Great  God  of  men  and  women,  queene  of  th'  ayre. 
Mother  of  laughter,  and  welspring  of  blisse, 

0  graunt  that  of  my  love  at  last  I  may  not  misse  ! " 

'So  did  he  say  :  but  I  with  murmure  soft, 
That  none  might  heare  the  sorrow  of  my  hart. 
Yet  inly  groning  deepe  and  sighing  oft. 
Besought  her  to  graunt  ease  unto  my  smart. 
And  to  my  wound  her  gratious  help  impart. 
Whilest  thus  I  spake,  behold  !  with  happy  eye 

1  spyde  where  at  the  I  doles  feet  apart 
A  bevie  of  fayre  damzels  close  did  lye, 

Wayting  when  as  the  Antheme  should  be  sung  on  hyc. 

'  The  first  of  them  did  seeme  of  ryper  yeares 
And  graver  countenance  then  ail  the  rest  : 
Yet  all  the  rest  were  eke  her  equall  peares. 
Yet  unto  her  obayed  all  the  best. 
Her  name  was  Womanhood  ;  that  she  exprest 
By  her  sad  semblant  and  demeanure  wyse  : 
For  stedfast  still  her  eyes  did  fixed  rest, 
Ne  rov'd  at  random,  after  gazers  guyse. 
Whose  luring  baytes  oftimes  doe  heedlesse  harts  cntyGC. 


320  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


'And  next  to  her  sate  goodly  Shamefastnesse, 
Ne  ever  durst  her  eyes  from  ground  upreare, 
Ne  ever  once  did  looke  up  from  her  desse^, 
As  if  some  blame  of  evill  she  did  feare, 
That  in  her  cheekes  made  roses  oft  appeare  : 
And  her  against  sweet  Cherefulnesse  was  placed, 
Whose  eyes,  like  twinkling  stars  in  evening  cleare. 
Were  deckt  with  smyles  that  all  sad  humors  chaced, 
And  darted  forth  delights  the  which  her  goodly  graced. 

'  And  next  to  her  sate  sober  Modestie, 
Holding  her  hand  upon  her  gentle  hart  ; 
And  her  against  sate  comely  Curtesie, 
That  unto  every  person  knew  her  part ; 
And  her  before  was  seated  overthwart 
Soft  Silence,  and  submisse  Obedience, 
Both  linckt  together  never  to  dispart  ; 
Both  gifts  of  God,  not  gotten  but  from  thence, 
Both  girlonds  of  his  Saints  against  their  foes  offence. 

'  Thus  sate  they  all  around  in  seemely  rate  : 
And  in  the  midst  of  them  a  goodly  mayd 
Even  in  the  lap  of  Womanhood  there  sate. 
The  which  was  all  in  lilly  white  arayd, 
With  silver  streames  amongst  the  linnen  stray'd  ; 
Like  to  the  Morne,  when  first  her  shyning  face 
Hath  to  the  gloomy  world  itselfe  bewray'd  : 
That  same  was  fayrest  Amoret  in  place, 
Shyning  with  beauties  light  and  heavenly  vertues  grace. 

'Whom  soone  as  I  beheld,  my  hart  gan  throb 
And  wade  in  doubt  what  best  were  to  be  donne  ; 
For  sacrilege  me  secm'd  the  Church  to  rob. 
And  folly  seem'd  to  leave  the  thing  undonne 
Which  with  so  strong  attempt  I  had  begonne. 
The,  shaking  off  all  doubt  and  shamefast  fcare 
Which  Ladies  love,  I  heard,  had  never  wonne 
Mongst  men  of  worth,  I  to  her  stepped  neare, 
And  by  the  lilly  hand  her  labour'd  up  to  reare. 

'  dais. 


SPENSER.  321 


'Thereat  that  formost  matrone  me  did  blame, 
And  sharpe  rebuke  for  being  over  bold  ; 
Saying,  it  was  to  Knight  unseemely  shame 
Upon  a  recluse  Virgin  to  lay  hold, 
That  unto  Venus  services  was  sold. 
To  whom  I  thus  :  "  Nay,  but  it  fitteth  best 
For  Cupids  man  with  Venus  mayd  to  hold, 
For  ill  your  goddesse  services  are  drest 
By  virgins,  and  her  sacrifices  let  to  rest." 

'  With  that  my  shield  I  forth  to  her  did  show, 
Which  all  that  while  I  closely  had  conceld 
On  which  when  Cupid,  with  his  kilhng  bow 
And  cruell  shafts,  emblazond  she  beheld. 
At  sight  thereof  she  was  with  terror  queld, 
And  said  no  more  :  but  I,  which  all  that  while 
The  pledge  of  faith,  her  hand,  engaged  held. 
Like  warie  Hynd  within  the  weedie  soyle. 
For  no  intreatie  would  forgoe  so  glorious  spoyle. 

'  And  evermore  upon  the  Goddesse  face 
Mine  eye  was  fixt,  for  feare  of  her  offence  ; 
Whom  when  I  saw  with  amiable  grace 
To  laugh  at  me,  and  favour  my  pretence, 
I  was  emboldned  with  more  confidence  ; 
And  nought  for  nicenesse  nor  for  envy  sparing, 
In  presence  of  them  all  forth  led  her  thence 
All  looking  on,  and  like  astonisht  staring. 
Yet  to  lay  hand  on  her  not  one  of  all  them  daring. 

'She  often  prayd,  and  often  me  besought, 
Sometime  with  tender  teares  to  let  her  goe, 
Sometime  with  witching  smyles  ;  but  yet,  for  nought 
That  ever  she  to  me  could  say  or  doe, 
Could  she  her  wished  freedome  fro  me  wooe : 
But  forth  I  led  her  through  the  Temple  gate, 
By  which  I  hardly  past  with  much  adoe  : 
But  that  same  Ladie,  which  me  friended  late 
In  entrance,  did  me  also  friend  in  my  retratc. 
VOL.  I.  Y 


322  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'No  lesse  did  Daunger  threaten  me  with  dread, 
Whenas  he  saw  me,  maugre  all  his  powre, 
That  glorious  spoyle  of  beautie  with  me  lead, 
Then  Cerberus,  when  Orpheus  did  recoure 
His  Leman  from  the  Stygian  Princes  boure  : 
But  evermore  my  shield  did  me  defend 
Against  the  storme  of  every  dreadfull  stoure  : 
Thus  safely  with  my  love  I  thence  did  wend.' 
So  ended  he  his  tale,  where  I  this  Canto  end. 


[From  The  Faerie  Qiiee?ie,  Bk.  vi.] 

The  Quelling  of  the  Blatant  Beast. 

Through  all  estates  he  found  that  he  had  past, 
In  which  he  many  massacres  had  left. 
And  to  the  Clergy  now  was  come  at  last  ; 
In  which  such  spoile,  such  havocke,  and  such  theft 
He  wrought,  that  thence  all  goodnesse  he  bereft, 
That  endlesse  were  to  tell.     The  Elfin  Knight, 
Who  now  no  place  besides  unsought  had  left. 
At  length  into  a  Monastere  did  light. 
Where  he  him  found  despoyling  all  with  maine  and  might. 

Into  their  cloysters  now  he  broken  had, 
Through  which  the  Monckes  he  chaced  here  and  there, 
And  them  pursu'd  into  their  dortours '  sad. 
And  searched  all  their  eels  and  secrets  neare  : 
In  which  what  filth  and  ordure  did  appeare. 
Were  yrkesome  to  report  ;  yet  that  foule  Beast, 
Nought  sparing  them,  the  more  did  tossc  and  teare, 
And  ransacke  all  their  dennes  from  most  to  least, 
Regarding  nought  religion,  nor  their  holy  heast. 

From  thence  into  the  sacred  Church  he  broke, 
And  robd  the  Chanccll,  and  the  deskes  downc  threw. 
And  Altars  fouled,  and  blasphemy  spoke, 
And  th'  Images,  for  all  their  goodly  hew, 
Did  cast  to  ground,  whilcst  none  was  them  to  rew  ; 

*  dormitories. 


SPENSER.  323 

So  all  confounded  and  disordered  there  : 

But,  seeing  Calidore,  away  he  flew, 

Knowing  his  fatall  hand  by  former  feare  ; 

But  he  him  fast  pursuing  soone  approched  nearc. 

Him  in  a  narrow  place  he  overtooke, 
And  fierce  assailing  forst  him  turne  againe  : 
Sternely  he  tumd  againe,  when  he  him  strooke 
With  his  sharpe  Steele,  and  ran  at  him  amaine 
With  open  mouth,  that  seemed  to  containe 
A  full  good  pecke  within  the  utmost  brim, 
All  set  with  yron  teeth  in  raunges  twaine, 
That  terrifide  his  foes,  and  armed  him, 
Appearing  like  the  mouth  of  Orcus  griesly  grim  : 

And  therein  were  a  thousand  tongs  empight 
Of  sundry  kindes  and  sundry  quality  ; 
Some  were  of  dogs,  that  barked  day  and  night ; 
And  some  of  cats,  that  wrawling  still  did  cry  ; 
And  some  of  Beares,  that  groynd  continually ; 
And  some  of  Tygres,  that  did  seeme  to  gren 
And  snar  at  all  that  ever  passed  by : 
But  most  of  them  were  tongues  of  mortall  men, 
Which  spake  reprochfully,  not  caring  where  nor  when. 

And  them  amongst  were  mingled  here  and  there 
The  tongues  of  Serpents,  with  three  forked  stings, 
That  spat  out  poyson,  and  gore-bloudy  gere, 
At  all  that  came  within  his  ravenings  ; 
And  spake  licentious  words  and  hatefull  things 
Of  good  and  bad  alike,  of  low  and  hie, 
Ne  Kesars  spared  he  a  whit,  nor  Kings  ; 
But  either  blotted  them  with  infamie. 
Or  bit  them  with  his  banefuU  teeth  of  injury. 

****** 

Full  cruelly  the  Beast  did  rage  and  rore 
To  be  downe  held,  and  maystred  so  with  might, 
That  he  gan  fret  and  fonie  out  bloudy  gore, 
Striving  in  vaine  to  rare  him  selfe  upright  : 
For  still,  the  more  he  strove,  the  more  the  Knight 

Y    2 


324  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Did  him  suppresse,  and  forcibly  subdew, 
That  made  him  almost  mad  for  fell  despight : 
He  grind,  hee  bit,  he  scratch t,  he  venim  threw, 
And  fared  like  a  feend  right  horrible  in  hew  : 

Or  like  the  hell-borne  Hydra,  which  they  faine 
That  great  Alcides  whilome  overthrew. 
After  that  he  had  labourd  long  in  vaine 
To  crop  his  thousand  heads,  the  which  still  new 
Forth  budded,  and  in  greater  number  grew. 
Such  was  the  fury  of  this  hellish  Beast, 
Whilest  Calidore  him  under  him  downe  threw  ; 
Who  nathemore  his  heaxy  load  releast, 
But  aye,  the  more  he  rag'd,  the  more  his  powre  increast. 

Tho,  when  the  Beast  saw  he  mote  nought  availe 
By  force,  he  gan  his  hundred  tongues  apply, 
And  sharpely  at  him  to  revile  and  raile 
With  bitter  termes  of  shamefull  infamy  ; 
Oft  interlacing  many  a  forged  lie. 
Whose  like  he  never  once  did  speake,  nor  heare, 
Nor  ever  thought  thing  so  unworthily  : 
Yet  did  he  nought,  for  all  that,  him  forbeare, 
But  strained  him  so  streightly  that  he  chokt  him  neare. 

At  last,  when  as  he  found  his  force  to  shrincke 
And  rage  to  quaile,  he  tooke  a  muzzel  strong 
Of  surest  yron,  made  with  many  a  lincke : 
Therewith  he  mured  up  his  mouth  along, 
And  therein  shut  up  his  blasphemous  tong, 
For  never  more  defaming  gentle  Knight, 
Or  unto  lovely  Lady  doing  wrong  ; 
And  thereunto  a  great  long  chaine  he  tight, 
With  which  he  drew  him  forth,  even  in  his  own  despight. 

Like  as  whylome  that  strong  Tirynthian  swaine 
Brought  forlii  with  him  the  dreadfull  dog  of  hell, 
Against  his  will  fast  bound  in  yron  chaine, 
And,  roring  horribly,  did  him  compcll 
To  see  the  hateful!  sunnc,  that  he  might  tell 


SPENSER.  325 


To  griesly  Pluto  what  on  earth  was  donne, 

And  to  the  other  damned  ghosts  which  dwell 

For  aye  in  darkenesse,  which  day-light  doth  shonne  : 

So  led  this  Knight  his  captyve  with  like  conquest  wonne. 

Yet  greatly  did  the  Beast  repine  at  those 
Straunge  bands,  whose  like  till  then  he  never  bore, 
Ne  ever  any  durst  till  then  impose  ; 
And  chauffed  inly,  seeing  now  no  more 
Him  liberty  was  left  aloud  to  rore  : 
Yet  durst  he  not  draw  backe,  nor  once  withstand 
The  proved  powre  of  noble  Calidore, 
But  trembled  underneath  his  mighty  hand, 
And  like  a  fearefull  dog  him  followed  through  the  land. 

Him  through  all  Faery  land  he  follow'd  so, 
As  if  he  learned  had  obedience  long, 
That  all  the  people,  where  so  he  did  go, 
Out  of  their  townes  did  round  about  him  throng. 
To  see  him  leade  that  Beast  in  bondage  strong ; 
And  seeing  it  much  wondred  at  the  sight  : 
And  all  such  persons  as  he  earst  did  wrong 
Rejoyced  much  to  see  his  captive  plight. 
And  much  admyr'd  the  Beast,  but  more  admyr'd  the  Knight 

Thus  was  this  Monster,  by  the  maystring  might 
Of  doughty  Calidore,  supprest  and  tamed. 
That  never  more  he  mote  endammadge  wight 
With  his  vile  tongue,  which  many  had  defamed, 
And  many  causelesse  caused  to  be  blamed. 
So  did  he  eeke  long  after  this  remaine. 
Until  that,  (whether  wicked  fate  so  framed 
Or  fault  of  men,)  he  broke  his  yron  chaine, 
And  got  into  the  world  at  liberty  againe. 
****** 

So  now  he  raungeth  through  the  world  againe, 
And  rageth  sore  in  each  degree  and  state  ; 
Ne  any  is  that  may  him  now  restraine. 
He  growen  is  so  great  and  strong  of  late. 
Barking  and  biting  all  that  him  doe  bate 


326  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Albe  they  worthy  blame,  or  cleare  of  crime  : 
Ne  spareth  he  most  learned  wits  to  rate, 
Ne  spareth  he  the  gentle  Poets  rime  ; 
But  rends  without  regard  of  person  or  of  time. 

Ne  may  this  homely  verse,  of  many  meanest, 
Hope  to  escape  his  venemous  despite, 
More  then  my  former  writs,  all  were  they  cleanest 
From  blameful!  blot,  and  free  from  all  that  wite 
With  which  some  wicked  tongues  did  it  backebite, 
And  bring  into  a  mighty  Peres  displeasure. 
That  never  so  deserved  to  endite. 
Therefore  do  you,  my  rimes,  keep  better  measure, 
And  seeke  to  please  ;  that  now  is  counted  wise  mens  threasure. 

[From  Bk.  vii.  (posthumous).] 
Claims  of  Mutability  pleaded  before  Nature. 

*  Yet  mauger  Jove,  and  all  his  gods  beside, 
I  do  possesse  the  worlds  most  regiment ; 
As  if  ye  please  it  into  parts  divide, 
And  every  parts  inholders  to  convent, 
Shall  to  your  eyes  appeare  incontinent. 
And,  first,  the  Earth  (great  mother  of  us  all) 
That  only  seemes  unmov'd  and  permanent, 
And  unto  Mutabilitie  not  thrall, 
Yet  is  she  chang'd  in  part,  and  eeke  in  generall : 

'  For  all  that  from  her  springs,  and  is  ybredde, 
How-ever  faire  it  flourish  for  a  time. 
Yet  see  we  soone  decay;  and,  being  dead, 
To  turne  againe  unto  their  earthly  slime  : 
Yet,  out  of  their  decay  and  mortall  crime, 
We  daily  see  new  creatures  to  arize, 
And  of  their  Winter  spring  another  Prime, 
Unlike  in  forme,  and  chang'd  by  strange  disguise  : 
So  turne  they  still  about,  and  change  in  restlesse  wise. 

'  As  for  her  tenants,  that  is,  man  and  beasts, 
The  beasts  we  daily  see  massacred  dy 
As  thralls  and  vassals  unto  mens  bchcasts  ; 


SPE.VSEIi.  327 

And  men  themselves  do  change  continually, 

From  youth  to  eld,  from  wealth  to  poverty, 

From  good  to  bad,  from  bad  to  worst  of  all : 

Ne  doe  their  bodies  only  flit  and  fly, 

But  eeke  their  minds  (which  they  immortall  call) 

Still  change  and  vary  thought,  as  new  occasions  fall' 


[The  Seasons  and  the  Months  pass  by,  and  afler  them  the  Hours.] 

And  after  these  there  came  the  Day  and  Night, 
Riding  together  both  with  equall  pase, 
Th'  one  on  a  Palfrey  blacke,  the  other  white  ; 
But  Night  had  covered  her  uncomely  face 
With  a  blacke  veile,  and  held  in  hand  a  mace. 
On  top  whereof  the  moon  and  stars  were  pight  ; 
And  sleep  and  darknesse  round  about  did  trace  : 
But  Day  did  beare  upon  his  scepters  hight 
The  goodly  Sun  encompast  all  with  beames  bright. 

Then  came  the  Howres,  faire  daughters  of  high  Jove 
And  timely  Night ;  the  which  were  all  endewed 
With  wondrous  beauty  fit  to  kindle  love  ; 
But  they  were  virgins  all,  and  love  eschewed 
That  might  forslack  the  charge  to  them  foreshewed 
By  mighty  Jove  ;  who  did  them  porters  make 
Of  heavens  gate  (whence  all  the  gods  issued) 
Which  they  did  daily  watch,  and  nightly  wake 
By  even  turnes,  ne  ever  did  their  charge  forsake. 

And  after  all  came  Life,  and  lastly  Death  ; 
Death  with  most  grim  and  griesly  visage  scene, 
Yet  is  he  nought  but  parting  of  the  breath  ; 
Ne  ought  to  see,  but  like  a  shade  to  weene, 
Unbodied,  unsoul'd,  unheard,  unseene  : 
But  Life  was  like  a  faire  young  lusty  boy, 
Such  as  they  faine  Dan  Cupid  to  have  beene, 
Full  of  delightfull  health  and  lively  joy, 
Deckt  all  with  flowres,  and  wings  of  gold  fit  to  employ. 


328  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

When  these  were  past,  thus  gan  the  Titanesse  : 
'  Lo  !  mighty  mother,  now  be  judge,  and  say 
Whether  in  all  thy  creatures  more  or  lesse 
Change  doth  not  raign  and  bear  the  greatest  sway; 
For  who  sees  not  that  Time  on  all  doth  pray? 
But  Times  do  change  and  move  continually: 
So  nothing  heere  long  standeth  in  one  stay : 
Wherefore  this  lower  world  who  can  deny 
But  to  be  subject  still  to  MutabiHty?' 

****** 

'  Then,  since  within  this  wide  great  Universe 
Nothing  doth  firme  and  permanent  appeare. 
But  all  things  tost  and  turned  by  transverse, 
What  then  should  let,  but  I  aloft  should  reare 
My  Trophee,  and  from  all  the  triumph  beare  ? 
Now  judge  then,  (O  thou  greatest  goddesse  trew) 
According  as  thy  selfe  doest  see  and  heare, 
And  unto  me  addoom  that  is  my  dew  ; 
That  is,  the  rule  of  all,  all  being  rul'd  by  you.' 

So  having  ended,  silence  long  ensewed  ; 
Ne  Nature  to  or  fro  spake  for  a  space. 
But  with  firme  eyes  afifixt  the  ground  still  viewed. 
Meane-while  all  creatures,  looking  in  her  face, 
Expecting  th'  end  of  this  so  doubtfull  case. 
Did  hang  in  long  suspence  what  would  ensew, 
To  whether  side  should  fall  the  soveraine  place  : 
At  length  she,  looking  up  with  chearefuU  view. 
The  silence  brake,  and  gave  her  doome  in  speeches  few. 

*  I  well  consider  all  that  ye  have  said, 
And  find  that  all  things  stedfastnesse  do  hate 
And  changed  be  ;  yet,  being  rightly  wayd, 
They  are  not  changed  from  their  first  estate  ; 
But  by  their  change  their  being  do  dilate, 
And  turning  to  themselves  at  length  againe, 
Do  worke  tiieir  owne  perfection  so  by  fate  : 
Then  over  them  Change  doth  not  rule  and  raigne, 
I5ut  they  raigne  over  Change,  and  do  their  states  niaintaine. 


SPE.YSER.  329 

'  Cease  therefore,  daughter,  further  to  aspire, 
And  thee  content  thus  to  be  rul'd  by  mee, 
For  thy  decay  thou  seekst  by  thy  desire  ; 
But  time  shall  come  that  all  shall  changed  bee, 
And  from  thenceforth  none  no  more  change  shal  see.' 
So  was  the  Titanesse  put  dovvne  and  whist. 
And  Jove  confirm'd  in  his  imperial!  see. 
Then  was  that  whole  assembly  quite  dismist. 
And  Natur's  selfe  did  vanish,  whither  no  man  wist. 


[Fragment  of  the  last  Canto.] 

When  I  bethinke  me  on  that  speech  whyleare 
Of  Mutabilitie,  and  well  it  way ! 
Me  seemes,  that  though  she  all  unworthy  were 
Of  the  Heav'ns  Rule  :  yet,  very  sooth  to  say, 
In  all  things  else  she  beares  the  greatest  sway: 
Which  makes  me  loath  this  state  of  life  so  tickle. 
And  love  of  things  so  vaine  to  cast  away  ; 
Whose  flowring  pride,  so  fading  and  so  fickle. 
Short  Time  shall  soon  cut  down  with  his  consuming  sickle. 

Then  gin  I  thinke  on  that  which  Nature  sayd. 
Of  that  same  time  when  no  more  Change  shall  be, 
But  stedfast  rest  of  all  things,  firrnely  stayd 
Upon  the  pillours  of  Eternity, 
That  is  contrayr  to  Mutabilitie  ; 
For  all  that  moveth  doth  in  Change  delight : 
But  thence-forth  all  shall  rest  eternally 
With  Him  that  is  the  God  of  Sabaoth  hight  : 
O  !  that  great  Sabaoth  God,  grant  me  that  Sabaoths  sight ! 


330  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Complaint  of  Thalia  (Comedy). 

[From  The  Teares  of  the  Muses  (1591).] 

Where  be  the  sweete  delights  of  learnings  treasure 

That  wont  with  Comick  sock  to  beautefie 

The  painted  Theaters,  and  fill  with  pleasure 

The  listners  eyes  and  eares  with  melodie  ; 

In  which  I  late  was  wont  to  raine  as  Queene, 

And  maske  in  mirth  with  Graces  well  beseene  ? 

O  !  all  is  gone  ;  and  all  that  goodly  glee, 
Which  wont  to  be  the  glorie  of  gay  wits, 
Is  layd  abed,  and  no  where  now  to  see  ; 
And  in  her  roome  unseemly  Sorrow  sits. 
With  hollow  browes  and  greisly  countenaunce, 
Marring  my  joyous  gentle  dalliaunce. 

And  him  beside  sits  ugly  Barbarisme, 

And  brutish  Ignorance,  ycrept  of  late 

Out  of  dredd  darknes  of  the  deepe  Abysme, 

Where  being  bredd,  he  light  and  heaven  does  hate  : 

They  in  the  mindes  of  men  now  tyrannize, 

And  the  faire  Scene  with  rudencs  foule  disguize. 

All  places  they  with  follie  have  possest. 
And  with  vaine  toyes  the  vulgare  entertaine  ; 
But  me  have  banished,  with  all  the  rest 
That  whilome  wont  to  wait  upon  my  traine, 
Fine  Counterfesaunce,  and  unhurtfull  Sport, 
Delight,  and  Laughter,  deckt  in  seemly  sort. 

All  these,  and  all  that  els  the  Comick  Stage 

With  seasoned  wit  and  goodly  pleasance  graced, 

By  which  mans  life  in  his  likest  image 

Was  limned  forth,  arc  wholly  now  defaced  ; 

And  those  swctc  wits,  which  wont  the  like  to  frame, 

Are  now  dcspizd,  and  made  a  laughing  game. 


SPENSER.  331 

And  he,  the  man  whom  Nature  selfe  had  made 
To  mock  her  selfe,  and  Truth  to  imitate, 
With  kindly  counter  under  Mimick  shade, 
Our  pleasant  Willy,  ah  !  is  dead  of  late  : 
With  whom  all  joy  and  jolly  meriment 
Is  also  deaded,  and  in  dolour  drent. 

In  stead  thereof  scoffing  Scurrilitie, 
And  scornfull  Follie  with  Contempt  is  crept, 
Rolling  in  rj-mes  of  shameles  ribaudrie 
Without  regard,  or  due  Decorum  kept ; 
Each  idle  wit  at  will  presumes  to  make. 
And  doth  the  Learneds  taske  upon  him  take. 

But  that  same  gentle  Spirit,  from  whose  pen 
Large  streames  of  honnie  and  sweete  Nectar  flowe, 
Scorning  the  boldnes  of  such  base-borne  men. 
Which  dare  their  follies  forth  so  rashlie  throwe, 
Doth  rather  choose  to  sit  in  idle  Cell, 
Than  so  himselfe  to  mockerie  to  sell. 

So  am  I  made  the  servant  of  the  manie, 
And  laughing  stocke  of  all  that  list  to  scorne  ; 
Not  honored  nor  cared  for  of  anie. 
But  loath'd  of  losels  as  a  thing  forlorne  : 
Therefore  I  mourne  and  sorrow  with  the  rest, 
Untill  my  cause  of  sorrow  be  redrest. 


Sonnets. 
[1595-] 

Lyke  as  a  ship,  that  through  the  Ocean  wyde, 
By  conduct  of  some  star,  doth  make  her  way ; 
Whenas  a  storme  hath  dimd  her  trusty  guyde, 
Out  of  her  course  doth  wander  far  astray ! 
So  I,  whose  star,  that  wont  with  her  bright  ray 
Me  to  direct,  with  cloudes  is  over-cast, 
Doe  wander  now,  in  darknesse  and  dismay, 
Through  hidden  perils  round  about  me  plast ; 


332  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Yet  hope  I  well  that,  when  this  storme  is  past, 
My  Helice,  the  lodestar  of  my  lyfe, 
Will  shine  again,  and  looke  on  me  at  last, 
With  lovely  light  to  cleare  my  cloudy  grief, 
Till  then  I  wander  carefull,  comfortlesse, 
In  secret  sorow,  and  sad  pensivenesse. 


What  guyle  is  this,  that  those  her  golden  tresses 
She  doth  attyre  under  a  net  of  gold  ; 
And  with  sly  skill  so  cunningly  them  dresses. 
That  which  is  gold,  or  heare,  may  scarse  be  told  ? 
Is  it  that  mens  frayle  eyes,  which  gaze  too  bold. 
She  may  entangle  in  that  golden  snare  ; 
And,  being  caught,  may  craftily  enfold 
Theyr  weaker  harts,  which  are  not  wel  aware  ? 
Take  heed,  therefore,  myne  eyes,  how  ye  doe  stare 
Henceforth  too  rashly  on  that  guilefull  net, 
In  which,  if  ever  ye  entrapped  are, 
Out  of  her  bands  ye  by  no  meanes  shall  get. 
Fondnesse  it  were  for  any,  being  free, 
To  covet  fetters,  though  they  golden  bee  ! 


Sweet  Smile  !  the  daughter  of  the  Oueene  of  Love, 
Expressing  all  thy  mothers  powrefull  art. 
With  which  she  wants  to  temper  angry  Jove, 
When  all  the  gods  he  threats  with  thundring  dart : 
Sweet  is  thy  vertue,  as  thy  selfe  sweet  art. 
For,  when  on  me  thou  shinedst  late  in  sadnesse, 
A  melting  pleasance  ran  through  every  part, 
And  me  revived  with  hart-robbing  gladnesse. 
Whylcst  rapt  with  joy  resembling  heavenly  madnes, 
My  soule  was  ravisht  quite  as  in  a  traunce  ; 
And  feeling  thence,  no  more  her  sorowes  sadnesse, 
Fed  on  the  fulnesse  of  that  chearefull  glaunce, 
More  sweet  than  Nectar,  or  Ambrosiall  meat, 
Sccmd  every  bit  which  thenceforth  I  did  cat. 


SFEiVSE/^.  333 


Joy  of  my  life  !  full  oft  for  loving  you 
I  blesse  my  lot,  that  was  so  lucky  placed  : 
But  then  the  more  your  owne  mishap  I  rew, 
That  are  so  much  by  so  meane  love  embased. 
For,  had  the  equall  hevens  so  much  you  graced 
In  this  as  in  the  rest,  ye  mote  invent 
Som  hevenly  wit,  whose  verse  could  have  enchased 
Your  glorious  name  in  golden  moniment. 
But  since  ye  deignd  so  goodly  to  relent 
To  me  your  thrall,  in  whom  is  little  worth  ; 
That  little,  that  I  am,  shall  all  be  spent 
In  setting  your  immortall  prayses  forth : 
Whose  lofty  argument,  uplifting  me, 
Shall  lift  you  up  unto  an  high  degree. 


Epithalamion. 

Ye  learned  sisters,  which  have  oftentimes 

Beene  to  me  ayding,  others  to  adome. 

Whom  ye  thought  worthy  of  your  gracefuU  rymes, 

That  even  the  greatest  did  not  greatly  scorne 

To  heare  theyr  names  sung  in  your  simple  layes, 

But  joyed  in  theyr  praise  ; 

And  when  ye  list  your  owne  mishaps  to  mourne, 

Which  death,  or  love,  or  fortunes  wreck  did  rayse, 

Your  string  could  soone  to  sadder  tenor  turne, 

And  teach  the  woods  and  waters  to  lament 

Your  doleful!  dreriment  : 

Now  lay  those  sorrowfull  complaints  aside  ; 

And,  having  all  your  heads  with  girlands  crownd, 

Helpe  me  mine  owne  loves  prayses  to  resound ; 

Ne  let  the  same  of  any  be  envide  : 

So  Orpheus  did  for  his  owne  bride  ! 

So  I  unto  my  selfe  alone  will  sing  ; 

The  woods  shall  to  me  answer,  and  my  Eccho  ring. 


334  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Early,  before  the  worlds  light-giving  lampe 
His  golden  beame  upon  the  hils  doth  spred, 
Having  disperst  the  nights  unchearefull  dampe, 
Uoe  ye  awake  ;  and,  with  fresh  lusty-hed, 
Go  to  the  bowre  of  my  beloved  love, 
My  truest  turtle  dove  ; 
pjid  lier  awake  ;  for  Hymen  is  awake, 
And  long  since  ready  forth  his  maske  to  move, 
With  his  bright  Tead  that  flames  with  many  a  flake, 
And  many  a  bachelor  to  waite  on  him, 
In  theyr  fresh  garments  trim. 
Bid  her  awake  therefore,  and  soone  her  dight, 
For  lo  !  the  wished  day  is  come  at  last. 
That  shall,  for  all  the  paynes  and  sorrowes  past, 
Pay  to  her  usury  of  long  delight  : 
And,  whylest  she  doth  her  dight, 
Doe  ye  to  her  of  joy  and  solace  sing. 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Bring  with  you  all  the  Nymphes  that  you  can  heare 
Both  of  the  rivers  and  the  forrests  greene, 
And  of  the  sea  that  neighbours  to  her  neare  : 
Al  with  gay  girlands  goodly  wel  beseene. 
And  let  them  also  with  them  bring  in  hand 
Another  gay  girland, 

For  my  fayre  love,  of  lillyes  and  of  roses, 
Bound  truelove  wize,  with  a  blew  silke  riband. 
And  let  them  make  great  store  of  bridale  poses, 
And  let  them  eeke  bring  store  of  other  flowers. 
To  deck  the  bridale  bowers. 

And  let  the  ground  whereas  her  foot  shall  tread, 
For  feare  the  stones  her  tender  foot  should  wrong, 
Be  strewed  with  fragrant  flowers  all  along. 
And  diapred  lyke  the  discolored  mead. 
Which  done,  doe  at  her  chamber  dorc  awayt, 
For  she  will  waken  strayt  ; 
The  whiles  doe  ye  this  song  unto  her  sing, 
The  woods  shall  to  you  answer,  and  your  Eccho  ring. 
*  -x-  ■*  *  -x-  *  * 


SPEXSER. 


335 


Wake  now,  my  love,  awake  !  for  it  is  time 
The  Rosy  Morne  long  since  left  Tithones  bed, 
All  ready  to  her  silver  coche  to  clyme  ; 

And  Phoebus  gins  to  shew  his  gk>rious  hed 

Hark!  how  the  cheerefull  birds  do  chaunt  theyr  laics 

And  Carroll  of  Loves  praise. 

The  merry  Larke  hir  mattins  sings  alott  ; 

The  Thrush  replyes  ;  the  Mavis  descant  playes  ; 

The  Ouzell  shrills  ;  the  Ruddock  warbles  soft ; 

So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent, 

To  this  dayes  merriment. 

Ah'  my  deere  love,  why  doe  ye  sleepe  thus  long. 

When  meeter  were  that  ye  should  now  awake, 

T'  awayt  the  comming  of  your  joyous  make. 

And  hearken  to  the  birds  love-learned  song, 

The  deawy  leaves  among ! 

For  they  of  joy  and  pleasance  to  you  smg,  _ 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 

My  love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dreames, 
And  her  fayre  eyes,  like  stars  that  dimmed  were 
With  darksome  cloud,  now  shew  theyr  goodly  beams 
More  bright  than  Hesperus  his  head  doth  rere. 
Come  now,  ye  damzels,  daughters  of  delight, 
Helpe  quickly  her  to  dight : 

But  first  come  ye  fayre  houres,  which  were  begot, 
In  Joves  sweet  paradice  of  Day  and  Night ; 
Which  doe  the  seasons  of  the  yeare  allot, 
And  al,  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fayre. 
Doe  make  and  still  repayre  : 
And  ye  three  handmayds  of  the  Cyprian  Queene, 
The  which  doe  still  adorne  her  beauties  pride, 
Helpe  to  addorne  my  beautifullest  bride  : 
And,  as  ye  her  array,  still  throw  betweene 
Some  graces  to  be  seene  ; 
And,  as  ye  use  to  Venus,  to  her  sing, 
The  whiles  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  your  eccho  nnj 


336  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to  come  : 
Let  all  the  virgins  therefore  well  awayt  : 
And  ye  fresh  boyes,  that  tend  upon  her  groome, 
Prepare  your  selves  ;  for  he  is  comming  strayt. 
Set  all  your  things  in  seemely  good  aray, 
Fit  for  so  joyfuU  day  : 

The  joyfulst  day  that  ever  sunne  did  see,  • 
Faire  Sun  !  shew  forth  thy  favourable  ray, 
And  let  thy  lifull  heat  not  fervent  be, 
For  feare  of  burning  her  sunshyny  face, 
Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 
O  fayrest  Phoebus  !  father  of  the  Muse  ! 
If  ever  I  did  honour  thee  aright, 
Or  sing  the  thing  that  mote  thy  mind  delight, 
Doe  not  thy  servants  simple  boone  refuse  ; 
But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day,  be  myne  ; 
Let  all  the  rest  be  thine. 
Then  I  thy  soverayne  prayses  loud  wil  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 


Loe  !  where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace, 
Lyke  Phoebe,  from  her  chamber  of  the  East, 
Arysing  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 
Clad  all  in  white,  that  seemes  a  virgin  best. 
So  well  it  her  beseemes,  that  ye  would  weene 
Some  angell  she  had  beene. 
Her  long  loose  yellow  locks  lyke  golden  wyre, 
Sprinckled  with  perle,  and  perling  flowres  atwcenc, 
Doe  lyke  a  golden  mantle  her  attyre  ; 
And,  being  crowned  with  a  girland  grcene, 
Seeme  lyke  some  mayden  Ouccne. 
Her  modest  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 
So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare. 
Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are  ; 
Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold, 
But  Vjlush  to  heare  her  prayses  sung  so  loud, 
So  farre  from  being  proud. 


SPENSER.  337 

Nathlesse  doe  ye  still  loud  her  prayses  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

****** 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can  see, 
The  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  spright, 
Garnisht  with  heavenly  guifts  of  high  degree, 
Much  more  then  would  ye  wonder  at  that  sight. 
And  stand  astonisht  lyke  to  those  which  red 
Medusaes  mazeful  hed. 

There  dwels  sweet  love,  and  constant  chastity, 
Unspotted  fayth,  and  comely  womanhood, 
Regard  of  honour,  and  mild  modesty  ; 
There  vertue  raynes  as  Oueene  in  royal  throne, 
And  giveth  lawes  alone. 
The  which  the  base  affections  doe  obay, 
And  yeeld  theyr  services  unto  her  will  ; 
Ne  thought  of  thing  uncomely  ever  may 
Thereto  approch  to  tempt  her  mind  to  ill. 
Had  ye  once  scene  these  her  celestial  threasures, 
And  unrevealed  pleasures, 
Then  would  ye  wonder,  and  her  prayses  sing, 
That  al  the  woods  should  answer,  and  your  echo  ring. 

Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  love, 
Open  them  wide  that  she  may  enter  in. 
And  all  the  postes  adorne  as  doth  behove. 
And  all  the  pillours  deck  with  girlands  trim, 
For  to  receyve  this  Saynt  with  honour  dew. 
That  commeth  in  to  you. 
With  trembling  steps,  and  humble  reverence. 
She  commeth  in,  before  th'  Almighties  view  : 
Of  her  ye  virgins  learne  obedience, 
When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  places, 
To  humble  your  proud  faces  : 
Bring  her  up  to  th'  high  altar,  that  she  may 
The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake. 
The  which  do  endlcsse  matrimony  make  ; 
And  let  the  roring  Organs  loudly  play 
VOL.  I.  2 


338  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes  ; 

The  whiles,  with  hollow  throates, 

The  Choristers  the  joyous  Antheme  sing, 

That  al  the  woods  may  answere,  and  their  eccho  ring. 

Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands. 

Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speakes, 

And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 

How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheekes. 

And  the  pure  snow,  with  goodly  vermill  stayne 

Like  crimsin  dyde  in  grayne  : 

That  even  th'  Angels,  which  continually 

About  the  sacred  Altare  doe  remaine. 

Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 

Ofte  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fayre, 

The  more  they  on  it  stare. 

But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground, 

Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 

That  suffers  not  one  looke  to  glaunce  awry, 

Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsownd. 

Why  blush  ye,  love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 

The  pledge  of  all  our  band  ! 

Sing,  ye  sweet  Angels,  Alleluya  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answere,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Now  al  is  done  :  bring  home  the  bride  againe  ; 

Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory  : 

Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gaine 

With  joyance  bring  her  and  with  jollity. 

Never  had  man  more  joyfuU  day  then  this. 

Whom  heaven  would  heape  with  blis. 

Make  feast  therefore  now  all  this  live-long  day  ; 

This  day  for  ever  to  me  holy  is. 

Poure  out  the  wine  without  restraint  or  stay, 

Pourc  not  by  cups,  but  by  the  belly  full, 

Poure  out  to  all  tliat  wull. 

And  sprinkle  all  the  postes  and  wals  with  wine, 

That  they  may  sweat,  and  drunken  be  withall. 

Crownc  yc  God  Bacchus  with  a  coronall. 

And  Hymen  also  crowne  with  wreathes  of  vine; 


SPENSER.  339 

And  let  the  Graces  daunce  unto  the  rest, 

For  they  can  doo  it  best : 

The  whiles  the  maydens  doe  theyr  carroll  sing, 

To  which  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 

Ring  ye  the  bels,  ye  yong  men  of  the  towne, 

And  leave  your  wonted  labors  for  this  day : 

This  day  is  holy ;  doe  ye  write  it  downe, 

That  ye  for  ever  it  remember  may. 

This  day  the  sunne  is  in  his  chiefest  hight, 

With  Barnaby  the  bright, 

From  whence  declining  daily  by  degrees, 

He  somewhat  loseth  of  his  heat  and  light. 

When  once  the  Crab  behind  his  back  he  sees. 

But'  for  this  time  it  ill  ordained  was, 

To  chose  the  longest  day  in  all  the  yeare, 

And  shortest  night,  when  longest  fitter  weare : 

Yet  never  day  so  long,  but  late  would  passe. 

Ring  ye  the  bels,  to  make  it  weare  away. 

And  bonefiers  make  all  day  ; 

And  daunce  about  them,  and  about  them  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Ah  !  when  will  this  long  weary  day  have  end, 
And  lende  me  leave  to  come  unto  my  love  ? 
How  slowly  do  the  houres  theyr  numbers  spend? 
How  slowly  does  sad  Time  his  feathers  move  ? 
Hast  thee,  O  fayrest  Planet,  to  thy  home. 
Within  the  Westerne  fome  : 
Thy  tyred  steedes  long  since  have  need  of  rest. 
Long  though  it  be,  at  last  I  see  it  gloome. 
And  the  bright  evening-star  with  golden  creast 
Appeare  out  of  the  East. 

Fayre  childe  of  beauty  !  glorious  lampe  of  love  ! 
That  all  the  host  of  heaven  in  rankes  doost  lead, 
And  guydest  lovers  through  the  nights  sad  dread, 
How  chearefully  thou  lookest  from  above. 
And  seemst  to  laugh  atweene  thy  twinkling  light, 
As  joying  in  the  sight 

Z2 


340  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Of  these  glad  many,  which  for  joy  doe  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their  echo  ring ! 


And  ye  high  heavens,  the  temple  of  the  gods, 

In  which  a  thousand  torches  flaming  bright 

Doe  burne,  that  to  us  wretched  earthly  clods 

In  dreadful  darknesse  lend  desired  light  ; 

And  all  ye  powers  which  in  the  same  remayne, 

More  then  we  men  can  fayne  ! 

Poure  out  your  blessing  on  us  plentiously, 

And  happy  iniluence  upon  us  raine, 

That  we  may  raise  a  large  posterity, 

"Which  from  the  earth,  which  they  may  long  possesse 

With  lasting  happinesse, 

Up  to  your  haughty  pallaces  may  mount  ; 

And,  for  the  guerdon  of  theyr  glorious  merit, 

May  heavenly  tabernacles  there  inherit, 

Of  blessed  Saints  for  to  increase  the  count. 

So  let  us  rest,  sweet  love,  in  hope  of  this, 

And  cease  till  then  our  tymely  joyes  to  sing  : 

The  woods  no  more  us  answer,  nor  our  eccho  ring ! 


SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY. 


[Philip  Sidney  was  the  elJesf  son  of  the  well-known  Sir  Henry  Sidney, 
President  of  V\'ales  and  Lord  Deputy  of  Ireland  under  Elizabeth,  and 
through  his  mother.  Lady  Mary  Dudley,  grandson  of  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
thumberland executed  in  1553,  and  nephew  of  Lord  Leicester.  He  was 
bom  at  Penshurst  Nov.  29,  1554;  he  entered  Shrewsbury  School  Oct.  17, 
1564,  on  the  same  day  as  his  friend  and  biographer  Fulke  Greville,  after- 
wards Lord  Brooke;  and  in  1568  he  was  sent  to  Christ  Church,  Oxford. 
From  May  1572  to  May  1575  Sidney  was  abroad,  in  France,  Germany,  and 
Italy ;  sheltered  in  Sir  Francis  Walsingham's  house  in  Paris  on  the  night 
of  St.  Bartholomew,  and  spending  a  considerable  time  at  Frankfort  with 
Hubert  Languet  the  reformer,  afterwards  his  constant  correspondent.  In 
1575  he  appeared  at  Elizabeth's  Court,  and  took  part  in  the  Kenilworth 
progress.  In  1577  he  was  sent  as  English  ambassador  to  Rodolph  II  at 
Prague,  returning  the  same  year.  He  seems  to  have  made  acquaintance 
with  Harvey  and  Spenser  in  157S,  and  in  1580,  while  he  was  in  retirement 
at  Penshurst,  after  his  letter  of  remonstrance  to  the  Queen  on  the  Anjou 
match,  he  and  his  sister,  the  well-known  Countess  of  Pembroke,  produced 
a  joint  poetical  version  of  the  Psalms,  and  the  Arcadia  was  begun  (pub- 
lished 1590).  He  returned  to  Court  in  the  autumn  of  1580,  and  the  Astro- 
pkel  and  Stella  sonnets  (published  1591)  probably  date  from  the  following 
year.  The  Apologie  for  Poetrie  was  written  in  or  about  1581  (^the  first  known 
edition  is  that  of  London  1595).  Sidney  was  knighted  in  the  same  year. 
In  1583  he  married  Frances,  daughter  of  Sir  Francis  Walsingham.  and 
was  for  the  second  time  a  member  of  Parliament.  In  Nov.  1584  he  was 
appointed  governor  of  Flushing,  and  nearly  two  years  later,  on  Sept.  22, 
1586,  received  his  fatal  wound  at  the  battle  of  Zutphen.  A  complete  edition 
of  Sidney's  poems  was  published  by  the  Rev.  A.  B.  Grosart,  London,  1877.] 

The  extraordinary  effect  produced  by  Sidney's  personality  upon 
English  imagination  has  been  in  many  respects  very  little  weakened 
by  time.  His  name  is  almost  as  suggestive  now  as  it  was  to  his 
own  generation  of  a  typical  brilliancy  and  charm,  clouded  by  pre- 
mature death  and  scarcely  to  be  matched  again.  This  unique 
impression  however  with  which  the  figure  of  'Astrophel'  is  still 
charged,  is  to  a  large  extent  independent  of  the  causes  for  it  which 
influenced  his  contemporaries.  We  are  for  the  most  part  moved 
by  Sidney's  life,  by  the  romance  of  it  or  its  political  and  histo- 
rical interest.    His  youth,  his  love-story,  his  death, — these  are  what 


342  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


affect  us  far  more  than  his  books  ;  what  he  did  and  was,  infinitely 
beyond  what  he  wrote. 

'  Death,  courage,  honour,  make  thy  soul  to  live ; 
Thy  soul  to  live  in  heaven,  thy  name  in  tongues  of  men! ' 
His  own  time  approached  him  somewhat  differently.  Browne's 
praise  of  him,  which  puts  the  '  deep  quintessence '  of  his  wit  in  the 
forefront  of  his  merits,  before  it  turns  to  dwell  upon  his  'honour, 
virtue,  valour,  excellence,'  represents  the  general  Elizabethan 
feeling  about  him  better  than  the  fine  lines  from  Constable  just 
quoted.  His  literary  influence,  coming  as  he  did  in  the  early 
Elizabethan  days,  while  his  great  rivals  to  be  were  still  for  the 
most  part  undiscovered,  was  no  doubt  heightened  by  his  personal 
story,  but  was  at  bottom  a  distinct  and  independent  force.  So 
much  is  clear  from  that  astonishing  mass  of  elegiac  prose  and 
verse  heaped  upon  his  grave,  in  itself  a  phenomenon  in  English 
literary  history;  and  as  the  Elizabethan  time  unfolds,  the  effect 
of  Sidney's  writing  and  of  his  special  qualities  of  thought  and 
style  become  more  and  more  evident.  Upon  the  generation  which 
grew  up  after  him,  and  during  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth 
centur}',  his  influence  remained  undiminished.  From  Constable, 
Ben  Jonson,  BrowTie,  Wither,  Crashaw,  Waller,  out  of  a  much 
wider  circle,  a  string  of  passages  could  be  quoted  to  prove  the 
extraordinary  spell  of  Sidney  as  a  poet,  above  all  as  the  poet 
of  Stella,  upon  his  successors.  The  mere  name  of  Astrophel 
seems  to  have  thrilled  the  literary  circle  around  him,  and  that 
immediately  following  him,  as  no  other  name  had  power  to  thrill 
them.  A  reputation  so  romantic,  and  so  dependent  on  the 
exceptional  correspondence  between  Sidney's  personality  and 
powers  and  the  young,  quick-witted,  passionate,  Elizabethan  spirit 
speaking  through  them,  could  scarcely  hope  to  pass  through 
Puritanism  and  the  eighteenth  century  unchallenged.  Milton's 
well-known  protest  against  the  use  made  by  Charles  I.  on  the 
scaffold  of  'that  vain  amatorious  poem  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's 
Arcadia^  'not  to  be  read  at  any  time  without  good  caution,' 
is  significant  of  decline  in  one  direction,  while  in  another  we  are 
brought  up  against  some  curious  eighteenth-century  judgments 
which  show  not  only  the  complete  distaste  of  a  classical  age  for 
Sidney's  literary  performance,  and  the  oblivion  into  which  his  best 
work  had  fallen,  but  even  impatience  of  his  romantic  personal 
fame.  'When  we  come  to  enquire  into  the  why  and  the  wherefore 
of  this  astonishing  effect  upon  his  contemporaries,'  writes  Horace 


SID.VEY.  343 

Walpole,  who  had  never  read  a  Hne  oi  Astrophel  and  StelJa,  and 
had  to  be  reminded  by  a  friend  of  the  existence  of  The  Apology  for 
Poetry,  '  what  do  we  find  ?  Great  valour  ?  But  it  was  an  age 
of  heroes  !  In  full  of  all  other  talents,  we  have  a  tedious, 
lamentable,  pedantic,  pastoral  romance  which  the  patience  of  a 
young  virgin  in  love  cannot  now  wade  through  ;  and  some  absurd 
attempts  to  fetter  English  verse  in  Roman  chains.' 

There  could  scarcely  be  a  better  specimen  of  the  jugenic7it 
saiigretiti.  Happily  the  antiquarian  revival  of  the  present  century 
has  so  far  affected  Sidney  among  others,  that  such  pure  ignorance 
of  his  place  in  literary  history  is  no  longer  possible.  But  it  may 
well  be  questioned  whether  Sidney  has  yet  regained  that  currency 
among  us  as  a  poet  which  he  deserves.  Thanks  to  the  labour  which 
has  been  spent  upon  him  since  1800,  his  prose  is  better  known  and 
more  truly  classed  than  it  used  to  be ;  but  not  even  the  best  of  his 
poems  can  be  said  to  have  recovered  any  real  hold  upon  English 
feeling.  The  truth  is,  perhaps,  that  the  general  air  of  Sidney's  verse, 
so  to  speak,  does  it  injustice.  Even  the  Astrophel  and  Stella 
sonnets  have  at  first  sight,  as  one  turns  over  the  pages,  a  barren, 
over-elaborate  look,  which  is  apt  to  lead  to  the  classing  of  some  of 
the  most  genuine  and  passionate  of  English  poems  with  the  unde- 
niably dry  and  artificial  verse  of  the  Arcadia.  Then  again,  his  main 
subject  is  forbidding,  his  range  is  limited,  and  his  note,  to  modern 
thinking,  monotonous.  We  are  some  time  in  discovering  in  Sidney 
that  sensitiveness  to  the  great  human  problems,  to  the  wider  ques- 
tions of  life  and  thought  in  which  the  best  English  poetry  is 
invariably  steeped,  and  it  is  easy  to  put  his  work  down  as  ranking 
with  all  the  other  second-rate  love  poetry  of  the  time,  neither  much 
better  nor  worse  than  the  verse  of  Constable  or  Thomas  Watson. 
His  own  time,  however,  judged  rightly  in  separating  it  widely  from 
such  performances.  Sidney  died  at  thirty-two,  and  his  poetrj'  is 
throughout  the  poetry  of  a  young  man,  in  love  with  art,  with 
beauty,  with  ingenuity  in  all  shapes,  a  courtier  in  the  days  when 
the  court  was  a  reality,  a  lover  at  a  time  when  love  was  still  bound 
to  speak  a  conventional  tongue  and  to  express  itself  by  certain 
outward  conventional  signs.  The  marring  influence  upon  much 
of  it  of  the  theories  of  Gabriel  Harvey's  '  Areopagus '  marks  the 
difterence  in  circumstance  between  himself  and  Spenser,  his 
friend  and  temporary  colleague  in  that  whimsical  scheme  for 
bending  English  verse  to  classical  shapes.  In  a  few  years  Spenser 
was  ridiculing  the  '  Areopagus,'  and  the  *  passing  singular  odd ' 


344  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

poems  produced  under  its  rules.  Time  sobered  down  the  mo- 
mentary extravagance,  and  the  familiar  ways  of  English  verse 
reclaimed  their  master.  Spenser's  hexameters  are  mere  literary 
curiosities,  buried  in  the  shadow  of  The  Fairy  Queen.  Sidney's 
'  Roman  feet '  are  one  of  the  most  prominent  features  of  his  best- 
known  work,  and  were  regarded  as  characteristic  of  him  in  days 
when  the  poems  to  Stella  were  forgotten.  The  freaks  of  the 
'Areopagus'  had  no  more  real  relation  to  his  genius  than  they 
had  to  Spenser's  ;  but  life  left  him  no  time  to  undo  mistakes. 
Into  what  final  mould  his  powers  might  have  run  is  matter  for 
speculation.  The  important  point  to  notice  is  that  death  stepped  in 
between  him  and  that  slow-coming  maturity  which  belongs  to  all 
such  rich  and  complex  natures.  His  youth  asserts  itself  in  all  he 
wrote.    His  best  work  is  liable  to  youth's  unripeness  and  inequality. 

But  the  greatness  of  his  gift  is  not  to  be  doubted.  As  a  series 
of  sonnets  the  Astrophel  and  Stella  poems  are  second  only  to 
Shakespeare's  ;  as  a  series  of  love-poems  they  are  perhaps  unsur- 
passed. Other  writers  are  sweeter,  more  sonorous  ;  no  other  love- 
poet  of  the  time  is  so  real.  The  poems  to  Stella  are  steeped 
throughout  in  a  certain  keen  and  pungent  individuality  which 
leaves  a  haunting  impression  behind  it.  They  represent,  not  a 
mere  isolated  mood,  whether  half-real  like  Daniel's  passion  for 
Delia,  or  wholly  artificial  like  the  mood  of  Thomas  Watson's 
Passions,  but  a  whole  passage  in  a  genuine  life.  Here  is  no 
question  of  the  pastoral  landscape  with  its  conventional  pair  of 
figures.  Sidney's  every-day  life  as  a  courtier  and  politician, 
mingling  with  the  pageantries  and  touching  the  great  interests 
of  his  time,  his  personal  character  with  its  serious  and  Puritan 
bias,  his  hopes  and  fears  for  his  own  prospects  and  career, — these 
are  the  facts  of  solid  and  human  reality  which  deepen  and  vary 
the  music  of  his  passion  for  Stella,  like  rocks  in  the  current  of 
a  stream.  Not  that  Astrophel  and  Stella  is  without  its  make- 
believes.  It  has  its  '  conceits,'  its  pieces  of  pure  word-play,  in  the 
common  Elizabethan  manner.  No  writer  in  the  full  tide  of  literary 
fashion  like  Sidney  could  afford  to  neglect  these.  But  it  would  be 
scarcely  fanciful  to  say  that  even  in  the  most  clearly  marked  of 
what  one  may  call  his  conceited  sonnets,  the  true  Sidneian  note 
to  a  reader  who  has  learnt  to  catch  it  is  almost  always  discernible, 
a  note  of  youth  and  eagerness  easily  felt  but  liard  to  be  described. 

As  is  well  known,  Aslroplicl  and  Stella  contains  the  records  of 
Sidney's  love  for  Penelope  Devereux,  daughter  of  the  first  Earl 


SIDNEY.  345 

of  Essex  and  sister  to  Elizabeth's  favourite.  They  first  met  at 
Chartley  in  1575,  during  the  Kenilworth  progress,  when  Sidney 
was  twenty-one  and  Penelope  a  child  of  twelve,  and  in  the  years 
between  1576  and  1580  were  commonly  supposed  to  be  destined 
for  one  another.  Sidney  however  does  not  appear  to  have  pro- 
secuted his  suit  with  much  ardour — there  are  several  allusions  to 
this  early  blindness  of  his  in  Astrophel  and  Stella — and  in  1580 
his  prospects  had  suddenly  become  so  clouded  by  his  own  and 
Leicester's  temporary  disgrace,  that  it  seems  to  have  been  thought 
prudent  that  Stella  should  look  elsewhere.  At  any  rate,  when 
Sidney  returned  to  court  in  the  autumn  of  1580,  he  found  Penelope 
Devereux  either  married  (there  is  a  doubt  about  the  date  of  the 
marriage)  or  pledged  to  Lord  Rich.  Disappointment  and  a  sharp 
sense  of  injury,  expressed  with  plain  bitterness  in  one  of  his  mis- 
cellaneous poems  (see  p.  362),  shook  his  former  liking  into  love, 
and  during  the  following  year,  as  far  as  dates  can  now  be  re- 
covered, after  Stella's  marriage  at  any  rate,  as  well  as  possibly 
before  it,  the  Astrophel  and  Stella  sonnets  were  written. 

The  chronology  of  these  sonnets  is  now  scarcely  to  be  deter- 
mined. They  were  not  published  till  after  Sidney's  death,  when 
they  were  either  printed  from  completed  MSS.,  in  which  the  order 
had  been  slightly  disarranged  by  Sidney  himself,  for  the  purpose 
of  masking  to  some  extent  their  autobiographical  character,  or 
were  put  together  by  his  friends  in  carelessness  or  ignorance  of 
the  dates  of  many  among  them.  The  main  thread  however  is  still 
discernible,  and  a  close  sifting  of  the  allusions  to  contemporary 
history  in  them,  as  well  as  a  comparison  of  them  with  the 
correspondence  between  Languet  and  Sidney  of  1580-81,  might 
enable  a  more  clear-headed  editor  than  has  yet  arisen  to  handle 
Sidney,  to  explain  much  that  is  now  obscure.  There  are  three 
distinct  stages  in  the  series  :  the  first  representing  a  period  of 
impetuous  passion,  when  Sidney  is  wooing  in  hot  eagerness,  bend- 
ing all  the  power  of  his  genius  to  the  glorification  of  Stella  and  the 
scorning  of  his  supplanter  Lord  Rich,  and  yet  dogged  perpetually 
by  returns  upon  himself,  by  outbursts  of  moral  sensitiveness 
eminently  characteristic  ;  the  second  a  period  of  partial  relenting 
on  Stella's  part  and  of  joy  on  Sidney's  : — 
'  Gone  is  the  winter  of  my  misery ! 
My  spring  appears :  O  see  what  here  cloth  grow, 
For  Stella  hath,  with  words  where  faith  doth  shine, 
Of  her  high  heart  given  me  the  monarchy.' 


346  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


And  the  third,  a  period  of  widening  separation,  when  the  lover, 
'  forced  by  Stella's  laws  of  duty  to  depart,'  sinks  deeper  and  deeper 
into  depression  and  discouragement.  Joy,  hope,  delight,  even 
tears,  have  forgotten  him  : — 

'  Only  true  sighs  you  do  not  go  away : 
Thank  may  you  have  for  such  a  thankful  part ; 
— Thankworthiest  yet  when  you  shall  break  my  heart !' 

Last  of  all,  we  may  imagine,  comes  a  sudden  call  to  action,  perhaps 
connected  with  the  schemes  of  colonisation  which  we  know  to 
have  been  occupying  his  mind  in  1582,  and  Sidney  writes  the 
107th  sonnet,  the  last  but  one  in  the  series  as  printed,  probably 
the  true  conclusion  of  the  whole  according  to  Sidney's  plan. 

'Sweet  for  a  while  give  respite  to  my  heart. 
Which  pants  as  though  it  still  should  leap  to  thee, 
And  on  my  thoughts  give  thy  lieutenancy 
To  this  great  cause,  which  needs  both  use  and  art. 
And  as  a  queen  who  from  her  presence  sends 
Whom  she  employs,  dismiss  from  thee  my  wit, 
Till  it  have  wrought  what  thy  own  will  attends— 

O  let  not  fools  in  me  thy  works  reprove, 
And  scorning  say,  '  See  what  it  is  to  love ! ' 

Scattered  up  and  down  these  three  divisions  as  the  sonnets  stand 
now,  are  sonnets  which  have  no  special  fitness  to  one  or  other 
division,  and  others  again  that  are  clearly  misplaced.  Still,  in  the 
main,  the  story  of  the  poems  runs  on  unbroken,  a  living  continuous 
whole  growing  step  by  step  more  real  and  more  tragic.  With  very 
few  exceptions,  the  Astrophel  and  Stella  sonnets  cannot  be  fairly 
judged  apart  from  their  context.  Each  sonnet  depends  upon  those 
before  and  after  it,  and  it  is  in  the  cumulative  effect  of  the  whole 
that  Sidney's  genius  is  most  clearly  felt.  Other  contemporary  series 
of  sonnets  will  bear  unstringing  without  injury.  A  stray  sonnet 
taken  at  random  from  Delia  or  Lodge's  Phillis  or  from  Drummond's 
love-sonnets  will  often  compare  favourably  with  one  taken  at 
random  from  Astrophel  and  Stella.  But  the  weak  sonnets  in 
Sidney  are  like  the  weak  places  in  some  of  Wordsworth's  finest 
work,  descents  to  commonplace  which  taken  alone  would  be 
intolerable,  but  which  in  their  proper  context  rather  heighten  than 
detract  from  the  realistic  and  passionate  effect  of  the  whole.  In 
order  to  preserve  this  general  effect  as  much  as  possible,  the  plan 
of  the  present  selection  has  been  to  take  from  each  period  a  certain 


SIDNEY.  347 

number  of  representative  sonnets,  which  reproduce  the  original 
whole  at  least  in  outline,  adding  to  these  two  specimens  from  the 
Astrophel  and  Stella  songs,  eleven  in  number,  which  were  originally- 
printed  after  the  sonnets,  but  were  interspersed  among  them  in  the 
Arcadia  of  1598.  The  two  sonnets  beginning  'Thou  bhnd  man's 
mark,  thou  fool's  self-chosen  snare,'  and  '  Leave  me,  O  Love  which 
reachest  but  to  dust,'  which  a  recent  editor  has  arbitrarily  placed 
for  the  first  time  at  the  end  oi  Astrophel  atid  Stella,  have  been 
here  carefully  distinguished  from  that  series.  In  some  ways,  in 
spite  of  their  grand  flow  of  verse  and  phrase,  they  are  inferior  to 
the  majority  of  the  Astrophel  and  Stella  sonnets  in  workmanship, 
and  also  slightly  different  from  them  in  plan.  Sidney  was  probably 
not  inclined  to  assign  to  them  finally  so  conspicuous  a  place,  and 
they  were  first  published  with  other  miscellaneous  sonnets  in  the 
Arcadia  of  1598.  But  that  they  were  written  towards  the  close  of 
the  Stella  episode,  perhaps  about  the  time  of  the  poet's  marriage 
with  Frances  Walsingham,  is  certainly  very  likely,  and  their  conson- 
ance with  all  that  we  know  of  that  philosophical  and  high-minded 
Sidney  in  whom  Elizabeth  found  an  unwelcome  counsellor,  and 
Languet  saw  the  hope  of  the  Protestant  cause  in  Europe,  makes  it 
justifiable  to  regard  them  as  fit  successors  to  any  selection  from 
Astrophel  and  Stella,  and  especially  as  closely  connected  with  the 
107th  sonnet. 

Of  the  rest  of  Sidney's  poetry  it  is  not  necessary  to  say  very 
much.  The  Stella  poems  brought  him  his  contemporary  fame, 
and  upon  them  and  the  Apology  for  Poetry  his  claim  to  live  in 
English  letters  must  always  rest.  His  other  poems  have  the 
youthful  faults  which  mar  even  Astrophel  and  Stella,  only  in  far 
greater  abundance.  Mere  'thin  diet  of  dainty  words,'  ingenuity 
unrelieved  by  a  single  touch  of  true  feeling,  the  stock  phrases  and 
themes  common  to  the  hundred-and-one  second-rate  rhymers  of 
the  day,  this  is  all  that  the  voluminous  verse  of  the  Arcadia,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  passages  here  and  there,  has  to  offer. 
The  two  songs  quoted  below  from  the  '  Certain  Sonnets — never 
before  printed,'  of  1595,  belong  to  the  great  lyrical  growth  of  the 
time,  and  are  specimens  of  Sidney's  freest  and  most  spontaneous 
manner.  One  of  them,  the  passionate  dirge  beginning  '  Ring  out 
ye  bells,  let  mourning  shews  be  spread,'  has  a  swing  and  force 
which  ought  long  ago  to  have  rescued  it  from  oblivion. 

Mary  A.  Ward. 


348  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


ASTROPHEL  AND   STELLA. 


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  kno-.v, 

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. 


5- 

It  is  most  true  that  eyes  are  form'd  to  serve 

The  inward  light,  and  that  the  heavenly  part' 

Ought  to  be  King,  from  whose  rules  who  do  swerve, 

Rebels  to  nature,  strive  for  their  own  smart. 

It  is  most  true,  what  we  call  Cupid's  dart 

An  image  is,  which  for  ourselves  we  carve, 

And,  fools,  adore  in  temple  of  our  heart, 

Till  that  good  god  make  church  and  churchmen  starve 

True,  that  true  beauty  virtue  is  indeed. 

Whereof  this  beauty  can  be  but  a  shade, 

Which,  elements  with  mortal  mixture  breed  : 

True,  that  on  earth  we  are  but  pilgrims  made, 

And  should  in  soul  up  to  our  country  move : 

True,  and  yet  true— tliat  I  must  Stella  love. 


SIDiVEY.  349 


18. 


With  what  sharp  checks  I  in  myself  am  shent 

When  into  Reason's  audit  I  do  go, 

And  by  just  'counts  myself  a  bankrupt  know 

Of  all  those  goods  which  heaven  to  me  hath  lent ; 

Unable  quite  to  pay  even  Nature's  rent, 

Which  unto  it  by  birthright  I  do  owe  ; 

And,  which  is  worse,  no  good  excuse  can  show, 

But  that  my  wealth  I  have  most  idly  spent  ! 

My  youth  doth  waste,  my  knowledge  brings  forth  toys  ; 

My  wit  doth  strive  those  passions  to  defend, 

Which,  for  reward,  spoil  it  with  vain  annoys. 

I  see,  my  course  to  lose  myself  doth  bend  ; 

I  see — and  yet  no  greater  sorrow  take 

Than  that  I  lose  no  more  for  Stella's  sake. 


23. 


The  curious  wits,  seeing  dull  pensiveness 
Bewray  itself  in  my  long-settled  eyes. 
Whence  those  same  fumes  of  melancholy  rise, 
With  idle  pains  and  missing  aim,  do  guess. 
Some,  that  know  how  my  spring  I  did  address. 
Deem  that  my  Muse  some  fruit  of  knowledge  plies  ; 
Others,  because  the  prince  my  service  tries. 
Think  that  I  think  State  errors  to  redress  : 
But  harder  judges  judge  ambition's  rage — 
Scourge  of  itself,  still  climbing  slippery  place — 
Holds  my  young  brain  captived  in  golden  cage. 
O  fools,  or  over-wise  :   alas,  the  race 
Of  all  my  thoughts  hath  neither  stop  nor  start 
But  only  Stella's  eyes  and  Stella's  heart. 


350  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


26. 


Though  dusty  wits  dare  scorn  Astrology, 

And  fools  can  think  those  lamps  of  purest  light — 

Whose  numbers,  ways,  greatness,  eternity. 

Promising  wonders,  wonder  do  invite — 

To  have  for  no  cause  birthright  in  the  sky 

But  for  to  spangle  the  black  weeds  of  Night ; 

Or  for  some  brawl,  which  in  that  chamber  high, 

They  should  still  dance  to  please  a  gazer's  sight. 

For  me,  I  do  Nature  unidle  know. 

And  know  great  causes  great  effects  procure  ; 

And  know  those  bodies  high  reign  on  the  low. 

And  if  these  rules  did  fail,  proof  makes  me  sure, 

Who  oft  foresee  my  after-following  race, 

By  only  those  two  stars  in  Stella's  face. 


Z'^- 


Whether  the  Turkish  new  moon  minded  be 
To  fill  her  horns  this  year  on  Christian  coast? 
How  Poland's  king  means  without  leave  of  host 
To  warm  with  ill-made  fire  cold  Muscovy.? 
If  French  can  yet  three  parts  in  one  agree  1 
What  now  the  Dutch  in  their  full  diets  boast? 
How  Holland  hearts,  now  so  good  towns  be  lost, 
Trust  in  the  shade  of  pleasant  Orange-tree .? 
How  Ulster  likes  of  that  same  golden  bit 
Wherewith  my  father  once  made  it  half  tame? 
If  in  the  Scotch  Court  be  no  weltering  yet? 
These  questions  busy  wits  to  me  do  frame  : 
I,  cumbered  with  good  manners,  answer  do, 
But  know  not  how  ;   for  still   I   think  of  you. 


SIDNEY.  351 


31. 


With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  cHmb'st  the  skies  ! 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 

What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 

That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  1 

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  languisht  grace. 

To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 

Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me. 

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

Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  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? 


32. 


Morpheus,  the  lively  son  of  deadly  Sleep, 

Witness  of  life  to  them  that  living  die, 

A  prophet  oft,  and  oft  an  history, 

A  poet  eke,  as  humours  fly  or  creep  ; 

Since  thou  in  me  so  sure  a  power  dost  keep, 

That  never  I  with  clos'd-up  sense  do  lie, 

But  by  thy  work  my  Stella  I  descry. 

Teaching  blind  eyes  both  how  to  smile  and  weep  ; 

Vouchsafe,  of  all  acquaintance,  this  to  tell, 

Whence  hast  thou  ivory,  rubies,  pearl,  and  gold. 

To  show  her  skin,  lips,  teeth,  and  head  so  well  ? 

Fool !  answers  he  ;  no  Indes  such  treasures  hold  ; 

But  from  thy  heart,  while  my  sire  charmeth  thee, 

Sweet  Stella's  image  I  do  steal  to  me. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


33- 


I  might  ! — unhappy  word — O  me,  I  might, 

And  then  would  not,  or  could  not,  see  my  bliss  ; 

Till  now  wrapt  in  a  most  infernal  night, 

I  find  how  heavenly  day,  wretch  !    I  did  miss. 

Heart,  rend  thyself,  thou  dost  thyself  but  right ; 

No  lovely  Paris  made  thy  Helen  his  : 

No  force,  no  fraud  robb'd  thee  of  thy  delight, 

Nor  Fortune  of  thy  fortune  author  is  ; 

But  to  myself  myself  did  give  the  blow. 

While  too  much  wit,  forsooth,  so  troubled  me. 

That  I  respects  for  both  our  sakes  must  show : 

And  yet  could  not,  by  rising  morn  foresee 

How  fair  a  day  was  near :    O  punisht  eyes, 

That  I  had  been  more  fooHsh,  or  more  wise ! 


yi- 


This  night,  while  sleep  begins  with  heavy  wings 

To  hatch  mine  eyes,  and  that  unbilted  thought 

Doth  fall  to  stray,  and  my  chief  powers  are  brought 

To  leave  the  sceptre  of  all  subject  things  ; 

The  first  that  straight  my  fancy's  error  brings 

Unto  my  mind  is  Stella's  image,  wrought 

By  Love's  own  self,  but  with  so  curious  drought 

That  she,  methinks,  not  only  shines  but  sings. 

I  start,  look,  hark  ;   but  what  in  closed-up  sense 

Was  held,  in  opened  sense  it  flics  away, 

Leaving  me  nought  but  wailing  eloquence. 

I,  seeing  better  sights  in  sight's  decay, 

Call'd  it  anew,  and  wooc;d  Sleep  again  ; 

But  him,  licr  host,  that  unkind  guest  had  slain. 


SIDNEY.  353 


59- 


Come,  Sleep  !     O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low  ; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  press 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw  : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease  ; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and-  blind  to  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head  : 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 


48. 


Soul's  joy,  bend  not  those  morning  stars  from  me, 
Where  Virtue  is  made  strong  by  Beauty's  might  ; 
Where  Love  is  chastness.  Pain  doth  learn  delight, 
And  Humbleness  grows  one  with  Majesty. 
Whatever  may  ensue,  O  let  me  be 
Co-partner  of  the  riches  of  that  sight ;" 
Let  not  mine  eyes  be  hell-driven  from  that  light  ; 
O  look,  O  shine,  O  let  me  die,  and  see. 
For  though  I  oft  myself  of  them  bemoan 
That  through  my  heart  their  beamy  darts  be  gone. 
Whose  cureless  wounds  even  now  most  freshly  bleed, 
Yet  since  my  death-wound  is  already  got, 
Dear  killer,  spare  not  thy  sweet-cruel  shot ; 
A  kind  of  grace  it  is  to  slay  with  speed. 
VOL.  I.  A  a 


354  Tt^E  ENGLISH  POETS. 


6i. 


Oft  with  true  sighs,  oft  with  uncalled  tears, 

Now  with-  slow  words,  now  with  dumb  eloquence, 

I  Stella's  eyes  assayed,  invade  her  ears  ; 

But  this,  at  last,  is  her  sweet-breath'd  defence  : 

That  who  indeed  in-felt  affection  bears, 

So  captives  to  his  saint  both  soul  and  sense, 

That,  wholly  hers,  all  selfness  he  forbears, 

Then  his  desires  he  learns,  his  life's  course  thence. 

Now,  since  her  chaste  mind  hates  this  love  in  me. 

With  chastened  mind  I  straight  must  show  that  she 

Shall  quickly  me  from  what  she  hates  remove. 

O  Doctor  Cupid,  thou  for  me  reply  ; 

Driven  else  to  grant,  by  angel's  sophistry, 

That  I  love  not  without  I  leave  to  love. 


64. 


No  njore,  my  dear,  no  more  these  counsels  try ; 

0  give  my  passions  leave  to  run  their  race  ; 
Let  Fortune  lay  on  me  her  worst  disgrace  ; 
Let  folk  o'ercharged  with  brain  against  me  cry  ; 
Let  clouds  bedim  my  face,  break  in  mine  eye  ; 
Let  me  no  steps  but  of  lost  labour  trace  ; 

Let  all  the  earth  with  scorn  recount  my  case, — 
But  do  not  will  me  from  my  love  to  fly. 

1  do  not  envy  Aristotle's  wit. 

Nor  do  aspire  to  Caesar's  bleeding  fame  ; 
Nor  aught  do  care  though  some  above  me  sit  ; 
Nor  hope  nor  wish  another  course  to  frame, 
But  that  which  once  may  win  thy  cruel  heart : 
Thou  art  my  wit,  and  thou  my  virtue  art. 


STDNE  Y. 


66. 


And  do  I  see  some  cause  a  hope  to  feed, 

Or  doth  the  tedious  burden  of  long  woe 

In  weakened  minds  quick  apprehending  breed 

Of  every  image  which  may  comfort  show  ? 

I  cannot  brag  of  word,  much  less  of  deed, 

Fortune  wheels  still  with  me  in  one  sort  slow  ; 

My  wealth  no  more,  and  no  whit  less  my  need  ; 

Desire  still  on  stilts  of  Fear  doth  go. 

And  yet  amid  all  fears  a  hope  there  is. 

Stolen  to  my  heart  since  last  fair  night,  nay  day, 

Stella's  eyes  sent  to  me  the  beams  of  bliss. 

Looking  on  me  while  I  look'd  other  way  : 

But  when  mine  eyes  back  to  their  heaven  did  move, 

They  fled  with  blush  which  guilty  seemed  of  love. 


O  joy  too  high  for  my  low  style  to  show ! 
O  bliss  fit  for  a  nobler  state  than  me  ! 
Envy,  put  out  thine  eyes,  lest  thou  do  see 
What  oceans  of  delight  in  me  do  flow  ! 
My  friend,  that  oft  saw  through  all  masks  my  woe. 
Come,  come,  and  let  me  pour  myself  on  thee. 
Gone  is  the  Winter  of  my  misery  ! 
My  Spring  appears  ;   O  see  what  here  doth  grow  : 
For  Stella  hath,  with  words  where  faith  doth  shine, 
Of  her  high  heart  given  me  the  monarchy  : 
I,  I,  O  I,  may  say  that  she  is  mine  ! 
And  though  she  give  but  thus  conditionly. 
This  realm  of  bliss  while  virtuous  course  I  take, 
No  kings  be  crown'd  but  they  some  covenants  make. 
A  a  2 


356  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


74. 


I  never  drank  of  Aganippe  well, 

Nor  ever  did  in  shade  of  Tempe  sit, 

And  Muses  scorn  with  vulgar  brains  to  dwell ; 

Poor  layman  I,  for  sacred  rites  unfit. 

Some  do  I  hear  of  poets'  fury  tell, 

But,  God  wot,  wot  not  what  they  mean  by  it ; 

And  this  I  swear  by  blackest  brook  of  hell, 

I  am  no  pick -purse  of  another's  wit. 

How  falls  it  then,  that  with  so  smooth  an  ease 

My  thoughts  I  speak  ;   and  what  I  speak  doth  flow 

In  verse,  and  that  my  verse  best  wits  doth  please  ? 

Guess  we  the  cause  !     What,  is  it  thus  1    Fie,  no. 

Or  so?     Much  less.     How  then?     Sure  thus  it  is, 

My  lips  are  sweet,  inspired  with  Stella's  kiss. 


84. 


High  way,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be. 

And  that  my  Muse,  to  some  ears  not  unsweet, 

Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet 

More  oft  than  to  a  chamber-melody. 

Now,  blessed  you  bear  onward  blessed  me 

To  her,  where  I  my  heart,  safe-left,  shall  meet  ; 

My  Muse  and  I  must  you  of  duty  greet 

With  thanks  and  wishes,  wishing  thankfully. 

Be  you  still  fair,  honoured  by  public  heed  ; 

By  no  encroachment  wrong'd,  nor  time  forgot ; 

Nor  blam'd  for  blood,  nor  sham'd  for  sinful  deed  ; 

And  that  you  know  I  envy  you  no  lot 

Of  highest  wish,  I  wish  you  so  much  bliss, — 

Hundreds  of  years  you  Stella's  feet  may  kiss. 


SIDNEY.  357 


87. 


When  I  was  forced  from  Stella  ever  dear — 
Stella,  food  of  my  thoughts,  heart  of  my  heart — 
Stella,  whose  eyes  make  all  my  tempests  clear — 
By  Stella's  laws  of  duty  to  depart  ; 
Alas,  I  found  that  she  with  me  did  smart ; 
I  saw  that  tears  did  in  her  eyes  appear  ; 
I  saw  that  sighs  her  sweetest  lips  did  part. 
And  her  sad  words  my  sadded  sense  did  hear. 
For  me,  I  wept  to  see  pearls  scattered  so  ; 
I  sighed  her  sighs,  and  wailed  for  her  woe  ; 
Yet  swam  in  joy,  such  love  in  her  was  seen. 
Thus,  while  th'  effect  most  bitter  was  to  me. 
And  nothing  then  the  cause  more  sweet  could  be, 
I  had  been  vexed,  if  vexed  I  had  not  been. 


90. 


Stella,  think  not  that  I  by  verse  seek  fame, 

Who  seek,  who  hope,  who  love,  who  live  but  thee  ; 

Thine  eyes  my  pride,  thy  hps  mine  history  : 

If  thou  praise  not,  all  other  praise  is  shame. 

Nor  so  ambitious  am  I,  as  to  frame 

A  nest  for  my  young  praise  in  laurel  tree  : 

In  truth,  I  swear  I  wish  not  there  should  be 

Graved  in  my  epitaph  a  Poet's  name. 

Nor,  if  I  would,  could  I  just  title  make. 

That  any  laud  thereof  to  me  should  grow, 

Without  my  plumes  from  others'  wings  I  take  : 

For  nothing  from  my  wit  or  will  doth  flow, 

Since  all  my  words  thy  beauty  doth  endite, 

And  Love  doth  hold  my  hand,  and  makes  me  write. 


358  THE  ENGLISH  FOETS. 


92. 


Be  your  words  made,  good  Sir,  of  Indian  ware, 
That  you  allow  me  them  by  so  small  rate  ? 
Or  do  you  curted  Spartans  imitate  ? 
Or  do  you  mean  my  tender  ears  to  spare, 
That  to  my  questions  you  so  total  are  ? 
When  I  demand  of  Phoenix-Stella's  state. 
You  say,  forsooth,  you  left  her  well  of  late  : 

0  God,  think  you  that  satisfies  my  care  ? 

1  would  know  whether  she  did  sit  or  walk  ; 

How  clothed  ;   how  waited  on  ;   sighed  she,  or  smiled  ; 
Whereof, — with  whom, — how  often  did  she  talk  ; 
With  what  pastimes  Time's  journey  she  beguiled  ; 
If  her  lips  deigned  to  sweeten  my  poor  name  : 
Say  all ;  and  all  well  said,  still  say  the  same. 


92. 


0  fate,  O  fault,  O  curse,  child  of  my  bliss  ! 

What  sobs  can  give  words  grace  my  grief  to  show? 
What  ink  is  black  enough  to  paint  my  woe  ? 
Through  me — wretch  me — even  Stella  vexfed  is. 
Yet,  truth— if  caitif's  breath  may  call  thee — this 
Witness  with  me,  that  my  foul  stumbling  so, 
From  carelessness  did  in  no  manner  grow  ; 
But  wit,  confused  with  too  much  care,  did  miss. 
And  do  I,  then,  myself  this  vain  'scuse  give  1 

1  have — live  I,  and  know  this — harmed  thee  : 
Though  worlds  'quit  me,  shall  I  myself  forgive  ? 
Only  with  pains  my  pains  thus  easM  be, 
That  all  thy  hurts  in  my  heart's  wrack  I  read  ; 
I  cry  thy  sighs,  my  dear,  thy  tears  I  bleed. 


SIDNEY.  359 


107. 


Stella,  since  thou  so  right  a  princess  art 
Of  all  the  powers  which  life  bestows  on  me, 
That  ere  by  them  ought  undertaken  be, 
They  first  resort  unto  that  sovereign  part  ; 
Sweet,  for  a  while  give  respite  to  my  heart, 
Which  pants  as  though  it  still  should  leap  to  thee  : 
And  on  my  thoughts  give  thy  lieutenancy 
To  this  great  cause,  which  needs  both  use  and  art. 
And  as  a  queen,  who  from  her  presence  sends 
Whom  she  employs,  dismiss  from  thee  my  wit, 
Till  it  have  wrought  what  thy  own  will  attends, 
On  servants'  shame  oft  masters'  blame  doth  sit  : 
O  let  not  fools  in  me  thy  works  reprove. 
And  scorning  say,  '  See  what  it  is  to  love  ! ' 


Songs  from  Astrophel  and  Stella, 

Seventh  Song.     Stella  singing. 

Whose  senses  in  so  ill  consort  their  step-dame  Nature  lays, 
That  ravishing  delight  in  them  most  sweet  tunes  do  not  raise  ; 
Or  if  they  do  dehght  therein,  yet  are  so  closed  with  wit. 
As  with  sententious  lips  to  set  a  title  vain  on  it  ; 
O    let    them   hear  these    sacred   tunes,  and   learn   in   Wonder's 

schools, 
To  be,  in  things  past  bounds  of  wit,  fools — if  they  be  not  fools  ! 

Who  have  so  leaden  eyes,  as  not  to  see  sweet  Beauty's  show, 
Or,  seeing,  have  so  wooden  wits,  as  not  that  worth  to  know. 
Or,  knowing,  have  so  muddy  minds,  as  not  to  be  in  love. 
Or,  loving,  have  so  frothy  thoughts,  as  eas'ly  thence  to  move  ; 
O  let  them  see  these  heavenly  beams,  and  in  fair  letters  read 
A  lesson  fit,  both  sight  and  skill,  love  and  firm  love  to  breed. 


360  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Hear  then,  but  then  with  wonder  hear,  see,  but  adoring,  see, 
No  mortal  gifts,  no  earthly  fruits,  now  here  descended  be  : 
See,  do  you  see  this  face  ?  a  face,  nay,  image  of  the  skies. 
Of  w'hich,  the  two  life-giving  lights  are  figured  in  her  eyes  : 
Hear  you  this  soul-invading  voice,  and  count  it  but  a  voice  ? 
The  very  essence  of  their  tunes,  when  angels  do  rejoice  ! 


Tenth  Song.     Absence. 

O  dear  life,  when  shall  it  be 
That  mine  eyes  thine  eyes  shall  see, 
And  in  them  thy  mind  discover 
Whether  absence  have  had  force 
Thy  remembrance  to  divorce 
From  the  image  of  thy  lover  ? 

Or  if  I  myself  find  not. 

After  parting,  aught  forgot. 

Nor  debarred  from  Beauty's  treasure, 

Let  not  tongue  aspire  to  tell 

In  what  high  joys  I  shall  dwell  ; 

Only  thought  aims  at  the  pleasure. 

Thought,  therefore,  I  will  send  thee 
To  take  up  the  place  for  me  : 
Long  I  will  not  after  tarry. 
There,  unseen,  thou  mayst  be  bold, 
Those  fair  wonders  to  behold, 
Which  in  them  my  hopes  do  carry. 

Thought,  see  thou  no  place  forbear, 
Enter  bravely  everywhere. 
Seize  on  all  to  her  belonging ; 
But  if  thou  wouldst  guarded  be, 
Fearing  her  beams,  take  with  thee 
Strength  of  liking,  rage  of  longing. 

Tliink  of  that  most  grateful  time 
When  my  icajjing  heart  will  climb, 


SIDNEY.  361 

In  my  lips  to  have  his  biding, 
There  those  roses  for  to  kiss, 
Which  do  breathe  a  sugared  bliss, 
Opening  rubies,  pearls  dividing. 

***** 

Think,  think  of  those  dallyings, 
When  with  dove-like  murmurings, 
With  glad  moaning,  passed  anguish. 
We  change  eyes,  and  heart  for  heart, 
Each  to  other  do  depart. 
Joying  till  joy  makes  us  languish. 

O  my  thought,  my  thoughts  surcease. 

Thy  delights  my  woes  increase, 

My  life  melts  with  too  much  thinking  ; 

Think  no  more,  but  die  in  me. 

Till  thou  shalt  revived  be, 

At  her  lips  my  nectar  drinking. 


[From  the  collection  of  Miscellaneous  Poems  first  published  in  the  Arcadia 
of  1595,  under  the  heading  of  Cerlain  Sonnets  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  never 
be/ore  printed^ 

Philomela. 

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  thorne  her  song-book  making, 

And  mournfully  bewailing, 
Her  throat  in  tunes  expresseth 
What  grief  her  breast  oppresseth 

For  Tercus'  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. 


362  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


A  Dirge. 

Ring  out  your  bells,  let  mourning  shews  be  spread  ; 
For  Love  is  dead  : 

All  Love  is  dead,  infected 
With  plague  of  deep  disdain  : 

Worth,  as  nought  worth,  rejected, 
And  Faith  fair  scorn  doth  gain. 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 

From  such  a  female  frenzy, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

Weep,  neighbours,  weep  ;  do  you  not  hear  it  said 
That  Love  is  dead  ? 

His  death-bed,  peacock's  folly  ; 
His  winding-sheet  is  shame  ; 

His  will,  false-seeming  wholly  ; 
His  sole  executor,  blame. 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 

From  such  a  female  frenzy, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

Let  dirge  be  sung,  and  trentals  rightly  read, 
For  Love  is  dead  ; 

Sir  Wrong  his  tomb  ordaineth 
My  mistress'  marble  heart  ; 

Which  epitaph  containeth, 
*  Her  eyes  were  once  his  dart.* 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 

From  such  a  female  frenzy, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus. 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

Alas,  I  lie  :  rage  halh  this  error  bred ; 
Love  is  not  dead  ; 


SIDNEY.  363 


Love  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth 

In  her  unmatched  mind, 

Where  she  his  counsel  keepeth, 

Till  due  deserts  she  find. 

Therefore  from  so  vile  fancy, 
To  call  such  wit  a  frenzy, 
Who  Love  can  temper  thus, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 


Thou  blind  man's  mark,  thou  fool's  self-chosen  snare, 
Fond  fancy's  scum,  and  dregs  of  scattered  thought  : 
Band  of  all  evils  ;   cradle  of  causeless  care  ; 
Thou  web  of  will,  whose  end  is  never  wrought : 
Desire  !    Desire  !    I  have  too  dearly  bought. 
With  price  of  mangled  mind,  thy  worthless  ware  ; 
Too  long,  too  long,  asleep  thou  hast  me  brought, 
Who  should  my  mind  to  higher  things  prepare. 
But  yet  in  vain  thou  hast  my  ruin  sought  ; 
In  vain  thou  mad'st  me  to  vain  things  aspire  ; 
In  vain  thou  kindlest  all  thy  smoky  fire  ; 
For  Virtue  hath  this  better  lesson  taught, — 
Within  myself  to  seek  my  only  hire, 
Desiring  nought  but  how  to  kill  Desire. 


2. 

Leave  me,  O  Love,  which  reachest  but  to  dust ; 
And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things  ; 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust  ; 
Whatever  fades,  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 
Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might 
To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedoms  be  ; 
Which  breaks  the  clouds,  and  opens  forth  the  light, 
That  doth  both  shine,  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 


364  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

O  take  fast  hold  ;   let  that  light  be  thy  guide 

In  this  small  course  which  birth  draws  out  to  death, 

And  think  how  ill  becometh  him  to  slide, 

Who  seeketh  heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 

Then  farewell,  world  ;   thy  uttermost  I  see : 

Eternal  Love,  maintain  thy  life  in  me  ! 


From  the  'Arcadia.' 
Dorus  to  Pamela. 

My  sheep  are  thoughts,  which  I  both  guide  and  serve  ; 

Their  pasture  is  fair  hills  of  fruitless  love. 

On  barren  sweets  they  feed,  and  feeding  starve. 

I  wail  their  lot,  but  will  not  other  prove  ; 

My  sheephook  is  wan  hope,  which  all  upholds  ; 

My  weeds  Desire,  cut  out  in  endless  folds  ; 
What  wool  my  sheep  shall  bear,  whilst  thus  they  live, 
In  you  it  is,  you  must  the  judgment  give. 

Night. 

O  Night,  the  ease  of  care,  the  pledge  of  pleasure, 
Desire's  best  mean,  harvest  of  hearts  affected. 
The  seat  of  peace,  the  throne  Avhich  is  erected 
Of  human  life  to  be  the  quiet  measure  ; 
Be  victor  still  of  Phoebus'  golden  treasure, 
Who  hath  our  sight  with  too  much  sight  infected  ; 
Whose  light  is  cause  we  have  our  lives  neglected, 
Turning  all  Nature's  course  to  self  displeasure. 
These  stately  stars  in  their  now  shining  faces, 
With  sinless  sleep,  and  silence  wisdom's  mother, 
Witness  his  wrong  which  by  thy  help  is  eased  : 
Thou  art,  therefore,  of  these  our  desert  places 
The  sure  refuge  ;  by  thee  and  by  no  other 
My  soul  is  blest,  sense  joy'd,  and  fortune  raisL;d. 


FULKE    GREVILLE, 

LORD    BROOKE. 


[FuLKE  Greville,  Lord  Brooke,  born  1554,  was  the  school-fellow  and  friend 
of  Sidney.  He  held  two  important  offices  under  Elizabeths  government, 
that  of  Secretary  to  the  Principality  of  Wales  (1583),  and  that  of  Treasurer 
of  Marine  Causes  (1597).  He  seems  to  have  spent  the  early  years  of  James' 
reign  in  retirement,  returning  to  Court  about  1614,  in  which  year  he  was 
made  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  and  Priv}'  Councillor.  In  1620  he  was 
created  Baron  Brooke  of  Beauchamp's  Court,  and  died  in  1628  from  the 
effects  of  a  wound  given  him  by  a  servant.  The  only  works  published 
in  his  lifetime  were  an  elegiac  poem  on  Sidney  in  Phoenix  Nest  (1593),  a 
poem  in  ^odenham's  Belvedere  (1600),  three  poems  in  England's  Helicon,  and 
the  Tragedy  oi  Mmtapha  in  1609.  An  edition  of  his  works,  excluding  the 
Poems  of  Monarchy  and  Religion  (published  1670)  appeared  in  1633.  In 
1870  his  complete  works,  prose  and  verse,  were  edited  in  the  Fuller 
Worthies  Library  by  the  Rev.  A.  B.  Grosart.] 

The  poems  of  Lord  Brooke,  written  for  the  most  part  'in  his 
youth  and  familar  exercise  with  Sir  Philip  Sidney,' according  to  the 
title  page  of  the  1633  editions,  have  a  real  and  permanent  value, 
though  they  can  never  hope  to  appeal  to  any  other  than  a  limited 
and  so  to  speak  professional  audience.  They  are  the  work  of  a 
man  of  great  thinking  power,  and  of  singular  nobility  and  upright- 
ness of  character.  The  sheer  power  of  mind  shewn  in  these  strange 
plays  and  treatises  and  so-called  sonnets  is  undeniable.  Every  now 
and  then  it  leads  their  author  to  a  genuine  success,  to  a  fine  chorus, 
a  speech  of  weird  and  concentrated  passion  as  impressive  as  a 
speech  of  Ford's,  though  even  less  human,  a  shorter  poem  of  real 
and  fanciful  beauty.  But  generally  we  find  this  inborn  power  strug- 
gling with  a  medium  of  expression  so  cumbrous  and  intricate  and 
stumbling,  that  neither  thought  nor  fancy  can  find  their  way  through 
it.  Words  are  taxed  beyond  what  they  can  bear  ;  all  thoughts, 
whether  great  or  trivial,  are  tortured  into  the  same  over-laboured 
dress  ;  there  is  no  ease,  no  flow,  no  joy.  More  than  this  ;  not  only 
is  the  manner  far  removed  from  the  true  manner  of  poetry,  but  in 


366  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


large  tracts  of  it  the  matter  handled  has  nothing  to  do  with  poetry, 
'The  DecHnation  of  Monarchy,'  'Of  Weak-minded  Tyrants,'  'Of 
Laws,'  'Of  Nobility,'  'Of  Commerce,'  'Of  Crown  Revenue,' — these 
are  not  the  subjects  of  the  poet.  In  the  seventeenth  century  they 
were  the  subjects  of  the  pamphleteer,  and  no  one  could  have  treated 
them  in  prose  with  greater  ability  and  a  more  Miltonic  swing  and 
pregnancy  of  phrase  than  Lord  Brooke.  Buried  in  pages  of  weari- 
some verse,  his  discussions  of  these  and  such-like  topics,  in  spite  of 
acuteness,  in  spite  of  a  wide  and  modern  political  view,  are  intoler- 
able as  poetry  and  unreadable  as  political  and  philosophical  argu- 
ment. His  theory — as  it  was  the  theory  of  so  many  of  his  later 
contemporaries,  of  Sir  John  Davies,  of  Christopher  Brooke,  and  Sir 
William  Alexander — seems  to  have  been  that  all  subjects  of  serious 
human  interest  were  equally  within  the  sphere  of  poetry,  or  could 
be  turned  into  poetry  by  a  sort  of  coup  de  main.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  not  only  attempted  to  treat  scientific  matter  poetically,  but 
also  to  treat  genuinely  poetical  matter,  such  as  natural  beauty  or 
human  passion,  or  religious  emotion,  scientifically,  making  analysis 
and  comparison  play  the  part  of  feeling,  and  preserving  the  same , 
stififness  and  pedantry  of  movement  in  the  most  passionate  or 
graceful  situations.  Yet  at  bottom  Lord  Brooke  had  many  of  the 
poet's  gifts.  His  worst  things  contain  a  scant  measure  of  fine  lines 
and  passages,  such  as  perhaps  few  other  Elizabethan  writers  below 
the  first  circle  could  have  written,  expressed  with  admirable  re- 
sonance and  terseness.  At  his  best  he  rises  very  high,  as  we  hope 
to  show  in  the  following  extracts.  But  of  the  exquisite  Elizabethan 
fluency  and  archness,  the  transparent  sweetness  of  Spenser,  the 
spontaneity  and  brilliancy  of  Sidney,  Lord  Brooke  had  little  or 
nothing.  His  poetry  bears  witness  in  an  extraordinary  degree  to 
the  mental  energy  and  acuteness  of  the  time  ;  it  is  wholly  lacking 
in  the  Elizabethan  charm.  Sir  William  Davenant  is  reported  to 
have  said  of  him,  that  he  had  written  good  poetry  in  his  youth  and 
had  then  spoilt  it  by  keeping  it  by  him  till  old  age.  Lord  Brooke's 
own  explanation  of  the  peculiar  quality  of  his  work  however  goes 
deeper  than  this.  In  the  so-called  Life  of  Sidney,  after  making  a 
half  apology  for  the  romance  and  fancifulness  of  Sidney's  Arcadia., 
and  justifying  the  book  as  after  all  not  lacking  in  'images  and 
examples  (as  directing  threads)  to  guide  every  man  through  the 
confused  Labyrinth  of  his  own  desires  and  life,'  he  continues  : 
'  For  my  own  part  1  found  my  creeping  genius  more  fixed  upon 
the  images  of  life  than  the  images  of  wit,  and  therefore  chose  not 


LORD  BROOKE.  367 


to  write  to  them  on  whose  foot  the  black  ox  had  not  already  trod, 
as  the  proverb  is,  but  to  those  only  that  are  weatherbeaten  in  the 
sea  of  this  world,  such  as  having  lost  the  sight  of  their  gardens 
and  groves,  study  to  sail  on  a  right  course  among  rocks  and 
quicksands.'  Thus  beside  the  young  unpruned  imagination  of  his 
friend,  quenched  before  time  had  stolen  from  it  a  particle  of  its 
joyousness  and  luxuriance,  he  places  his  own  elder  and  way-worn 
muse — the  poetry  of  '  Life'  beside  the  poetry  of  'Wit.'  Such  a 
distinction  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  new  world  ;  and  in  parting 
Lord  Brooke  from  the  writer  of  Astrophel  and  Stella  places  him 
mentally  beside  Milton  and  Bacon. 

The  folio  edition  of  his  works,  of  1633,  the  materials  for  which  had 
been  revised  and  collected  for  publication  by  the  author,  contains 
three  treatises,  on  '  Human  Learning,'  on  'Wars,'  and  'An  Inquisi- 
tion upon  Fame  and  Honour,'  the  tragedies  of  Alahani  and 
Mustapha,  and  the  hundred  and  ten  sonnets  of  Caelica.  The 
Poems  of  Motiarchy  and  Religion  were  published  later  in  1670. 
Mustapha  had  also  appeared  earlier  in  1609.  To  these  Mr.  Grosart, 
in  a  recent  complete  edition  has  added  a  few  miscellaneous  poems, 
the  lament  for  Sidney,  published  in  TJie  Phoenix'  Nest  of  1593, 
two  or  three  poems  from  England^s  Helicoft,  and  a  doubtful  one 
from  The  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices.  Of  these  we  are  not  now 
concerned  with  the  treatises.  They  were  originally  meant  to 
serve  as  choruses  between  the  acts  of  Alaliani  and  Mustapha — 
a  whimsical  instance  of  the  impracticability  of  Lord  Brooke's 
genius — and,  as  we  have  already  said,  they  are  not  without  lines 
and  passages  of  poetry.  But  in  the  main  they  are  either  matter 
for  the  biographer,  or  for  the  student  of  seventeenth-century  spe- 
culation. The  collection  of  shorter  poems  under  the  name  of 
Caelica  contains  a  number  of  love-poems,  some  perhaps  genuine, 
others  mocking  and  cynical,  which,  as  in  Habington's  Castara, 
lead  up  to  a  concluding  group  of  religious  and  philosophical  pieces. 
With  sonnets,  properly  so  called,  they  have  nothing  more  in  com- 
mon than  the  name.  Some  of  them  are  undoubtedly  echoes  of 
Astrophel  and  Stella,  harsh  fantastic  echoes  which  but  rarely 
recall  the  music  of  the  earlier  strain.  Sonnet  46,  'Patience,  weak- 
fortun'd  and  weak-minded  wit,'  is  an  '  exercise '  on  the  same  theme 
as  Sonnet  56  of  Astrophel  atid  Stella.  The  end  of  Sonnet  45  is  a 
reminiscence  of  the  tenth  song  in  the  same  collection,  and  two 
better  illustrations  of  poetical  failure  on  the  one  hand,  and  such 
poetical  success  as  the  kind  of  theme  admits  of  on  the  other, 


368  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

could  scarcely  be  brought  together  than  the  thirteenth  sonnet  of 
Caelica,  '  Cupid  his  boy's  play  many  times  forbidden,'  as  com- 
pared with  the  well-known  '  His  mother  dear  Cupid  offended  late' 
of  Astrophel  and  Stella.  This  list  might  be  largely  extended 
with  ever-increasing  profit  to  Sidney's  reputation.  Still,  when  all 
deductions  are  made,  Caelica  brings  its  own  peculiar  reward  to  the 
reader.  There  are  veins  of  poetry  in  it  of  a  remote  and  fanciful 
kind,  and  what  is  not  poetry  will  often  affect  us  with  the  old-world 
charm,  which  is  the  true  explanation  of  Cultismo  wherever  it 
appears  in  literary  history,  the  charm  of  ingenuity  as  such,  of 
mind-play  pure  and  simple.  To  which  may  be  added  that  among 
the  religious  poems  of  Caelica  there  is  perhaps  simpler  and 
sincerer  work  than  Lord  Brooke  produced  anywhere  else. 

With  regard  to  the  poem-plays  of  Alahatn  and  Mustapha, 
which  may  be  compared  with  the  much  inferior  '  Monarchical 
tragedies '  of  Sir  William  Alexander,  nothing  can  be  added  to  the 
well-known  criticism  of  Charles  Lamb,  which  describes  them  as 
'  political  treatises,  not  plays,'  in  which  '  all  is  made  frozen  and 
rigid  with  intellect,'  or  to  Lord  Brooke's  own  account  of  them  as 
intended  to  illustrate  the  *  high  ways  of  ambitious  governours,'  and 
the  public  and  private  ruin  to  which  such  v^-ays  tend.  In  spite  of 
tragical  situations,  in  spite  of  the  injured  youth  of  Mustapha,  and 
the  maiden  heroism  of  Caelica,  they  are  not  tragical,  and  for  all 
their  high  intellectual  interest,  they  are  very  seldom  poetical.  In 
those  rare  instances  however,  where  the  poet  succeeds  in  mastering 
and  transforming  the  philosopher,  there  we  have  a  very  noble  and 
perfect  effect,  such  an  effect  as  is  reached  in  The  Chorus  of  Tartars 
quoted  below,  where  the  plea  of  the  world  against  the  claims  and 
promises  of  religion  is  put  with  a  passion  and  directness  which 
lifts  it  far  above  its  surroundings. 

The  outer  facts  of  Lord  Brooke's  prolonged  literary  career 
bring  the  world  of  Spenser  and  the  world  of  Milton  together  in 
a  striking  way.  He,  with  Spenser,  Dyer,  and  Sidney,  was  a  mem- 
ber of  Harvey's  'Areopagus,'  and  there  is  other  evidence  of 
intercourse  between  him  and  Spenser.  His  friendship  with  Sidney 
is  one  of  the  classical  stories  in  the  history  of  English  letters.  On 
the  other  hand  Davenant,  the  founder  of  the  Restoration  theatre, 
was  the  protegd  of  his  old  age,  and  he  died  the  year  before  the 
composition  of  the  Ode  on  the  Morning  of  ChrisVs  Nativity. 

Mary  A.  Ward. 


LORD  BROOKE.  369 


Chorus  of  Tartars. 

[From  the  Tragedy  oi  Mustapha.'\ 

Vast  Superstition  !     Glorious  style  of  weakness  ! 
Sprung  from  the  deep  disquiet  of  man's  passion, 
To  dissolution  and  despair  of  Nature  : 
Thy  texts  bring  princes'  titles  into  question  : 
Thy  prophets  set  on  work  the  sword  of  tyrants  : 
They  manacle  sweet  Truth  with  their  distinctions  : 
Let  Virtue  blood  :   teach  Cruelty  for  God's  sake  ; 
Fashioning  one  God  ;  yet  Him  of  many  fashions, 
Like  many-headed  Error,  in  their  passions. 
Mankind  !    Trust  not  these  superstitious  dreams, 
Fear's  idols,  Pleasure's  relics,  Sorrow's  pleasures  : 
They  make  the  wilful  hearts  their  holy  temples. 
The  rebels  unto  government  their  martyrs. 
No  :    Thou  child  of  false  miracles  begotten  ! 
False  miracles,  which  are  but  ignorance  of  cause, 
Lift  up  the  hopes  of  thy  abjected  prophets  : 
Courage  and  Worth  abjure  thy  painted  heavens. 
Sickness,  thy  blessings  are  ;   Misery  thy  trial ; 
Nothing,  thy  way  unto  eternal  being ; 
Death,  to  salvation  ;   and  the  grave  to  heaven. 
So  blest  be  they,  so  angel'd,  so  etemiz'd 
That  tie  their  senses  to  thy  senseless  glories, 
And  die,  to  cloy  the  after-age  with  stories. 
Man  should  make  much  of  Life,  as  Nature's  table. 
Wherein  she  writes  the  cypher  of  her  glory. 
Forsake  not  Nature,  nor  misunderstand  her : 
Her  mysteries  are  read  without  Faith's  eye-sight : 
She  speaketh  in  our  flesh  ;   and  from  our  senses 
Delivers  down  her  wisdoms  to  our  reason. 
If  any  man  would  break  her  laws  to  kill, 
Nature  doth  for  defence  allow  offences. 
VOL.  I.  B  b 


370  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

She  neither  taught  the  father  to  destroy : 
Nor  promis'd  any  man,  by  dying,  joy.^ 


Chorus  of  Priests. 

[From  Muslapha.] 

Oh  wearisome  condition  of  Humanity ! 
Born  under  one  law,  to  another  bound, 
Vainly  begot  and  yet  forbidden  vanity, 
Created  sick,  commanded  to  be  sound  : 
What  meaneth  Nature  by  these  diverse  laws? 
Passion  and  reason  self-division  cause. 
Is  it  the  mask  or  majesty  of  Power 
To  make  offences  that  it  may  forgive  ? 
Nature  herself  doth  her  own  self  deflower 
To  hate  those  errors  she  herself  doth  give. 
For  how  should  man  think  that  he  may  not  do 
If  Nature  did  not  fail  and  punish  too  ? 
Tyrant  to  others,  to  herself  unjust, 
Only  commands  things  difficult  and  hard  ; 
Forbids  us  all  things  which  it  knows  we  lust  ; 
Makes  easy  pains,  impossible  reward. 
If  Nature  did  not  take  delight  in  blood, 
She  would  have  made  more  easy  ways  to  good. 
We  that  are  bound  by  vows  and  by  promotion, 
With  pomp  of  holy  sacrifice  and  rites, 
To  preach  belief  in  God  and  stir  devotion, 
To  preach  of  Heaven's  wonders  and  delights, 
Yet  when  each  of  us  in  his  own  heart  looks 
He  finds  the  God  there  far  unlike  his  books. 

'  These  last  four  lines  are  in  allusion  to  the  plot  oi Muslapha,  which  turns 
upon  the  murder  of  the  unresisting  and  innocent  Muslapha  by  his  father 
Solyman,  in  consequence  of  certain  unjust  suspicions. 


LORD  BROOKE.  371 


Chorus  of  Good  and  Evil  Spirits. 

[From  Alaham7[ 

Evil  Spirits. 

Why  did  you  not  defend  that  which  was  once  your  own  ? 

Between  us  two,  the  odds  of  worth,  by  odds  of  power  is  known. 

Besides  map  clearly  out  your  infinite  extent, 

Even  in  the  infancy  of  Time,  when  man  was  innocent '  ; 

Could  this  world  then  yield  aught  to  envy  or  desire. 

Where  pride  of  courage  made  men  fall,  and  baseness  rais'd  them 

higher  ? 
Where  they  that  would  be  great,  to  be  so  must  be  least, 
And  where  to  bear  and  suffer  wrong,  was  Virtue's  native  crest. 
Man's  skin  was  then  his  silk  ;   the  world's  wild  fruit  his  food  ; 
His  wisdom,  poor  simpHcity ;  his  trophies  inward  good. 
No  majesty  for  power  ;   nor  glories  for  man's  worth  ; 
Nor  any  end,  but — as  the  plants — to  bring  each  other  forth. 
Temples  and  vessels  fit  for  outward  sacrifice. 
As  they  came  in,  so  they  go  out  with  that  which  you  call  vice. 
The  priesthood  few  and  poor  ;   no  throne  but  open  air  ; 
For  that  which  you  call  good,  allows  of  nothing  that  is  fair. 
No  PjTamids  rais'd  up  above  the  force  of  thunder, 
No  Babel-walls  by  greatness  built,  for  littleness  a  wonder, 
No  conquest  testifying  wit,  with  [dauntless]  courage  mixt  ; 
As  wheels  whereon  the  world  must  run,  and  never  can  be  fixt. 
No  arts  or  characters  to  read  the  great  God  in. 
Nor  stories  of  acts  done  ;   for  these  all  entered  with  the  sin. 
A  lazy  calm,  wherein  each  fool  a  pilot  is  ! 
The  glory  of  the  skilful  shines,  where  men  may  go  amiss. 
Till  we  came  in  there  was  no  trial  of  your  might, 
And  since  we  were  in  men,  yourselves  presume  of  little  right. 
Then  cease  to  blast  the  Earth  with  your  abstracted  dreams, 
And  strive  no  more  to  carry  men  against  Affection's  streams, 
•ifr  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Keep  therefore  where  you  are  ;  descend  not  but  ascend  : 

For,  underneath  the  sun,  be  sure  no  brave  state  is  your  friend. 

*  i.  e.  '  consider  the  boundless  power  you  enjoyed  in  the  golden  age.' 
B  b  2 


372  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Good  Spirits. 

What  have  you  won  by  this,  but  that  curst  under  Sin, 

You  make  and  mar  ;   throw  down  and  raise  ;  as  ever  to  begin  ; 

Like  meteors  in  the  air,  you  blaze  but  to  burn  out  ; 

And  change  your  shapes — Hke  phantom'd  clouds — to  leave  weak 

eyes  in  doubt. 
Not  Truth  but  truth-like  grounds  you  work  upon. 
Varying  in  all  but  this,  that  you  can  never  long  be  one : 
Then  play  here  with  your  art,  false  miracle  devise  ; 
Deceive,  and  be  deceived  still,  be  foolish  and  seem  wise  ; 
In  Peace  erect  your  thrones,  your  delicacy  spread  ; 
The  flowers   of  time   corrupt,   soon    spring,  and  are  as  quickly 

dead. 
Let  War,  which — tempest-like — all  with  itself  o'erthrows. 
Make  of  this  diverse  world  a  stage  of  blood-enamelled  shows. 
Successively  both  these  yet  this  fate  follow  will. 
That  all  their  glories  be  no  more  than  change  from  ill  to  ill. 


Seed-time  and  Harvest. 

[From  Caelica,  Sonnet  XL.] 

The  nurse-life  wheat  within  his  green  husk  growing 
Flatters  our  hopes  and  tickles  our  desire  ; 
Nature's  true  riches  in  sweet  beauties  shewing, 
Which  set  all  hearts  with  labour's  love  on  fire. 
No  less  fair  is  the  wheat  when  golden  ear, 
Shews  unto  hope  the  joys  of  near  enjoying  : 
Fair  and  sweet  is  the  bud  ;   more  sweet  and  fair 
The  rose,  which  proves  that  Time  is  not  destroying. 
Caelica,  your  youth,  the  morning  of  delight, 
Enamcl'd  o'er  with  beauties  white  and  red, 
All  sense  and  thoughts  did  to  belief  invite, 
That  love  and  glory  there  are  brought  to  bed  ; 

And  your  ripe  years.  Love,  now  they  grow  no  higher, 
Turn  all  the  spirits  of  man  into  desire '. 

*  The  reading  of  these  last  two  lines  is  conjectural. 


LORD  BROOKE.  373 


Elizabetha  Regina. 

[From  Caelica,  Sonnet  LXXXII.] 

Under  a  throne  I  saw  a  virgin  sit, 
The  red  and  white  rose  quartered  in  her  face, 
Star  of  the  North ! — and  for  true  guards  to  it, 
Princes,  church,  states,  all  pointing  out  her  grace. 
The  homage  done  her  was  not  born  of  Wit  ; 
Wisdom  admir'd,  Zeal  took  Ambition's  place, 
State  in  her  eyes  taught  Order  how  to  fit 
And  fix  Confusion's  unobserving  race. 

Fortune  can  here  claim  nothing  truly  great, 
But  that  this  princely  creature  is  her  seat. 


SOXNET. 
[From  Caelica,  Sonnet  CX.] 

Sion  lies  waste,  and  Thy  Jerusalem, 

O  Lord,  is  fall'n  to  utter  desolation  ; 

Against  Thy  prophets  and  Thy  holy  men. 

There  sin  hath  wrought  a  fatal  combination  : 
Profan'd  Thy  name,  Thy  worship  overthrown. 
And  made  Thee,  living  Lord,  a  God  unknown. 

Thy  powerful  laws.  Thy  wonders  of  creation. 

Thy  word  incarnate,  glorious  heaven,  dark  hell, 

Lie  shadowed  under  man's  degeneration  ; 

Thy  Christ  still  crucified  for  doing  well  ; 
Impiety,  O  Lord,  sits  on  Thy  throne, 
WHiich  makes  Thee  living  Lord,  a  God  unknown. 

Man's  superstition  hath  Thy  truth  entombed. 

His  atheism  again  her  pomps  defaceth  ; 

That  sensual,  insatiable  vast  womb. 

Of  thy  seen  Church,  Thy  unseen  Church  disgraceth  ; 
There  lives  no  truth,  with  them  that  seem  Thine  own. 
Which  makes  Thee,  living  Lord,  a  God  unknown. 


374  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Yet  unto  Thee,  Lord — mirror  of  transgression — 
We  who  for  earthly  idols  have  forsaken, 
Thy  heavenly  image; — sinless,  pure  impression — 
And  so  in  nets  of  vanity  lie  taken. 

All  desolate  implore  that  to  Thine  own. 
Lord,  Thou  no  longer  live  a  God  unknown. 

Yea,  Lord,  let  Israel's  plagues  not  be  eternal, 
Nor  sin  for  ever  cloud  Thy  sacred  mountains, 
Nor  with  false  flames  spiritual  but  infernal, 
Diy  up  Thy  Mercy's  ever  springing  fountains  : 
Rather,  sweet  Jesus,  fill  up  time  and  come, 
To  yield  to  sin  her  everlasting  doom. 


An  Elegy  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney ^ 

Silence  augmenteth  grief,  writing  increaseth  rage, 

Staled  are   my  thoughts,  which   loved   and   lost  the   wonder   of 

our  age  ; 
Yet  quickened  now  with  fire,  though  dead  with  frost  ere  now. 
Enraged  I  write,  I  know  not  what  ;  dead — quick — I  know  not  how. 

Hard-hearted  minds  relent  and  Rigour's  tears  abound. 
And  Envy  strangely  rues  his  end,  in  whom  no  fault  she  found. 
Knowledge  her  light  hath  lost,  Valour  hath  slain  her  knight, 
Sidney  is  dead,  dead  is  my  friend,  dead  is  the  world's  delight. 

Place  pensive  wails  his  fall,  whose  presence  was  her  pride, 
Time  crieth  out,  my  ebb  is  come  ;   his  life  was  my  spring-tide  ! 
Fame  mourns  in  that  she  lost  the  ground  of  her  reports, 
P^.ach  living  wight  laments  his  lack,  and  all  in  sundry  sorts. 

He  was  (woe  worth  that  word  !)  to  each  well-thinking  mind 
A  spotless  friend,  a  matchless  man,  whose  virtue  ever  shincd, 
Declaring  in  his  thoughts,  his  life  and  that  he  writ. 
Highest  conceits,  longest  foresights,  and  deepest  works  of  wil. 


'  The  authorship  of  this  ])ocni  is  by  no  means  certain.     Latnb  however 
believed  it  to  be  by  Lord  Brooke. 


LORD  BROOKE.  37: 


Farewell  to  you  my  hopes,  my  wonted  waking  dreams, 
Farewell  sometimes  enjoyed  joy,  eclipsed  are  thy  beams, 
Farewell  self-pleasing  thoughts,  which  quietness  brings  forth, 
And  farewell  friendship's  sacred  league,  uniting  minds  of  worth. 

And  farewell  merry  heart,  the  gift  of  guiltless  minds, 
And  all  sports,  which  for  life's  restore,  variety  assigns  : 
Let  all  that  sweet  is  void  ;    in  me  no  mirth  may  dwell  : 
Philip  the  cause  of  all  this  woe,  my  life's  content,  farewell  ! 

Now  rhyme,  the  son  of  rage,  which  art  no  kin  to  skill, 

And  endless  grief,  which  deads  my  life  yet  knows  not  how  to  kill. 

Go,  seek  that  hapless  tomb,  which  if  ye  hap  to  find, 

Salute  the  stones  that  keep  the  hmbs,  that  held  so  good  a  mind. 


SIR   EDWARD    DYER. 

[Born  about  1550  at  Sharpham  near  Glastonbury;  educated  at  Balliol 
College,  Oxford ;  ambassador  to  Denmark  1589 ;  knighted  1596 ;  died  1607.] 

Sir  Edward  Dyer,  'for  Elegy  most  sweete,  solempne  and  of  high 
conceit,'  according  to  a  contemporary  judgment,  makes  the  last  in 
importance,  though  the  first  in  date,  of  that  trio  of  poet-friends 
celebrated  in  Sidney's  well-known  Pastoral : 

'  Join  hearts  and  hands,  so  let  it  be : 
Make  but  one  mind  in  bodies  three.' 

Very  little  authentic  verse  of  his  is  now  extant,  nor  is  it  probable 
that  he  produced  much.  On  the  other  hand  he  has  been  freely 
credited  with  verses  that  do  not  belong  to  him,  especially  with  cer- 
tain poems  that  are  now  known  to  be  by  Lodge.  Mr.  Grosart  has 
collected  twelve  pieces  which  may  be  attributed  to  him  with  a  fair 
amount  of  certainty.  Of  these  'A  Fancy'  is  interesting  as  having 
provoked  a  much  better  poem  on  the  same  model  by  Lord  Brooke, 
and  a  later  imitation  by  Robert  Southwell.  It  is  however  too 
rambling  and  unequal  for  quotation.  Dyer  is  now  remembered  by 
one  poem  only,  the  well-known  '  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is,' 
which  though  fluent  and  spirited  verse,  probably  owes  most  of  its 
reputation  to  the  happiness  of  its  opening.  The  little  poem  '  To 
Phillis  the  Fair  Shepherdess'  is  in  the  lighter,  less  hackneyed 
Elizabethan  vein,  and  makes  a  welcome  interlude  among  the  '  woe- 
ful ballads'  which  immediately  surround  it  in  England s  Helicon, 
where  it  first  appeared.  Still,  when  all  is  said.  Dyer,  a  man  of 
action  and  affairs  rather  than  of  letters,  is  chiefly  interesting  for 
his  connection  with  Sidney  and  Greville ;  and  that  stiff  pathetic 
engraving  of  Sidney's  funeral,  which  represents  him  as  pall-bearer 
side  by  side  with  Lord  Brooke,  throws  a  light  upon  his  memory 
that  none  of  his  poems  have  power  to  shed. 

The  last  two  extracts  given  below  are  taken  from  a  book  of 
which  an  apparently  unique  copy  (dated  1588)  is  preserved  in  the 
Bodleian  Library,  under  the  title  of  Sixe  Idillia  (from  Theocritus). 
Mr.  Collier  attributes  this  book  to  Dyer,  on  the  ground  of  the 
initials  E.  D.  given  on  the  back  of  the  title-page.  This  is  weak 
evidence,  but  the  fluency  and  sweetness  of  the  translations  make 
us  loth  to  reject  it. 

Mary  A.  Ward. 


DYER.  377 


My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is. 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, 

Such  present  joys  therein  I  find, 
That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind  : 
Though  much  I  want  which  most  would  have, 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

No  princely  pomp,  no  wealthy  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victory. 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore. 

No  shape  to  feed  a  loving  eye  ; 
To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall  : 
For  why.''     My  mind  doth  serve  for  all. 

I  see  how  plenty  [surfeits]  oft, 
And  hasty  climbers  soon  do  fall  ; 

I  see  that  those  which  are  aloft 
Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all ; 

They  get  with  toil,  they  keep  with  fear ; 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

Content  to  live,  this  is  my  stay  ; 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice  ; 
I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway  ; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies  : 
Lo,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king. 
Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  do  crave  ; 

I  little  have,  and  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they  have, 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store  ; 
They  poor,  I  rich  ;  they  beg,  I  give  ; 
They  lack,  I  leave ;   they  pine,  I  live. 


378  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss  ; 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  pain  ; 
No  worldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss  ; 

My  state  at  one  doth  still  remain  : 
I  fear  no  foe,  I  fawn  no  friend  ; 
I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  my  end. 

Some  weigh  their  pleasure  by  their  lust, 
Their  wisdom  by  their  rage  of  will  ; 

Their  treasure  is  their  only  trust ; 
A  cloaked  craft  their  store  of  skill  : 

But  all  the  pleasure  that  I  find 

Is  to  maintain  a  quiet  mind. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease  : 
My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence  ; 

I  neither  seek  by  bribes  to  please, 
Nor  by  deceit  to  breed  offence  : 

Thus  do  I  live  ;   thus  will  I  die  ; 

Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I  ! 


To  Phillis  the  Fair  Shepherdess. 

My  Phillis  hath  the  morning  Sun, 

At  first  to  look  upon  her  : 
And  Phillis  hath  mom-waking  birds. 

Her  rising  still  to  honour. 
My  Phillis  hath  prime  feathered  flowers, 

That  smile  when  she  treads  on  them  : 
And  Phillis  hath  a  gallant  flock 

That  leaps  since  she  doth  own  them. 
]5ut   I'liillis  hath  too  hard  a  heart, 

Alas,  that  she  should  have  it  ! 
It  yields  no  mercy  to  desert 

Nor  grace  to  those  that  crave  it. 


DYER.  379 

Sweet  Sun,  when  thou  look'st  on, 

Pray  her  regard  my  moan  ! 
Sweet  birds  when  you  sing  to  her 

To  yield  some  pity  woo  her  ! 
Sweet  flowers  that  she  treads  on, 

Tell  her,  her  beauty  dreads  one. 
And  if  in  life  her  love  she  nill  agree  me, 
Pray  her  before  I  die,  she  will  come  see  mc. 


Helen's  Epithalamiox. 

[From  the  Sixe  Idillia.'] 

Like  as  the  rising  morning  shows  a  grateful  lightening. 

When  sacred  night  is  past  and  winter  now  lets  loose  the  spring. 

So  glittering  Helen  shined  among  the  maids,  lusty  and  tall. 

As  is  the  furrow  in  a  field  that  far  outstretcheth  all, 

Or  in  a  garden  is  a  Cypress  tree,  or  in  a  trace 

A  steed  of  Thessaly,  so  she  to  Sparta  was  a  grace. 

No  damsel  with  such  works  as  she  her  baskets  used  to  fill, 

Nor  in  a  diverse  coloured  web  a  woof  of  greater  skill 

Doth  cut  from  off  the  loom  ;  nor  any  hath  such  songs  and  lays 

Unto  her  dainty  harp,  in  Dian's  and  Minerva's  praise, 

As  Helen  hath,  in  whose  bright  eyes  all  Loves  and  Graces  be. 

O  fair,  O  lovely  maid,  a  matron  now  is  made  of  thee  ; 

But  we  will  every  spring  unto  the  leaves  in  meadows  go 

To  gather  garlands  sweet,  and  there  not  with  a  little  woe, 

Will  often  think  of  thee,  O  Helen,  as  the  sucking  lambs 

Desire  the  strouting  bags  and  presence  of  their  tender  dams, 

We  all  betimes  for  thee  a  wreath  of  Melitoe  will  knit. 

And  on  a  shady  plane  for  thee  will  safely  fasten  it, 

And  all  betimes  for  thee,  under  a  shady  plane  below. 

Out  of  a  silver  box  the  sweetest  ointment  will  bestow  ; 

And  letters  shall  be  written  in  the  bark  that  men  may  see 

And  read,  Do  humble  reverence,  for  I  am  Helen's  tree. 


380  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  Prayer  of  Theocritus  for  Syracuse. 

{Idyll  i6.) 

O  Jupiter,  and  thou  Minerva  fierce  in  fight, 
And  thou  Proserpina,  who  with  thy  mother  hast  renown 
By  Lysimelia  streams,  in  Ephyra  that  wealthy  town. 
Out  of  our  island  drive  our  enemies,  our  bitter  fate. 
Along  the  Sardine  sea,  that  death  of  friends  they  may  relate 
Unto  their  children  and  their  wives,  and  that  the  towns -opprest 
By  enemies,  of  th'  old  inhabitants  may  be  possest  : 
That  they  may  till  the  fields,  and  sheep  upon  the  downs  may  bleat 
By  thousands  infinite  and  fat,  and  that  the  herd  of  neat 
As  to  their  stalls  they  go  may  press  the  lingering  traveller. 
Let  grounds  be  broken  up  for  seed,  what  time  the  grasshopper 
Watching  the  shepherds  by  their  flocks,   in   boughs  close  sing- 
ing lies. 
And  let  the  spiders  spread  their  slender  webs  in  armories. 
So  that  of  war  the  very  name  may  not  be  heard  again. 
But  let  the  Poets  strive.  King  Hiero's  glory  for  to  strain 
Beyond  the  Scythian  sea,  and  far  beyond  those  places  where 
Semiramis  did  build  those  stately  walls  and  rule  did  bear. 
'Mongst  whom  I  will  be  one  :    for  many  other  men  beside 
Jove's  daughters  love,  whose  study  still  shall  be  both  far  and  wide, 
Sicilian  Arethusa  with  the  people  to  advance 
And  warlike  Hiero.     Ye  Graces  who  keep  resiance 
In  the  Thessalian  mount  Orchomenus,  to  Thebes  of  old 
So  hateful,  though  of  you  beloved,  to  stay  I  will  be  bold 
Where  1  am  bid  to  come,  and  I  with  them  will  still  remain, 
That  shall  invite  me  to  their  house  with  all  my  Muses'  train. 
Nor  you  will  I  forsake  :    for  what  to  men  can  lovely  be 
Without  your  company.''    The  Graces  always  be  with  me. 


HENRY    CONSTABLE, 

[Bom  about  1555  :  died  before  1616.  His  Diana  was  first  published  in 
1592.    An  edition  by  Mr.  W.  C.  Hazlitt  was  published  by  Pickering  in  1S59.] 

Almost  nothing  is  known  of  the  life  of  Henry  Constable.  He 
belonged  to  a  Yorkshire  family  ;  he  was  educated  at  Cambridge  ; 
he  was  acquainted  with  the  Earl  of  Essex,  with  Anthony  Bacon, 
with  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  and  his  wife,  with  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke  and  Lady  Rich.  His  sonnets  to  the  soul  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney  seem  to  prove  that  he  was  honoured  with  the  friendship 
of  the  auther  of  the  Defence  of  Poesie.  As  '  a  Catholic  and  an 
honest  man,'  as  he  calls  himself.  Constable  could  not  escape 
suspicion  in  the  suspicious  England  of  his  time.  He  passed  much 
of  his  life  in  exile,  wandering  in  France,  Scotland,  Italy,  and 
Poland,  and  was  acquainted  with  prisons  and  courts. 

The  slight  but  graceful  genius  of  Constable  is  best  defined  by 
some  of  the  epithets  which  his  contemporary  critics  employed. 
They  spoke  of  his  'pure,  quick,  and  high  delivery  of  conceit.'  Ben 
Jonson  alludes  to  his  '  ambrosiac  muse.'  His  secular  poems  are 
'  Certaine  sweete  sonnets  in  the  praise  of  his  mistress,  Diana,' 
conceived  in  the  style  of  Ronsard  and  the  Italians.  The  verses  of 
his  later  days,  when  he  had  learned,  as  he  says,  'to  live  alone 
with  God,'  are  also  sonnets  in  honour  of  the  saints,  and  chiefly 
of  Mary  Magdalene.  They  are  ingenious,  and  sometimes  too 
cleverly  confuse  the  passions  of  divine  and  earthly  love.  In 
addition  to  the  sonnets  we  have  four  pleasant  lyrics  which  Con- 
stable contributed  to  Engla7td's  Helicojt.  We  select  two  of  these 
pastorals,  one  being  an  idyllic  dialogue  between  two  shepherdesses  ; 
the  other,  '  The  Shepherd's  Song  of  Venus  and  Adonis.'  These 
things  have  at  once  the  freshness  of  a  young,  and  the  trivial  grace 
of  a  decadent  literature,  so  curiously  varied  were  the  influences 
of  the  Renaissance  in  England.  Shakespeare  and  Constable 
begin  where  Bion  leaves  off.  Constable  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  fair  example  of  a  poet  who  followed  rather  than  set 
the  fashion.  His  sonnets  were  charged  and  overladen  with  in- 
genious conceits,  but  the  freshness,  the  music,  of  his  more  free  and 
flowing  lyrics  remain,  and  keep  their  charm. 

A.  Lang. 


382  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


A  Pastoral  Song  between  Phillis  and  Amarillis,  two 
Nymphs,  each  answering  other  line  for  line. 

Phillis. 
Fie  on  the  sleights  that  men  devise, 

Heigh  ho  silly  sleights  : 
When  simple  maids  they  would  entice, 

Maids  are  young  men's  chief  delights. 

Amarillis. 
Nay,  women  they  witch  with  their  eyes, 

Eyes  like  beams  of  burning  sun  : 
And  men  once  caught,  they  soon  despise  ; 

So  are  shepherds  oft  undone. 

Phillis. 
If  any  young  man  win  a  maid, 

Happy  man  is  he  : 
By  trusting  him  she  is  betrayed  ; 

Fie  upon  such  treachery. 

Amarillis. 
If  iMaids  win  young  men  with  their  guiles, 

Heigh  ho  guileful  grief  ;■ 
They  deal  like  weeping  crocodiles. 

That  murder  men  without  relief 

Phillis. 
I  know  a  simple  country  hind. 

Heigh  ho  silly  swain  : 
To  whom  fair  Daphne  proved  kind, 

Was  he  not  kind  to  her  again  ? 
He  vowed  by  Pan  with  many  an  oath, 

Heigh  ho  shepherds  God  is  he  : 
Yet  since  hath  changed,  and  broke  his  troth, 

Trothpiiglu  broke  will  plagued  be. 


CONSTABLE.  383 

Amarillis. 

She  hath  deceived  many  a  swain, 

Fie  on  false  deceit : 
And  pUghted  troth  to  them  in  vain, 

There  can  be  no  grief  more  great. 
Her  measure  was  with  measure  paid, 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho  equal  meed  : 
She  was  beguil'd  that  had  betrayed, 

So  shall  all  deceivers  speed. 

PhilHs. 
If  ever)''  maid  were  like  to  me. 

Heigh-ho  hard  of  heart  : 
Both  love  and  lovers  scorn'd  should  be, 

Scorners  shall  be  sure  of  smart. 

Amarillis. 

If  every  maid  were  of  my  mind 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho  lovely  sweet : 
They  to  their  lovers  should  prove  kind. 

Kindness  is  for  maidens  meet. 

Phi  I  I  is. 
Methinks,  love  is  an  idle  toy. 

Heigh-ho  busy  pain  : 
Both  wit  and  sense  it  doth  annoy, 

Both  sense  and  wit  thereby  we  gain. 

Amarillis. 
Tush  !    Phillis,  cease,  be  not  so  coy, 

Heigh-ho,  heigh-ho,  coy  disdain  : 
I  know  you  love  a  shepherd's  boy, 

Fie  !    that  maidens  so  should  feign  ! 

Phillis, 

Well,  Amarillis,  now  I  yield. 

Shepherds,  pipe  aloud  : 
Love  conquers  both  in  town  and  field. 

Like  a  tyrant,  fierce  and  proud. 


584  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  evening  star  is  up,  ye  see  ; 

Vesper  shines  ;   we  must  away  ; 
Would  every  lover  might  agree, 

So  we  end  our  roundelay. 

The  Shepherd's  Song  of  Venus  and  Adonis. 

Venus  fair  did  ride, 
Silver  doves  they  drew  her, 
By  the  pleasant  launds, 
Ere  the  sun  did  rise  : 
Vesta's  beauty  rich 
Opened  wide  to  view  her, 
Philomel  records 

Pleasing  harmonies. 
Every  bird  of  spring 
Cheerfully  did  sing, 

Paphos'  goddess  they  salute  ; 
Now  Love's  Queen  so  fair 
Had  of  mirth  no  care  : 

For  her  son  had  made  her  mute. 
In  her  breast  so  tender, 
He  a  shaft  did  enter. 

When  her  eyes  beheld  a  boy  : 
Adonis  was  he  named, 
By  his  mother  shamed '  : 

Yet  he  now  is  Venus'  joy. 

Him  alone  she  met 

Ready  bound  for  hunting ; 
Him  she  kindly  greets. 

And  his  journey  stays  ; 
Him  she  seeks  to  kiss, 

No  devises  wanting  ; 
Him  her  eyes  still  woo  ; 

Him  her  tongue  still  prays. 
He  with  blushing  red 
Hangeth  down  the  head, 

'  See  the  story  of  Myrrha  in  Ovid. 


CONSTABLE.  385 


Not  a  kiss  can  he  afiford  ; 
His  face  is  turned  away, 
Silence  said  her  nay, 

Still  she  woo'd  him  for  a  word. 
'  Speak,'  she  said,  '  thou  fairest ; 

Beauty  thou  impairest, 
See  me,  I  am  pale  and  wan  : 

Lovers  all  adore  me, 

I  for  love  implore  thee  ;' 
— Crystal  tears  with  that  down  ran. 

Him  herewith  she  forced 

To  come  sit  down  by  her, 
She  his  neck  embraced, 

Gazing  in  his  face  : 
He,  like  one  transformed. 

Stirred  no  look  to  eye  her ; 
Every  herb  did  woo  him, 

Growing  in  that  place, 
Each  bird  with  a  ditty 

Prayed  him  for  pity 
In  behalf  of  Beauty's  Queen  ; 

Water's  gentle  murmur 

Craved  him  to  love  her : 
Yet  no  liking  could  be  seen  ; 
'Boy,'  she  said,  'look  on  me, 
Still  I  gaze  upon  thee. 
Speak,  I  pray  thee,  my  delight.' 

Coldly  he  replied. 

And  in  brief  denied 
To  bestow  on  her  a  sight. 

'  I  am  now  too  young 
To  be  won  by  beauty, 
Tender  are  my  years 
I  am  yet  a  bud.' 
'Fair  thou  art,'  she  said, 
'  Then  it  is  thy  duty, 
Wert  thou  but  a  blossom, 
To  effect  my  good. 
VOL.  I.  C  c 


.86  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Every  beauteous  flower 

Boasteth  in  my  power,- 

Birds  and  beasts  my  laws  effect : 

Myrrha  thy  fair  mother, 

Most  of  any  other, 

Did  my  lovely  bests  respect. 

Be  with  me  delighted, 

Thou  shalt  be  requited. 

Every  Nymph  on  thee  shall  tend  : 

All  the  Gods  shall  love  thee, 

Man  shall  not  reprove  thee  : 

Love  himself  shall  be  thy  friend.' 

'  Wend  thee  from  me,  Venus, 

I  am  not  disposed  ; 
Thou  wring'st  me  too  hard. 

Prithee  let  me  go  ; 
Fie  !    what  a  pain  it  is 
Thus  to  be  enclosed. 
If  love  begin  in  labour. 
It  will  end  in  woe.' 
'  Kiss  me,  I  will  leave.' 
'  Here  a  kiss  receive.' 
*  A  short  kiss  I  do  it  find : 
Wilt  thou  leave  me  so  ? 
Yet  thou  shalt  not  go  ; 
Breathe  once  more  thy  balmy  wind. 
It  smelleth  of  the  myrrh-tree. 
That  to  the  world  did  bring  thee. 
Never  was  perfume  so  sweet.' 
When  she  had  thus  spoken, 
She  gave  him  a  token, 
And  their  naked  bosoms  meet. 

'Now,'  he  said,  'let's  go, 
Hark,  the  hounds  are  crying, 
Grisly  Boar  is  up, 
Huntsmen  follow  fast.' 
At  the  name  of  Boar, 
Venus  seemed  dying, 


CONSTABLE.  387 


Deadly  coloured  pale, 

Roses  overcast. 

'  Speak,'  said  she,  *  no  more, 

Of  following  the  Boar, 

Thou  unfit  for  such  a  chase  : 

Course  the  fearful  Hare, 

Venison  do  not  spare, 

If  thou  wilt  yield  Venus  grace. 

Shun  the  Boar,  I  pray  thee. 

Else  I  still  will  stay  thee.' 

Herein  he  vowed  to  please  her  mind ; 

Then  her  arms  enlarged, 

Loth  she  him  discharged  ; 

Forth  he  went  as  swift  as  wind. 

Thetis  Phoebus'  steeds 

In  the  West  retained. 
Hunting  sport  was  past  ; 

Love  her  love  did  seek  : 
Sight  of  him  too  soon. 
Gentle  Queen  she  gained, 
On  the  ground  he  lay. 
Blood  hath  left  his  cheek. 
For  an  orped^  swine 
Smit  him  in  the  groin. 
Deadly  wound  his  death  did  bring  : 
Which  when  Venus  found. 
She  fell  in  a  swound, 
And  awaked,  her  hands  did  wring. 
Nymphs  and  Satyrs  skipping. 
Came  together  tripping, 

Echo  every  cry  expressed  : 
Venus  by  her  power 
Turn'd  him  to  a  flower. 
Which  she  weareth  in  her  crest. 

'  bristly 


C  C  2 


38 S  TFIE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Sonnet  prefixed  to  Sidney's  Apology  for 
Poetry,  1595. 

Give  pardon,  blessed  soul !    to  my  bold  cries, 
If  they,  importune,  interrupt  thy  song, 
Which  now  with  joyful  notes  thou  sing'st  among 
The  angel-quiristers  of  th'  heavenly  skies. 
Give  pardon  eke,  sweet  soul !    to  my  slow  cries, 
That  since  I  saw  thee  now  it  is  so  long  ; 
And  yet  the  tears  that  unto  thee  belong. 
To  thee  as  yet  they  did  not  sacrifice  ; 
I  did  not  know  that  thou  wert  dead  before, 
I  did  not  feel  the  grief  I  did  sustain  ; 
The  greater  stroke  astonisheth  the  more. 
Astonishment  takes  from  us  sense  of  pain  : 
I  stood  amaz'd  when  others'  tears  begun, 
And  now  begin  to  weep  when  they  have  done. 


THOMAS    WATSON. 


[Thomas  Watson  was  born  about  1557  in  London;  was  educated  at 
Oxford;  became  a  student  of  law,  and  died  in  London,  probably  in  1592- 
His  principal  writings  are — a  translation  into  Latin  of  Sophocles'  Antigone, 
1581;  The  'EKarofi-naOia,  or  Passionate  Centurie  of  Love,  1582;  AmynlcE 
Gaudia  (in  Latin),  15S5;  Italian  Madrigals  Englished,  1590;  The  Teares  of 
Fancy,  or  Love  Disdained,  posthumously  printed  in  1593.  Many  of  his 
poems  were  printed  in  the  Miscellanies  of  the  time.] 

Thomas  Watson  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  Elizabethan  'amo- 
rettists,'"  or  writers  of  wholly  artificial  love-poetry,  and  his  Heca- 
tompathia,  which  Mr.  Arber's  reprint  has  put  within  the  reach 
of  every  one,  may  be  taken  as  a  type  and  summary  of  the  whole 
class.  It  consists  of  a  hundred  so-called  sonnets  or  'passions,' 
each  of  three  six-lined  stanzas,  and  each  headed  with  a  prose 
introduction  describing  the  purport  and  often  the  literary  origin 
of  the  poem.  A  series  so  furnished  tells  its  own  story  ;  and  we  do 
not  require  to  go  back  to  Watson's  epistle  To  the  frendly  Reader 
to  appreciate  his  '  trauaile  in  penning  these  louepassions,'  or  to 
learn  that  his  *  paines  in  suffering  them'  were  'but  supposed.' 
Watson,  in  fact,  was  a  purely  literary  poet.  At  Oxford,  says 
Antony  Wood,  he  spent  his  time  'not  in  logic  and  philosophy, 
as  he  ought  to  have  done,  but  in  the  smooth  and  pleasant  studies 
of  poetry  and  romance.'  To  these  studies,  however,  his  devo- 
tion was  serious  ;  for  he  mastered  four  languages,  so  that  he 
writes  as  familiarly  of  Sophocles  and  Apollonius  Rhodius  as  of 
Ovid,  of  Petrarch  and  Ariosto  as  of  Ronsard.  He  translated  the 
Antigone  into  Latin,  and  it  was  one  of  his  Latin  poems  that  gave 
him  the  fancy  name  of  Amyntas,  under  which  the  poets  of  the 
time  ranked  him  with  Colin  Clout  and  with  Astrophel.  But  the 
literature  that  he  affected  most  was  the  love-poetry  of  the  Italians — 
of  Petrarch  and  his  followers,  of  Seraphine  and  Fiorenzuola,  and 
many  others  that  are  quite  forgotten  now.     Sometimes  translating, 


39° 


TFIE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


sometimes  paraphrasing,  sometimes  combining  them,  he  tells  the 
story  of  his  imaginary  love,  its  doubts  and  fears  and  hopes,  its 
torments  and  disappointment  and  final  death,  in  that  melodious 
Elizabethan  English  which  not  even  monotony  and  make-believe 
can  wholly  deprive  of  charm.  But  still,  Watson  and  his  kindred 
poets  have  httle  more  than  an  historical  interest.  They  are  but 
the  posthumous  children  of  the  Courts  of  Love  ;  their  occupation 
is  to  use  the  scholarship  and  the  ingenuity  of  the  Renascence  to 
dress  up  the  sentiment  of  the  Middle  Age — a  sentiment  no  more 
real  to  them  than  it  is  to  ourselves.  They  make  no  appeal  to  us  ; 
their  note  has  nothing  of  the  note  of  passion  and  of  truth  that 
rings  in  the  verse  of  Sidney  and  of  Shakespeare. 

Editor, 


IVATSOK  391 


From  the  '  Hecatompathia.' 


Passion  II. 

In  this  passion  the  Author  describeth  in  how  piteous  a  case  the  heart  of 
a  lover  is,  being  (as  he  feigneth  here)  separated  from  his  own  body, 
and  removed  into  a  darksome  and  sohtary  wilderness  of  woes.  The 
conveyance  of  his  invention  is  plain  and  pleasant  enough  of  itself,  and 
therefore  needeth  the  less  annotation  before  it. 

My  heart  is  set  him  down  twixt  hope  and  fears 
Upon  the  stony  bank  of  high  Desire, 
To  view  his  own  made  flood  of  blubbering  tears, 
Whose  waves  are  bitter  salt,  and  hot  as  fire  : 

There  blows  no  blast  of  wind  but  ghostly  groans 
Nor  waves  make  other  noise  than  piteous  moans. 
As  life  were  spent  he  waiteth  Charon's  boat, 
And  thinks  he  dwells  on  side  of  Stygian  lake  : 
But  black  Despair  sometimes  with  open  throat, 
Or  spiteful  Jealousy  doth  cause  him  quake. 

With  howling  shrieks  on  him  they  call  and  cry 
That  he  as  yet  shall  neither  live  nor  die  : 
Thus  void  of  help  he  sits  in  heavy  case, 
And  wanteth  voice  to  make  his  just  complaint. 
No  flower  but  Hyacinth  in  all  the  place. 
No  sun  comes  there,  nor  any  heav'nly  saint, 
But  only  she,  which  in  himself  remains, 
And  joys  her  ease  though  he  abound  in  pains. 


592  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Passion  XL. 

The  sense  contained  in  this  Sonnet  will  seem  strange  to  such  as  never  have 
acquainted  themselves  with  Love  and  his  Laws,  because  of  the  con- 
traieties  mentioned  therein.  But  to  such,  as  Love  at  any  time  hath 
had  under  his  banner,  all  and  every  part  of  it  will  appear  to  be  a 
familiar  truth.  It  is  almost  word  for  word  taken  out  of  Petrarch 
(where  he  beginneth, 

'  Pace  non  tniouo,  e  non  ho  da  far  giierra ;  Parle  prima 

■c  .  i  .    «.5\  Soiiei.  105. 

E  temo,  espero,  etc.  ?  ) 

All,  except  three  verses,  which  this  Author  hath  necessarily  added,  for 
perfecting  the  number,  which  he  hath  determined  to  use  in  every  one 
of  these  his  passions. 

I  joy  not  peace,  where  yet  no  war  is  found  ; 
I  fear,  and  hope  ;    I  burn,  yet  freeze  withal  ; 
I  mount  to  heav'n,  yet  lie  but  on  the  ground  ; 
I  compass  nought,  and  yet  I  compass  all  : 

I  live  her  bond,  which  neither  is  my  foe. 

Nor  friend  ;  nor  holds  me  fast,  nor  lets  me  go  ; 
Love  will  not  that  I  live,  nor  lets  me  die  ; 
Nor  locks  me  fast,  nor  suffers  me  to  scape  ; 
I  want  both  eyes  and  tongue,  yet  see  and  cry  ; 
I  wish  for  death,  yet  after  help  I  gape  ; 

I  hate  myself,  but  love  another  wight  ; 

And  feed  on  grief,  in  lieu  of  sweet  delight ; 
At  selfsame  time  I  both  lament  and  joy ; 
I  still  am  pleas'd,  and  yet  displeased  still  ; 
Love  sometimes  seems  a  God,  sometimes  a  Boy; 
Sometimes  I  sink,  sometimes  I  swim  at  will  ; 

Twixt  death  and  life,  small  difference  I  make  ; 

All  this  dear  Dame  befalls  me  for  thy  sake. 


IVATSO.V.  393 


Passion  LXV. 

In  the  first  and  second  part  of  this  passion,  the  Author  proveth  by  exam- 
ples, or  rather  by  manner  of  argument,  A  ?naJori  ad  minus,  that  he  may 
with  good  reason  yield  himself  to  the  empery  of  Love,  whom  the  gods 
themselves  obey ;  as  Jupiter  in  heaven,  Neptune  in  the  seas,  and  Pluto 
in  hell.  In  the  last  staff  he  imitateth  certain  Italian  verses  of  M.  Giro- 
lamo  Parabosco  ;  which  are  as  foUoweth  : — 

'  Occhi  tuoi,  anzi  stelle  ahne,  et  fatali,  Selua  Seconda. 

Que  ha  prescritto  il  del  mio  mal,   mio  bene ; 

Mie  lagrime,  e  sospir,  mio  riso,  e  canto ; 

Mia  speme,  mio  tinior ;  mio  foco  e  giaccio; 

Mia  noia  mio  piacer ;  mia  vila  e  morte^ 

Who  knoweth  not,  how  often  Venus'  son 

Hath  forced  Jupiter  to  leave  his  seat  ? 

Or  else,  how  often  Neptune  he  hath  won 

From  seas  to  sands,  to  play  some  wanton  feat  ? 
Or,  how  he  hath  constrained  the  Lord  of  Styx 
To  come  on  earth,  to  practise  loving  tricks  ? 

If  heav'n,  if  seas,  if  hell  must  needs  obey, 

And  all  therein  be  subject  unto  Love  ; 

What  shall  it  then  avail,  if  I  gainsay. 

And  to  my  double  hurt  his  pow'r  do  prove  ? 
No,  no,  I  yield  myself,  as  is  but  meet : 
For  hitherto  with  sour  he  yields  me  sweet. 

From  out  my  mistress'  eyes,  two  lightsome  stars, 

He  destinates  estate  of  double  kind. 

My  tears,  my  smiling  cheer  ;   my  peace,   my  wars  ; 

My  sighs,  my  songs  ;  my  fear,  my  hoping  mind  ; 
My  fire,  my  frost  ;  my  joy,  my  sorrow's  gall  ; 
My  curse,  my  praise  ;  my  death,  but  life  with  all. 


JOHN     LYLY. 


[Little  is  kno\vn  of  Lyly's  life.  He  was  bom  in  Kent  in  1554,  studied 
at  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  was  patronised  by  Lord  Burghley,  and  wrote 
plays  for  the  Child  players  at  the  Chapel  Royal, — the  '  aery  of  children,' 
alluded  to  in  Hamlet,  '  little  eyases,  that  cry  out  on  the  top  of  the  question 
and  are  most  tyrannically  clapped  for't'  He  died  in  1606.  His  Eupkiies 
was  published,  first  part  in  1579,  second  part  in  1580.] 


The  airy  mirthful  plays  and  pretty  little  songs  of  the  'witty, 
comical,  facetiously  quick  and  unparalleled  John  Lyly,'  as  his 
publisher  described  him,  are  a  standing  refutation  of  M.  Taine's 
picture  of  England  in  the  Elizabethan  age  as  a  sort  of  den  of  wild 
beasts.  No  Frenchman  in  any  age  was  ever  more  light  and  gay 
than  Queen  Elizabeth's  favourite  writer  of  comedies,  and  the 
inventor  or  perfecter  of  a  fashionable  style  of  sentimental  speech 
among  her  courtiers. 

The  epithet  'unparalleled'  applied  to  Lyly  was  more  exact  than 
puffs  generally  are.  Though  he  is  said  to  have  set  a  fashion  of 
talk  among  the  ladies  of  the  Court  and  their  admirers,  he  found 
no  imitator  in  letters  ;  his  peculiar  style  perished  from  literature 
with  himself.  Scott's  Sir  Percie  Shafton  is  called  a  Euphuist, 
and  is  supposed  to  be  an  attempt  at  historical  reproduction,  but 
the  caricature  has  hardly  any  point  of  likeness  with  the  supposed 
original  as  we  see  it  in  the  language  which  Lyly  puts  into  the  mouth 
of  Euphues  himself.  Shafton  is  much  more  like  Sidney's  Rhom- 
bus or  Shakespeare's  Holofernes,  a  fantastic  pedant  at  whom  the 
real  Euphuists  would  have  mocked  with  as  genuine  contempt  as 
plain  people  of  the  present  time.  The  dainty  courtier  Boyet,  in 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  who,  according  to  the  sarcastic  Biron,  '  picks 
up  wit  as  pigeons  pease,'  is  perhaps  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
Euphuist  such  as  was  modelled  upon  Lyly  that  we  have  in 
literature.      The  essence  of  Lyly's  Euphuism  is  its  avoidance  of 


LYLY.  395 

cumbrous  and  clumsy  circumlocution  ;  his  style  is  neat,  precise, 
quick,  balanced  ;  full  of  puns  and  pretty  conceits — 

'  Talking  of  stones,  stars,  plants,  of  fishes,  flies. 
Playing  with  words  and  idle  similes,' 

as  a  satirist  of  the  time  describes  it — but  never  verbose  and  heavy 
as  the  Euphuists'  style  is  sometimes  represented. 

Lyly  wrote  more  comedies  than  any  writer  that  preceded  him, 
but  he  had  no  influence  that  can  be  traced  upon  our  literature. 
We  seem  to  find  the  key  to  their  character  in  the  fact  that  they 
were  written  to  be  played  by  children  and  heard  and  seen  by 
ladies.  Their  pretty  love-scenes,  joyous  pranks,  and  fantastically 
worded  moralisings,  were  too  light  and  insubstantial  as  fare  for 
the  common  stage,  and  they  were  superseded  as  Court  entertain- 
ments after  Elizabeth's  death  by  masques  in  which  ingenious 
scenic  effects  were  the  chief  attraction,  and  plays  with  an  ampler 
allowance  of  blood  and  muscle.  Lyly's  childlike  comedies,  with 
their  pigmy  fun  and  pretty  sentiment,  were  brushed  aside  by  plays 
that  appealed  more  seriously  to  the  senses  and  the  imagination  ; 
but  it  seems  almost  a  pity  that  the  example  of  his  neatness  and 
finish  in  construction  did  not  take  root.  Perhaps  the  daintiness  in 
his  manipulation  of  his  materials  would  have  been  impossible  if 
the  materials  had  been  coarser  or  more  solid. 

Only  one  of  Lyly's  undoubted  comedies,  The  Woniaji  in  the 
Moon,  was  written  in  verse,  and  the  verse  differs  little  from  his 
prose.  It  shows  the  same  neat,  ingenious  workmanship.  The 
reader  is  not  conscious  of  any  inward  pressure  of  heightened 
feeling  upon  Lyly's  verse  ;  he  probably  chose  this  instrument  in 
preference  to  prose  because  it  had  become  fashionable. 

W.    MiNTO. 


396  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Sappho's  Song. 

[From  Sappho  and  Phao.'] 

O  cruel  Love  !    on  thee  I  lay 

My  curse,  which  shall  strike  blind  the  day; 

Never  may  sleep  with  velvet  hand 

Charm  thine  eyes  with  sacred  wand  ; 

Thy  jailors  still  be  hopes  and  fears  ; 

Thy  prison-mates  groans,  sighs,  and  tears  ; 

Thy  play  to  wear  out  weary  times, 

Fantastic  passions,  vows,  and  rhymes  ; 

Thy  bread  be  frowns  ;   thy  drink  be  gall  ; 

Such  as  when  you  Phao  call 

The  bed  thou  liest  on  by  despair  ; 

Thy  sleep,  fond  dreams  ;   thy  dreams,  long  care ; 

Hope  (like  thy  fool)  at  thy  bed's  head. 

Mock  thee,  till  madness  strikes  thee  dead. 

As  Phao,  thou  dost  me,  with  thy  proud  eyes. 

In  thee  poor  Sappho  lives,  in  thee  she  dies. 


Apelles'  Song. 

[From  Alexander  and  Cainpas.pe!\ 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses — Cupid  paid. 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bows  and  arrows. 

His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows : 

Loses  them  too  ;   then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on  's  check  (but  none  knows  how) ; 

With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin — • 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 


LYLY.  397 


At  last  He  set  her  both  his  eyes.— 
She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 
O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 
What  shall,  alas  !    become  of  me  ? 


Pan's  Song. 

[From  Midai.'\ 

Pan's  Syrinx  was  a  girl  indeed, 
Though  now  she's  turned  into  a  reed. 
From  that  dear  reed  Pan's  pipe  doth  come, 
A  pipe  that  strikes  Apollo  dumb  ; 
Nor  flute,  nor  lute,  nor  gittern  can 
So  chant  it,  as  the  pipe  of  Pan. 
Cross-gartered  swains,  and  dairy  girls. 
With  faces  smug  and  round  as  pearls. 
When  Pan's  shrill  pipe  begins  to  play. 
With  dancing  wear  out  night  and  day; 
The  bag-pipe  drone  his  hum  lays  by 
When  Pan  sounds  up  his  minstrelsy. 
His  minstrelsy  !     O  base  !     This  quill 
Which  at  my  mouth  with  wind  I  fill 
Puts  me  in  mind  though  her  I  miss 
That  still  my  Syrinx'  lips  I  kiss. 


GEORGE     PEELE. 


[George  Peele  was  probably  bom  in  ,1558.  He  was  '  a  most  noted  poet 
in  the  University '  of  Oxford,  and  taking  up  his  residence  in  London  became 
one  of  the  band  of  Univeisity  writers  for  the  stage,  with  whom  the  'player' 
Shakespeare's  first  efforts  as  a  dramatist  brought  him  into  conflict.  His 
first  published  play  was  a  '  pastoral,'  The  Arraignment  of  Paris,  which  had 
been  performed  before  Queen  Elizabeth  in  1584.  It  is  supposed  that  he 
wrote  more  plays  for  the  public  stage  than  have  been  preserved.  He  also 
composed  pageants  for  the  great  city  festivals,  making  a  precarious  living 
by  his  wits.  Occasional  verses  of  Peele's  appear  in  the  poetic  collections 
of  the  period.     He  died  before  1598.] 

Peele  was  one  of  the  singers  before  the  great  Elizabethan 
sunrise,  and  his  notes  contain  no  anticipatory  vibration  of  the 
burst  of  song  that  was  to  follow  him.  His  University  friends, 
even  after  Marlowe  had  made  his  voice  heard,  spoke  of  him  as 
the  Atlas  of  poetry,  inferior  to  none,  and  in  some  respects  supe- 
rior to  all  ;  but  this  partial  verdict  can  now  be  recorded  only 
as  an  example  of  how  contemporary  criticism  is  sometimes  mis- 
taken. In  reading  his  plays  now  one  is  more  astonished  that 
Greene  and  Nash  should  have  considered  him  worthy  to  be  named 
in  the  same  breath  with  Marlowe,  than  that  the  theatrical  managers 
of  the  time,  so  much  to  their  indignation,  should  have  rejected  his 
plays  in  favour  of  the  productions  of  non-academic  workmen. 
Peele's  blank  verse,  which  was  so  much  admired  by  his  academic 
contemporaries,  gives  us  a  fair  idea  of  the  environment  out  of 
which  Marlowe  emerged,  and  increases  our  admiration  of  that 
mighty  genius.  It  deserves  the  praise  of  'smoothness'  which  it 
received  from  Campbell  ;  it  is  graceful  and  elegant,  but  it  has 
neither  sinew  nor  majesty.  I  have  quoted  what  seems  to  me  to 
be  the  most  favourable  example  of  his  use  of  this  instrument,  an 
address  prefixed  to  one  of  his  plays,  The  Tale  of  Troy,  published 
in    15^9,  two  years  after  the  production  of   Tamburlaine.      The 


PEELE.  399 

inspiration  of  the  subject  seems  to  have  contributed  a  fire  and 
a  freedom  of  movement  which  is  generally  lacking  in  Peele's  blank 
verse.  In  using  this  form  at  all,  Peele  essayed  an  instrument 
which  was  beyond  his  powers  and  unsuited  to  his  bent  of  feeling. 
His  was  an  adroit,  subtle,  versatile  mind,  without  massiveness  or 
passionate  intensity,  and  he  is  seen  at  his  best  in  the  expression 
of  graceful  and  humorous  fancies.  He  was  not  however  a  follower 
of  Marlowe  in  the  application  of  blank  verse  to  tragic  purposes. 
In  the  Arraignment  of  Paris^  the  prologue  spoken  by  Ate  is  in 
that  metre,  and  it  is  also  adopted  by  Paris  in  his  speech  before  the 
council  of  the  Gods,  and  by  Diana  in  her  description  of  the  nymph 
Eliza,  a  '  figure '  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  This  seems  to  show  that 
among  the  University  poets,  from  whose  circle  Marlowe  burst 
to  reform  the  common  stage,  blank  verse  was  considered  the 
appropriate  instrument  for  tragic  and  stately  speeches.  But  it 
was  not  apparently  till  after  the  production  of  Tanihurlainc  that 
Peele  wrote  whole  plays  in  blank  verse.  David  and  BctJisabe  is 
the  best  of  these,  and  is  full  of  happy  touches  in  the  tender  scenes, 
but  the  firmness  of  a  masterly  hand  is  wanting.  The  verse  seldom 
moves  far  without  having  recourse  to  the  crutch  of  weak  and 
superfluous  epithets.  In  the  Battle  of  Alcazar  Peele  tried,  perhaps 
at  the  instigation  of  his  hard  taskmasters  the  theatrical  managers, 
to  make  up  by  sound  and  fury  for  his  want  of  natural  strength  in 
the  expression  of  passion,  and  thereby  furnished  Shakespeare  with 
the  model  for  some  of  the  best-known  extravagances  of  Pistol. 
Peele  has  also  left  us  in  Sir  Clyomon  and  Sir  Clamydes  an 
example  of  the  jigging  measure  of  fourteen  syllables,  from  which 
Marlowe  aspired  to  redeem  the  stage.  It  cannot  be  said  that 
Peele  helped  forward  the  great  literary  movement  of  his  time  ;  he 
is  perhaps  the  best  illustration  of  the  utmost  that  could  be  done  by 
a  cultured  man  of  facile  talent  and  poetic  temperament  before  the 
advent  of  the  great  Elizabethans. 

W.   MiNTO. 


400  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


A  Farewell  to  Sir  John  Norris  and  Sir  Francis 
Drake. 

Have  done  with  care,  my  hearts  !    aboard  amain, 

With  stretching  sails  to  plough  the  swelling  waves  ; 

Bid  England's  shore  and  Albion's  chalky  cliffs 

Farewell ;    bid  stately  Troynovant  adieu, 

Where  pleasant  Thames  from  I  sis  silver  head 

Begins  her  quiet  glide,  and  runs  along 

To  that  brave  bridge,  the  bar  that  thwarts  her  course, 

Near  neighbour  to  the  ancient  stony  tower, 

The  glorious  hold  that  Julius  Caesar  built. 

Change  love  for  arms  ;    girt  to  your  blades,  my  boys  ! 

Your  rests  and  muskets  take,  take  helm  and  targe, 

And  let  God  Mars  his  consort  make  you  mirth — 

The  roaring  cannon,  and  the  brazen  trump. 

The  angry-sounding  drum,  the  whistling  fife, 

The  shrieks  of  men,  the  princely  courser's  neigh. 

Now  vail  your  bonnets  to  your  friends  at  home  ; 

Bid  all  the  lovely  British  dames  adieu. 

That  under  many  a  standard  well-advanced 

Have  hid  the  sweet  alarms  and  braves  of  love  ; 

Bid  theatres  and  proud  tragedians, 

Bid  Mahomet,  Scipio,  and  mighty  Tamburlaine, 

King  Charlemagne,  Tom  Stukely,  and  the  rest. 

Adieu.     To  arms,  to  arms,  to  glorious  arms  ! 

With  noble  Norris,  and  victorious  Drake, 

Under  the  sanguine  cross,  brave  England's  badge, 

To  propagate  religious  piety 

And  hew  a  passage  with  your  conquering  swords 

By  land  and  sea,  wherever  Phoebus'  eye, 

Th'  eternal  lamp  of  Heaven,  lends  us  light ; 

By  golden  Tagus,  or  the  western  Ind, 

Or  through  the  spacious  bay  of  Portugal, 

The  wealthy  ocean-main,  the  Tyrrhene  sea, 

From  great  Alcides'  pillars  branching  forth, 

Even  to  the  gulf  that  leads  to  lofty  Rome  ; 

There  to  deface  the  pride  of  Antichrist, 

And  pull  his  paper  walls  and  popery  down — 

A  famous  enterprise  for  England's  strength, 


FEELE.  401 

To  steel  your  swords  on  Avarice'  triple  crown, 
And  cleanse  Augeas'  stalls  in  Italy. 
To  arms,  my  fellow-soldiers  !     Sea  and  land 
Lie  open  to  the  voyage  you  intend  ; 
And  sea  or  land,  bold  Britons,  far  or  near. 
Whatever  course  your  matchless  virtue  shapes, 
Whether  to  Europe's  bounds  or  Asian  plains. 
To  Afric's  shore,  or  rich  America, 
Down  to  the  shades  of  deep  Avernus'  crags, 
Sail  on,  pursue  your  honours  to  your  graves. 
Heaven  is  a  sacred  covering  for  your  heads, 
And  every  climate  virtue's  tabernacle. 
To  arms,  to  arms,  to  honourable  anns  ! 
Hoist  sails,  weigh  anchors  up,  plough  up  the  seas 
With  flying  keels,  plough  up  the  land  with  swords. 
In  God's  name  venture  on  ;    and  let  me  say 
To  you,  my  mates,  as  Caesar  said  to  his. 
Striving  with  Neptune's  hills  ;    '  You  bear,'  quoth  he, 
'  Caesar  and  Caesar's  fortune  in  your  ships.' 
You  follow  them,  whose  swords  successful  are  ;. 
You  follow  Drake,  by  sea  the  scourge  of  Spain, 
The  dreadful  dragon,  terror  to  your  foec. 
Victorious  in  his  return  from  Ind, 
In  all  his  high  attempts  unvanquished. 
You  follow  noble  Norris,  whose  renown. 
Won  in  the  fertile  fields  of  Belgia, 
Spreads  by  the  gates  of  Europe  to  the  courts 
Of  Christian  kings  and  heathen  potentates. 
You  fight  for  Christ,  and  England's  peerless  Queen, 
Elizabeth,  the  wonder  of  the  world, 
Over  whose  throne  the  enemies  of  God 
Have  thundered  erst  their  vain  successless  braves, 
O  ten  times  treble  happy  men,  that  fight 
Under  the  cross  of  Christ  and  England's  Queen, 
And  follow  such  as  Drake  and  Norris  are ! 
All  honours  do  this  cause  accompany. 
All  glory  on  these  endless  honours  waits. 
These  honours  and  this  glory  shall  He  send 
Whose  honour  and  whose  glory  you  defend. 
VOL.  I.  D  d 


ROBERT    GREENE. 


[Robert  Greene  was  bora  at  Norwich,  probably  in  1560.  He  was  a 
graduate  of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  in  1578,  but  took  his  degree  of 
M.A.  five  years  later  at  Clare  Hall.  After  this  he  travelled  in  Italy  and 
Spain,  and,  returning  to  London,  gained  his  living  as  a  playwright  and 
pamphleteer.  He  died  in  Dowgate,  Sept.  3,  1592.  His  first  work  was  the 
novel  of  Mamillia,  1580,  which  was  followed  by  a  rapid  succession  of 
tales,  poems,  plays,  and  pamphlets.  His  most  remarkable  lyrics  appeared 
in  Menaphon,  1587;  Never  Too  Late,  mqo ;  and  The  Mojiniins  Garmstu, 
1590-] 

It  has  been  well  said  that  the  lyrical  brightness  of  Greene's 
smaller  poems  compared  with  the  tame  versification  of  his  plays, 
is  as  surprising  as  'when  an  indifferent  walker  proves  a  light 
and  graceful  runner.'  Yet  the  reason  is  perhaps  not  very  far  to 
find  ;  personally  a  lover  of  riotous  companions  and  outrageous 
surfeiting,  this  hopeless  reprobate  was  imaginatively  one  of  the 
purest  of  idyllic  dreamers.  There  was  an  absolute  chasm  between 
the  foulness  of  his  life  and  the  serenity  of  his  intellect,  and, 
at  least  until  he  became  a  repentant  character,  no  literary  theme 
interested  him  very  much,  unless  it  was  interpenetrated  with 
sentimental  beauty.  This  element  inspired  what  little  was  glowing 
and  eloquent  in  his  plays  ;  it  tinctured  the  whole  of  his  pastoral 
romances  with  a  rosy  Euphuism,  and  it  turned  the  best  of  his 
lyrics  to  the  pure  fire  and  air  of  poetry.  J>om  his  long  sojourn 
in  Italy  and  Spain  he  brought  back  a  strong  sense  of  the 
physical  beauty  of  men  and  women,  of  fruits,  flowers,  and  trees, 
of  the  coloured  atmosphere  and  radiant  compass  of  a  southern 
heaven.  All  these  things  passed  into  his  prose  and  into  his 
verse,  so  that  in  many  of  the  softer  graces  and  innocent  volup- 
tuous indiscretions  of  the  Elizabethan  age  he  is  as  much  a 
forerunner  as  Marlowe  is  in  audacity  of  thought  and  the  thunders 
of  a  massive  line.     For  the  outward   part  of  his  prose  style  he 


GREENE.  403 

was  obviously  indebted  to  Lyly  ;  for  the  inward  character  of  his 
poetical  matter  less  obviously,  but  more  essentially,  to  Spenser, 
whose  antiquated  idioms,  even,  he  affected  to  cherish.  The  pub- 
lication of  Eiiphnes  just  preceded  his  apprenticeship  in  letters, 
and  without  question  stimulated  him  to  the  production  of  his 
first  work.  He  never  reached  the  sententious  force  and  per- 
suasive morality  of  Lyly's  extraordinary  master-piece,  but  he  made 
this  form  of  literature  acceptable  to  a  less  exacting  taste.  His 
own  pastorals  enjoyed  a  very  wide  success,  and  were  imitated 
with  more  or  less  talent  by  Lodge,  Dickenson,  and  other  writers 
of  less  note.  They  were  dehcate  blossoms  of  exotic  growth, 
appeahng  wholly  to  a  hterary  taste,  and,  being  unable  to  hold  their 
ground  after  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century',  they  were  com- 
pletely swept  away  by  the  tide  of  realistic  pamphlets,  coarse 
comedies,  and  sensational  tragedies.  It  is  impossible  to  regret 
this,  because,  although  these  tales  of  Arcadia  and  Silistria  were 
full  of  sweetness  and  tender  beauty,  they  were  foreign  to  our 
native  habit  of  mind,  and  their  prevalence  might  have  doomed 
us  to  some  such  tradition  of  artificial  poetry  as  the  example  of 
Petrarch  so  long  inflicted  on  Itahan  hterature. 

The  lyrics  of  Greene  show  a  sense  of  colour  that  recalls  the 
masters  of  Italian  painting  in  the  century  that  preceded  him,  and 
it  was  certainly  in  the  art  of  the  south  of  Europe  that  he  formed  his 
favourite  conception  of  the  brown  shepherd  and  rosy  nymph  re- 
clining in  a  whispering  boscage  of  green  shadow,  to  whom  appears 

in  vision — 

'  the  God  that  hateth  sleep, 
Clad  in  armour  all  of  fire. 
Hand  in  hand  with  Queen  Desire.' 

His  employment  of  metre  and  rhythm  were  in  unison  with  this 
golden  style  of  imagery.  His  metres  are  very  various,  and  are 
usually  in  direct  analogy  with  the  theme  in  hand.  Doron  glori- 
fies Samela  in  a  stanza  that  sounds  like  the  tramp  of  a  conquering 
army,  while  Menaphon  laments  the  precarious  and  volatile  nature 
of  love  in  lines  that  rise  and  fall  with  the  rush  of  a  swallow's 
flight.  Towards  the  end  of  his  life  Greene  lost  something  of  this 
metrical  elasticity,  and  adopted  for  most  of  his  ideas  a  sober  six- 
line  stanza  ;  his  only  long  poem,  A  Maiden^s  Dream,  is  written  in 
rime-royal. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  much  of  the  shorter  pieces  of  Greene 
which  is  not  also  true  of  all  the  best  verses  of  the  early  Elizabethan 

D  d  2 


404  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

period.  He  is  the  type  of  that  warm  brood  of  poetic  youth  that 
still  sings  in  chorus  from  the  dells  of  England^ s  Helicott,  or  the 
Paradise  of  Princely  Pleasures.  Life  and  the  whole  world  of 
youthful  pleasures  attract  him  with  their  delight,  and  he  hastens 
to  clothe  himself  in  a  gay  silken  doublet,  and  to  throw  away  his 
forefather's  Puritan  coat  of  hodden  gray.  But  anything  more 
specific  and  definite  than  this  it  would  scarcely  be  safe  to  say. 
Greene  has  not  Lodge's  individuality  of  style,  nor  does  he  ap- 
proach his  finest  flights,  but  he  is  more  nearly  allied  to  him  than 
to  any  other  of  his  contemporaries.  It  will  probably  seem  to  a 
careful  reader  that  his  ordinary  level  of  writing  was  sustained  at 
a  higher  point  than  Lodge's.  In  his  rapid  passages  of  octosyllabic 
verse  Greene  sometimes  comes  very  close  to  Barnefield,  and, 
through  that  mysterious  and  exquisite  poet,  to  the  juvenile  manner 
of  Shakespeare,  with  whom,  as  is  well  known,  he  cultivated  a  lively 
spirit  of  rivalry.  But  the  most  curious  and  notable  thing,  after 
all,  about  Greene's  poetry  is  that,  in  all  its  sylvan  sweetness,  it 
should  have  proceeded  from  the  lawless  bully,  whose  ruffled  hair 
and  long  red  beard  became  a  beacon  and  terror  to  all  good 
citizens,  till  in  the  midst  of  his  'villainous  cogging  and  foisting,' 
and  all  his  rascally  sleights,  he  was  carried  off  in  the  thirty-second 
year  of  his  life  by  a  surfeit  of  Rhenish  wine  and  pickled  herrings. 
Upon  the  poor  dishonoured  head  of  this  strange  genius,  the 
wretched  woman  who  was  with  him  when  he  died  set  a  garland 
of  bay-leaves,  in  a  happy  prescience  of  the  tenderness  with  which 
posterity  would  pardon  all  his  sins  for  the  sake  of  his  pure  and 
beautiful  verses. 

Edmund  W.  Gosse. 


GREENE.  405 


Sephestia's  Song  to  her  Child. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee  ; 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy  ; 

When  thy  father  first  did  see 

Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me, 

He  was  glad,  I  was  woe, 

Fortune  changed  made  him  so, 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy 

Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee. 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Streaming  tears  that  never  stint. 

Like  pearl  drops  from  a  flint. 

Fell  by  course  from  his  eyes. 

That  one  another's  place  supplies  ; 

Thus  he  grieved  in  every  part. 

Tears  of  blood  fell  from  his  heart, 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept, 

Mother  cried,  baby  leapt  ; 

More  he  crowed,  more  we  cried. 

Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide  : 

He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 

Child  and  mother,  baby  bless, 

For  he  left  his  pretty  boy. 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 


4o6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


SAMELA. 

Like  to  Diana  in  her  summer  weed, 

Girt  with  a  crimson  robe  of  brightest  dye, 

Goes  fair  Samela  ; 
Whiter  than  be  the  flocks  that  straggHng  feed, 
When  washed  by  Arethusa  faint  they  He, 

Is  fair  Samela  ; 
As  fair  Aurora  in  her  morning  grey. 
Decked  with  the  ruddy  glister  of  her  love, 

Is  fair  Samela  ; 
Like  lovely  Thetis  on  a  calmed  day. 
When  as  her  brightness  Neptune's  fancy  move, 

Shines  fair  Samela  ; 
Her  tresses  gold,  her  eyes  like  glassy  streams. 
Her  teeth  are  pearl,  the  breasts  are  ivory 

Of  fair  Samela  ; 
Her  cheeks,  like  rose  and  lily  yield  forth  gleams, 
Her  brow's  bright  arches  framed  of  ebony  ; 

Thus  fair  Samela 
Passeth  fair  Venus  in  her  bravest  hue. 
And  Juno  in  the  show  of  majesty, 

For  she's  Samela, 
Pallas  in  wit  ;  all  three,  if  you  well  view, 
For  beauty,  wit,  and  matchless  dignity 

Yield  to  Samela. 


Fawn  I  A. 

Ah,  were  she  pitiful  as  she  is  fair. 

Or  but  as  mild  as  she  is  seeming  so, 
Then  were  my  hopes  greater  than  my  despair, 

Then  all  the  world  were  heaven,  nothing  woe. 
Ah,  were  her  heart  relenting  as  her  hand, 

That  seems  to  melt  even  with  the  mildest  touch, 
Then  knew  I  where  to  seat  me  in  a  land, 

Under  wide  hoiivcns,  but  yet  [I  know]  not  such. 


GREENE.  407 

So  as  she  shows,  she  seems  the  budding  rose, 

Yet  sweeter  far  than  is  an  earthly  flower, 
Sovereign  of  beauty,  Hke  the  spray  she  grows, 

Compassed  she  is  with  thorns  and  cankered  flower, 
Yet  were  she  willing  to  be  plucked  and  worn, 
She  would  be  gathered,  though  she  grew  on  thorn. 

Ah,  when  she  sings,  all  music  else  be  still, 

For  none  must  be  compared  to  her  note  ; 
Ne'er  breathed  such  glee  from  Philomela's  bill, 

Nor  from  the  morning-singer's  swelling  throat. 
Ah,  when  she  riseth  from  her  blissful  bed. 

She  comforts  all  the  world,  as  doth  the  sun. 
And  at  her  sight  the  night's  foul  vapour's  fled  ; 

When  she  is  set,  the  gladsome  day  is  done. 
O  glorious  sun,  imagine  me  the  west, 
Shine  in  my  arms,  and  set  thou  in  my  breast  ! 


The  Palmer's  Ode  in  'Never  too  Late.' 

Old  Menalcas,  on  a  day, 

As  in  field  this  shepherd  lay, 

Tuning  of  his  oaten  pipe. 

Which  he  hit  with  many  a  stripe, 

Said  to  Coridon  that  he 

Once  was  young  and  full  of  glee. 

*  Blithe  and  wanton  was  I  then  : 

Such  desires  follow  men. 

As  I  lay  and  kept  my  sheep. 

Came  the  God  that  hateth  sleep. 

Clad  in  armour  all  of  fire. 

Hand  in  hand  with  queen  Desire, 

And  with  a  dart  that  wounded  nigh. 

Pierced  my  heart  as  I  did  lie  ; 

That  when  I  woke  I  'gan  swear 

Phillis  beauty's  palm  did  bear. 

Up  I  start,  forth  went  I, 

With  her  face  to  feed  mine  eye ; 


4o8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


There  I  saw  Desire  sit, 

That  my  heart  with  love  had  hit, 

Laying  forth  bright  beauty's  hooks 

To  entrap  my  gazing  looks. 

Love  I  did,  and  'gan  to  woo. 

Pray  and  sigh  ;    all  would  not  do  : 

Women,  when  they  take  the  toy, 

Covet  to  be  counted  coy. 

Coy  she  was,  and  I  'gan  court  ; 

She  thought  love  was  but  a  sport  ; 

Profound  hell  was  in  my  thought  ; 

Such  a  pain  desire  had  wrought, 

That  I  sued  with  sighs  and  tears  ; 

Still  ingrate  she  stopped  her  ears, 

Till  my  youth  I  had  spent. 

Last  a  passion  of  repent 

Told  me  flat,  that  Desire 

Was  a  brond  of  love's  fire, 

Which  consumeth  men  in  thrall. 

Virtue,  youth,  wit,  and  all. 

At  this  saw,  back  I  start, 

Beat  Desire  from  my  heart. 

Shook  off  Love,  and  made  an  oath 

To  be  enemy  to  both. 

Old  I  was  when  thus  I  fled 

Such  fond  toys  as  cloyed  my  head, 

But  this  I  learned  at  Virtue's  gate, 

The  way  to  good  is  never  late.' 


Song. 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savour  of  content; 

The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown  ; 
Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber  spent  ; 

The  poor  estate  scorns  fortune's  angry  frown  : 
Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep,  such  bliss, 
Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 


GREENE.  409 

The  homely  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest  ; 

The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor  care  ; 
The  mean  that  'grees  with  country  music  best  ; 

The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  music's  fare  ; 
Obscured  Hfe  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss  : 
A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 


Philomela's  Ode. 

Sitting  by  a  river's  side, 
Where  a  silent  stream  did  glide, 
Muse  I  did  of  many  things, 
That  the  mind  in  quiet  brings. 
I  'gan  think  how  some  men  deem 
Gold  their  god  ;   and  some  esteem 
Honour  is  the  chief  content. 
That  to  man  in  life  is  lent. 
And  some  others  do  contend, 
Quiet  none,  like  to  a  friend. 
Others  hold,  there  is  no  wealth 
Compared  to  a  perfect  health. 
Some  man's  mind  in  quiet  stands, 
When  he  is  lord  of  many  lands  : 
But  I  did  sigh,  and  said  all  this 
Was  but  a  shade  of  perfect  bliss  ; 
And  in  my  thoughts  I  did  approve, 
Nought  so  sweet  as  is  true  love. 
Love  'twixt  lovers  passeth  these, 
When  mouth  kisseth  and  heart  'grees. 
With  folded  arms  and  lips  meeting, 
Each  soul  another  sweetly  greeting  ; 
For  by  the  breath  the  soul  fleeteth, 
And  soul  with  soul  in  kissing  meeteth. 
If  love  be  so  sweet  a  thing. 
That  such  happy  bliss  doth  bring, 
Happy  is  love's  sugared  thrall, 
But  unhappy  maidens  all, 


4  to  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Who  esteem  your  virgin  blisses, 
Sweeter  than  a  wife's  sweet  kisses. 
No  such  quiet  to  the  mind, 
As  true  Love  with  kisses  kind : 
But  if  a  kiss  prove  unchaste, 
Then  is  true  love  quite  disgraced. 
Though  love  be  sweet,  learn  this  of  mc, 
No  sweet  love  but  honesty. 


Orpheus'  Soxg. 

He  that  did  sing  the  motions  of  the  stars, 
Pale-coloured  Phoebe's  borrowing  of  her  light, 

Aspects  of  planets  oft  opposed  in  jars. 

Of  Hesper,  henchman  to  the  day  and  night ; 

Sings  now  of  love,  as  taught  by  proof  to  sing, 

Women  are  false,  and  love  a  bitter  thing. 

I  loved  Eurydice,  the  brightest  lass, 

More  fond  to  like  so  fair  a  nymph  as  she  ; 

In  Thessaly  so  bright  none  ever  was, 
But  fair  and  constant  hardly  may  agree  : 

False-hearted  wife  to  him  that  loved  thee  well, 

To  leave  thy  love,  and  choose  the  prince  of  hell ! 

Theseus  did  help,  and  I  in  haste  did  hie 

To  Pluto,  for  the  lass  I  loved  so  : 
The  god  made  grant,  and  who  so  glad  as  I  ? 

I  tuned  my  harp,  and  she  and  I  'gan  go  ; 
Glad  that  my  love  was  left  to  me  alone, 
I  looked  back,  Eurydice  was  gone  : 

She  slipped  aside,  back  to  her  latest  love. 

Unkind,  she  wronged  her  first  and  truest  feere  ! 

Thus  women's  loves  delight,  as  trial  proves 
By  false  Eurydice  I  loved  so  dear. 

To  change  and  fleet,  and  every  way  to  shrink. 

To  take  in  love,  and  lose  it  with  a  wink. 


CHRISTOPHER    MARLOWE. 

[Christopher  Marlowe  was  bom  at  Canterbury  in  February,  1564,  an<\ 
educated  at  the  Kings  School  in  his  birth-place,   and  -^  ^enet  (Co.puj 
Christi)  College,  Cambridge.     He  was  ki  led  m  a  tavern  brawl.^and  wa 
buried  at  Deptford,  June  i,  1593-     The  dates  and  order  of  h  s  works  are 
somewhat   uncertain.     Of  his   plays,   the   first,    -ra^nburla^nethe    Gr  a^  a 
tracredy  in  two  parts,  must  have  been  acted  m  public  by  I587-     ^t  ^^^ 
olfowed  by  The'^Tragical  History  of  Dr.  Faustus,   The  Jeu.  of  Ma^ta  (pro- 
bably in  1589  or  1590),  rke  Massacre  at  Paris  (not  earher  than  the  end  of 
XS89).  E/JrdII,L  The  Tragedy  of  Q,.en  Dido    which  was  probabb 
left   unfinished   at   Marlowe's  death,  and   completed   by  Nash      Anothe 
play  Lust's  Dominion,  was  for  some  time  wrongly  attributed  to  Marlowe 
but  in  return  for  this  injustice,  the  probability  that  he  may  have  had  at 
lea  t  a  share  in  Shakespeare's  2  and  3  Henry  VI,  or  in  the  plays  on  which 
those  dramas  were  based,  is  now  rather  widely  admitted      Of  his  poerns. 
the  translations  of  Ovid's  Amores  and  the  first  book  of  Lucan  s  Pharsaha 
are  of  uncertain  date.     The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Lo..  was  A^st  Prm  ed 
complete  in  England's  Helicon,  1600,  but  is  quoted  m  The  Jeiu  of  Malta. 
Zland  Leander   was   left   unfinished    at    Marlowe's   death;    Chapman 
completed  it,  dividing  Marlowe's  fragment  into  two  parts,  which  now  lorm 
the  first  two  Sestiads  of  the  poem.] 

Marlowe  has  one  claim  on  our  afifection  which  everyone  is  ready 
to  acknowledge  ;  he  died  young.  We  think  of  him  along  with 
Chatterton  and  Burns,  with  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats.  And  this 
is  a  fact  of  some  importance  for  the  estimate  of  his  hfe  and  genms. 
His  poetical  career  lasted  only  six  or  seven  years,  and  he  did  not 
outUve  his  'hot  days,  when  the  mad  blood's  stirring.'  An  old  ballad 
tells  us  that  he  acted  at  the  Curtain  theatre  in  Shoreditch  and 
'  brake  his  leg  in  one  rude  scene,  When  in  his  early  age.'  If  there 
is  any  truth  in  the  last  statement,  we  may  suppose  that  Marlowe 
gave  up  acting  and  confined  himself  to  authorship.  He  seems  to 
have  depended  for  his  livelihood  on  his  connection  with  the  stage  ; 
and  probably,  like  many  of  his  fellows  and  friends,  he  lived  m 
a  free  and  even  reckless  way.  A  more  unusual  characteristic  of 
Marlowe's  was  his  'atheism.'     No  reliance  can  be  placed  on  the 


412  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

details  recorded  on  this  subject  ;  but  it  was  apparently  only  his 
death  that  prevented  judicial  proceedings  being  taken  against  him 
on  account  of  his  opinions.  The  note  on  which  these  proceedings 
would  have  been  founded  was  the  work  of  one  Bame,  who  thought 
that  '  all  men  in  christianitei  ought  to  endeavour  that  the  mouth  of 
so  dangerous  a  member  may  be  stopped,'  and  was  hanged  at 
Tyburn  about  eighteen  months  afterwards.  But  other  testimony 
points  in  the  same  direction  ;  and  a  celebrated  passage  in  Greene  s 
Groatsworth  of  Wit  would  lead  us  to  suppose  that  Marlowe  was 
given  to  blatant  profanities.  Whatever  his  offences  may  have 
been— and  there  is  nothing  to  make  us  think  he  was  a  bad-hearted 
man— he  had  no  time  to  make  men  forget  them.  He  was  not 
thirty  when  he  met  his  death. 

The  plan  of  the  present  volumes  excludes  selections  from  Mar- 
lowe's plays  ;  but  as  his  purely  poetical  works  give  but  a  one-sided 
idea  of  his  genius,  and  as  his  importance  in  the  history  of  literature 
depends  mainly  on  his  dramatic  writings,  some  general  reference 
must  be  made  to  them.  Even  if  they  had  no  enduring  merits  of 
their  own,  their  effect  upon  Shakespeare — an  effect  which,  to  say 
nothing  of  Henry  VI,  is  most  clearly  visible  in  Richard  I U — and 
their  influence  on  the  drama  would  preserve  them  from  neglect. 
The  nature  of  this  influence  may  be  seen  by  a  glance  at  Marlowe's 
first  play.  On  the  one  hand  it  stands  at  the  opposite  pole  to  the 
classic  form  of  the  drama  as  it  is  found  in  Seneca,  a  form  which 
had  been  adopted  in  Gorbodnc,  and  which  some  of  the  more 
learned  writers  attempted  to  nationalise.  There  is  no  Chorus  in 
Tamburlaine  or  in  any  of  Marlowe's  plays  except  Dr.  Faustus  ; 
and  the  action  takes  place  on  the  stage  instead  of  being  merely 
reported.  On  the  other  hand,  in  this,  the  first  play  in  blank  verse 
which  was  publicly  acted,  he  called  the  audience 

'  From  jigging  veins  of  rhyming  mother-wits, 
And  such  conceits  as  clownage  keeps  in  pay,' 

and  fixed  the  metre  of  his  drama  for  ever  as  the  metre  of  English 
tragedy.  And,  though  neither  here  nor  in  Dr.  Faustus  could  he 
yet  afford  to  cast  off  all  the  conceits  of  clownage,  he  was  in  effect 
iDCginning  to  substitute  works  of  art  for  the  formless  popular  re- 
presentations of  the  day.  Doubtless  it  was  only  a  beginning.  The 
two  parts  of  Tavtburlaine  are  not  great  tragedies.  They  are  full 
of  mere  horror  and  glare.  Of  the  essence  of  drama,  a  sustained  and 
developed  action,  there  is  as  yet  very  little  ;  and  what  action  there 


MARLOWE.  413 


is  proceeds  almost  entirely  from  the  rising  passion  of  a  single 
character.  Nor  in  the  conception  of  this  character  has  Marlowe 
quite  freed  himself  from  the  defect  of  the  popular  plays,  in  which, 
naturally  enough,  personified  virtues  and  vices  often  took  the 
place  of  men.  Still,  if  there  is  a  touch  of  this  defect  in  Tainburlawe, 
as  in  the  Jew  of  Malta,  it  is  no  more  than  a  touch.  The  ruling 
passion  is  conceived  with  an  intensity,  and  portrayed  with  a  sweep 
of  imagination  unknown  before  ;  a  requisite  for  the  drama  hardly 
less  important  than  the  faculty  of  construction  is  attained,  and  the 
way  is  opened  for  those  creations  which  are  lifted  above  the 
common  and  yet  are  living  flesh  and  blood.  It  is  the  same  with 
the  language.  For  the  buffoonery  he  partly  displaced  Marlowe 
substitutes  a  swelling  diction,  '  high  astounding  terms,'  and  some 
outrageous  bombast,  such  as  that  which  Shakespeare  reproduced 
and  put  into  the  mouth  of  Pistol.  But,  laugh  as  we  will,  in  this 
first  of  Marlowe's  plays  there  is  that  incommunicable  gift  which 
means  almost  everything,  style  ;  a  manner  perfectly  individual, 
and  yet,  at  its  best,  free  from  eccentricity.  The  '  mighty  line '  of 
which  Jonson  spoke,  and  a  pleasure,  equal  to  Milton's,  in  resounding 
proper  names,  meet  us  in  the  very  first  scene  ;  and  in  not  a  few 
passages  passion,  instead  of  vociferating,  finds  its  natural  expression, 
and  we  hear  the  fully-formed  style,  which  in  Marlowe's  best 
writing  is,  to  use  his  own  words, 

'  Like  his  desire,  lift  upward  and  divine.' 

'Lift  upward'  Marlowe's  style  was  at  first,  and  so  it  I'emained. 
It  degenerates  into  violence,  but  never  into  softness.  If  it  falters, 
the  cause  is  not  doubt  or  languor,  but  haste  and  want  of  care. 
It  has  the  energy  of  youth  ;  and  a  hving  poet  has  described  this 
among  its  other  qualities  when  he  speaks  of  Marlowe  as  singing 

'  With  mouth  of  gold,  and  morning  in  his  ejes.' 

As  a  dramatic  instrument  it  developed  with  his  growth  and 
acquired  variety.  The  stately  monotone  of  Tamburlaine,  in  which 
the  pause  falls  almost  regularly  at  the  end  of  the  lines,  gives  place 
in  Edward II  to  rhythms  less  suited  to  pure  poetry,  but  far  more 
rapid  and  flexible.  In  Dr.  Faustus  the  great  address  to  Helen  is 
as  different  in  metrical  effect  as  it  is  in  spirit  from  the  last  scene, 
where  the  words  seem,  like  Faustus  heart,  to  '  pant  and  quiver.' 
Even  in  the  Massacre  at  Paris,  the  worst  of  his  plays,  the  style 
becomes  unmistakeable  in  such  passages  as  this  : 


414  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  Give  me  a  look,  that,  when  I  bend  the  brows, 
Pale  Death  may  walk  in  furrows  of  my  face ; 
A  hand  that  with  a  grasp  may  gripe  the  world; 
An  ear  to  hear  what  my  detractors  say ; 
A  royal  seat,  a  sceptre,  and  a  crown  ; 
That  those  that  do  behold  them  may  become 
As  men  that  stand  and  gaze  against  the  sim.' 

The  expression  'lift  upward'  applies  also,  in  a  sense,  to  most 
of  the  chief  characters  in  the  plays.  Whatever  else  they  may 
lack,  they  know  nothing  of  half-heartedness  or  irresolution.  A 
volcanic  self-assertion,  a  complete  absorption  in  some  one  desire, 
is  their  characteristic.  That  in  creating  such  characters  Marlowe 
was  working  in  dark  places,  and  that  he  developes  them  with  all 
his  energy,  is  certain.  But  that  in  so  doing  he  shows  (to  refer  to 
a  current  notion  of  him)  a '  hunger  and  thirst  after  unrighteousness,' 
a  desire,  that  is,  which  never  has  produced  or  could  produce  true 
poetry,  is  an  idea  which  Hazlitt  could  not  have  really  intended  to 
convey.  Marlowe's  works  are  tragedies.  Their  greatness  lies  not 
merely  in  the  conception  of  an  unhallowed  lust,  however  gigantic, 
but  in  an  insight  into  its  tragic  significance  and  tragic  results  ; 
and  there  is  as  little  food  for  a  hunger  after  unrighteousness  (if 
there  be  such  a  thing)  in  the  appalling  final  scene  of  Dr.  Faiistus, 
or,  indeed,  in  the  melancholy  of  Mephistopheles,  so  grandly 
touched  by  Marlowe,  as  in  the  catastrophe  of  Richard  III  or  of 
Goethe's  Faust.  It  is  true,  again,  that  in  the  later  acts  of  the  yew 
of  Malta  Barabas  has  become  a  mere  monster  ;  but  for  that  very 
reason  the  character  ceases  to  show  Marlowe's  peculiar  genius, 
and  Shakespeare  himself  has  not  portrayed  the  sensual  lust  after 
gold,  and  the  touch  of  imagination  which  redeems  it  from  in- 
significance, with  such  splendour  as  the  opening  speech  of  Mar- 
lowe's play.  Whatever  faults  however  the  earlier  plays  have,  it  is 
clear,  \^  Edward II  he.  one  of  his  latest  works,  that  Marlowe  was 
rapidly  outgrowing  them.  For  in  that  play,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
two  great  scenes  to  which  Lamb  gave  such  high  praise,  the 
interest  is  no  longer  confined  to  a  single  character,  and  there  is  the 
most  decided  advance  both  in  construction  and  in  the  dialogue. 

Of  the  weightier  qualities  of  Marlowe's  genius  the  extracts  from 
his  purely  poetical  works  give  but  little  idea  ;  but  just  for  that 
reason  they  testify  to  the  variety  of  his  powers.  Everyone  knows 
the  verses  'Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love,'  with  their  pretty 
mixture  of  gold  buckles  and  a  belt  of  straw.      This  was  a  very 


MARLOWE.  415 


popular  song  ;  Raleigh  wrote  an  answer  to  it ;  and  its  flowing 
music  has  run  in  many  a  head  beside  Sir  Hugh  Evans's.  But  the 
shepherd  would  hardly  be  called  'passionate'  outside  the  Arcadia 
to  which  the  lyric  really  belongs.  Of  the  beautiful  fragment  in 
ottava  rima  nothing  is  known,  except  that  it  was  first  printed  with 
Marlowe's  name  in  England's  Parnasstcs,  1600.  The  translations 
of  Lucan  and  Ovid  (the  former  in  blank  verse)  were  perhaps  early 
studies.  It  is  curious  that  Marlowe  should  have  set  himself  so 
thankless  a  task  as  a  version  of  Lucan  w-hich  literally  gives  line 
for  line  ;  but  the  choice  of  the  author  is  characteristic.  The 
translation  of  0\\d.'s  Ainores  was  burnt  on  account  of  its  indecency 
in  1599,  and  it  would  have  been  no  loss  to  the  world  if  all  the 
copies  had  perished.  The  interest  of  these  translations  is  mainly 
historical.  They  testify  to  the  passion  for  classical  poetry,  and  in 
particular  to  that  special  fondness  for  Ovid  of  which  the  literature 
of  the  time  affords  many  other  proofs.  The  study  of  Virgil  and 
Ovid  was  a  far  less  mixed  good  for  poetry  than  that  of  Seneca  and 
Plautus  ;  and  it  is  perhaps  worth  noticing  that  ?vIarlowe,  who  felt 
the  charm  of  classical  amatory  verse,  and  whose  knowledge  of 
Virgil  is  shown  in  his  Queen  Dido,  should  have  been  the  man 
who,  more  than  any  other,  secured  the  theatre  from  the  dominion 
of  inferior  classical  dramas. 

How  fully  he  caught  the  inspiration,  not  indeed  of  the  best 
classical  poetry,  but  of  that  world  of  beauty  which  ancient  literature 
seemed  to  disclose  to  the  men  of  the  Renascence,  we  can  see 
in  many  parts  of  his  writings,  in  Faust's  address  to  Helen,  in 
Gaveston's  description  of  the  sports  at  Court,  in  the  opening  of 
Queen  Dido  ;  but  the  fullest  proof  of  it  is  the  fragment  of  Hero 
and  Leander.  Beaumont  wrote  a  Salinacis  and  Hermaphroditus, 
Shakespeare  a  Venus  and  Adonis,  but  both  found  their  true 
vehicle  in  the  drama.  Marlowe's  poem  not  only  stands  far  above 
one  of  these  tales,  and  perhaps  above  both,  but  it  stands  on  a 
level  with  his  plays  ;  and  it  is  hard  to  say  what  excellence  he 
might  not  have  reached  in  the  field  of  narrative  verse.  The  defect 
of  his  fragment,  the  intrusion  of  ingenious  reflections  and  of  those 
conceits  with  one  of  which  our  selection  unhappily  terminates,  was 
the  fault  of  his  time  ;  its  merit  is  Marlowe's  own.  It  was  suggested 
indeed  by  the  short  poem  of  the  Pseudo-Musaeus,  an  Alexandrian 
grammarian  who  probably  wrote  about  the  end  of  the  fifth  century 
after  Christ,  and  appears  to  have  been  translated  into  English 
shortly  before  1 589  ;  but  it  is  in  essence  original.     Written  in  the 


4l6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

so-called  heroic  verse,  it  bears  no  resemblance  to  any  other  poem 
in  that  metre  composed  before,  nor,  perhaps,  is  there  any  written 
since  which  decidedly  recalls  it,  unless  it  be  Endy^nion.  '  Pagan ' 
it  is  in  a  sense,  with  the  Paganism  of  the  Renascence :  the 
more  pagan  the  better,  considering  the  subject.  Nothing  of 
the  deeper  thought  of  the  time,  no  '  looking  before  and  after,' 
no  worship  of  a  Gloriana  or  hostility  to  an  Acrasia,  interferes 
with  its  frank  acceptance  of  sensuous  beauty  and  joy.  In  this,  in 
spite  of  much  resemblance,  it  differs  from  Etidyinion,  the  spirit 
of  which  is  not  fruition  but  unsatisfied  longing,  and  in  which  the 
vision  of  a  vague  and  lovelier  ideal  is  always  turning  the  enjoyment 
of  the  moment  into  gloom.  On  the  other  hand,  a  further  likeness 
to  Keats  may  perhaps  be  traced  in  the  pictorial  quality  of  Mar- 
lowe's descriptions.  His  power  does  not  lie  in  catching  in  the 
aspect  of  objects  or  scenes  those  deeper  suggestions  which  appeal 
to  an  imagination  stored  with  human  experience  as  well  as  sensitive 
to  colour  and  form  ;  for  this  power  does  not  necessarily  result  in 
what  we  call  pictorial  writing  ;  but  his  soul  seems  to  be  in  his 
eyes,  and  he  renders  the  beauty  which  appeals  directly  to  sense 
as  vividly  as  he  apprehends  it.  Nor  is  this  the  case  with  the 
description  of  objects  alone.  The  same  complete  absorption  of 
imagination  in  sense  appears  in  Marlowe's  account  of  the  visit  to 
Hero's  tower.  This  passage  is  in  a  high  degree  voluptuous,  but 
it  is  not  prurient.  For  prurience  is  the  sign  of  an  unsatisfied 
imagination,  which,  being  unable  to  present  its  object  adequately, 
appeals  to  extraneous  and  unpoetic  feelings.  But  Marlowe's 
imagination  is  completely  satisfied  ;  and  therefore,  though  he  has 
not  a  high  theme  (for  it  is  a  mere  sensuous  joy  that  is  described, 
and  there  is  next  to  no  real  emotion  in  the  matter),  he  is  able  to 
make  fine  poetry  of  it.  Of  the  metrical  qualities  of  the  poem 
there  can  be  but  one  opinion.  Shakespeare  himself,  who  quoted 
a  line  of  it',  never  reached  in  his  own  narrative  verse  a  music  so 
spontaneous  and  rich,  a  music  to  which  Marlowe  might  have 
applied  his  own  words — 

'  That  calls  my  soul  from  forth  hjs  living  scat 
To  move  unto  the  measures  of  delifjht.' 


Dead  shepherd,  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might : 
"  Who  ever  loved  that  loved  not  at  first  siyht  ? " ' 

As  You  Like  It,  iii.  5. 


MARLOWE.  417 


Marlowe  had  many  of  the  makings  of  a  great  poet  :  a  capacity 
for  Titanic  conceptions  which  might  with  time  have  become 
Olympian  ;  an  imaginative  vision  which  was  already  intense  and 
must  have  deepened  and  widened  ;  the  gift  of  style  and  of  making 
words  sing  ;  and  a  time  to  live  in  such  as  no  other  generation  of 
English  poets  has  known.  It  is  easy  to  reckon  his  failings.  His 
range  of  perception  into  life  and  character  was  contracted  :  of 
comic  power  he  shows  hardly  a  trace,  and  it  is  incredible  that 
he  should  have  written  the  Jack  Cade  scene  of  Henry  VI;  no 
humour  or  tenderness  relieves  his  pathos  ;  there  is  not  any  female 
character  in  his  plays  whom  we  remember  with  much  interest  ; 
and  it  is  not  clear  that  he  could  have  produced  songs  of  the  first 
order.  But  it  is  only  Shakespeare  who  can  do  everything  ;  and 
Shakespeare  did  not  die  at  twenty-nine.  That  Marlowe  must 
have  stood  nearer  to  him  than  any  other  dramatic  poet  of  that 
time,  or  perhaps  of  any  later  time,  is  probably  the  verdict  of 
nearly  all  students  of  the  drama.  His  immediate  successors  knew 
well  what  was  lost  in  him  ;  and  from  the  days  of  Peele,  Jonson, 
Drayton,  and  Chapman,  to  our  own,  the  poets  have  done  more 
than  common  honour  to  his  memorj'. 

A.  C,  Bradley. 


VOL  L  E  e 


4i8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love. 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love  ; 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
Woods  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies  ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle  ; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull  ; 
Fair-linfed  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold  ; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs  : 
An  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd-swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Fragment. 

[From  England's  Parnasiiis,  1600.] 

I  walk'd  along  a  stream,  for  pureness  rare. 
Brighter  than  sun-shine  ;    for  it  did  acquaint 

The  dullest  sight  with  all  the  glorious  prey 
That  in  the  pcbblc-pavc'd  channel  lay. 


MARLOWE.  419 


No  molten  crystal,  but  a  richer  mine, 

Even  Nature's  rarest  alchymy  ran  there, — 

Diamonds  resolv'd,  and  substance  more  divine. 
Through  whose  bright-gliding  current  might  appear 

A  thousand  naked  nymphs,  whose  ivory  shine. 
Enamelling  the  banks,  made  them  more  clear 

Than  ever  was  that  glorious  palace  gate 

Where  the  day-shining  Sun  in  triumph  sate. 

Upon  this  brim  the  eglantine  and  rose. 
The  tamarisk,  olive,  and  the  almond  tree, 

As  kind  companions,  in  one  union  grows. 
Folding  their  twining  arms,  as  oft  we  see 

Turtle-taught  lovers  either  other  close, 
Lending  to  dulness  feeling  sympathy ; 

And  as  a  costly  valance  o'er  a  bed. 

So  did  their  garland-tops  the  brook  o'erspread. 

Their  leaves,  that  differ'd  both  i.i  shape  and  show, 
Though  all  were  green,  yet  difference  such  in  green, 

Like  to  the  checker'd  bent  of  Iris'  bow. 
Prided  the  running  main,  as  it  had  been — 


From  the  First  Sestiad  of  '  Hero  and  Leander.' 

On  Hellespont,  guilty  of  true  love's  blood, 
In  view  and  opposite  two  cities  stood. 
Sea-borderers,  disjoin'd  by  Neptune's  might ; 
The  one  Abydos,  the  other  Sestos  hight. 
At  Sestos  Hero  dwelt  ;    Hero  the  fair. 
Whom  young  Apollo  courted  for  her  hair, 
And  offer'd  as  a  dower  his  burning  throne, 
Where  she  should  sit,  for  men  to  gaze  upon. 
The  outside  of  her  garments  were  of  lawn, 
The  lining  purple  silk,  with  gilt  stars  drawn  ; 
Her  wide  sleeves  green,  and  bordered  with  a  grove. 
Where  Venus  in  her  naked  glory  strove 
E  e  2 


420  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

To  please  the  careless  and  disdainful  eyes 

Of  proud  Adonis,  that  before  her  lies  ; 

Her  kirtle  blue,  whereon  was  many  a  stain, 

Made  with  the  blood  of  wretched  lovers  slain. 

Upon  her  head  she  ware  a  myrtle  wreath, 

From  whence  her  veil  reach'd  to  the  ground  beneath 

Her  veil  was  artificial  flowers  and  leaves, 

Whose  workmanship  both  man  and  beast  deceives  : 

Many  would  praise  the  sweet  smell  as  she  past. 

When  'twas  the  odour  which  her  breath  forth  cast ; 

And  there  for  honey  bees  have  sought  in  vain, 

And,  beat  from  thence,  have  lighted  there  again. 

About  her  neck  hung  chains  of  pebble-stone, 

Which,  lighten'd  by  her  neck,  like  diamonds  shone. 

She  ware  no  gloves  ;   for  neither  sun  nor  wind 

Would  burn  or  parch  her  hands,  but,  to  her  mind, 

Or  warm  or  cool  them,  for  they  took  delight 

To  play  upon  those  hands,  they  were  so  white. 

Buskins  of  shells,  all  silver'd,  used  she, 

And  branch'd  with  blushing  coral  to  the  knee  ; 

Where  sparrows  perch'd,  of  hollow  pearl  and  gold, 

Such  as  the  world  would  wonder  to  behold  : 

Those  with  sweet  water  oft  her  handmaid  fills. 

Which  as  she  went,  would  cherup  through  their  bills. 

Some  say,  for  her  the  fairest  Cupid  pin'd, 

And,  looking  in  her  face,  was  strooken  blind. 

But  this  is  true  ;    so  like  was  one  the  other, 

As  he  imagined  Hero  was  his  mother  ; 

And  oftentimes  into  her  bosom  flew. 

About  her  naked  neck  his  bare  arms  threw. 

And  laid  his  childish  head  upon  her  breast, 

And,  with  still  panting  rockt,  there  took  his  rest. 

****** 
On  this  feast-day, — O  cursed  day  and  hour ! — 
Went  Hero  thorough  Scstos,  from  her  tower 
To  Venus'  temple,  where  unhappily. 
As  after  chanc'd,  they  did  each  other  spy. 
So  fair  a  church  as  this  had  Venus  none : 
The  walls  were  of  discolour'd  jasper-stone, 


MARLOWE.  421 


Wherein  was  Proteus  carved  ;   and  over-head 
A  lively  vine  of  green  sea-agate  spread, 
Where  by  one  hand  light-headed  Bacchus  hung, 
And  with  the  other  wine  from  grapes  out-wrung. 
Of  crystal  shining  fair  the  pavement  was  ; 
The  town  of  Sestos  call'd  it  Venus'  glass  : 
*  *  ■*  *  *  * 

For  know,  that  underneath  this  radiant  flour 
Was  Danae's  statue  in  a  brazen  tower ; 
Jove  slyly  stealing  from  his  sister's  bed, 
To  dally  with  Idalian  Ganymed, 
And  for  his  love  Europa  bellowing  loud, 
And  tumbhng  with  the  Rainbow  in  a  cloud  ; 
Blood-quaffing  Mars  heaving  the  iron  net 
Which  limping  Vulcan  and  his  Cyclops  set  ; 
Love  kindling  fire,  to  burn  such  towns  as  Troy; 
Silvanus  weeping  for  the  lovely  boy 
That  now  is  turn'd  into  a  cypress-tree, 
Under  whose  shade  the  wood-gods  love  to  be. 
And  in  the  midst  a  silver  altar  stood  : 
There  Hero,  sacrificing  turtle's  blood, 
Vail'd  to  the  ground,  veiling  her  eyelids  close  ; 
And  modestly  they  open'd  as  she  rose  : 
Thence  flew  Love's  arrow  with  the  golden  head  ; 
And  thus  Leander  was  enamoured. 
Stone-still  he  stood,  and  evermore  he  gaz'd. 
Till  with  the  fire,  that  from  his  countenance  blaz'd, 
Relenting  Hero's  gentle  heart  was  strook  : 
Such  force  and  virtue  hath  an  amorous  look. 

It  lies  not  in  our  power  to  love  or  hate, 
For  will  in  us  is  over-rul'd  by  fate. 
When  two  are  stript  long  e'er  the  course  begin, 
We  wish  that  one  should  lose,  the  other  win  ; 
And  one  especially  do  we  affect 
Of  two  gold  ingots,  like  in  each  respect : 
The  reason  no  man  knows  ;   let  it  suffice, 
What  we  behold  is  censur'd  by  our  eyes. 
Where  both  deliberate,  the  love  is  slight  : 
Who  ever  lov'd,  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight  ? 


42  2  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

He  kneel'd  ;   but  unto  her  devoutly  pray'd  : 
Chaste  Hero  to  herself  thus  softly  said, 
'  Were  I  the  saint  he  worships,  I  would  hear  him ' ; 
And,  as  she  spake  those  words,  came  somewhat  near  him. 
He  started  up  ;    she  blush'd  as  one  asham'd  ; 
Wherewith  Leander  much  more  was  inflam'd. 
He  touch'd  her  hand  ;    in  touching  it  she  trembled  : 
Love  deeply  grounded,  hardly  is  dissembled. 
These  lovers  parled  by  the  touch  of  hands  : 
True  love  is  mute,  and  oft  amazed  stands. 
Thus  while  dumb  signs  their  yielding  hearts  entangled, 
The  air  with  sparks  of  living  fire  was  spangled  ; 
And  night,  deep-drench'd  in  misty  Acheron, 
Heav'd  up  her  head,  and  half  the  world  upon 
Breath'd  darkness  forth  (dark  night  is  Cupid's  day)  : 
And  now  begins  Leander  to  display 
Love's  holy  fire,  with  words,  with  sighs,  and  tears  ; 
Which,  like  sweet  music,  enter'd  Hero's  ears  ; 
And  yet  at  every  word  she  turn'd  aside, 
And  always  cut  him  off,  as  he  replied. 

******* 
These  arguments  he  us'd,  and  many  more  ; 
Wherewith  she  yielded,  that  was  won  before. 
Hero's  looks  yielded,  but  her  words  made  war  : 
Women  are  won  when  they  begin  to  jar. 
Thus  having  swallow'd  Cupid's  golden  hook, 
The  more  she  striv'd,  the  deeper  was  she  strook : 
Yet,  evilly  feigning  anger,  strove  she  still, 
And  would  be  thought  to  grant  against  her  will. 
So  having  paus'd  awhile,  at  last  she  said, 
'  Who  taught  thee  rhetoric  to  deceive  a  maid  ? 
Ay  me  !    such  words  as  these  should  I  abhor, 
And  yet  I  like  them  for  the  orator.' 
With  that  Leander  stoop'd  to  have  embrac'd  her, 
But  from  his  spreading  arms  away  she  cast  her, 
And  thus  bcspake  him  :    '  Gentle  youth,  forbear 
To  touch  the  sacred  garments  which  I  wear. 
Upon  a  rock,  and  underneath  a  hill, 
Far  from  the  town,  (where  all  is  whist  and  still, 


MARLOWE.  42- 


Save  that  the  sea,  playing  on  yellow  sand, 

Sends  forth  a  rattling  murmur  to  the  land, 

Whose  sound  allures  the  golden  Morpheus 

In  silence  of  the  night  to  visit  us,) 

My  turret  stands  ;    and  there,  God  knows,  I  play 

With  Venus'  swans  and  sparrows  all  the  day. 

A  dwarfish  beldam  bears  me  company, 

That  hops  about  the  chamber  where  I  lie. 

And  spends  the  night,  that  might  be  better  spent, 

In  vain  discourse  and  apish  merriment  : — 

Come  thither.'    As  she  spake  this,  her  tongue  tripp'd, 

For  unawares,  '  Come  thither,'  from  her  slipp'd  ; 

And  suddenly  her  former  colour  chang'd. 

And  here  and  there  her  eyes  through  anger  rang'd  ; 

And,  like  a  planet  moving  several  ways 

At  one  self  instant,  she,  poor  soul,  assays, 

Loving,  not  to  love  at  all,  and  every  part 

Strove  to  resist  the  motions  of  her  heart : 

And  hands  so  pure,  so  innocent,  nay,  such 

As  might  have  made  Heaven  stoop  to  have  a  touch, 

Did  she  uphold  to  Venus,  and  again 

Vow'd  spotless  chastity  ;   but  all  in  vain  ; 

Cupid  beats  down  her  prayers  with  his  wings  ; 

Her  vows  about  the  empty  air  he  flings  : 

All  deep  enrag'd,  his  sinewy  bow  he  bent, 

And  shot  a  shaft  that  burning  from  him  went  ; 

Wherewith  she  strooken,  look'd  so  dolefully. 

As  made  love  sigh  to  see  his  tyranny; 

And,  as  she  wept,  her  tears  to  pearl  he  turn'd, 

And  wound  them  on  his  arm,  and  for  her  mourn'd. 


THOMAS    LODGE. 


[Thomas  Lodge  was  bom  in  Lincolnshire  about  1556,  entered  Trinity 
College,  Oxford,  in  1573,  and  died  of  the  plague  at  Low  Ley  ton,  in  Essex, 
in  1625.  The  most  important  of  his  numerous  works  are,  Scilla's  Meta- 
morphosis, 1589;  Rosalynde  Eiiphues'  Golden  Legacy,  1 590;  PhilUs,  1 593; 
•^  P'gfo^  Momiis,  1595  ;  A  Margarite  of  America,  1596.] 

Lodge  was  the  least  boisterous  of  the  noisy  group  of  learned 
wits  who,  with  Greene  and  Marlowe  at  their  head,  invaded  London 
from  the  universities  during  the  close  of  Elizabeth's  reign.  He 
began  to  write  as  early  as  1580,  and  was  among  the  first  who 
adopted  the  style  invented  by  Lyly  in  his  Eiiphues  ;  but  it  was 
not  until  Greene  had  successfully  composed  several  romances 
in  this  manner  that  Lodge  came  forward  and  surpassed  both 
Greene  and  Lyly  in  his  lovely  fantastic  pastoral  of  Rosalynde, 
composed  under  a  tropical  sky,  as  the  author  sailed  with  Captain 
Clarke  between  the  Canaries  and  the  Azores.  During  the  next 
ten  years  Lodge  was  very  prolific,  closing  this  part  of  his  career 
with  the  Margarite  of  Atnerica,  an  Arcadian  romance,  so  named 
because  the  poet  was  in  Patagonia  when  he  wrote  it.  By  this 
time,  or  soon  after,  all  the  young  men  of  genius  with  whom  he 
had  associated  were  dead,  and  Lodge  retired  from  literary  life, 
and  settled  down  as  a  physician.  He  lived  on  almost  to  the  birth 
of  Dryden  ;  but  his  place  as  a  poet  is  among  the  immediate 
followers  of  Spenser  and  precursors  of  Shakespeare. 

In  some  respects  Lodge  is  superior  to  most  of  the  lyrical  poets 
of  his  time.  He  is  certainly  the  best  of  the  Euphuists,  and  no 
one  rivalled  him  in  the  creation  of  a  dreamy  scene,  'out  of  space, 
out  of  time,'  where  the  loves  and  jousts  of  an  ideal  chivalry  could 
be  pleasantly  tempered  by  the  tending  of  sheep.  His  romances, 
with  their  frequent  interludes  of  fine  verse,  are  delightful  reading, 
although  the  action  flags,  and  there  is  simply  no  attempt  at 
characterisation.     A  very  courtly  and  knightly  spirit  of  morality 


LODGE.  425 

perfumes  the  stately  sentences,  laden  with  learned  allusion  and 
flowing  imagery  ;  the  lovers  are  devoted  beyond  belief,  the  knights 
are   braver,  the  shepherds   wiser,  the  nymphs   more   lovely  and 
more  flinty-hearted  than  tongue  can  tell  ;   the  courteous  amorous 
couples  file  down  the  long  arcades  of  the  enchanted  forest,  and 
find  the  madrigal  that  Rosader  or  the  hapless  Arsinous  has  fas- 
tened to  the  balsam-tree,  or  else  they  gather  round  the  alabaster 
tomb  of  one  who  died  for  love,  and  read  the  sonnet  that  his  own 
hand  has  engraved  there.     This  languid  elegant  literature  was  of 
great  service  in  refining  both  the  language  and  the  manners  of 
the  people.     There  was  something  false  no  doubt  in  the  excessive 
delicacy  of  the  sentiment,  something  trivial  in  the  balanced  rhythm 
and  polish  of  the  style  ;   but  both  were  excessively  pretty,  and 
both  made  possible  the   pastoral   and  lyrical  tenderness  of  the 
next  half-century.     Among  all  the  Elizabethans,  no  one  borrowed 
his  inspiration  more  directly  from  the  Italians  than  Lodge  ;   he 
was  fortunately  unaware  of  the  existence  of  Marini,  but  the  in- 
fluence of  Sannazaro  and  of  the  school  of  Tasso  is  strongly  marked 
in  his  writings. 

As  a  satirist  Lodge  is  weak  and  tame  ;  as  a  dramatist  he  is 
wholly  without  skill  ;  as  a  writer  of  romances  we  have  seen  that 
he  is  charming,  but  thoroughly  artificial.  It  is  by  his  lyrical 
poetry  that  he  preserves  a  living  place  in  literature.  His  best 
odes  and  madrigals  rank  with  the  finest  work  of  that  rich  age. 
In  short  pieces  of  an  erotic  or  contemplative  character  he  throws 
aside  all  his  habitual  languor,  and  surprises  the  reader,  who  has 
been  toiling  somewhat  wearily  through  the  forest  of  Arden,  by  the 
brilliance  and  rapidity  of  his  verse,  by  the  ela7i  of  his  passion,  and 
by  the  bright  turn  of  his  fancy.  In  his  best  songs  Lodge  shows 
a  command  over  the  more  sumptuous  and  splendid  parts  of 
language,  that  reminds  the  reader  of  Marlowe's  gift  in  tragedy ; 
and  of  all  the  Ehzabethans  Lodge  is  the  one  who  most  frequently 
recalls  Shelley  to  mind.  His  passion  in  the  Rosalynde  has  a  little 
of  the  transcendental  and  ethereal  character  of  the  Epipsychidion, 
while  now  and  again  there  are  phrases  so  curiously  like  Shelley's 
own,  that  we  are  tempted  to  believe  that  the  rare  quartos  of 
Lodge  must  have  passed  through  the  later  poet's  hands.  One 
such  example  is  the 

«A  Turtle  sate  upon  a  leafless  tree, 
Mourning  her  absent  fere,' 


426    '  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

with  its  curious  resemblance  to 

'  A  widow  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love 
Upon  a  wintry  bough.' 

The  sonnets  of  Lodge  are  gorgeous  in  language,  but  lax  in 
construction  ;  he  did  not  understand  the  art  of  concentrating  and 
sustaining  his  fancy  in  a  sonnet  ;  but  the  volume  entitled  Phillis 
contains  many  beautiful  fragments  and  irregular  pieces,  tending 
more  or  less  to  the  sonnet  form.  His  epics  oi  S cilia's  Metamor- 
phosis and  Elstred  are  rambling  pieces  in  the  six-line  stanza,  pro- 
duced rather  in  consequence  of  the  success  of  Vettzts  and  Adonis 
than  out  of  any  genuine  desire  to  tell  a  classical  story.  In  each 
poem  the  action  is  neglected,  and  the  tale,  such  as  it  is,  is 
smothered  under  a  shower  of  courtly,  flowery  fancies.  A  poem 
'  in  commendation  of  a  solitary  life,'  is  one  of  Lodge's  most  ad- 
mirable pieces,  but  is  too  long  to  be  given  here,  and  does  not  lend 
itself  to  quotation.  He  was  a  poet  of  fine  genius,  fervent,  har- 
monious, and  florid  ;  but  he  was  too  sympathetic  or  not  strong 
enough  to  resist  the  current  of  contemporary  taste,  running  swiftly 
towards  conceit. 

Edmund  W.  Gosse. 


LODGE,  427 


RosALYND's  Madrigal. 


Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee, 

Doth  suck  his  sweet  ; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 
Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast  ; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest : 

Ah  !    wanton,  will  ye  ? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 

With  pretty  flight. 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 

The  livelong  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string  ; 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing  ; 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing. 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting  : 
Whist,  wanton,  will  ye  ? 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence, 
And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 
For  your  offence  ; 
I  '11  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  you  in  ; 
I  '11  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin  ; 
I  '11  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin 
Alas  !    what  hereby  shall  I  win, 
If  he  gainsay  me  ? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod  ? 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy. 

Because  a  god. 
Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee, 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be  ; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee, 
O  Cupid  !    so  thou  pity  me. 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee. 


428  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Rosader's  description  of  Rosalynd. 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere, 

Where  all  imperial  beauty  shines, 
Of  selfsame  colour  is  her  hair, 

Whether  unfolded  or  in  twines  ; 
Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 

Refining  heaven  by  every  wink  ; 
The  gods  do  fear  whenas  they  glow, 

And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think. 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 

That  beautifies  Aurora's  face. 
Or  like  the  silver-crimson  shroud 

That  Phoebus'  smiling  looks  doth  grace  ; 
Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses, 

Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbour  nigh, 
Within  whose  bounds  she  balm  encloses 

Apt  to  entice  a  deity. 

Her  neck  like  to  a  stately  tower, 

Where  Love  himself  emprisoned  lies. 
To  watch  lor  glances  every  hour. 

From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes  ; 
Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight. 

Her  paps  are  orbs  of  heavenly  frame, 
Where  nature  moulds  the  dew  of  light. 

To  feed  perfection  with  the  same. 

With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red, 

With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  blue. 
Her  body  every  way  is  fed. 

Yet  soft  to  touch,  and  sweet  in  view  ; 
Nature  herself  her  shape  admires, 

The  gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight, 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires. 

And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light. 


LODGE.  429 

Then  muse  not,  Nymphs,  though  I  bemoan 

The  absence  of  fair  Rosalynd  ; 
Since  for  her  fair  there's  fairer  none, 
Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine. 

Heigh  ho  !    fair  Rosalynd  ! 
Heigh  ho  !    my  heart,  would  God  that  she  were  mine  ! 


The  Harmony  of  Love. 

A  very  phoenix,  in  her  radiant  eyes 

I  leave  mine  age,  and  get  my  life  again  ; 
True  Hesperus,  I  watch  her  fall  and  rise, 

And  with  my  tears  extinguish  all  my  pain  ; 
My  lips  for  shadows  shield  her  springing  roses, 

Mine  eyes  for  watchmen  guard  her  while  she  sleepeth, 
My  reasons  serve  to  'quite  her  faint  supposes  ; 

Her  fancy,  mine  ;    my  faith  her  fancy  keepeth  ; 
She  flower,  I  branch  ;    her  sweet  my  sour  supporteth, 
O  happy  Love,  where  such  delights  consorteth  ! 


Phillis'  Sickness. 

How  languisheth  the  primrose  of  Love's  garden  ! 

How  trill  her  tears  the  elixir  of  my  senses  ! 
Ambitious  sickness,  what  doth  thee  so  harden  ? 

0  spare,  and  plague  thou  me  for  her  offences  ! 
Ah  !    roses  !    love's  fair  roses  !    do  not  languish  ! 

Blush  through  the  milk-white  veil  that  holds  you  covered  ; 
If  heat  or  cold  may  mitigate  your  anguish, 

1  '11  burn,  I  '11  freeze,  but  you  shall  be  recovered. 
Good  God  !    would  Beauty  mark,  now  she  is  crazed, 

How  but  one  shower  of  sickness  makes  her  tender, 
Her  judgments,  then,  to  mark  my  woes  amazed, 

To  mercy  should  opinion's  fort  surrender  ; 
And  I,  oh  !    would  I  might,  or  would  she  meant  it ! 
Should  harry  love,  who  now  in  heart  lament  it. 


43©  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Love's  Wantonness. 

Love  guides  the  roses  of  thy  lips, 
And  flies  about  them  like  a  bee  ; 

If  I  approach  he  forward  skips, 
And  if  I  kiss  he  stingeth  me. 

Love  in  thine  eyes  doth  build  his  bower, 
And  sleeps  within  their  pretty  shine, 

And  if  I  look  the  boy  will  lower, 
And  from  their  orbs  shoot  shafts  divine. 

Love  works  thy  heart  within  his  fire, 
And  in  my  tears  doth  firm  the  same. 

And  if  I  tempt  it  will  retire, 

And  of  my  plaints  doth  make  a  game. 

Love,  let  me  cull  her  choicest  flowers, 
And  pity  me,  and  calm  her  eye, 

Make  soft  her  heart,  dissolve  her  lowers, 
Then  I  will  praise  thy  deity. 


WILLIAM    WARNER. 


[William  Warner  was  bom  in  Oxfordshire  about  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  died  on  the  9th  of  March,  1609,  at  Amwell.  His 
chief  work  is  Albion's  England,  1586.  It  was  at  first  prohibited,  for  reasons 
unknown,  but  afterwards  became  very  popular.  He  perhaps  translated  the 
Menaechmi  of  Plautus  1595  ;  and  certainly  wrote  a  prose  collection  of 
moralized  stories,  entitled  Syrinx,  1597.] 

Warner's  chief  and  only  poetical  work  is  Albioti's  England, 
a  curious  medley  of  partly  traditional  history',  with  interludes  of 
the  fabliau  kind.  By  some  accident  it  has,  since  the  author's 
death,  secured  an  audience,  not  indeed  wide,  but  much  wider 
than  that  enjoyed  by  the  work  of  contemporaries  of  far  greater 
power.  The  pastoral  episode  of  Argentile  atid  Ctiran  hit  the 
taste  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  Chalmers  reprinted  the  whole 
poem  in  his  Poets,  very  injudiciously  following  Ellis  in  dividing 
the  fourteen-syllable  lines  into  eights  and  sixes.  In  this  form 
much  of  it  irresistibly  reminds  the  reader  of  Johnson's  injurious 
parody  of  that  metre  :  but  in  the  original  editions  it  appears 
to  much  greater  advantage.  The  ascending  and  descending 
slope  of  the  long  lines  is  often  managed  with  a  good  deal  of  art  ; 
and  as  the  following  extract,  giving  the  speeches  of  Harold  and 
William  before  Hastings,  will  show,  there  is  sometimes  dignity 
in  the  sentiments  and  vigour  in  their  expression.  The  author  is 
too  prone  to  adopt  classical  constructions,  especially  absolute 
cases,  which  often  throw  obscurity  over  his  meaning.  Warner  is 
not,  as  he  has  been  called,  a  '  good,  honest,  plain  writer  of  moral 
rules  and  precepts';  nor  is  his  work,  as  another  authority  asserts, 
*  written  in  Alexandrines.'  But  though  he  will  not  bear  comparison 
with  the  better,  even  of  the  second-rate  Elizabethans,  such  as 
Watson,  Barnes,  and  Constable,  much  less  with  his  fellow  historians 
Drayton  and  Daniel,  the  singularity  of  the  plan  of  his  book,  and 
some  vigorous  touches  here  and  there,  raise  him  above  the  mass. 


432  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

There  is,  moreover,  one  thing  in  his  work  which  is  of  considerable 
literary  interest.  UnHke  almost  all  his  contemporaries,  he  is 
hardly  at  all  '  Italianate.'  The  Italian  influence,  which  for  a  full 
century  coloured  English  poetry,  is  scarcely  discernible  in  him, 
and  he  is  thus  an  interesting  example  of  an  English  poet  with 
hardly  any  foreign  strain  in  him  except,  as  has  been  said,  a  certain 
tinge  of  classical  study. 

G.  Saintsbury. 


WARNER.  433 


Before  the  Battle  of  Hastings. 

[From  Albion's  England,  Bk.  iv.  Cap.  22.] 

'See,  valiant  war-friends  yonder  be  the  first,  the  last,  and  all 
The  agents  of  our  enemies  :   they  henceforth  cannot  call 
Supplies  :    for  weeds  at  Normandy  by  this  in  porches  grow : 
Then  conquer  these  would  conquer  you,  and  dread  no  further  foe. 
They  are  no  stouter  than  the  Brutes,  whom  we  did  hence  exile : 
Nor  stronger  than  the  sturdy  Danes,  our  victory  erewhile  : 
Nor  Saxony  could  once  contain,  or  scarce  the  world  beside. 
Our  fathers  who  did  sway  by  sword  where  listed  them  to  bide. 
Then  do  not  ye  degenerate,  take  courage  by  descent. 
And  by  their  burials,  not  abode,  their  force  and  flight  prevent. 
Ye  have  in  hand  your  country's  cause,  a  conquest  they  pretend, 
Which  (were  ye  not  the  same  ye  be)  even  cowards  would  defend. 
I  grant  that  part  of  us  are  fied,  and  linked  to  the  foe, 
And  glad  I  am  our  army  is  of  traitors  cleared  so. 
Yea,  pardon  hath  he  to  depart  that  stayeth  malcontent  : 
I  prize  the  mind  above  the  man,  like  zeal  hath  like  event. 
Yet  troth  it  is  no  well  or  ill  this  island  ever  had. 
But  through  the  well  or  ill  support  of  subjects  good  or  bad. 
Not  Caesar,  Hengest,  Swayn,  or  now  (which  ne'ertheless  shall  fail) 
The  Norman  bastard  (Albion  true)  did,  could,  or  can  prevail. 
But  to  be  self-false  in  this  isle  a  self-foe  ever  is. 
Yet  wot  I,  never  traitor  did  his  treason's  stipend  miss. 
Shrink  who  will  shrink,  let  armour's  weight  press  down  the  bur- 
dened e^.rth. 
My  foes  with  wondering  eyes  shall  see  I  over-prize  my  death. 
But  since  ye  all  (for  all,  I  hope,  alike  affected  be, 
Your  wives,  your  children,  lives  and  land,  from  servitude  to  free) 
Are  armed  both  in  show  and  zeal,  then  gloriously  contend 
To  win  and  wear  the  home-brought  spoils  of  victory  the  end. 
Let  not  the  skinner's  daughter's  son  possess  what  he  pretends, 
He  lives  to  die  a  noble  death  that  life  for  freedom  spends.' 
As  Harold  heartened  thus  his  men,  so  did  the  Norman  his  ; 
And  looking  wishly  on  the  earth  Duke  William  spcakcth  this : 
VOL.  I.  F  f 


434  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'To  live  upon,  or  lie  within,  this  is  my  ground  or  grave, 
My  loving  soldiers,  one  of  twain  your  duke  resolves  to  have  : 
Nor  be  ye,  Normans,  now  to  seek  in  what  you  should  be  stout. 
Ye  come  amidst  the  English  pikes  to  hew  your  honours  out. 
Ye  come  to  win  the  same  by  lance,  that  is  your  own  by  law  ; 
Ye  come,  I  say,  in  righteous  war  revenging  swords  to  draw. 
Howbeit,  of  more  hardy  foes  no  passed  fight  hath  sped  ye. 
Since  RoUo  to  your  now-abode  with  bands  victorious  led  ye, 
Or  Turchus,  son  of  Troylus,  in  Scythian  Fazo  bred  ye. 
Then  worthy  your  progenitors  ye  seed  of  Priam's  son, 
Exploit  this  business  :    Rollons,  do  that  which  ye  wish  be  done. 
Three  people  have  as  many  times  got  and  foregone  this  shore. 
It  resteth  now  ye  conquer  it  not  to  be  conquered  more  : 
For  Norman  and  the  Saxon  blood  conjoining,  as  it  may, 
From  that  consorted  seed  the  crown  shall  never  pass  away. 
Before  us  are  our  armed  foes,  behind  us  are  the  seas. 
On  either  side  the  foe  hath  holds  of  succour  and  for  ease  ; 
But  that  advantage  shall  return  their  disadvantage  thus, 
If  ye  observe  no  shore  is  left  the  which  may  shelter  us. 
And  so  hold  out  amidst  the  rough,  whil'st  they  hale  in  for  lee. 
Whereas,  whilst  men  securely  sail  not  seldom  shipwrecks  be. 
What  should  I  cite  your  passed  acts,  or  tediously  incense 
To  present  arms  ?  your  faces  show  your  hearts  conceive  offence. 
Yea,  even  your  courages  divine  a  conquest  not  to  fail  ; 
Hope,  then,  your  duke  doth  prophesy,  and  in  that  hope  prevail. 
A  people  brave,  a  terrene  Heaven,  both  objects  worth  your  wars 
Shall  be  the  prizes  of  your  prow's,  and  mount  your  fame  to  stars. 
Let  not  a  traitor's  perjur'd  son  extrude  us  from  our  right. 
He  dies  to  live  a  famous  life,  that  doth  for  conquest  fight.' 


WILLIAM     SHAKESPEARE. 


[William  Shakespeare  was  bom  at  Stratford  on  Avon  in  April  1564; 
there  also  he  died,  April  23rd  (old  style),  1616.  The  following  are  the 
titles  of  his  poems,  with  the  dates  of  publication  :  Veiius  and  Adonis,  1593  ; 
The  Rape  of  Lucrece,  1594;  The  Passionate  Pilgrim  (a  miscellany  which 
includes  only  a  few  pieces  by  Shakespeare),  1599;  The  Phcenix  and  the 
Turtle  (printed  with  pieces  on  the  same  subject  by  other  poets  of  the  time, 
at  the  end  of  Robert  Chester's  Love's  Martyr,  or  Rosalin's  Complaint),  t6oi  ; 
Sonnets,  1609;  A  Lover's  Complaint  (in  the  same  volume  with  the  Sonnets), 
1609.] 

Shakespeare's  genius  was  not  one  of  those  which  ripen  over- 
early.  At  thirty  he  was  hardly  past  his  years  of  apprenticeship  as 
a  dramatic  craftsman  ;  in  comedy  he  was  experimenting  in  various 
directions  ;  in  historical  tragedy  he  submitted  to  the  influence  of 
his  great  fellow,  Christopher  Marlowe,  who  had  risen  to  eminent 
stature  while  Shakespeare  was  still  in  his  growing  years  ;  in  pure 
tragedy  he  was  feeling  after  a  way  of  his  own  which  should  ennoble 
terror  by  its  union  with  tenderness  and  beauty.  It  was  at  this  time 
that  his  first  essay  as  a  non-dramatic  poet  was  made.  At  what 
precise  date  the  Venus  and  Adonis  was  written  we  cannot  be  cer- 
tain ;  but  no  good  reason  appears  for  supposing  that  Shakespeare 
brought  it  up  with  him  from  Stratford,  or  indeed  that  it  was  written 
earlier  than  the  year  1592.  'The  first  heir  of  my  invention' — so 
its  author  describes  the  poem  ;  but,  in  accordance  with  the 
feeling  of  his  own  day,  he  would  naturally  set  aside  his  plays, 
none  of  which  he  had  printed  or  thought  of  printing,  as  indeed 
mere  plays — not  works,  not  any  part  of  literature  proper, — while 
the  Venus  and  Adonis,  which  was  to  give  him  rank  among  the 
poets  of  his  time,  he  would  regard  as  the  first  legitimate  child 
of  his  imagination.  Henry  Wriothesley,  the  Earl  of  Southampton 
— young,  clever,  gallant,  generous — had  already  honoured  the  rising 
dramatist  with  his  notice,  and  to  him  Shakespeare  dedicated  '  his 
unpolished  lines,'  promising  to  take  advantage  of  all  idle  hours 

F  f  2 


436  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

until  he  have  some  '  graver  labour '  to  present.  The  graver  labour 
followed  in  1594,  and  was  offered  to  his  patron  with  words  of  strong 
devotion.  The  two  poems,  the  Venus  and  the  Liicrece,  may  be 
looked  on  as  companion  pieces,  belonging  to  the  same  period, 
presented  to  the  same  person,  exhibiting  the  same  characteristics 
of  style. 

Shakespeare's  delight  in  beauty  and  his  delight  in  wit,  in  the 
brightness  and  nimbleness  of  the  play  of  mind,  are  manifest  in  all 
his  earlier  writings.  Such  delight  was  indeed  part  of  the  age  as 
well  as  of  the  individual.  The  consciousness  of  new  power  proper 
to  the  Renaissance  period,  the  bounding  energy,  the  sense  that  all 
the  human  faculties  were  emancipated,  resulted  in  great  achieve- 
ment, and  no  less  in  strange  extravagance  ;  the  lust  of  the  eye 
was  under  slight  restraint,  and  every  clever  fancy  might  caper  as 
it  pleased.  In  choosing  the  subject  of  his  first  poem,  Shakespeare 
sought  the  most  beautiful  creatures  which  imagination  had  ever 
conceived  for  pasture  of  man's  eye.  What  female  figure  so  superb 
in  loveliness  as  that  of  the  queen  of  Love  1  What  mortal  com- 
panion can  she  have  comely  to  perfection  save  the  boy  Adonis  ? 
But  the  common  way  of  love,  in  which  the  man  woos  the  woman, 
has  been  the  theme  of  every  poet ;  how  much  more  'high  fantas- 
tical' were  the  woman  to  woo  the  man,  and  spend  all  her  wit,  and 
all  her  ardour,  and  all  her  arts  in  striving  to  overcome  his  indif- 
ference ?  Thus  the  subject  of  Venus  enamoured,  and  the  coldness 
of  the  boy  Adonis,  gave  scope  both  to  the  poet's  passion  for 
beauty  and  his  passion  for  ingenuity.  Shakespeare  attempts  two 
things — first,  to  paint  with  brilliant  words  the  chosen  figures,  and 
their  encounterings  ;  secondly,  to  invent  speeches  for  them  in 
which  the  war  of  wit  shall  be  maintained  with  glittering  conceit, 
and  high-wrought  fantasy.  The  subject  did  not  lay  hold  of  him, 
compelling  him  to  utterance  ;  rather  he  laboured  hard  to  make 
the  most  of  it,  viewing  it  on  this  side  and  on  that ;  to  use  the  word 
of  his  contemporaries,  he  '  subtilized '  with  it,  until  he  could  sub- 
tilize no  farther.  A  couple  of  ice-houses  these  two  poems  of 
Shakespeare  have  been  called  by  Hazlitt — '  they  are '  he  says,  '  as 
hard,  as  glittering,  and  as  cold.'  Cold  indeed  they  will  seem  to 
anyone  who  listens  to  hear  in  them  the  natural  cry  of  human 
passion.  But  the  paradox  is  true,  that  for  a  young  poet  of  Eliza- 
beth's age  to  be  natural,  direct,  simple,  would  have  been  indeed 
unnatural.  He  was  most  happy  when  most  fantastical ;  he  spun 
a  shining  web  to  catch  conceits  inevitably  as  a  spider  casts  his 


SHAKESPEARE.  437 


thread  ;  the  quick-building  wit  was  itself  warm  while  erecting  its 
ice-houses. 

As  a  narrative  poem  the  Litct-cce  has  this  advantage  over  the 
Venus  and  Adonis,  that  it  includes  more  of  action,  and  that  the 
theme  is  one  which  gives  scope  for  deep  and  strenuous  passion. 
For  this  reason  the  vice  of  style  impresses  us  more  here  perhaps 
than  in  the  earlier  poem.  The  action  is  retarded  by  all  manner  of 
pretty  ingenuities.  Lucrece  in  her  agony  delivers  tirades  on  Night, 
on  Time,  on  Opportunity,  as  if  they  were  theses  for  a  degree  in 
some  academy  of  wit.  Still  the  effect  on  a  reader  in  the  right  mood 
is  not  that  of  frigid  cleverness  ;  the  faults  are  faults  of  youth  ;  the 
poet's  pleasurable  excitement  can  be  perceived ;  nay  at  times  we 
feel  the  energetic  fervour  of  his  heart.  Now  and  again  the  poetry 
surprises,  not  by  singularity,  but  as  Keats  has  said  that  poetry  ought 
to  surprise,  by  a  fine  excess  ;  sometimes  a  line  is  all  gold  seven  times 
refined ;  and  there  is  throughout  such  evidence  of  a  rich,  abound- 
ing nature  in  the  writer  that  we  are  happy  with  him  even  while  we 
recognize  the  idle  errors  of  his  nonage.  The  first  and  most  obvious 
excellence  of  the  Vem^s  and  Adonis,  Coleridge  has  said,  and  he 
might  have  extended  the  remark  to  the  companion  poem,  '  is  the 
perfect  sweetness  of  the  versification  ;  its  adaptation  to  the  subject ; 
and  the  power  displayed  in  varying  the  march  of  the  words  without 
passing  into  a  loftier  and  more  majestic  rhythm  than  was  demanded 
by  the  thoughts,  or  permitted  by  the  propriety  of  preserving  a  sense 
of  melody  predominant.  The  dehght  in  richness  and  sweetness  of 
sound,  even  to  a  faulty  excess,  if  it  be  evidently  original,  and  not 
the  result  of  an  easily  imitable  mechanism,  I  regard  as  a  highly 
favourable  promise  in  the  compositions  of  a  young  man.'  A  highly 
favourable  promise  indeed ;  but  Shakespeare,  as  other  young  poets 
of  original  genius,  was  peculiarly  susceptible  to  influences  from 
the  verse  of  contemporaries.  It  is  easy  to  perceive  that  the  author 
of  Venus  and  Adonis  had  read  with  delight  Lodge's  Glaiicus  a?td 
Silla,  and  that  in  treating  the  more  complex  stanza  of  the  Lticrece 
Shakespeare  had  gained  something  from  The  Complaint  of  Rosa- 
mond by  Daniel,  a  poet  possessing  so  much  less  than  himself  of 
the  vital  spirit  of  harmony.  In  both  poems  of  Shakespeare  his 
mind,  it  has  been  observed,  hovers  often  within  the  Umits  of  a 
single  line ;  there  are  also  long  cumulative  passages  of  connected 
lines,  each  line  an  unit  in  the  series ;  the  effect  of  such  passages 
is  rhetorical ;  they  tend  toward  a  climax,  after  which  the  verse  has 
to  recommence  from  a  new  starting  point. 


438  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Amid  the  tangle  of  amorous  casuistry  in  the  Venus  and  Adonis 
some  relief  is  afforded  by  touches  of  delight  in  the  rural  land- 
scape of  England.  When  the  poem  was  written  Stratford  was  fresh 
in  Shakespeare's  memory  ;  its  primrose  banks,  and  '  blue-veined  vio- 
lets,' the  bird  'tangled  in  a  net,'  the  stallion,  the  hunted  hare,  the 
the  red  morn  rain-betokening,  the  gentle  lark  which  weary  of  rest 

'  From  his  moist  cabinet  mounts  up  on  high, 
And  wakes  the  morning,  from  whose  silver  breast 
The  sun  ariseth  in  his  majesty.' 

Both  poems  immediately  became  popular  ;  it  was  his  sweetness 
of  utterance  which  gave  Shakespeare's  first  readers  their  chief  de- 
light ;  he  was  to  them  'honey-tongued  Shakespeare,'  'melHfluous 
Shakespeare,' '  in  whom  the  sweet  wittie  soul  of  Ovid  lives' ;  he  was 
'silver-tongued  Melicert,' gifted  with  a  'honey-flowing  vaine.'  The 
time  had  not  yet  come  to  know  him  as  the  symphonist  who  could 
create  the  stormy  harmonies  of  Lear,  as  the  bitter  trumpeter  of 
doom  announcing  through  Timo7i  the  fall  of  luxurious  cities  that 
wanton  in  unrighteousness. 

In  1598  allusion  was  made  by  Francis  Meres  to  Shakespeare's 
'sugred  sonnets  among  his  private  friends';  next  year  two  of  the 
sugared  sonnets — surreptitiously  obtained,  as  we  cannot  but  believe 
— appeared  in  The  Passiojiate  Pilgriin.  It  was  not  until  ten  years 
later  that  Thomas  Thorpe  published  the  collection  of  154  Son- 
nets, and  there  is  good  reason  for  believing  that  their  author  did 
not  sanction  the  publication.  Thorpe  dedicated  his  volume  to 
'The  onlie  Begetter  of  these  ensuing  Sonnets  Mr.  W.  H.'  wishing 
him  '  all  happiness  and  that  eternity  promised  by  our  ever-living 
poet.'  Who  is  this  Mr.  W.  H.,  the  inspirer  of  the  sonnets  1  And 
what  is  the  purport  of  these  poems  1 

To  the  first  question  there  is  but  one  trustworthy  answer — We 
do  not  know.  Whether  Mr.  W.  H.  was  William  Herbert,  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  or  Henry  Wriothesley,  Earl  of  Southampton,  or  whether 
his  name  has  wholly  perished,  though  in  Shakespeare's  verse  his 
fame  endures,  we  cannot  tell.  We  know  him  as  '  IVilQ  for  Shake- 
speare plays  with  his  christian  name  in  the  135th  and  143rd  sonnets, 
and  with  '  VViir  we  must  remain  contented.  Patience  perforce !  after 
all  it  is  not  essential  to  the  understanding  of  the  poems  that  we 
should  solve  Thorpe's  riddle  ;  it  is  enough,  if  we  believe  that  '  WilT' 
was  no  imaginary  being,  no  abstraction  of  the  brain,  no  allegorizing 
sonneteer's  invention,  but  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood — a  man, 


SHAKESPEARE. 


439 


young,  beautiful,  wealthy,  of  high  rank,  full  of  charm  and  grace  and 
condescension.  To  him  the  sonnets  from  i  to  126  were  addressed; 
they  were  written  at  intervals  over  a  period  of  time  certainly  as 
long  as  three  years  (see  sonnet  104),  and  probably  longer  ;  they 
are  printed  by  Thorpe  in  their  proper  order,  and  form  a  series 
in  which  it  is  possible  to  find  a  few  breaks,  such  as  would 
naturally  occur  in  poems  connected  with  the  real  incidents  of 
several  years.  The  poem  numbered  126,  not  a  sonnet,  consists  of 
twelve  lines  in  rhyming  couplets  ;  it  forms  an  Envoy  to  the  series 
of  sonnets  addressed  to  Shakespeare's  friend,  and  it  is  com- 
plete ;  but  Thorpe,  not  perceiving  its  special  character,  adds  in 
the  original  edition  marks  intended  to  show  that  two  lines  are 
wanting.  With  127  begins  a  new  series,  addressed  to  a  woman. 
This  woman  Shakespeare  loved  with  a  kind  of  bitter  love  ;  he  knew 
that  her  character  was  stained  ;  he  saw  that  she  was  the  reverse  of 
beautiful,  according  to  common  conceptions  of  beauty ;  still,  to  him 
she  was  beautiful.  This  pale-faced,  dark-eyed  woman  drew  to  her 
the  great  poet  with  a  singular  fascination  ;  he  would  linger  by  the 
virginal  while  she  played,  and  watch  her  fingers  as  they  moved 
over  the  keys ;  he  would  resolve  no  longer  to  remain  in  bondage 
to  her  strange  power,  and  would  return  to  beg  for  her  renewal  of 
regard.  But  dearer  than  this  pale  musician  was  the  youth  whom 
he  worshipped  with  a  fond  idolatry.  Their  friendship  was  to  be  the 
honour,  the  comfort,  the  blessedness  of  Shakespeare's  life.  Alas, 
his  dark  enchantress  has  cast  her  eyes  upon  Will,  and  laid  her 
snares  for  him  !  And  so  for  the  woman's  sake  the  friendship  of 
man  and  man  is  clouded,  and  the  poor  actor  who  had  been  lifted 
out  of  his  sphere  in  a  dream  of  new  delight,  sinks  back  and  finds 
how  hard  the  world  goes  with  him,  how  sad  a  thing  it  is  to  be 
defrauded  by  those  we  hold  most  dear,  how  weak  a  thing  his  own 
heart  is.  He  does  not  turn  with  fierce  resentment  against  his 
friend  ;  he  only  feels  that  it  is  very  sad  to  be  deserted  ;  and  with 
piteous  casuistry'  he  tries  to  argue  against  himself,  to  plead  in  his 
friend's  defence,  to  find  it  natural  that  one  so  bright  and  young  and 
engaging  should  turn  away  the  head  and  pass  him  coldly  by.  But 
such  estrangement  did  not  last  to  the  end.  After  a  long  absence 
the  friends  meet.  IVilPs  truer  heart  asserts  itself ;  there  are  con- 
fessions and  words  of  repentance  on  both  sides  ;  then  follow  for- 
giveness and  reconciliation  ;  once  more  heart  and  heart  are  united, 
— united  now,  after  this  bitter  experience,  never  again  to  be  tempted 
to  disloyalty. 


440  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  story  as  here  told  in  outline  is  plainly  written  in  the  two 
series  of  sonnets,  which,  though  separate,  are  concerned  with  the 
same  persons  and  refer  to  the  same  events.  Let  us  look  a  little 
more  closely  at  the  first  series.  Shakespeare  begins  by  urging  upon 
his  young  friend  the  expediency  of  marriage ;  his  father  is  dead ; 
for  his  own  sake,  for  his  mother's  sake,  for  his  friend's  sake,  for 
the  sake  of  the  world,  he  should  seek  to  renew  his  own  life  in 
that  of  a  child  who  shall  be  heir  to  his  beauty  and  his  honour. 
His  poet  would  fain  make  Will  immortal  in  his  verse,  ay,  and 
must  not  fail  to  do  so,  but  why  not  defeat  time  by  the  worthier  way 
of  living  offspring  ?  Then  Shakespeare  turns  (sonnet  26)  from  this 
pleading  to  dwell  upon  the  beauty  and  the  sweetness  of  his  friend  ; 
all  losses,  needs,  and  griefs  are  cancelled  by  the  joy  of  loving  and 
being  loved  by  a  being  so  perfect.  But  presently  the  little  rift 
within  the  lute  is  discovered  ;  Will  holds  somewhat  off  from  the 
low-born  player,  especially  in  public  places.  Is  not  this  natural,  and 
indeed  inevitable  ?  The  player  can  at  least  look  up  and  rejoice  in 
his  friend's  happier  fortune,  his  beauty,  birth,  wealth,  wit.  Then 
follows,  during  Shakespeare's  absence,  the  more  grievous  wrong 
done  to  him  by  Will,  and  the  lady  of  the  virginal.  Can  Shake- 
speare forgive  such  a  wrong  1  Even  this  he  tries,  but  in  vain ;  for 
are  there  not  signs  that  Will's  heart  is  really  cold  towards  him  ? 
Will  protests,  and  asserts  his  constancy ;  there  is  a  leap-up  of  the 
flame  of  love  once  more.  But  time  is  passing,  age  is  creeping 
nearer,  the  world  seems  more  oppressed  by  ills,  and  what  is  there 
of  solid  and  substantial  good  to  set  against  all  this  ?  His  friend's 
love  ;  but  what  if  his  friend  be  himself  infected  with  the  general 
evil  ?  What  if  he  grow  common  ?  Public  scandal  is  busy  with 
his  name.  Were  it  not  better  to  die  than  to  hve  longer  in  a 
world  where  all  tends  daily  from  bad  to  worse  ?  Moreover  now 
the  young  aristocrat  is  lending  a  favourable  ear  to  a  rival  poet,  one 
possessed  of  art  and  learning  to  which  Shakespeare  is  a  stranger. 
Ah  !  it  is  best  to  say  farewell  at  once,  to  wake  rudely  from  the 
deceitful  dream  of  joy  !  Let  Will  hate  him — but  hate  him  quick, 
that  the  bitterness  of  death  may  soon  be  past.  Absence,  and  total 
silence  follow.  And  then,  when  things  seem  most  remediless,  the 
old  fibres  of  love  begin  to  stir,  the  buried  root  to  send  forth  a  rod 
with  blossoms.  The  two  hearts  never  wholly  estranged  approach, 
draw  yet  closer,  unite  ;  all  impediments  to  the  marriage  of  true 
minds  are  put  aside.  The  love  that  seemed  ruined  is  built  anew 
stronger  than  before.     Now  it  is  based  not  on  beauty,  not  on  con- 


SHAKESPEARE.  441 


siderations  of  interest,  not  on  aught  that  time  can  destroy  :  now 
indeed  Time  is  defeated  ;  not  by  offspring,  not  by  verse,  but  by 
that  which  is  alone  free  from  time  and  fortune,  by  Love.  Yet — 
thus  the  series  closes — let  us  not  be  lifted  up  above  measure  ; 
however  fair  life  and  love  may  be,  there  is  at  last,  for  thee  even  as 
for  me,  the  quietus  of  the  grave. 

Of  the  exquisite  songs  scattered  through  Shakespeare's  plays 
it  is  almost  an  impertinence  to  speak.  If  they  do  not  make  their 
own  way,  like  the  notes  in  the  wildwood,  no  words  will  open  the 
dull  ear  to  take  them  in.  There  is  little  song  in  the  historical 
dramas  ;  how  should  there  be  much  amid  the  debates  of  the 
council-chamber,  the  clash  of  swords,  the  tug  of  rival  interests, 
the  plotting  of  courtiers,  the  ambitious  hypocrisies  of  priests  ?  To 
hear  dainty  snatches  set  to  some  clear-hearted  tune — '  Green 
Sleeves '  perhaps  or  '  Light  o'  love ' — we  must  haunt  the  palace 
of  the  enamoured  Duke  of  Illyria,  or  wander  under  green  boughs 
in  Arden,  or  stray  along  the  yellow  sands  of  the  enchanted 
island,  or  lurk  behind  the  hedge  while  light-footed  and  light- 
fingered  Autolycus  sets  the  country  air  a-ringing  with  his  sprightly 
tirra-lirra.  In  the  tragedies  Shakespeare  has  made  use  of  song 
■ — his  own  or  another's — always  with  deliberate  forethought,  always 
with  the  inevitable  rightness  of  genius,  to  make  the  pity  more 
rare  and  of  a  finer  edge,  to  touch  the  skirts  of  darkness  with  a 
pathetic  gleam,  or  to  mingle  some  keen  irony  with  the  transi- 
tory triumph  of  life.  We  remember  the  wild  and  bitter  gaiety, 
hiding  so  deep  a  sorrow,  of  Lear's  poor  boy  quavering  out  weak 
notes  across  the  tempest  ;  thought  and  affliction  turned  to  pretti- 
ness  in  the  distracted  Ophelia's  singing  ;  the  rough  ditty  keeping 
time  to  strokes  of  the  mattock  as  it  tosses  out  the  earth  which 
is  to  lie  on  Ophelia's  breast  ;  the  high-pitched  joviality  of  honest 
lago — 'And  let  me  the  canakin  clink,  clink' ;  the  volleying  chorus, 
'  Cup  us  till  the  world  go  round,'  shouted  in  Pompey's  galley,  while 
Menes  stands  by  ready  to  fall  to  the  triumvirs'  throats  ;  the  old 
song  of  willow  sung  by  maid  Barbara  when  Desdemona  was  a 
girl,  and  coming  back  to  her  on  that  night  when  a  sad  wife  she 
goes  bedward  with  eyes  ripe  for  weeping,  and  with  a  heart  still 
meek  and  innocent  as  the  heart  of  a  little  child.  But  to  hear 
songs,  which  'dally  with  the  innocence  of  love  like  the  old  age,' 
one  should  be  silent. 


Edward  Dowden. 


442  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Poems. 

[From  Venus  and  Adonh^ 

O,  what  a  sight  it  was,  wistly  to  view 
How  she  came  steahng  to  the  wayward  boy! 
To  note  the  fighting  conflict  of  her  hue, 
How  white  and  red  each  other  did  destroy  ! 
But  now  her  cheek  was  pale,  and  by  and  by 
It  flash'd  forth  fire,  as  hghtning  from  the  sky. 

Now  was  she  just  before  him  as  he  sat, 

And  Hke  a  lowly  lover  down  she  kneels  ; 

With  one  fair  hand  she  heaveth  up  his  hat, 

Her  other  tender  hand  his  fair  cheek  feels  : 

His  tenderer  cheek  receives  her  soft  hand's  print, 
As  apt  as  new-fall'n  snow  takes  any  dint. 

O,  what  a  war  of  looks  was  then  between  them ! 

Her  eyes  petitioners  to  his  eyes  suing  ; 

His  eyes  saw  her  eyes  as  they  had  not  seen  them  ; 

Her  eyes  woo'd  still,  his  eyes  disdain'd  the  wooing : 
And  all  this  dumb  play  had  his  acts  made  plain 
With  tears,  which,  chorus-like,  her  eyes  did  rain. 

Full  ger.tly  now  she  takes  him  by  the  hand, 

A  lily  prison'd  in  a  gaol  of  snow, 

Or  ivory  in  an  alabaster  band  ; 

So  white  a  friend  engirts  so  white  a  foe  : 

This  beauteous  combat,  wilful  and  unwilling, 

Show'd  like  two  silver  doves  that  sit  a-billing 
****** 
*  Thou  hadst  been  gone,'  quoth  she,  '  sweet  boy,  ere  this. 
But  that  thou  told'st  me  thou  wouldst  hunt  the  boar. 
O,  be  advised  !  thou  know'st  not  what  it  is 
With  javelin's  point  a  churlish  swine  to  gore. 

Whose  tushes  never  sheathed  he  whetteth  still, 

Like  to  a  mortal  butcher  bent  to  kill. 


SHAKESPEARE.  443 


'On  his  bow-back  he  hath  a  battle  set 

Of  bristly  pikes,  that  ever  threat  his  foes  ; 

His  eyes,  like  glow-worms,  shine  when  he  doth  fret  ; 

His  snout  digs  sepulchres  where'er  he  goes  ; 
Being  moved,  he  strikes  whate'er  is  in  his  way, 
And  whom  he  strikes  his  crooked  tushes  slay. 

*  His  brawny  sides,  with  hairy  bristles  arm'd. 

Are  better  proof  than  thy  spear's  point  can  enter  ; 

His  short  thick  neck  cannot  be  easily  harm'd  ; 

Being  ireful,  on  the  lion  he  will  venture  : 
The  thorny  brambles  and  embracing  bushes, 
As  fearful  of  him,  part,  through  whom  he  rushes, 

'Alas,  he  nought  esteems  that  face  of  thine. 
To  which  Love's  eyes  pay  tributary  gazes  ; 
Nor  thy  soft  hands,  sweet  lips  and  crystal  eyne, 
Whose  full  perfection  all  the  world  amazes  ; 

But  having  thee  at  vantage, — wondrous  dread  ! 

Would  root  these  beauties  as  he  roots  the  mead. 

'  O,  let  him  keep  his  loathsome  cabin  still  ; 

Beauty  hath  nought  to  do  with  such  foul  fiends  : 

Come  not  within  his  danger  by  thy  will  ; 

They  that  thrive  well  take  counsel  of  their  friends. 
When  thou  didst  name  the  boar,  not  to  dissemble, 
I  fear'd  thy  fortune,  and  my  joints  did  tremble.' 
****** 

'  But  if  thou  needs  wilt  hunt,  be  ruled  by  me  ; 

Uncouple  at  the  timorous  flying  hare. 

Or  at  the  fox  which  lives  by  subtlety, 

Or  at  the  roe  which  no  encounter  dare  : 

Pursue  these  fearful  creatures  o'er  the  downs, 

And  on  thy  well-breathed  horse  keep  with  thy  hounds. 

'And  when  thou  hast  on  foot  the  purblind  hare, 
Mark  the  poor  wretch,  to  overshoot  his  troubles 
How  he  outruns  the  wind  and  with  what  care 
He  cranks  and  crosses  with  a  thousand  doubles : 

The  many  musets  through  the  which  he  goes 

Are  like  a  labyrinth  to  amaze  his  foes. 


444  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'Sometime  he  runs  among  a  flock  of  sheep, 
To  make  the  cunning  hounds  mistake  their  smell, 
And  sometime  where  earth-delving  conies  keep, 
To  stop  the  loud  pursuers  in  their  yell, 

And  sometime  sorteth  with  a  herd  of  deer : 
Danger  deviseth  shifts  ;   wit  waits  on  fear: 

'  For  there  his  smell  with  others  being  mingled, 
The  hot  scent-snuffing  hounds  are  driven  to  doubt, 
Ceasing  their  clamorous  cry  till  they  have  singled 
With  much  ado  the  cold  fault  cleanly  out  ; 

Then  do  they  spend  their  mouths  :   Echo  replies, 
As  if  another  chase  were  in  the  skies. 

*  By  this,  poor  Wat,  far  off  upon  a  hill, 
Stands  on  his  hinder  legs  with  listening  ear, 
To  hearken  if  his  foes  pursue  him  still  : 
Anon  their  loud  alarums  he  doth  hear  ; 
And  now  his  grief  may  be  compared  well 
To  one  sore  sick  that  hears  the  passing-bell. 

'Then  shalt  thou  see  the  dew-bedabbled  wretch 
Turn,  and  return,  indenting  with  the  way; 
Each  envious  brier  his  weary  legs  doth  scratch, 
Each  shadow  makes  him  stop,  each  murmur  stay: 
For  misery  is  trodden  on  by  many. 
And  being  low  never  relieved  by  any.' 
****** 
With  this,  he  breaketh  from  the  sweet  embrace, 
Of  those  fair  arms  which  bound  him  to  her  breast, 
And  homeward  through  the  dark  laund  runs  apace  ; 
Leaves  Love  upon  her  back  deeply  distress'd. 
Look,  how  a  bright  star  shooteth  from  the  sky, 
So  glides  he  in  the  night  from  Venus'  eye  ; 

Which  after  him  she  darts,  as  one  on  shore 
Gazing  upon  a  late-embarked  friend, 
Till  the  wild  waves  will  have  him  seen  no  more, 
Whose  ridges  with  the  meeting  clouds  contend  : 
So  did  the  merciless  and  pitchy  night 
F"old  in  the  object  that  did  feed  her  sight. 


SHAKESPEARE.  445 


Whereat  amazed,  as  one  that  unaware 
Hath  dropp'd  a  precious  jewel  in  the  flood, 
Or  stonish'd  as  night-wanderers  often  are. 
Their  light  blown  out  in  some  mistrustful  wood, 
Even  so  confounded  in,  the  dark  she  lay, 
Having  lost  the  fair  discovery  of  her  way. 

And  now  she  beats  her  heart,  whereat  it  groans. 

That  all  the  neighbour  caves,  as  seeming  troubled, 

Make  verbal  repetition  of  her  moans  ; 

Passion  on  passion  deeply  is  redoubled  : 

*Ay  me!'  she  cries,  and  twenty  times  'Woe,  woe!' 
And  twenty  echoes  twenty  times  cry  so. 
*  -K-  *  -it  *  * 

She  looks  upon  his  lips,  and  they  are  pale  ; 

She  takes  him  by  the  hand,  and  that  is  cold  ; 

She  whispers  in  his  ears  a  hea\'y  tale, 

As  if  they  heard  the  woeful  words  she  told  ; 
She  lifts  the  coffer-lids  that  close  his  eyes, 
Where,  lo,  two  lamps,  burnt  out,  in  darkness  lies  ; 

Two  glasses,  where  herself  herself  beheld, 

A  thousand  times,  and  now  no  more  reflect  ; 

Their  virtue  lost,  wherein  they  late  excell'd. 

And  every  beauty  robb'd  of  his  effect : 

'  Wonder  of  time,'  quoth  she,  '  this  is  my  spite. 
That,  thou  being  dead,  the  day  should  yet  be  light. 

■  '  Since  thou  art  dead,  lo,  here  I  prophesy  : 
Sorrow  on  love  hereafter  shall  attend : 
It  shall  be  waited  on  with  jealousy. 
Find  sweet  beginning,  but  unsavoury  end. 
Ne'er  settled  equally,  but  high  or  low. 
That  all  love's  pleasure  shall  not  match  his  woe. 

'  It  shall  be  fickle,  false  and  full  of  fraud, 
Bud  and  be  blasted  in  a  breathing-while  ; 
The  bottom  poison,  and  the  top  o'erstraw'd 
With  sweets  that  shall  the  truest  sight  beguile : 
The  strongest  body  shall  it  make  most  weak, 
Strike  the  wise  dumb  and  teach  the  fool  to  speak. 


446  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  It  shall  be  sparing  and  too  full  of  riot, 
Teaching  decrepit  age  to  tread  the  measures  ; 
The  staring  ruffian  shall  it  keep  in  quiet, 
Pluck  down  the  rich,  enrich  the  poor  with  treasures  ; 
It  shall  be  raging-mad  and  silly-mild, 
Make  the  young  old,  the  old  become  a  child. 

'  It  shall  suspect  where  is  no  cause  of  fear  ; 

It  shall  not  fear  where  it  should  most  mistrust, 

It  shall  be  merciful  and  too  severe. 

And  most  deceiving  when  it  seems  most  just  ; 
Perverse  it  shall  be  where  it  shows  most  toward, 
Put  fear  to  valour,  courage  to  the  coward. 

*  It  shall  be  cause  of  war  and  dire  events, 

And  set  dissension  'twixt  the  son  and  sire  ; 

Subject  and  servile  to  all  discontents. 

As  dry  combustions  matter  is  to  fire  : 

Sith  in  his  prime  Death  doth  my  love  destroy, 
They  that  love  best  their  loves  shall  not  enjoy.' 

By  this,  the  boy  that  by  her  side  lay  kill'd 
Was  melted  like  a  vapour  from  her  sight. 
And  in  his  blood  that  on  the  ground  lay  spill'd, 
A  purple  flower  sprung  up,  chequer'd  with  white, 
Resembling  well  his  pale  cheeks  and  the  blood 
Which  in  round  drops  upon  their  whiteness  stood. 


[From  Lucrece^ 

By  this,  lamenting  Philomel  had  ended 
The  well-tuned  warble  of  her  nightly  sorrow, 
And  solemn  night  with  slow  sad  gait  descended 
To  ugly  hell  ;   when,  lo,  the  blushing  morrow 
Lends  light  to  all  fair  eyes  that  light  will  borrow : 
But  cloudly  Lucrcce  shames  herself  to  see. 
And  therefore  still  in  night  would  cloister'd  be. 


SHAKESPEARE.  447 


Revealing  day  through  every  cranny  spies, 
And  seems  to  point  her  out  where  she  sits  weeping  ; 
To  whom  she  sobbing  speaks  :  '  O  eye  of  eyes, 
Why  pry'st  thou  through  my  window?  leave  thy  peeping 
Mock  with  thy  tickling  beams  eyes  that  are  sleeping  : 
Brand  not  my  forehead  with  thy  piercing  light, 
For  day  hath  nought  to  do  what 's  done  by  night.' 

Thus  cavils  she  with  every  thing  she  sees  : 
True  grief  is  fond  and  testy  as  a  child, 
Who  wayward  once,  his  mood  with  nought  agrees  : 
Old  woes,  not  infant  sorrows,  bear  them  mild  ; 
Continuance  tames  the  one  ;   the  other  wild, 
Like  an  unpractised  swimmer  plunging  still. 
With  too  much  labour  drowns  for  want  of  skill. 

So  she,  deep-drenched  in  a  sea  of  care. 
Holds  disputation  with  each  thing  she  views, 
And  to  herself  all  sorrow  doth  compare  ; 
No  object  but  her  passion's  strength  renews  ; 
And  as  one  shifts,  another  straight  ensues  : 

Sometime  her  grief  is  dumb  and  hath  no  words  ; 

Sometime  'tis  mad  and  too  much  talk  affords. 

The  little  birds  that  tune  their  morning's  joy 
Make  her  moans  mad  with  their  sweet  melody : 
For  mirth  doth  search  the  bottom  of  annoy  ; 
Sad  souls  are  slain  in  merry  company  ; 
Grief  best  is  pleased  with  grief's  society  : 
True  sorrow  then  is  feelingly  sufficed 
■When  with  like  semblance  it  is  sympathised. 

'Tis  double  death  to  drown  in  ken  of  shore  ; 
He  ten  times  pines  that  pines  beholding  food  ; 
To  see  the  salve  doth  make  the  wound  ache  more  ; 
Great  grief  grieves  most  at  that  would  do  it  good  ; 
Deep  woes  roll  forward  like  a  gentle  flood. 

Who,  being  stopp'd,  the  bounding  banks  o'erflows  ; 

Grief  dallied  with  nor  law  nor  limit  knows. 


448  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

'  You  mocking  birds,'  quoth  she,  '  your  tunes  entomb 
Within  your  hollow-swelling  feather'd  breasts, 
And  in  my  hearing  be  you  mute  and  dumb  : 
My  restless  discord  loves  no  stops  nor  rests  ; 
A  woeful  hostess  brooks  not  merry  guests  : 

Relish  your  nimble  notes  to  pleasing  ears  ; 

Distress  likes  dumps  when  time  is  kept  with  tears. 

'  Come,  Philomel,  that  sing'st  of  ravishment, 
Make  thy  sad  grove  in  my  dishevell'd  hair  : 
As  the  dank  earth  weeps  at  thy  languishment, 
So  I  at  each  sad  strain  will  strain  a  tear. 
And  with  deep  groans  the  diapason  bear ; 
For  burden-wise  I  '11  hum  on  Tarquin  still, 
While  thou  on  Tereus  descant'st  better  skill.' 
******* 

This  plot  of  death  when  sadly  she  had  laid, 
And  wiped  the  brinish  pearl  from  her  bright  eyes, 
With  untuned  tongue  she  hoarsely  calls  her  maid, 
Whose  swift  obedience  to  her  mistress  hies  ; 
For  fleet-wing'd  duty  with  thought's  feathers  flies. 
Poor  Lucrece'  cheeks  unto  her  maid  seem  so 
As  winter  meads  when  sun  doth  melt  their  snow. 

Her  mistress  she  doth  give  demure  good-morrow, 
With  soft-slow  tongue,  true  mark  of  modesty, 
And  sorts  a  sad  look  to  her  lady's  sorrow, 
For  why  her  face  wore  sorrow's  livery  ; 
But  durst  not  ask  of  her  audaciously 

Why  her  two  suns  were  cloud-eclipsed  so. 
Nor  why  her  fair  cheeks  over-wash'd  with  woe. 

But  as  the  earth  doth  weep,  the  sun  being  set, 
Each  flower  moisten'd  like  a  melting  eye  ; 
Even  so  the  maid  with  swelling  drops  gan  wet 
Her  circled  eyne,  enforced  by  sympathy 
Of  those  fair  suns  set  in  her  mistress'  sky, 
Who  in  a  salt-waved  ocean  quench  their  light. 
Which  makes  the  maid  weep  like  the  dewy  night. 


SHAKESPEARE.  449 


A  pretty  while  these  pretty  creatures  stand, 
Like  ivory  conduits  coral  cisterns  filling  ; 
One  justly  weeps  ;   the  other  takes  in  hand 
No  cause,  but  company,  of  her  drops  spilling : 
Their  gentle  sex  to  weep  are  often  willing  ; 
Grieving  themselves  to  guess  at  others'  smarts. 
And  then  they  drown  their  eyes  or  break  their  hearts. 

For  men  have  marble,  women  waxen,  minds, 
And  therefore  are  they  form'd  as  marble  will ; 
The  weak  oppress'd,  the  impression  of  strange  kinds 
Is  form'd  in  them  by  force,  by  fraud,  or  skill : 
Then  call  them  not  the  authors  of  their  ill, 
No  more  than  wax  shall  be  accounted  evil 
Wherein  is  stamp'd  the  semblance  of  a  devil. 

Their  smoothness,  like  a  goodly  champaign  plain, 
Lays  open  all  the  little  worms  that  creep  ; 
In  men,  as  in  a  rough-grown  grove,  remain 
Cave-keeping  evils  that  obscurely  sleep  : 
Through  crystal  walls  each  little  mote  will  peep  : 
Though  men  can  cover  crimes  with  bold  stem  looks, 
Poor  women's  faces  are  their  own  faults'  books. 

No  man  inveigh  against  the  wither'd  flower, 
But  chide  rough  winter  that  the  flower  hath  kill'd  : 
Not  that  devour'd,  but  that  which  doth  devour. 
Is  worthy  blame.     O,  let  it  not  be  hild 
Poor  women's  faults,  that  they  are  so  fulfill'd 
"With  men's  abuses  :   those  proud  lords,  to  blame, 
Make  weak-made  women  tenants  to  their  shame. 


VOL.  I.  G  g 


450  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Sonnets. 


When  forty  winters  shall  besiege  thy  brow, 
And  dig  deep  trenches  in  thy  beauty's  field, 
Thy  youth's  proud  livery,  so  gazed  on  now, 
Will  be  a  tatter'd  weed,  of  small  worth  held  : 
Then  being  ask'd  where  all  thy  beauty  lies. 
Where  all  the  treasure  of  thy  lusty  days. 
To  say,  within  thine  own  deep-sunken  eyes, 
Were  an  all-eating  shame  and  thriftless  praise. 
How  much  more  praise  deserved  thy  beauty's  use, 
If  thou  couldst  answer  '  This  fair  child  of  mine 
Shall  sum  my  count  and  make  my  old  excuse,' 
Proving  his  beauty  by  succession  thine  ! 
This  were  to  be  new  made  when  thou  art  old. 
And  see  thy  blood  warm  when  thou  feel'st  it  cold. 


When  I  do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the  time. 
And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous  night  ; 
When  I  behold  the  violet  past  prime, 
And  sable  curls  all  silver'd  o'er  with  white  ; 
When  lofty  trees  I  see  barren  of  leaves 
Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd. 
And  summer's  green  all  girded  up  in  sheaves 
Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly  beard, 
Then  of  thy  beauty  do  I  question  make, 
That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go, 
Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves  forsake 
And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow  ; 

And  nothing  'gainst  Time's  scythe  can  make  defence 
Save  breed,  to  brave  him  when  he  takes  thee  hence. 


SHAKESPEARE.  4  5 1 


18. 


Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date  : 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd  ; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  untrimm'd  ; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest  ; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest  : 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 


23. 

As  an  unperfect  actor  on  the  stage 
Who  with  his  fear  is  put  besides  his  part, 
Or  some  fierce  thing  replete  with  too  much  rage, 
Whose  strength's  abundance  weakens  his  own  heart, 
So  I,  for  fear  of  trust,  forget  to  say 
The  perfect  ceremony  of  love's  rite, 
And  in  mine  own  love's  strength  seem  to  decay, 
O'ercharged  with  burden  of  mine  own  love's  might. 
O,  let  my  books  be  then  the  eloquence 
And  dumb  presagers  of  my  speaking  breast, 
Who  plead  for  love  and  look  for  recompense 
More  than  that  tongue  that  more  hath  more  express'd. 
O,  learn  to  read  what  silent  love  hath  writ  : 
To  hear  with  eyes  belongs  to  love's  fine  wit. 


Gg2 


452  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries 
And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope. 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possess'd, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate  ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 


When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought. 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow. 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe. 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight : 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  forgone. 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 


SHAKESPEARE.  453 


32. 


If  thou  survive  my  well-contented  day, 
When  that  churl  Death  my  bones  with  dust  shall  cover, 
And  Shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 
These  poor  rude  lines  of  thy  deceased  lover. 
Compare  them  with  the  bettering  of  the  time, 
And  though  they  be  outstripp'd  by  every  pen. 
Reserve  them  for  my  love,  not  for  their  rhyme, 
Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 
O,  then  vouchsafe  me  but  this  loving  thought : 
'Had  my  friend's  Muse  grown  with  this  growing  age, 
A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought, 
To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage  : 
But  since  he  died  and  poets  better  prove. 
Theirs  for  their  style  I  '11  read,  his  for  his  love.' 


33- 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye. 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy ; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face. 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace  : 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With  all-triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow; 
But  out,  alack !   he  was  but  one  hour  mine  ; 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth  ; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's  sun  staincth. 


454  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


52. 


So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key 
Can  bring  him  to  his  sweet  up-locked  treasure, 
The  which  he  will  not  every  hour  survey, 
For  blunting  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure. 
Therefore  are  feasts  so  solemn  and  so  rare, 
Since,  seldom  coming,  in  the  long  year  set, 
Like  stones  of  worth  they  thinly  placed  are. 
Or  captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet. 
So  is  the  time  that  keeps  you  as  my  chest, 
Or  as  the  wardrobe  which  the  robe  doth  hide, 
To  make  some  special  instant  special  blest, 
By  new  unfolding  his  imprison'd  pride. 

Blessed  are  you,  whose  worthiness  gives  scope, 
Being  had,  to  triumph,  being  lack'd,  to  hope. 


54. 

O,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give ! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses. 
Hang  on  such  thorns  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses  ; 
But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 
They  live  unwoo'd  and  unrespected  fade, 
Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so  ; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made : 
And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 
When  that  shall  fade,  my  verse  distills  your  truth. 


SHAKESPEARE.  455 


66. 


Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry, 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  bom, 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 
And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplaced, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted. 
And  right  perfection  \wongfully  disgraced. 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled. 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly  doctor-like  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity, 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill : 

Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 


70. 

That  thou  art  blamed  shall  not  be  thy  defect, 
For  slander's  mark  was  ever  yet  the  fair  ; 
The  ornament  of  beauty  is  suspect, 
A  crow  that  flies  in  heaven's  sweetest  air. 
So  thou  be  good,  slander  doth  but  approve 
Thy  worth  the  greater,  being  woo'd  of  time  ; 
For  canker  vice  the  sweetest  buds  doth  love. 
And  thou  present'st  a  pure  unstained  prime. 
Thou  hast  pass'd  by  the  ambush  of  young  days, 
Either  not  assail'd  or  victor  being  charged  ; 
Yet  this  thy  praise  cannot  be  so  thy  praise. 
To  tie  up  envy  evermore  enlarged  : 

If  some  suspect  of  ill  mask'd  not  thy  show. 

Then  thou  alone  kingdoms  of  hearts  shouldst  owe. 


456  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


72- 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie. 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 
This  thou  perceivest,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong. 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 


90. 

Then  hate  me  when  thou  wilt ;  if  ever,  now ; 

Now,  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross, 

Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow, 

And  do  not  drop  in  for  an  after-loss  : 

Ah,  do  not,  when  my  heart  hath  'scaped  this  sorrow, 

Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  conquer'd  woe  ; 

Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow. 

To  linger  out  a  purposed  overthrow. 

If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me  last. 

When  other  petty  griefs  have  done  their  spite. 

But  in  the  onset  come  ;  so  shall  I  taste 

At  first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might, 

And  other  strains  of  woe,  which  now  seem  woe, 
Compared  with  loss  of  thee  will  not  seem  so. 


SHA  KESPEA  RE.  457 


97- 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year  ! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen  ! 
What  old  December's  bareness  ever>'  where  ! 
And  yet  this  time  removed  was  summer's  time, 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the>  prime, 
Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  lords'  decease  : 
Yet  this  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans  and  unfather'd  fruit  ; 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute  ; 
Or,  if  they  sing,  'tis  with  so  dull  a  cheer 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter's  near. 


From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied  April  dress'd  in  all  his  trim 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everj'  thing, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell. 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew ; 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose  ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight. 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away. 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 


458  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


My  love  is  strengthen'd,  though  more  weak  in  seeming ; 
I  love  not  less,  though  less  the  show  appear  : 
That  love  is  merchandized  whose  rich  esteeming 
The  owner's  tongue  doth  publish  every  where. 
Our  love  was  new  and  then  but  in  the  spring 
When  I  was  wont  to  greet  it  with  my  lays, 
As  Philomel  in  summer's  front  doth  sing 
And  stops  her  pipe  in  growth  of  riper  days  : 
Not  that  the  summer  is  less  pleasant  now 
Than  when  her  mournful  hymns  did  hush  the  night, 
But  that  wild  music  burthens  every  bough 
And  sweets  grown  common  lose  their  dear  delight, 
Therefore  like  her  I  sometime  hold  my  tongue, 
Because  I  would  not  dull  you  with  my  song. 


104. 


To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old. 

For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed, 

Such  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  winters  cold 

Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  summers'  pride. 

Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  turn'd 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen. 

Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd, 

Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 

Ah  !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 

Steal  from  his  figure  and  no  pace  perceived  ; 

So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand, 

Hath  motion  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived  : 

For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred  ; 

Ere  you  were  born  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 


SHAKESPEARE.  459 


106. 


When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  express'd 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring  ; 
And,  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing : 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days. 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 


107. 

Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come, 
Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control, 
Supposed  as  forfeit  to  a  confined  doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endured 
And  the  sad  augurs  mock  their  own  presage  ; 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assured 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  Death  to  me  subscribes, 
Since,  spite  of  him,  I  '11  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 
While  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes  : 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument. 
When  tyrants'  crests  and  tombs  of  brass  are  spent. 


460  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


1 10. 


Alas,  'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there 

And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 

Gored  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear, 

Made  old  ofifences  of  affections  new  ; 

Most  true  it  is  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 

Askance  and  strangely:  but,  by  all  above, 

These  blenches  gave  my  heart  another  youth, 

And  worse  essays  proved  thee  my  best  of  love. 

Now  all  is  done,  have  what  shall  have  no  end  : 

Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind 

On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  friend, 

A  god  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confined. 

Then  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven  the  best, 
Even  to  thy  pure  and  most  most  loving  breast. 


O,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  Hfe  provide 
Than  public  means  which  public  manners  breeds. 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand : 
Pity  me  then  and  wish  I  were  renew'd  ; 
Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drink 
Potions  of  eisel  'gainst  my  strong  infection  ; 
No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think, 
Nor  double  penance,  to  correct  correction. 
Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assure  ye 
Even  that  your  pity  is  enough  to  cure  me. 


SHAKESPEARE.  4  6 1 


116. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 

O,  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


119. 

What  potions  have  I  dnmk  of  Siren  tears, 
Distill'd  from  limbecks  foul  as  hell  within, 
Applying  fears  to  hopes  and  hopes  to  fears, 
Still  losing  when  I  saw  myself  to  win  ! 
What  wretched  errors  hath  my  heart  committed, 
Whilst  it  hath  thought  itself  so  blessed  never ! 
How  have  mine  ej'^es  out  of  their  spheres  been  fitted 
In  the  distraction  of  this  madding  fever  1 
O  benefit  of  ill !  now  I  find  true 
That  better  is  by  evil  still  made  better ; 
And  ruin'd  love,  when  it  is  built  anew. 
Grows  fairer  than  at  first,  more  strong,  far  greater. 
So  I  return  rebuked  to  my  content 
And  gain  by  ill  thrice  more  than  I  have  spent. 


462  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


SONGS. 
A  Morning  Song  for  Imogen. 

[From  Cymheline?^ 

Hark,  hark  !   the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chahced  flowers  that  Hes  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  : 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  is, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise : 
Arise,  arise. 

Silvia. 

[From  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona."] 

Who  is  Silvia  ?  what  is  she, 
That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair  and  wise  is  she  ; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair.'' 
For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 

Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair. 
To  help  him  of  his  blindness, 

And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling  ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


SHAKESPEARE.  463 


Sigh  no  more,  Ladies. 

[From  Much  Ado  about  Nothing.'^ 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 

Men  were  deceivers  ever, 
One  foot  in  sea  and  one  on  shore, 

To  one  thing  constant  never  : 
Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go, 

And  be  you  bhthe  and  bonny, 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 

Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  moe, 

Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy  ; 
The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 

Since  summer  first  was  leafy  : 
Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go, 

And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny. 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 

Into  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 


A  Lover's  Lament. 

[From  Twelfth  Night.] 

Come  away,  come  away,  death, 

And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid  ; 
Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O,  prepare  it  ! 
My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 


464  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown  ; 
Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O,  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there  1 


Ariel's  Song. 

[From  The  Tempest.'] 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  : 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hancrs  on  the  bough. 


A  Sea  Dirge. 

[From  The  Tempest.] 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

Ding-dong. 
Hark  !    now  1  hear  them, — Ding-dong,  bell. 


SHAKESPEARE.  46; 


In  the  Greenwood. 

[From  As  You  Like  //.] 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


Winter. 

[From  Loves  Labour 's  Lo!ti\ 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 

When  blood  is  nipp'd  and  ways  be  foul, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
Tu-whit  ; 

Tu-who,  a  merry  note. 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
VOL.  I.  H  h 


466  TFIE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

Tu-whit  ; 
Tu-who,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


Song  of  Autolycus. 

[From  The  Winter's  Tale.] 

When  daffodils  begin  to  peer, 

With  heigh  !    the  doxy  over  the  dale, 

Why,  then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year ; 
For  the  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale. 

The  white  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge. 

With  heigh  !    the  sweet  birds,  O,  how  they  sing ! 

Doth  set  my  pugging  tooth  on  edge  ; 
For  a  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king. 

The  lark,  that  tirra-lyra  chants, 

With  heigh  !  with  heigh  !  the  thrush  and  the  jay. 
Are  summer  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts, 

While  we  lie  tumbling  in  the  hay. 

But  shall  I  go  mourn  for  that,  my  dear  ? 

The  pale  moon  shines  by  night  : 
And  when  I  wander  here  and  there, 

I  then  do  most  go  right. 

If  tinkers  may  have  leave  to  live, 

And  bear  the  sow-skin  budget. 
Then  my  account  I  well  may  give. 

And  in  the  stocks  avouch  it. 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 

And  merrily  hcnt  the  stile-a  : 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  milc-a. 


SAMUEL    DANIEL. 


[Sashjel  Daniel  was  born  near  Taunton  in  1562.  He  died  at  Backing- 
ton  in  the  counly  of  his  birth  in  1619.  His  chief  works  were — The  Com- 
plaint of  Rosamond,  1594;  Cleopatra,  1594;  Epistles  to  Various  Great  Person- 
ages, 1601 ;  T/!e  Civil  Wars,  1604;  Philotas,  1611 ;  Hymen  s  Triumph,  1623; 
A  Defence  of  Rhyme,  1 6 1 1 .] 

There  are  few  poets,  not  of  the  first  class,  to  whose  merits 
a  stronger  consensus  of  weighty  opinion  can  be  produced  than  that 
which  attests  the  value  of  Samuel  Daniel's  work.  His  contem- 
poraries, while  expressing  some  doubts  as  to  his  choice  of  subjects, 
speak  of  him  as  '  well-languaged,' '  sharp-conceited,'  and  as  a  master 
of  pure  English.  The  critics  of  the  eighteenth  century  were  sur- 
prised to  find  in  him  so  little  that  they  could  deem  obsolete  or  in 
bad  taste.  The  more  catholic  censorship  of  Hazlitt,  Lamb,  and 
Coleridge  was  delighted  with  his  extraordinary  felicity  of  expres- 
sion, and  the  simple  grace  of  his  imagery  and  phrase.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  however  that  his  choice  of  historical  subjects  for  his 
poetr}^  was  unfortunate  for  his  fame.  The  sentence  of  Joubert  is 
not  likely  to  be  reversed  :  '  II  faut  que  son  sujet  ofitre  au  g^nie  du 
poete  une  espece  de  lieu  fantastique  qu'il  puisse  etendre  et  res- 
serrer  Ji  volonte.  Un  lieu  trop  rdel,  une  population  trop  historique 
emprisonnent  I'esprit  et  en  genent  les  mouvements.'  This  holds 
true  of  all  the  Elizabethan  historians  ;  and  it  holds  truer  perhaps 
of  Daniel  than  of  Drayton.  For  the  genius  of  the  former  had  a 
tender  and  delicate  quality  about  it  which  was  least  of  all  applic- 
able to  such  work,  and  seems  to  have  lacked  altogether  the  faculty 
of  narrative.  Daniel's  one  qualification  for  the  task  was  his  power 
of  dignified  moral  reflection,  in  which,  as  the  following  extracts  will 
show,  he  has  hardly  a  superior.  This  however,  though  an  ad- 
mirable adjunct  to  the  other  qualities  required  for  the  task,  could 
by  no  means  compensate  for  their  absence  ;  and  the  result  is  that 
the  History  of  ilic  Civil  Wars  is  with  difficulty  readable.  The 
Complaint  of  Rosamond  is  better. 

H  h  2 


468  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

It  is  however  in  the  long  poems  only  that  the  '  manner  better 
suiting  prose,'  of  which  Daniel  has  been  accused,  appears.  His 
minor  work  is  in  the  main  admirable,  and  displays  incessantly  the 
purity  and  felicity  of  language  already  noticed.  His  Sonnet  to 
Sleep  became  a  kind  of  model  to  younger  writers,  and  imitations 
of  it  are  to  be  found  in  the  sonneteers  of  the  time,  sometimes 
with  the  opening  epithet  literally  borrowed.  The  whole  indeed 
of  the  Sonnets  to  Delta  are  excellent,  and  throughout  Daniel's 
work  single  expressions  and  short  passages  of  exquisite  grace 
abound.  The  opening  line,  for  instance,  of  the  Address  to  Lady 
Anne  Clifford, 

'Upon  the  tender  youth  of  those  fair  eyes,* 

is  perfect  in  its  kind.     So  is  the  distich  which  begins  one  of  the 
Sonnets  : — 

'The  star  of  my  mishap  imposed  this  pain, 
To  spend  the  April  of  my  years  in  grief;' 

and  the  invocation  of  Apollo  : — 

'  O  clear-eyed  rector  of  the  holy  hill.' 

It  is  in  such  things  as  these  that  the  greater  part  of  Daniel's 
charm  consists,  and  they  are  scattered  abundantly  about  his  works. 
The  rest  of  that  charm  lies  in  his  combination  of  moral  elevation 
with  a  certain  picturesque  peacefulness  of  spirit  not  often  to  be 
found  in  the  perturbed  race  of  bards.  The  Epistle  to  the  Countess 
of  CtDnberland  is  unmatched  before  Wordsworth  in  the  expres- 
sion of  this. 

His  two  tragedies  and  his  Defence  of  Rhyme,  though  neither  of 
them  falling  strictly  within  our  limits,  are  too  important  in  con- 
nection with  English  poetry  to  be  left  unnoticed.  Cleopatra  and 
Philotas  are  noteworthy  among  the  rare  attempts  to  follow  the 
example  of  Jodelle  and  Gamier  in  English.  They  contain  much 
harmonious  verse,  and  the  choruses  are  often  admirable  of  their 
kind.  The  Defence  of  Rhyme,  directed  against  the  mania  which 
for  a  time  infected  Spenser  and  Sidney,  which  Webbe  endeavoured 
to  render  methodic,  and  of  which  traces  are  to  be  found  in 
Milton,  is  thoroughly  sound  in  principle  and  conclusion,  though 
that  conclusion  is  supported  by  arguments  which  arc  as  often 
bad  as  good. 

G.  Saintsbury. 


DANIEL.  469 


Sonnet  LI.    To  Delia. 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born  : 
Relieve  my  languish  and  restore  the  light ; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care,  return. 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  youth  : 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease  dreams,  the  images  of  day  desires. 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow ; 
Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars. 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow. 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 


The  Death  of  Talbot. 

[From  History  of  the  Civil  War,  Bk.  vi.] 

So  much  true  resolution  wrought  in  those 
Who  had  made  covenant  with  death  before, 
That  their  small  number  (scorning  so  great  foes) 
Made  France  most  happy,  that  there  were  no  more, 
And  Fortune  doubt  to  whom  she  might  dispose 
That  weary  day  ;   or  unto  whom  restore 
The  glory  of  a  conquest  dearly  bought. 
Which  scarce  the  conqueror  could  think  well  got. 

For  as  with  equal  rage,  and  equal  might. 
Two  adverse  winds  combat,  with  billows  proud, 
And  neither  yield  (seas,  skies  maintain  like  fight, 
Wave  against  wave  oppos'd,  and  cloud  to  cloud) ; 
So  war  both  sides  with  obstinate  despite. 
With  like  revenge  ;    and  neither  party  bow'd  : 
Fronting  each  other  with  confounding  blows, 
No  wound  one  sword  unto  the  other  owes. 


470  THE  ENGLISH  FORTS. 

Whilst  Talbot  (whose  fresh  ardour  having  got 
A  marvellous  advantage  of  his  years) 
Carries  his  unfelt  age  as  if  forgot, 
Whirling  about  where  any  need  appears. 
His  hand,  his  eye,  his  wits  all  present  wrought 
The  function  of  the  glorious  part  he  bears  : 
Now  urging  here,  now  cheering  there,  he  flies  ; 
Unlocks  the  thickest  troops  where  most  force  Hes. 

In  midst  of  wrath,  of  wounds,  of  blood,  and  death 

There  is  he  most,  where  as  he  may  do  best ; 

And  there  the  closest  ranks  he  severeth. 

Drives  back  the  stoutest  powers  that  forward  press'd, 

There  makes  his  sword  his  way.     There  laboureth 

The  infatigable  hand  that  never  ceas'd  ; 

Scorning  unto  his  mortal  wounds  to  yield, 

Till  Death  became  best  master  of  the  field. 

Then  like  a  sturdy  oak,  that  having  long 

Against  the  wars  of  fiercest  winds  made  head. 

When  (with  some  forc'd  tempestuous  rage  more  strong 

His  down-borne  top  comes  overmastered) 

All  the  near  bord'ring  trees  he  stood  among 

Crushed  with  his  weighty  fall  lie  ruined  : 

So  lay  his  spoils,  all  round  about  him  slain, 

T'  adorn  his  death,  that  could  not  die  in  vain. 

On  th'  other  part,  his  most  all-daring  son 

(Although  the  inexperience  of  his  years 

Made  him  less  skill'd  in  what  was  to  be  done  ; 

And  yet  did  carry  him  beyond  all  fears). 

Flying  into  the  main  battalion 

Near  to  the  king,  amidst  the  chiefest  peers, 

With  thousand  wounds  became  at  length  oppress'd, 

As  if  he  scorned  to  die  but  with  the  best. 

Who  thus  both  having  gained  a  glorious  end, 
Soon  ended  that  great  day  ;   that  set  so  red, 
As  all  the  purple  plains  that  wide  extend 
A  sad  tempestuous  season  witnessed. 


DANIEL.  471 

So  much  ado  had  toiUng  France  to  rend 
From  us  the  right  so  long  inherited  ; 
And  so  hard  went  we  from  what  we  possessed, 
As  with  it  went  the  blood  we  loved  best. 

Which  blood  not  lost,  but  fast  laid  up  with  heed 

In  everlasting  fame,  is  there  held  dear 

To  seal  the  memory  of  this  day's  deed  ; 

Th'  eternal  evidence  of  what  we  were  : 

To  which  our  fathers,  we,  and  who  succeed, 

Do  owe  a  sigh,  for  that  it  touched  us  near; 

Nor  must  we  sin  so  much  as  to  neglect 

The  holy  thought  of  such  a  dear  respect. 


To  THE  Lady  Margaret,  Countess  of  Cumberland. 

He  that  of  such  a  height  hath  built  his  mind, 
And  rear'd  the  dwelling  of  his  thoughts  so  strong, 
As  neither  fear  nor  hope  can  shake  the  frame 
Of  his  resolved  powers  ;   nor  all  the  wind 
Of  vanity  or  malice  pierce  to  wrong 
His  settled  peace,  or  to  disturb  the  same. 
What  a  fair  seat  hath  he,  from  whence  he  may 
The  boundless  wastes  and  wilds  of  man  survey  ! 

And  with  how  free  an  eye  doth  he  look  down 

Upon  these  lower  regions  of  turmoil ! 

Where  all  the  storms  of  passion  mainly  beat 

On  flesh  and  blood  ;    where  honour,  power,  renown 

Are  only  gay  afflictions,  golden  toil ; 

Where  greatness  stands  upon  as  feeble  feet 

As  frailty  doth,  and  only  great  doth  seem 

To  httle  minds,  who  do  it  so  esteem. 

He  looks  upon  the  mightiest  monarch's  wars 
But  only  as  en  stately  robberies  ; 
Where  evermore  the  fortune  that  prevails 
Must  be  the  right  :   the  ill-succeeding  mars 
The  fairest  and  the  best-faced  enterprise. 
Great  pirate  Pompey  lesser  pirates  quails  : 


472  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Justice,  he  sees,  (as  if  seduced)  still 

Conspires  with  power,  whose  cause  must  not  be  ill. 

He  sees  the  face  of  right  t'  appear  as  manifold 
As  are  the  passions  of  uncertain  man  ; 
Who  puts  it  in  all  colours,  all  attires. 
To  serve  his  ends  and  make  his  courses  hold. 
He  sees,  that  let  deceit  work  what  it  can, 
Plot  and  contrive  base  ways  to  high  desires. 
That  the  all-guiding  Providence  doth  yet 
All  disappoint,  and  mocks  this  smoke  of  wit. 

Nor  is  he  mov'd  with  all  the  thunder  cracks 

Of  tyrants'  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 

Of  Pow'r,  that  proudly  sits  on  others'  crimes, 

Charg'd  with  more  crying  sins  than  those  he  checks. 

The  storms  of  sad  confusion,  that  may  grow 

Up  in  the  present  for  the  coming  times, 

Appal  not  him,  that  hath  no  side  at  all 

But  of  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can  fall. 

Although  his  heart  (so  near  allied  to  earth) 
Cannot  but  pity  the  perplexed  state 
Of  troublous  and  distress'd  mortality, 
That  thus  make  way  unto  the  ugly  birth 
Of  their  own  sorrows,  and  do  still  beget 
Affliction  upon  imbecility ; 

Yet  seeing  thus  the  course  of  things  must  run. 
He  looks  thereon  not  strange,  but  as  foredone. 

And  whilst  distraught  ambition  compasses. 
And  is  encompass'd ;   whilst  as  craft  deceives. 
And  is  deceiv'd  ;    whilst  man  doth  ransack  man, 
And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress  ; 
And  th'  inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great-expecting  hopes  :    he  looks  thereon 
As  from  the  shore  of  peace,  with  unwet  eye, 
And  bears  no  venture  in  impiety. 


DANIEL.  473 


From  '  Hymen's  Triumph.' 

Ah  !    I  remember  well  (and  how  can  I 

But  evermore  remember  well)  when  first 

Our  flame  began,  when  scarce  we  knew  what  was 

The  flame  we  felt  ;   when  as  we  sat  and  sighed 

And  looked  upon  each  other,-  and  conceived 

Not  what  we  ail'd, — yet  something  we  did  ail ; 

And  yet  were  well,  and  yet  we  were  not  well. 

And  what  was  our  disease  we  could  not  tell. 

Then  would  we  kiss,  then  sigh,  then  look  :    and  thus 

In  that  first  garden  of  our  simpleness 

We  spent  our  childhood.     But  when  years  began 

To  reap  the  fruit  of  knowledge,  ah,  how  then 

Would  she  with  graver  looks,  with  sweet  stern  brow 

Check  my  presumption  and  my  forwardness  ; 

Yet  still  would  give  me  flowers,  still  would  me  show 

What  she  would  have  me,  yet  not  have  me  know. 


RICHARD    BARNFIELD. 


[Born  at  the  Manor  House  of  Norbury,  Staffordshire,  1574.  Died  at 
Dorleston,  or  Darlaston,  in  the  same  county,  1627.  His  chief  poems  are — 
The  Affectionate  Shepherd,  1594;  Cynthia,  with  certaine  Sonnets  and  the 
Legende  of  Cassandra,  1595;  The  Encomioti  of  Lady  Pecunia,  1598.  Two 
poems  from  this  latter  source  reappeared  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  I599-] 

Barnfield  is  a  poet  whose  personality  has  only  of  late  years 
emerged  into  something  like  distinctness,  his  best  poems  having 
till  recently  had  the  honour  of  bearing  Shakespeare's  name.  The 
reprint  of  The  Affectionate  Shepherd  by  Mr.  Halliwell  in  1845, 
from  the  almost  unique  copy  in  Sion  College  Library,  first  made 
Barnfield  known  to  modern  readers  ;  about  the  same  time  doubts 
began  to  arise  concerning  the  authorship  of  the  poems  in  The 
Passionate  Pilgrim;  and  lately,  in  1876,  Mr.  Grosart  was  able  to 
print  for  the  Roxburghe  Club  the  complete  poems,  together  with  a 
number  of  facts  about  Barnfield's  family  and  a  few  about  his  life. 
Of  the  latter  we  only  learn  that  he  belonged  to  a  good  Staffordshire 
family;  that  he  became  a  member  of  Brasenose  College,  Oxford, 
in  1589 ;  that  on  leaving  Oxford  he  passed  several  years  in  London, 
apparently  as  a  member  of  that  literary  circle  of  which  Lady  Rich, 
Sidney's  'Stella,'  was  the  centre  ;  and  that  after  1605  he  disap- 
peared, probably  retiring  like  Shakespeare  to  his  country  home, 
but  unlike  him  sending  forth  no  poetic  utterance  into  the  world. 

The  oddity  of  Barnfield's  principal  performance,  The  Affectionate 
Shepherd,  is  best  explained  by  the  date  of  its  composition.  He 
was  not  twenty  when  he  wrote  it  ;  and  we  are  thus  more  inclined 
to  tolerate  both  the  sentiment  (it  is  an  elaborate  expansion  of 
Virgil's  second  eclogue),  and  the  boyishness  and  incongruities 
which  mar  the  execution.  It  is  strange  enough  that  such  a  poem 
should  be  dedicated  to  a  lady  (Lady  Rich);  stranger  still  that  it 
should  open  with  what  must  have  read  like  a  caricature  of  that 
lady's  own  love-story  ;  strangest  of  all  that  Daphnis,  after  display- 


BARNFIELD.  475 


ing  all  his  Arcadian  blandishments  in  vain  through  a  hundred 
stanzas,  should  turn  moralist  and  flood  the  obdurate  Ganymede 
with  '  lere  I  learned  from  a  Beldame  Trot ' — didactic  '  lere,'  of 
which  these  lines  are  a  fair  example  : — 

'  Be  patient  in  extreame  adveisitie, 

Man's  chiefest  credit  growes  by  dooing  well. 
Be  not  high  minded  in  prosperilie, 

Falshood  abhorre,  no  lying  fable  tell, 
Give  not  thyselfe  to  sloth,  the  sinke  of  shame. 
The  moath  of  Time,  the  enemie  to  Fame ! ' 

Yet  the  poem  has  qualities  which  mark  it  out  from  the  mass  of 
Elizabethan  pastoral.  It  has  fluency,  music,  colour.  Barnfield 
combines  in  it  a  mastery  of  euphuistic  antithesis  with  a  real 
knowledge  of  the  country  and  its  sights  and  sounds  ;  its  '  scarlet- 
dyed  carnation  bleeding  yet,'  its  'fine  ruffe -footed  Doves,'  its 
'  curds  and  clowted  creme,'  the  '  lyme-twigs  and  fine  sparrow  calles ' 
for  the  birdcatcher,  the  '  springes  in  a  frostie  night '  that  take  the 
woodcock.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  eye  for  nature,  this  fine 
ear  and  honeyed  tongue,  were  pressed  into  the  service  of  a  design 
too  artificial  and  too  alien  from  the  common  feeling  of  mankind. 

There  is  nothing  of  this  sort  to  say  against  the  well-known  Ode 
which  we  here  quote,  and  which  is  indeed  in  no  respect  unworthy 
of  the  great  name  to  which  it  was  so  long  attributed.  From  its 
happy  union  of  ethical  matter  and  fanciful  form,  from  its  strongly 
personal  note,  it  ranks  among  the  most  interesting  of  the  produc- 
tions of  the  lesser  EHzabethans. 

Editor. 


^76  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Sonnet. 

[From  Cynthia,  &c'\ 

Beauty  and  Majesty  are  fallen  at  odds, 

Th'  one  claims  his  cheek,  the  other  claims  his  chin  ; 

Then  Virtue  comes  and  puts  her  title  in  : 

Quoth  she,  I  make  him  like  th'  immortal  Gods. 

Quoth  Majesty,  I  own  his  looks,  his  brow  ; 

His  lips,  quoth  Love,  his  eyes,  his  fair  is  mine  ; 

And  yet,  quoth  Majesty,  he  is  not  thine, 

I  mix  disdain  with  Love's  congealed  snow. 

Ay,  but,  quoth  Love,  his  locks  are  mine  by  right. 

His  stately  gait  is  mine,  quoth  Majesty  ; 

And  mine,  quoth  Virtue,  is  his  Modesty. 

Thus  as  they  strive  about  the  heavenly  wight 
At  last  the  other  two  to  Virtue  yield 
The  lists  of  Love,  fought  in  fair  Beauty's  field. 

Sonnet  to  his  friend  Maister  R.  L.  ^ 

[From  Poems  in  Divers  Humors  ;  also  printed  in  The  Passionate  Pilgrim^ 

If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree, 
As  they  must  needs,  the  sister  and  the  brother, 
Then  must  the  love  be  great  'twixt  thee  and  me, 
Because  thou  lov'st  the  one,  and  I  the  other. 
Dowland  to  thee  is  dear,  whose  heavenly  touch 
Upon  the  lute  doth  ravish  human  sense  ; 
Spenser  to  me,  whose  deep  conceit  is  such 
As,  passing  all  conceit,  needs  no  defence. 
Thou  lov'st  to  hear  the  sweet  melodious  sound 
That  Phoebus'  lute,  the  queen  of  music,  makes ; 
And  I  in  deep  delight  am  chiefly  drown'd 
Whcnas  himself  to  singing  he  betakes. 

One  god  is  god  of  both,  as  poets  feign  ; 

One  knight  loves  both,  and  both  in  thee  remain. 

'  Perhaps  Richard  Lynch,  author  of  Diella;  certaine  sonnets  (1596). 


BARNFIELD,  477 


An  Ode. 

[From  the  same.] 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 

Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 

Beasts  did  leap,  and  birds  did  sing, 

Trees  did  grow,  and  plants  did  spring ; 

Everything  did  banish  moan. 

Save  the  nightingale  alone  : 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Lean'd  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn, 

And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  ditty, 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity  : 

'  Fie,  fie,  fie,'  now  would  she  cry  ; 

'  Teru,  teru  ! '  by  and  by  ; 

That  to  hear  her  so  complain, 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain  ; 

For  her  griefs,  so  lively  shown. 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah,  thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain ' 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain  : 

Senseless  trees  they  cannot  hear  thee  ; 

Ruthless  beasts  they  will  not  cheer  thee ; 

King  Pandion  he  is  dead  ; 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead  ; 

All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing. 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing. 

[Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee. 

None  alive  will  pity  me.] 

Whilst  as  fickle  Fortune  smiled. 

Thou  and  I  were  both  beguiled. 

Every  one  that  flatters  thee 
Is  no  friend  in  misery. 
Words  are  easy,  like  the  wind  ; 
Faithful  friends  are  hard  to  find : 


478  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Every  man  will  be  thy  friend 

Whilst  thou  hast  wherewith  to  spend  ; 

But  if  store  of  crowns  be  scant, 

No  man  will  supply  thy  want. 

If  that  one  be  prodigal, 

Bountiful  they  will  him  call, 

And  with  such-like  flattering, 

'  Pity  but  he  were  a  king  ; ' 

If  he  be  addict  to  vice, 

Quickly  him  they  will  entice  ; 

If  to  women  he  be  bent, 

They  have  at  commandement : 

But  if  Fortune  once  do  frown. 

Then  farewell  his  great  renown  ; 

They  that  fawn'd  on  him  before 

Use  his  company  no  more. 

He  that  is  thy  friend  indeed, 

He  will  help  thee  in  thy  need : 

If  thou  sorrow,  he  will  weep  ; 

If  thou  wake,  he  cannot  sleep  ; 

Thus  of  every  grief  in  heart 

He  with  thee  doth  bear  a  part. 

These  are  certain  signs  to  know 

Faithful  friend  from  flattering  foe. 


ROBERT    SOUTHWELL. 

[Born  at  Horsham  St.  Faith's,  Norfolk,  about  1562  ;  entered  the  Society 
of  Jesus,  1578,  at  Rome;  accompanied  Father  Garnet  to  England,  was 
captured  ;  and  was  executed  at  Tyburn,  1594-5.  St.  Peter's  Cotnplaint,  with 
other  Poems,  was  first  published  in  1 595  ;  Maeoniae  in  the  same  year ; 
Marie  Magdalen's  Futier all  Teares,  1609.] 

Southwell's  poems  enjoyed  a  vast  popularity  in  the  last  decade 
of  the  sixteenth  and  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Sf.  Peter's  Complaint,  first  printed  in  1595,  was  again  and  again 
re-issued  in  that  and  the  immediately  following  years.  Both  Hall 
and  Marston  refer  to  it  in  their  Satires.  '  Never,'  says  Bolton  in 
his  Hypercritica,  '  must  be  forgotten  St.  Peter's  Complaint  and 
those  other  serious  poems  said  to  be  father  Southwell's  ;  the 
English  whereof,  as  it  is  most  proper,  so  the  sharpness  and  light 
of  wit  is  very  rare  in  them.' 

No  doubt  this  popularity  was  greatly  due  to  the  deep  interest 
and  pity  excited  by  his  misfortunes,  encountered  and  borne  with 
so  rare  a  constancy.  No  Protestant  could  be  so  desperately 
bigoted  as  not  to  be  touched  by  the  sad  yet  noble  story  of  what 
this  young  English  gentleman  dared  and  endured.  Whatever 
may  be  thought  of  his  cause,  one  can  only  admire  the  fearless 
devotion  with  which  he  gave  himself  up  to  it,  reckless  of  danger, 
of  torture,  of  death.  '  Let  antiquity,'  says  one  whose  office  it  then 
was  to  suppress  so  far  as  might  be  the  efforts  often  at  least 
miserably  misguided,  of  the  confederacy  to  which  Southwell  be- 
longed, 'boast  of  its  Roman  heroes  and  the  patience  of  captives 
in  torments  ;  our  own  age  is  not  inferior  to  it,  nor  do  the  minds 
of  the  English  cede  to  the  Romans.  There  is  at  present  confined 
one  Southwell,  a  Jesuit,  who,  thirteen  times  most  cruelly  tortured, 
cannot  be  induced  to  confess  anything,  not  even  the  colour  of 
the  horse  whereon  on  a  certain  day  he  rode,  lest  from  such  in- 
dication his  adversaries  might  conjecture  in  what  house,  or  in 
company  of  what  Catholics,  he  that  day  was.'  He  was  only  about 
twenty-four  years  of  age — the  exact  year  of  his  birth  is  not  ascer- 
tained— when  along  with  Garnet  (afterwards  associated  with  the 


48o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Gunpowder  Plot,  as  was  believed,  and  on  evidence  never  yet 
successfully  rebutted),  he  returned  to  England  on  his  perilous 
mission.  Some  six  years  afterwards  he  fell  into  his  enemies' 
hands.  For  three  years  he  was  closely  confined  in  the  Tower ; 
and  then  came  the  ignominious  end  at  Tyburn.  Such  a  story 
could  not  but  move  men, — the  story  of  a  spirit  so  strong  in  its 
faith,  zealous,  inflexible. 

Nor  would  those  who  were  drawn  to  his  writings  by  sympathy 
with  his  martyrdom  fail  to  see  in  them  the  reflection  of  his  lofty 
and  devoted  nature.  Nearly  all  his  poetry  must  have  been  written 
in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  some  of  it  in  death's  very 
presence.  And  throughout  it  we  perceive  the  thoughts  and  beliefs 
that  ever  inspired  and  upheld  him.  Especially  dear  and  welcome 
and  present  is  the  idea  that  '  Life  is  but  loss.'  Death  is  cruel,  not 
for  coming,  but  for  delaying  to  come.  This  has  often  been  said, 
but  never  with  an  intenser  sincerity  and  conviction.  '  This  death,' 
he  said  just  before  '  the  horses  were  started  and  the  car  removed 
from  his  feet'  and  he  was  hanged,  'although  it  may  now  seem 
base  and  ignominious,  can  to  no  rightly-thinking  person  appear 
doubtful  but  that  it  is  beyond  measure  an  eternal  weight  of  glory 
to  be  wrought  in  us,  who  look  not  to  the  things  which  are  visible, 
but  to  those  which  are  unseen.'  We  may  be  sure  these  words 
were  with  him  no  vulgar  commonplace. 

And  apart  from  their  attraction  as  revealing  the  secret  of  his 
much-enduring  spirit,  his  poems  show  a  true  poetic  power.  They 
show  a  rich  and  fertile  fancy,  with  an  abundant  store  of  effective 
expression  at  its  service.  He  inclines  to  sententiousness  ;  but  his 
sentences  are  no  mere  prose  edicts,  as  is  so  often  the  case  with 
writers  of  that  sort ;  they  are  bright  and  coloured  with  the  light 
and  the  hues  of  a  vivid  imagination.  In  imagery,  indeed,  he  is 
singularly  opulent.  In  this  respect  St.  Peter's  Coinplamt  reminds 
one  curiously  of  the  almost  exactly  contemporary  poem,  Shake- 
speare's Liicrece.  There  is  a  like  inexhaustibleness  of  illustrative 
resource.  He  delights  to  heap  up  metaphor  on  metaphor.  Thus 
he  describes  Sleep  as 

'Death's  ally,  oblivion  of  tears, 
Silence  of  passions,  blame  of  angry  sore, 
Suspense  of  loves,  security  of  fears. 

Wrath's  lenity,  heart's  ease,  storm's  calmest  shore; 
Senses'  and  souls'  reprieval  from  all  cumbers, 
Benumbing  sense  of  ill  with  quiet  slumbers.' 


SOUTHWELL. 


St.  Peter's  Complamt  reminds  one  of  Liicrece  also  in  the  minute- 
ness of  its  narration,  and  in  the  unfailing  abundance  of  thought 
and  fancy  with  which  every  detail  is  treated.  It  is  undoubtedly 
the  work  of  a  mind  of  no  ordinar}^  copiousness  and  force,  often 
embarrassed  by  its  own  riches,  and  so  expending  them  with  a 
prodigal  carelessness.  Thus  Southwell's  defects  spring  not  from 
poverty,  but  from  imperfectly  managed  wealth  ;  or,  to  use  a  dif- 
ferent image,  the  flowers  are  overcrowded  in  his  garden,  and  the 
blaze  of  colour  is  excessive.  Still,  flowers  they  are.  Like  many 
another  Elizabethan,  he  was  wanting  in  art  ;  his  genius  ran  riot. 


John  W.  Hales. 


VOL.  I,  I  1 


482  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Times  go  by  Turns. 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again  ; 
Most  naked  plants  renew  both  fruit  and  flower ; 
The  sorest  wight  may  find  release  of  pain, 
The  driest  soil  suck  in  some  moist'ning  shower  ; 
Times  go  by  turns  and  chances  change  by  course, 
From  foul  to  fair,  from  better  hap  to  worse. 

The  sea  of  Fortune  doth  not  ever  flow. 
She  draws  her  favours  to  the  lowest  ebb  ; 
Her  time  hath  equal  times  to  come  and  go, 
Her  loom  doth  weave  the  fine  and  coarsest  web  ; 
No  joy  so  great  but  runneth  to  an  end. 
No  hap  so  hard  but  may  in  fine  amend. 

Not  always  fall  of  leaf  nor  ever  spring. 
No  endless  night  yet  not  eternal  day  ; 
The  saddest  birds  a  season  find  to  sing, 
The  roughest  storm  a  calm  may  soon  allay  ; 
Thus  with  succeeding  turns  God  tempereth  all. 
That  man  may  hope  to  rise  yet  fear  to  fall. 

A  chance  may  win  that  by  mischance  was  lost ; 
The  well  that  holds  no  great,  takes  little  fish  ; 
In  some  things  all,  in  all  things  none  are  cross'd. 
Few  all  they  need,  but  none  have  all  they  wish  ; 
Unmeddled  joys  here  to  no  man  befall. 
Who  least  hath  some,  who  most  hath  never  all. 


Loss  IN  Delay. 

Shun  delays,  they  breed  remorse  ; 

Take  thy  time  while  time  is  lent  thee  ; 
Creeping  snails  have  weakest  force, 

Fly  their  fault  lest  thou  repent  thee. 
Good  is  best  when  soonest  wrought, 
Lingcr'd  labours  come  to  nought. 


SOUTHWELL.  483 

Hoist  up  sail  while  gale  doth  last, 

Tide  and  wind  stay  no  man's  pleasure  ; 

Seek  not  time  when  time  is  past, 
Sober  speed  is  wisdom's  leisure. 

After-wits  are  dearly  bought. 

Let  thy  forewit  guide  thy  thought. 

Time  wears  all  his  locks  before. 

Take  thy  hold  on  his  forehead  ; 
When  he  flies  he  turns  no  more, 

And  behind  his  scalp's  naked. 
Works  adjourn'd  have  many  stays, 
Long  demurs  breed  new  delays. 

Seek  thy  salve  while  sore  is  green, 

Fester'd  wounds  ask  deeper  lancing ; 
After-cures  are  seldom  seen, 

Often  sought,  scarce  ever  chancing. 
Time  and  place  give  best  advice. 
Out  of  season,  out  of  price. 

Crush  the  serpent  in  the  head. 

Break  ill  eggs  ere  they  be  hatch'd  ; 
Kill  bad  chickens  in  the  tread, 

Fledged,  they  hardly  can  be  catch'd. 
In  the  rising  stifle  ill. 
Lest  it  grow  against  thy  will. 

Drops  do  pierce  the  stubborn  flint. 

Not  by  force  but  often  falling  ; 
Custom  kills  with  feeble  dint. 

More  by  use  than  strength  and  vailing. 
Single  sands  have  little  weight, 
Many  make  a  drawing  freight. 

Tender  twigs  are  bent  with  ease. 

Aged  trees  do  break  with  bending  ; 
Young  desires  make  little  prease ', 

Growth  doth  make  them  past  amending 
Happy  man,  that  soon  doth  knock 
Babel's  babes  against  the  rock  ! 

'  press,  crowd. 
I  i  2 


43 4  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Burning  Babe. 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night  stood  shivering  in  the  snow, 
Surprised  I  was  with  sudden  heat  which  made  my  heart  to  glow ; 
And  Hfting  up  a  fearful  eye  to  view  what  fire  was  near, 
A  pretty  babe  all  burning  bright  did  in  the  air  appear, 
Who  scorched  with  exceeding  heat  such  floods  of  tears  did  shed, 
As  though  His  floods  should  quench  His  flames  with  what  His 

tears  were  fed  ; 
Alas  !  quoth  He,  but  newly  born  in  fiery  heats  of  fr>', 
Yet  none  approach  to  warm  their  hearts  or  feel  my  fire  but  I  ! 
My  faultless  breast  the  furnace  is,  the  fuel  wounding  thorns  ; 
Love  is  the  fire  and  sighs  the  smoke,  the  ashes  shame  and  scorns  ; 
The  fuel  Justice  layeth  on,  and  Mercy  blows  the  coals  ; 
The  metal  in  this  furnace  wrought  are  men's  defiled  souls  ; 
For  which,  as  now  on  fire  I  am,  to  work  them  to  their  good. 
So  will  I  melt  into  a  bath,  to  wash  them  in  my  blood  : 
With  this  He  vanish'd  out  of  sight,  and  swiftly  shrunk  away, 
And  straiglit  I  called  unto  mind  that  it  was  Christmas-day. 


From  'St.  Peter's  Complaint.' 

Like  solest  swan,  that  swims  in  silent  deep, 
And  never  sings  but  obsequies  of  death. 

Sigh  out  thy  plaints,  and  sole  in  secret  weep, 
In  suing  pardon  spend  thy  perjur'd  breath  ; 

Attire  thy  soul  in  sorrow's  mourning  weed, 

And  at  thine  eyes  let  guilty  conscience  bleed. 

Still  in  the  'lembic  of  thy  doleful  breast 

Those  bitter  fruits  that  from  thy  sins  do  grow  ; 

For  fuel,  self-accusing  thoughts  be  best  ; 

Use  fear  as  fire,  the  coals  let  penance  blow  ; 

And  seek  none  other  quintessence  but  tears. 

That  eyes  may  shed  what  entcr'd  at  thine  ears. 


SOUTHWELL.  485 


Come  sorrowing  tears,  the  offspring  of  my  grief, 
Scant  not  your  parent  of  a  needful  aid  ; 

In  you  I  rest  the  hope  of  wish'd  relief, 
By  you  my  sinful  debts  must  be  defray'd  : 

Your  power  prevails,  your  sacrifice  is  grateful. 

By  love  obtaining  life  to  men  most  hateful. 

Come  good  effect  of  ill-deserving  cause, 

111  gotten  imps,  yet  virtuously  brought  forth  ; 

Self-blaming  probates  of  infringed  laws, 

Yet  blamed  faults  redeeming  with  your  worth  ; 

The  signs  of  shame  in  you  each  eye  may  read, 

Yet,  while  you  guilty  prove,  you  pity  plead. 

O  beams  of  mercy  !    beat  on  sorrow's  cloud. 

Pour  suppling  showers  upon  my  parched  ground  ; 

Bring  forth  the  fruit  to  your  due  service  vow'd, 
Let  good  desires  with  like  deserts  be  crown'd  : 

Water  young  blooming  virtue's  tender  flow'r, 

Sin  did  all  grace  of  riper  growth  devour. 

Weep  balm  and  myrrh,  you  sweet  Arabian  trees. 
With  purest  gums  perfume  and  pearl  your  rine  ; 

Shed  on  your  honey-drops,  you  busy  bees, 
I,  barren  plant,  must  weep  unpleasant  brine : 

Hornets  I  hive,  salt  drops  their  labour  plies, 

Suck'd  out  of  sin,  and  shed  by  showering  eyes. 

If  David,  night  by  night,  did  bathe  his  bed. 
Esteeming  longest  days  too  short  to  moan  ; 

Tears  inconsolable  if  Anna  shed, 

Who  in  her  son  her  solace  had  foregone  ; 

Then  I  to  days  and  weeks,  to  months  and  years, 

Do  owe  the  hourly  rent  of  stintless  tears. 

If  love,  if  loss,  if  fault,  if  spotted  fame. 

If  danger,  death,  if  wrath,  or  wreck  of  weal, 

Entitle  eyes  true  heirs  to  earned  blame. 
That  due  remorse  in  such  events  conceal : 

That  want  of  tears  might  well  enrol  my  name, 

As  chiefcst  saint  in  kalendar  of  shame. 


RALEIGH. 


[Born  1552,  executed  1618.  No  early  collected  edition  of  his  poems 
exists;  such  as  were  printed  at  all  appeared  for  the  most  part  in  the 
Miscellanies  of  the  time.] 

Amongst  all  the  restless,  fervid,  adventurous  spirits  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age,  perhaps  there  is  none  so  conspicuous  for  those  charac- 
teristics as  Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  A  soldier  from  his  youth ;  at  an 
early  period  connected  with  the  great  maritime  movements  of  his 
time  ;  ever  the  foremost  hater  and  antagonist  of  Spain  and  all  its 
works  ;  one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  first,  to  fully  conceive  the  idea  of 
colonisation  and  to  attempt  to  realise  it,  and  at  the  same  time 
taking  an  active — too  active — part  in  the  party  intrigues  and 
contentions  of  a  court  where  the  struggle  for  place  and  favour 
never  ceased  raging,  yet  amidst  all  his  schemes  and  enterprises, 
noble  and  ignoble,  finding  leisure  also  for  far  other  interests  and 
pursuits  ;  capable  of  a  keen  enjoyment  of  poetry  ;  himself  a  poet  of  a 
true  and  genuine  quality, — he  is  in  a  singular  degree  the  representa- 
tive of  the  vigorous  versatility  of  the  Elizabethan  period. 

His  high  imaginativeness  is  perceptible  in  the  political  concep- 
tions and  dreams  which  abounded  in  his  busy  brain.  It  can  scarcely 
be  doubted  that,  had  his  energies  received  a  different  direction,  he 
would  have  won  a  distinguished  place  amongst  the  distinguished 
poets  of  his  day.  He  whom  Spenser  styles  'the  summer's  nightin- 
gale '  might  have  poured  forth  a  full  volume  of  song  of  rare  strength 
and  sweetness.  But,  as  it  was,  he  found  little  time  for  singing  ; 
the  wonder  is  he  found  any — that  one  so  cumbered  about  much 
serving  did  not  become  altogether  of  the  world  worldly,  that  so 
occupied  with  actualities  he  still  was  visited  even  transiently  by 
visions  of  divine  things. 

We  are  apt  to  pity  his  misfortunes  ;  and  yet  it  may  be  they  were 
the  blessings  of  his  chequered  life.  His  disgraces  and  confine- 
ments in  the  Tower  would  after  all  seem  to  have  been  the  times 


RALEIGH.  487 

when  his  nobler  self  was  asserted,  and  he  communed  with  his  own 

heart. 

'Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage.' 

We  have  no  pleasanter  picture  of  him  than  that  Spenser  draws, 
when  '  faultless '  debarred  from  the  presence  of  his  '  Cynthia  the 
Lady  of  the  Sea,'  he  had  withdrawn  himself  to  his  Irish  estate  and 
thence  visited  his  neighbour  the  poet. 

'  He  sitting  me  beside  in  that  same  shade. 
Provoked  me  to  play  some  pleasant  fit; 
And  when  he  heard  the  music  which  I  made, 
He  found  himself  full  greatly  pleased  at  it. 

Yet  semuling  my  pipe,  he  took  in  hand 

My  pipe,  before  that  semuled  of  many, 
And  played  thereon  (for  well  that  skill  he  conn'd). 

Himself  as  skilful  in  that  art  as  any. 

He  pip'd,  I  sang;   and  when  he  sang  I  pip'd; 

By  change  of  turns  each  making  other  merry; 
Neither  envying  other,  nor  envied  ; 

So  piped  we,  until  we  both  were  weary.' 

It  is  impossible  not  to  connect  two  at  least  of  his  most  famous 
pieces— 77z£?  Lie  and  The  Pilgrimage— Wiih  similar  passages  of  his 
life,  when,  for  one  reason  or  another,  he  was  '  under  a  cloud,'  as  he 
thought,  but  really  in  a  clearer  air.  His  imprisonments  were  in 
fact  his  salvations.  Through  the  Traitor's  Gate  he  passed  to  a 
tranquillity  and  thoughtfulness  for  which  there  seemed  no  oppor- 
tunity outside.  In  his  cell  in  the  White  Tower  his  soul  found  and 
enjoyed  a  real  freedom. 

'Then,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 

And  till  prepared  for  longer  flight. 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light.' 

It  is  a  significant  tradition  attached  to  several  of  his  verses,  that 
they  were  written  the  night  before  he  was  beheaded.  Of  only  one 
poem  is  it  likely  to  be  true  ;  in  respect  of  several  it  can  be  certainly 
disproved  ;  but  it  illustrates  the  impression  often  produced  by  his 
poetry.  The  sweet  clear  voice  comes  to  us,  as  it  were,  through  a 
barred  and  grated  window  ;  and  calls  up  the  image  of  a  solitary 


488  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

figure  soothing  and  quieting  itself  with  the  thought,  too  often 
forgotten  elsewhere  and  in  other  days,  that  there  is  a  higher  life 
than  that  of  the  courtier,  a  more  splendid  preferment  than  an 
earthly  sovereign  can  give. 

His  poetic  writings  are  but  scanty  in  amount.  One  at  least,  his 
Cmthia,  is  lost  ;  part  of  a  continuation  of  it,  extant  in  a  Hatfield 
MS.,  has  been  lately  printed  for  the  first  time.  His  fame  has  been 
damaged  by  the  unauthorised  ascription  to  him  of  inferior  and 
worthless  pieces  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  by  taking  away  from 
him  what  he  undoubtedly  wrote.  In  respect  of  both  rejection 
and  appropriation.  Dr.  Hannah  has  performed  for  him  a  much- 
needed  service  in  his  excellent  volume,  '  The  Poems  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  collected  and  authenticated,  with  those  of  Sir  Henry 
Wotton  and  other  Courtly  Poets  from  1540  to  1650.' 

John  W.  Hales. 


RALEIGH. 
A  Vision  upon  this  Conceit  of  the  Fairy  Queen. 

[Appended  to  Spenser's  Faery  QueenJ] 

Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay, 
Within  that  temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  burn  :  and,  passing  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  thenceforth  those  graces  were  not  seen. 
For  they  this  Queen  attended  ;  in  whose  stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse. 
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  cursed  the  access  of  that  celestial  thief. 


Reply  to  Marlowe's  'The  Passionate  Shepherd  to 
His  Love\' 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young. 
And  truth  in  ever)'  shepherd's  tongue. 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold  ; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb  ; 
The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields  : 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  falL 

'  See  p.  418. 


490  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten, — 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, — 
All  those  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed  ; 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need  ; 
Then  those  dehghts  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 


The  Lie. 

Go,  Soul,  the  body's  guest, 
Upon  a  thankless  arrant  ^ : 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best  ; 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant : 

Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 

And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Say  to  the  court,  it  glows 
And  shines  like  rotten  wood  ; 

Say  to  the  church,  it  shows 

What 's  good,  and  doth  no  good 

If  court  and  church  reply, 

Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates,  they  live 
Acting  by  others'  action  ; 

Not  loved  unless  they  give. 
Not  strong  but  by  a  faction  : 

If  potentates  reply. 

Give  potentates  the  lie. 

•  errand. 


RALEIGH.  491 


Tell  men  of  high  condition, 

That  manage  the  estate, 
Their  purpose  is  ambition, 

Their  practice  only  hate : 
And  if  they  once  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most. 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending. 

Who,  in  their  greatest  cost. 

Seek  nothing  but  commending  : 

And  if  they  make  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  zeal  it  wants  devotion  ; 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust  ; 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion  ; 

Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust : 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  He. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth  ; 

Tell  honour  how  it  alters  ; 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth  ; 

Tell  favour  how  it  falters  : 
And  as  they  shall  reply. 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  niceness  ; 

Tell  wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  over-wiseness  : 

And  when  they  do  reply. 

Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness  ; 

Tell  skill  it  is  pretension  ; 
Tell  charity  of  coldness  ; 

Tell  law  it  is  contention  ; 
And  as  they  do  reply. 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 


492  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness  ; 

Tell  nature  of  decay; 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness  ; 

Tell  justice  of  delay: 
And  if  they  will  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness, 
But  vary  by  esteeming  ; 

Tell  schools  they  want  profoundness, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming  : 

If  arts  and  schools  reply, 

Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. 

Tell  faith  it's  fled  the  city; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth  ; 
Tell  manhood  shakes  off  pity  ; 

Tell  virtue  least  preferreth  : 
And  if  they  do  reply. 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing, — 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing, — 
Stab  at  thee  he  that  will, 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 

His  Pilgrimage. 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  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, 

Travellcth  towards  the  land  of  heaven  ; 


RALEIGH.  493 

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. 

Then  by  that  happy  blissful  day. 

More  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see, 
That  have  cast  off  their  rags  of  clay, 
And  walk  apparell'd  fresh  like  me. 
I'll  take  them  first 
To  quench  their  thirst 
And  taste  of  nectar  suckets, 
At  those  clear  wells 
Where  sweetness  dwells, 
Drawn  up  by  saints  in  crystal  buckets. 

And  when  our  bottles  and  all  we 

Are  fill'd  with  immortalit}'. 

Then  the  blessed  paths  we  '11  travel, 

Strow'd  with  rubies  thick  as  gravel  ; 

Ceilings  of  diamonds,  sapphire  floors, 

High  walls  of  coral  and  pearly  bowers. 

From  thence  to  heaven's  bribeless  hdll, 

Where  no  corrupted  voices  brawl ; 

No  conscience  molten  into  gold. 

No  forg'd  accuser  bought  or  sold. 

No  cause  deferr'd,  no  vain-spent  journey, 

For  there  Christ  is  the  king's  Attorney, 

Who  pleads  for  all  without  degrees. 

And  He  hath  angels,  but  no  fees. 

And  when  the  grand  twelve-million  jury 

Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury. 

Against  our  souls  black  verdicts  give, 

Christ  pleads  His  death,  and  then  we  live. 


494  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Be  Thou  my  speaker,  taintless  pleader, 
Unblotted  lawyer,  true  proceeder  ! 
Thou  givest  salvation  even  for  alms  ; 
Not  with  a  bribed  lawyer's  palms. 
And  this  is  mine  eternal  plea 
To  Him  that  made  heaven,  earth,  and  sea, 
That,  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon. 
And  want  a  head  to  dine  next  noon. 
Just  at  the  stroke,  when  my  veins  start  and  spread, 
Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head  ! 
Then  am  I  ready,  like  a  palmer  fit. 
To  tread  those  blest  paths  which  before  I  writ. 

Of  death  and  judgment,  heaven  and  hell, 
Who  oft  doth  think,  must  needs  die  well. 


Verses  found  in  his  Bible  in  the  Gate-House  at 
Westminster. 

Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  in  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 
And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust ; 
Who,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave. 
When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days  ; 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust ! 


ELIZABETHAN    MISCELLANIES. 


The  Poetical  Miscellanies  are  among  the  most  characteristic 
productions  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  and  no  selection  from  the 
work  of  that  age  could  be  at  all  complete  without  a  reference  to 
them.  Devised  sometimes  by  an  enterprising  bookseller,  some- 
times by  a  literary  editor  like  Clement  Robinson  or  Francis 
Davison,  they  formed  collections— cana'oneros  as  it  were — of  the 
occasional  verse  of  most  of  the  poets  of  the  day,  and  they  thus 
preserve  for  us  a  mass  of  poems  which,  without  such  an  opportunity 
for  publication,  the  authors  would  infallibly  have  let  die.  Much 
of  what  is  contained  in  the  later  miscellanies,  especially  in  England's 
Helico7i,  was,  it  is  true,  reprinted  from  works  already  issued  ;  but 
much,  on  the  other  hand,  was  new.  The  value  of  the  collections 
was  at  once  recognised,  and  no  work  of  any  single  author  of  the 
time  had  such  success  as  fell  to  their  lot ;  for  example,  TottelFs 
Miscellany  went  through  eight  editions  before  1587,  and  the 
Paradyse  of  Dainty  Devises  Xhrongh.  nine  between  1576  and  1606. 
They  were  not,  however,  books  likely  to  survive  the  shocks  of  time ; 
and  copies  of  these  original  editions  are  in  almost  all  cases  exces- 
sively rare.  Fortunately  most  of  the  poems  are  now  put  beyond 
the  risk  of  loss  by  the  careful  reprints  of  modern  scholars,  such  as 
Sir  Egerton  Br>'dges,  Mr.  Park,  Mr.  Collier,  and  Mr.  Arber. 

The  following  is  a  hst  of  the  printed  Miscellanies  which  are 
known  to  exist  : — 

(i)  Tottell's  Miscellany  ;  properly  called  Sottges  and  Sonettes, 

-written  by  the  rygJit  honorable  Lorde  Henry  Haward, 

late  Earle  of  Surrey,  and  other.     1557. 

This,  which  is  of  course  not  strictly  Elizabethan,  contains  the 

first  edition  of  Surrey's  and  Wyatt's  poems  ;   poems  by  Nicholas 

Grimald,  and   about   forty  poems   by  uncertain   authors,  among 

whom   are   known   to   have  been  Thomas,   Lord  \'aux,   Edward 

Somerset,  and  John  Heywood. 


496  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

(2)  TJie  Paradyse  of  Daytity  Devises,  devised  and  written  for 

the    most    part    by    M.  Edwards,    sometimes    of  her 
Majesties  CJiappel ;  the  rest  by  sundry  learned  gentle- 
men, both  of  hojioyr  and  woorshippe.     1576. 
In  spite   of  its   fantastic  title  the   poems   here   contained   are 
mostly  didactic  and  religious.     Among  the  writers  may  be  named 
Richard  Edwards  (the  M.  or  Mr.  Edwards  of  the  title-page),  Lord 
Vaux,  Wilham   Hunnis,  and  Jasper  Heywood.     The  last-named 
contributes   a   poem,  of  too  great  length   and   too   little   strictly 
poetical   merit   to   be   here  quoted,  which   reads   like   a   curious 
anticipation  of  Polonius'  advice  to  Laertes. 

(3)  A  Gorgious  Gallery  of  Gallant  Inventions.     Edited  by 

T.  Procter  and  (perhaps)  O.  Roydon.     1578. 
An  inferior  collection. 

(4)  A   handefull  of  Pleasant  Dclites,  by  Clement  Robinson 

and  divers  other.     1584. 
The  title-page  says  the  poems  are  '  newlly  devised  to  the  newest 
tunes,'  which  suggests  that  many  of  these  collections  were  pri- 
marily song-books. 

(5)  Breton'' s  Bower  of  Delites,  1592. 

Published  supposititiously  by  one  Richard  Jones,  and  attri- 
buted to  Nicholas  Breton.  It  is  really  a  Miscellany,  and  of  the 
poems  it  contains  only  three  or  four  are  Breton's. 

(6)  The  Phcenix  Nest,  edited  by  R.  S.  [?  Richard  Stapylton]. 

1593- 
Among   the    contributors   are    Edward  Vere,    Earl   of  Oxford, 
Sir  W.  Herbert,  Lodge,  Watson,  and  Peele. 

(7)  The  Arbor  of  Amorous  Devises,  1567. 

The  only  known  copy  of  this  book  has  no  title-page,  but  a  sale 
catalogue  of  1781,  apparently  describing  a  copy  that  cannot  now 
be  traced,  quotes  it  as  by  Nicholas  Breton.  As  such  Mr.  Grosart 
prints  it  in  his  collected  edition  of  Breton's  works.  But,  as  the 
printer's  prefatory  letter  declares,  it  is  in  fact  a  Miscellany,  'being 
many  mens  work  excellent  poets.'  All  the  poems  in  the  collec- 
tion are  anonymous  ;  one  of  them  is  the  lovely  Lullaby  we  give 
on  p.  500. 

(8)  The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  1599. 

Contains  writings  of  Shakespeare,  Barnfield,  Marlowe,  Raleigh, 
and  others. 


MISCELLANIES.  497 


(9)  England's  Helicon,  1600  ;  edited  by  J.  Bodenham. 
This  is  the  most  celebrated  and  the  richest  of  the  whole  class, 
and  is  in  itself  a  compendium  of  all  that  is  best  or  that  at  the 
time  was  famous  among  Elizabethan  pastorals  and  love  poems. 
Every  hving  poet  of  eminence  seems  to  have  been  drawn  upon 
for  a  copy  of  verses,  and  much  was  added  from  the  stores  of  those 
no  longer  living.  Thus  we  have  poems  from  Surrey,  Spenser, 
Sidney,  Lord  Brooke,  Greene,  Lodge,  Marlowe,  and  even  from 
Shakespeare  ;  from  Watson,  Drayton,  Browne  ;  and  much  of  what 
has  since  been  rightly  and  wrongly  attributed  to  Raleigh  appears 
here  under  the  title  Igiioto.  Some  of  the  most  celebrated  poems, 
such  as  Sidney's  '  Love  is  dead,'  we  give  under  their  authors' 
names  ;  it  is  better  in  this  place  to  quote  only  from  those  minor 
but  still  beautiful  writers  who  are  otherwise  not  represented  in 
these  volumes — such  as  Breton,  the  Shepherd  Tonie  (?  Anthony 
Munday),  and  Bolton. 

{\<S)  A  Poetical  Rapsody,  1602. 
The  editor  of  this  most  interesting  miscellany  was  Francis 
Davison,  who  with  his  brother  Walter  contributed  many  poems. 
The  list  of  other  writers  includes  Sidney,  Raleigh,  Sir  John 
Davies,  Watson,  Sylvester,  Charles  Best,  and  many  more,  the 
editor  pretending,  after  the  fashion  of  those  times,  to  throw  the 
responsibility  of  inserting  the  works  of  such  '  great  and  learned 
personages'  upon  the  too  presumptuous  printer.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  note  that  Davison,  writing  in  1602,  contrasts  the  poetry 
of  twenty  years  before  with  '  the  perfection  which  it  has  now 
attained';  a  kind  of  boast  which  was  commoner  at  the  end  of 
the  seventeenth  century  than  at  the  beginning.  We  may  add 
that  the  'Rapsody'  passed  through  four  editions  in  the  reign  of 
James  I,  and  that  in  that  of  1608  the  poem  of  'The  Lie,  'which 
we  print  under  Raleigh's  name,  first  appeared. 

Editor. 


VOL.  I. 


Kk 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


[From  The  Paradyse  of  Dainty  Devises,  1576.] 

Amantium  Irae. 

In  going  to  my  naked  bed,  as  one  that  would  have  slept, 
I  heard  a  wife  sing  to  her  child,  that  long  before  had  wept : 
She  sighed  sore  and  sang  full  sore,  to  bring  the  babe  to  rest, 
That  would  not  rest  but  cried  still  in  sucking  at  her  breast  : 
She  was  full  weary  of  her  watch,  and  grieved  with  her  child, 
She  rocked  it  and  rated  it,  until  on  her  it  smiled  : 
Then  did  she  say  now  have  I  found  the  proverb  true  to  -prove 
The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  is  the  renewing  of  love. 

I  marvel  much,  pardy,  quoth  she,  for  to  behold  the  rout, 

To  see  man,  woman,  boy  and  beast,  to  toss  the  world  about  : 

Some  kneel,  some  crouch,  some   beck,  some    check,  and   some 

can  smoothly  smile, 
And  some  embrace  others  in  arms,  and  there  think  many  a  wile  : 
Some  stand  aloof  at  cap  and  knee,  some  humble  and  some  stout, 
Yet  are  they  never  friends  indeed,  until  they  once  fall  out  : 
Thus  ended  she  her  song,  and  said  before  she  did  remove, 
The  faUing  out  of  faithful  friends  is  the  renewing  of  love. 

F.  Edwards. 

[From  A  Handefull  of  Pleasant  Delites,  15S4.] 

A  Proper  Sonnet. 

(To  any  pleasant  Tune.) 

I  smile  to  see  how  you  devise 

New  masking  nets  my  eyes  to  blear  ; 

Yourself  you  cannot  so  disguise, 
But  as  you  are  you  must  appear. 

Your  privy  winks  at  board  I  see. 
And  how  you  set  your  roving  mind  ; 

Yourself  you  cannot  hide  from  me, 
Although  I  wink,  I  am  not  blind. 


ELIZABE  THAN  MISCELLANIES.  499 

The  secret  sighs  and  feigned  cheer 

That  oft  doth  pain  thy  careful  breast, 
To  me  right  plainly  doth  appear  ; 

I  see  in  whom  thy  heart  doth  rest. 

And  though  thou  mak'st  a  feigned  vow 
That  love  no  more  thy  heart  should  nip, 

Yet  think  I  know  as  well  as  thou 
The  fickle  helm  doth  guide  the  ship. 

The  salamander  in  the  fire 

By  course  of  wind  doth  bathe  his  limbs  ; 
The  floating  fish  tak'th  his  desire 

In  running  streams  whereas  he  swims. 

So  thou  in  change  dost  take  delight ; 

Full  well  I  know  thy  slippery  kind  ; 
In  vain  thou  seem'st  to  dim  my  sight  ; 

Thy  rolling  eyes  bewray  thy  mind. 

I  see  him  smile  that  doth  possess 

Thy  love,  which  once  I  honoured  most  ; 

If  he  be  wise  he  may  well  guess 
Thy  love,  soon  won,  will  soon  be  lost. 

And  sith  thou  can  no  more  entice 

That  he  should  still  love  thee  alone, 
Thy  beauty  now  hath  lost  her  price, 

I  see  thy  savourj'  scent  is  gone. 

Therefore  leave  off  thy  wonted  play, 

But  as  thou  art  thou  wilt  appear  ; 
Unless  thou  canst  devise  a  way 

To  dark  the  sun  that  shines  so  clear. 

And  keep  thy  friend,  that  thou  hast  won  ; 

In  truth  to  him  thy  love  supply  ; 
Lest  he  at  length,  as  I  have  done. 

Take  off  thy  bells,  and  let  thee  fly ! 

Anon. 

K  k2 


500  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


[From  The  Arbor  of  Amorous  Devises,  1597.] 

A  Sweet  Lullaby. 

Come  little  babe,  come   silly  soul, 

Thy  father's  shame,  thy  mother's  grief, 

Born  as  I  doubt  to  all  our  dole, 

And  to  thyself  unhappy  chief: 
Sing  lullaby  and  lap  it  warm. 
Poor  soul  that  thinks  no  creature  harm. 

Thou  little  think'st  and  less  dost  know 

The  cause  of  this  thy  mother's  moan  ; 

Thou  want'st  the  wit  to  wail  her  woe. 

And  I  myself  am  all  alone  ; 

Why  dost  thou  weep,  why  dost  thou  wail. 
And  know'st  not  yet  what  thou  dost  ail  ? 

Come  little  wretch,  ah  silly  heart. 
Mine  only  joy  ;   what  can  I  more  .■* 
If  there  be  any  wrong  thy  smart 
That  may  the  destinies  implore  ; 

'Twas  I,  I  say,  against  my  will  ; 

I  wail  the  time,  but  be  thou  still. 

And  dost  thou  smile  ?   oh,  thy  sweet  face  ! 
Would  God  himself  he  might  thee  see  ! 
No  doubt  thou  soon  wouldst  purchase  grace, 
I  know  right  well,  for  thee  and  me. 

But  come  to  mother,  babe,  and  play  ; 

For  father  false  is  fled  away. 

Sweet  boy,  if  it  by  fortune  chance 
Thy  father  home  again  to  send. 
If  death  do  strike  me  with  his  lance, 
Yet  mayst  thou  me  to  him  commend  ; 
If  any  ask  thy  mother's  name. 
Tell  how  by  love  she  purchased  blame. 


ELIZABETHAN  MISCELLANIES.  50 1 

Then  will  his  gentle  heart  soon  yield ; 
I  know  him  of  a  noble  mind  ; 
Although  a  lion  in  the  field 
A  lamb  in  turn  thou  shalt  him  find  ; 

Ask  blessing,  babe  !    be  not  afraid  ; 

His  sugared  words  have  me  betrayed. 

Then  mayst  thou  joy  and  be  right  glad 
Although  in  woe  I  seem  to  moan  ; 
Thy  father  is  no  rascal  lad, 
A  noble  youth  of  blood  and  bone  ; 

His  glancing  looks,  if  once  he  smile, 

Right  honest  women  may  beguile. 

Come  little  boy  and  rock  asleep  ; 
Sing  lullaby  and  be  thou  still  ; 
I  that  can  do  nought  else  but  weep 
Will  sit  by  thee  and  wail  my  fill  : 

God  bless  my  babe,  and  lullaby 

From  this  thy  father's  quality  ! 

Anon. 

[From  England's  Helicon,  1600.] 

A  Palinode. 

As  withereth  the  primrose  by  the  river, 
As  fadeth  summer's  sun  from  gliding  fountains, 
As  vanisheth  the  light  blown  bubble  ever, 
As  melteth  snow  upon  the  mossy  mountains  : 
So  melts,  so  vanisheth,  so  fades,  so  withers. 
The  rose,  the  shine,  the  bubble  and  the  snow, 
Of  praise,  pomp,  glory,  joy,  which  short  life  gathers, 
Fair  praise,  vain  pomp,  sweet  glory,  brittle  joy. 
The  withered  primrose  by  the  mourning  river, 
The  faded  summer's  sun  from  weeping  fountains, 
The  light-blown  bubble,  vanished  for  ever. 
The  molten  snow  upon  the  naked  mountains, 
Are  emblems  that  the  treasures  we  uplay, 
Soon  wither,  vanish,  fade,  and  melt  away. 


THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Yox  as  the  snow,  whose  lawn  did  overspread 
Th'  ambitious  hills,  which  giant-like  did  threat 
To  pierce  the  heaven  with  their  aspiring  head, 
Naked  and  bare  doth  leave  their  craggy  seat : 
When  as  the  bubble,  which  did  empty  fly, 
The  dalliance  of  the  undiscerned  wind, 
On  whose  calm  rolling  waves  it  did  rely, 
Hath  shipwreck  made,  where  it  did  dalliance  find : 
And  when  the  sunshine  which  dissolved  the  snow, 
Coloured  the  bubble  with  a  pleasant  vary, 
And  made  the  rathe  and  timely  primrose  grow, 
Swarth  clouds  withdraw,  which  longer  time  do  tarry : 
O  what  is  praise,  pomp,  glory,  joy,  but  so 
As  shine  by  fountains,  bubbles,  flowers  or  snow  ? 

Edimmd  Bolton. 


Phillida  and  Corydon. 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

In  a  morn  by  break  of  day. 

Forth  I  walked  by  the  wood-side, 

When  as  May  was  in  his  pride  : 

There  I  spied  all  alone 

PhiUida  and  Corydon. 

Much  ado  there  was,  God  wot. 

He  would  love  and  she  would  not. 

She  said  never  man  was  true, 

He  said,  none  was  false  to  you. 

He  said,  he  had  lov'd  her  long. 

She  said.  Love  should  have  no  wrong. 

Corydon  would  kiss  her  then. 

She  said,  maids  must  kiss  no  men, 

Till  they  did  for  good  and  all : 

Then  she  made  the  shepherd  call 

All  the  heavens  to  witness  truth : 

Never  lov'd  a  truer  youth. 

Thus  with  many  a  pretty  oath. 

Yea  and  nay,  and  faith  and  troth, 


ELIZABErHAN  MISCELLANIES.  .r:o- 


Such  as  silly  shepherds  use 
When  they  will  not  Love  abuse, 
Love  which  had  been  long  deluded, 
Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded, 
And  Phillida  with  garlands  gay, 
Was  made  the  lady  of  the  May. 

Nicholas  Breton. 

To  Colin  Clout, 

Beauty  sat  bathing  by  a  spring, 

Where  fairest  shades  did  hide  her, 
The  winds  blew  calm,  the  birds  did  sing, 

The  cool  streams  ran  beside  her. 
My  wanton  thoughts  entic'd  mine  eye 

To  see  what  was  forbidden  : 
But  better  memory  said,  fie. 

So  vain  desire  was  chidden. 

Hey  nonnie,  nonnie,  &c. 

Into  a  slumber  then  I  fell. 

When  fond  imagination 
Seemed  to  see,  but  could  not  tell 

Her  feature  or  her  fashion. 
But  even  as  babes  in  dreams  do  smile 

And  sometimes  fall  a  weeping. 
So  I  awaked,  as  wise  this  while, 

As  when  I  fell  a  sleeping. 

Hey  nonnie,  nonnie,  &c. 

Shepherd  Tottie. 

Phillida's  Love-call  to  her  Corydon,  and  his  Replying. 

Phil.     Corydon,  arise  my  Corydon, 

Titan  shineth  clear. 
Cor.      Who  is  it  that  calleth  Corydon, 

Who  is  it  that  I  hear? 
Phil.     Phillida  thy  true  love  calleth  thee, 

Arise  then,  arise  then  ; 

Arise  and  keep  thy  flock  with  mc. 


504  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Cor.      Phillida,  my  true  love,  is  it  she  ? 
I  come  then,  I  come  then, 
I  come  and  keep  my  flock  with  thee. 

Phil.     Here  are  cherries  ripe  my  Corydon, 

Eat  them  for  my  sake. 
Cor.       Here's  my  oaten  pipe,  my  lovely  one, 

Sport  for  thee  to  make. 
Phil.     Here  are  threads,  my  true  love,  fine  as  silk, 

To  knit  thee,  to  knit  thee 

A  pair  of  stockings  white  as  milk. 
Cor.       Here  are  reeds,  my  true  love,  fine  and  neat, 

To  make  thee,  to  make  thee 
A  bonnet  to  withstand  the  heat. 

Phil.     I  will  gather  flowers  my  Corydon, 

To  set  in  thy  cap. 
Cor.       I  will  gather  pears,  my  lovely  one, 

To  put  in  thy  lap. 
Phil.     I  will  buy  my  true  love  garters  gay, 

For  Sundays,  for  Sundays, 

To  wear  about  his  legs  so  tall. 
Cor.      I  will  buy  my  true  love  yellow  say\ 

For  Sundays,  for  Sundays, 
To  wear  about  her  middle  small 

Phil.     When  my  Corydon  sits  on  a  hill 

Making  melody  : 
Cor.      When  my  lovely  one  goes  to  her  wheel, 

Singing  cheerily. 
Phil.     Sure  methinks  my  true  love  doth  excel 
For  sweetness,  for  sweetness. 

Our  Pan  that  old  Arcadian  knight. 
Cor.      And  methinks  my  true  love  bears  the  bell 
For  clearness,  for  clearness. 

Beyond  the  nymphs  that  be  so  bright. 

Phil.     Had  my  Corydon,  my  Corydon, 
Been  (alack)  hcr'^  swain  : 

'  Thin  serge :  Fr.  aaic.  *  The  edilions  give  '  my.' 


ELIZABETHAN  MISCELLANIES.  505 


Cor.       Had  my  lovely  one,  my  lovely  one, 

Been  in  Ida  plain  : 
Phil.     Cynthia  Endymion  had  refus'd, 
Preferring,  preferring, 

My  Corydon  to  play  withal : 
Cor.      The  queen  of  love  had  been  excus'd 
Bequeathing,  bequeathing, 
My  Phillida  the  golden  ball. 

PJtil.     Yonder  comes  my  mother,  Corydon, 

Whither  shall  I  fly? 
Cor.       Under  yonder  beech  my  lovely  one, 
While  she  passeth  by. 
Say  to  her  thy  true  love  was  not  here  : 
Remember,  remember. 

To-morrow  is  another  day. 
Cor.      Doubt  me  not,  my  true  love,  do  not  fear  : 
Farewell  then,  farewell  then. 
Heaven  keep  our  loves  alway. 

Ignoto. 

[From  Davison's  Posiical  Rapsody,  1602.] 

A  Fiction  :   how  Cupid  made  a  Nymph  wound 

HERSELF   WITH   HIS   ARROWS. 

It  chanc'd  of  late  a  shepherd's  swain, 
That  went  to  seek  a  strayed  sheep, 
Within  a  thicket  on  the  plain. 
Espied  a  dainty  Nymph  asleep. 

Her  golden  hair  o'erspread  her  face. 
Her  careless  arms  abroad  were  cast. 
Her  quiver  had  her  pillow's  place. 
Her  breast  lay  bare  to  every  blast. 

The  shepherd  stood  and  gaz'd  his  fill  ; 
Nought  durst  he  do,  nought  durst  he  say, 
When  chance,  or  else  perhaps  his  will, 
Did  guide  the  God  of  Love  that  way. 


5o6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

The  crafty  boy  that  sees  her  sleep, 
Whom  if  she  wak'd,  he  durst  not  see, 
Behind  her  closely  seeks  to  creep, 
Before  her  nap  should  ended  be. 

There  come,  he  steals  her  shafts  away, 
And  puts  his  own  into  their  place  ; 
Nor  dares  he  any  longer  stay, 
But  ere  she  wakes,  hies  thence  apace. 

Scarce  was  he  gone  when  she  awakes, 
And  spies  the  shepherd  standing  by ; 
Her  bended  bow  in  haste  she  takes. 
And  at  the  simple  swain  let  fly. 

Forth  flew  the  shaft  and  pierc'd  his  heart, 
That  to  the  ground  he  fell  with  pain  ; 
Yet  up  again  forthwith  he  start. 
And  to  the  Nymph  he  ran  amain. 

Amaz'd  to  see  so  strange  a  sight, 
She  shot,  and  shot,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
The  more  his  wounds,  the  more  his  might ; 
Love  yieldeth  strength  in  midst  of  pain. 

Her  angry  eyes  are  great  with  tears. 
She  blames  her  hands,  she  blames  her  skill ; 
The  bluntness  of  her  shafts  she  fears, 
And  try  them  on  herself  she  will. 

Take  heed,  sweet  Nymph,  try  not  thy  shaft, 
Each  little  touch  will  prick  the  heart  ; 
Alas  !   thou  knowest  not  Cupid's  craft. 
Revenge  is  joy,  the  end  is  smart. 

Yet  try  she  will,  and  prick  some  bare. 
Her  hands  were  glov'd,  and  next  to  hand 
Was  that  fair  breast,  that  breast  so  rare, 
That  made  the  shepherd  senseless  stand. 

That  breast  she  prick'd,  and  through  that  breast 
Love  finds  an  entry  to  her  heart  ; 
At  feeling  of  this  new-come  guest, 
Lord,  how  the  gentle  Nymph  doth  start  ! 


ELIZABETHAN  MISCELLANIES.  507 

She  runs  not  now,  she  shoots  no  more  ; 
Away  she  throws  both  shafts  and  bow  ; 
She  seeks  for  that  she  shunn'd  before, 
She  thinks  the  shepherd's  haste  too  slow. 

Though  mountains  meet  not,  lovers  may  ; 
So  others  do,  and  so  do  they  : 
*         The  God  of  Love  sits  on  a  tree, 

And  laughs  that  pleasant  sight  to  see. 

Anon.,  but  attributed  to  'A.  W.' 

A  Sonnet  of  the  Moon. 

Look  how  the  pale  Queen  of  the  silent  night 
Doth  cause  the  ocean  to  attend  upon  her, 
And  he  as  long  as  she  is  in  his  sight, 
With  his  full  tide  is  ready  her  to  honour : 
But  when  the  silver  waggon  of  the  Moon 
Is  mounted  up  so  high  he  cannot  follow, 
The  sea  calls  home  his  crystal  waves  to  moan, 
And  with  low  ebb  doth  manifest  his  sorrow  ; 
So  you,  that  are  the  sovereign  of  my  heart, 
Have  all  my  joys  attending  on  your  will ; 
My  joys  low-ebbing  when  you  do  depart. 
When  you  return,  their  tide  my  heart  doth  fill  ; 
So  as  you  come,  and  as  you  do  depart, 
Joys  ebb  and  flow  within  my  tender  heart. 

Charles  Best. 

Sonnet. 

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. 


5o8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Were  you  the  earth,  dear  love,  and  I  the  skies, 
My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  sun, 
And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes. 
Till  heaven  waxed  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. 

y.  Sylvester. 

A  Hymn  in  praise  of  Neptune. 

Of  Neptune's  empire  let  us  sing, 
At  whose  command  the  waves  obey ; 
To  whom  the  rivers  tribute  pay, 
Down  the  high  mountains  sliding  ; 
To  whom  the  scaly  nation  yields 
Homage  for  the  crystal  fields 

Wherein  they  dwell  ; 
And  every  sea-god  pays  a  gem 
Yearly  out  of  his  wat'ry  cell. 
To  deck  great  Neptune's  diadem. 

The  Tritons  dancing  in  a  ring. 

Before  his  palace  gates  do  make 

The  water  with  their  echoes  quake, 

Like  the  great  thunder  sounding  : 

The  sea  nymphs  chant  their  accents  shrill, 

And  the  Syrens  taught  to  kill 

With  their  sweet  voice, 

Make  every  echoing  rock  reply. 

Unto  their  gentle  murmuring  noise. 

The  praise  of  Neptune's  empery. 

T.  Campion. 

Of  Corinna's  Singing. 

When  to  her  lute  Corinna  sings. 

Her  voice  revives  the  leaden  strings, 

And  doth  in  highest  notes  appear 

As  any  challenged  echo  clear. 

But  when  she  doth  of  mourning  speak. 

E'en  with  her  sighs  the  strings  do  break. 


ELIZABETHAN  MISCELLANIES.  509 

And  as  her  lute  doth  live  and  die, 

Led  by  her  passions,  so  must  I  : 

For  when  of  pleasure  she  doth  sing, 

My  thoughts  enjoy  a  sudden  spring  ; 

But  if  she  do  of  sorrow  speak. 

E'en  from  my  heart  the  strings  do  break. 

T.  Campion. 


Madrigal. 

(In  praise  of  Two.) 

Faustina  hath  the  fairest  face, 
And  Phillida  the  better  grace  ; 

Both  have  mine  eye  enriched  : 
This  sings  full  sweetly  with  her  voice  ; 
Her  fingers  make  so  sweet  a  noise  : 

Both  have  mine  ear  bewitched. 
Ah  me  !    sith  Fates  have  so  provided, 
My  heart,  alas  !   must  be  divided. 


Madrigal. 

My  Love  in  her  attire  doth  show  her  wit, 

It  doth  as  well  become  her  ; 

For  every  season  she  hath  dressings  fit, 

For  winter,  spring,  and  summer. 

No  beauty  she  doth  miss 

When  all  her  robes  are  on  ; 

But  Beauty's  self  she  is 

When  all  her  robes  are  gone. 


GEORGE    CHAPMAN. 


[Born,  probably,  at  Hitchin  (1557?  1559?).  'Was  sent  (1574?)  to  the 
University,  but  whether  first  to  this  of  Oxon  or  to  that  of  Cambridge  is  to 
me  unknown'  (Antony  Wood).  Published  The  Shadow  of  Night  (1594), 
Ovid's  Banquet  0/  Sense  (1595),  De  Guiana,  Carmen  Epicuni  (1596),  Hero 
and  Leander  (1598),  Seven  Books  of  Homer  s  Iliad  (1598),  Achilles'  Shield 
(1598),  Euthyi7iiae  Raptus,  or  The  Tears  of  Peace,  with  Interlocutions  (1609), 
Homer's  Tetith  Booh  of  his  Iliads  (1609),  Epicedium,  or  a  Funeral  Song,  in 
memory  of  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales  (161 2),  Homer's  Iliads  in  English  (1611, 
1 61 2),  First  Twelve  Books  of  the  Odyssey  (1614),  Twentyfour  Books  of  Homer  s 
Odisses  (1614,  1615),  The  Whole  Works  of  Homer  (1616),  The  Crowne  of  all 
Homer's  Workes,  Batrachomyomachia,  &c.  (1624?).  Chapman  was  also 
author  of  many  plays.     Died  May  12,  1634.] 

In  spite  of  the  force  and  originality  of  English  dramatic  poetry 
in  the  age  of  Shakespeare,  the  poetical  character  of  the  time  had 
much  in  common  with  the  Alexandrian  epoch  in  Greek  literary 
histor}'.  At  Alexandria,  when  the  creative  genius  of  Greece  was 
almost  spent,  literature  became  pedantic  and  obscure.  Poets 
desired  to  show  their  learning,  their  knowledge  of  the  details  of 
mythology,  their  acquaintance  with  the  more  fantastic  theories  of 
contemporary  science.  The  same  faults  mark  the  poetry  of  the 
Elizabethan  age,  and  few  writers  were  more  culpably  Alexandrian 
than  George  Chapman.  The  spirit  of  Callimachus  or  of  Lycophron 
seems  at  times  to  have  come  upon  him,  as  the  hitin  was  supposed 
to  whisper  ideas  extraordinarily  good  or  evil,  to  Corneille.  When 
under  the  influence  of  this  possession,  Chapman  displayed  the 
very  qualities  and  unconsciously  translated  the  language  of  Calli- 
machus. He  vowed  that  he  detested  popularity,  and  all  that  can 
please  '  the  commune  reader.'  He  inveighed  against  the  '  invidious 
detractor'  who  became  a  spectre  that  dogged  him  in  every  enter- 
prise.    He  hid  his  meaning  in  a  mist  of  verbiage,  within  a  labyrinth 


CHAPMAN.  5" 

of  conceits,  and  himself  said,  only  too  truly,  about  the  '  sweet 
Leander '  of  Marlowe, 

'I  in  floods  of  ink 
Must  dro\vn  thy  graces.' 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  justify  these  remarks  by  illustrations 
from  Chapman's  works.  Every  reader  of  the  poems  and  the 
prefaces  finds  barbarism,  churlish  temper,  and  pedantry  m  pro- 
fusion. In  spite  of  unpopularity,  Chapman  'rested  as  resolute  as 
Seneca,  satisfying  himself  if  but  a  few,  if  one,  or  if  none  like    his 

verses. 

Why  then  is  Chapman,  as  it  were  in  his  own  despite,  a  poet 
still  worthy  of  the  regard  of  lovers  of  poetry  ?  The  answer  is 
partly  to  be  found  in  his  courageous  and  ardent  spirit,  a  spirit 
bitterly  at  odds  with  life,  but  still  true  to  its  own  nobility,  still 
capable,  in  happier  moments,  of  divining  life's  real  significance, 
and  of  asserting  lofty  truths  in  pregnant  words.  In  his  poems  we 
find  him  moving  from  an  exaggerated  pessimism,  a  pessimism 
worthy  of  a  Romanticist  of  1830,  to  more  dignified  acquiescence 
in  human  destiny.  The  Shadow  of  Night,  his  earhest  work, 
expresses,  not  without  affectation  and  exaggeration,  his  blackest 
mood.  Chaos  seems  better  to  him  than  creation,  the  undivided 
rest  of  the  void  is  a  happier  thing  than  the  crowded  distractions 
of  life.  Night,  which  confuses  all  in  shadow  and  rest,  is  his 
Goddess, 

'  That  eagle-lilce  doth  with  her  starry  wings, 

Beat  in  the  fowls  and  beasts  to  Somnus'  lodgings, 

And  haughty  Day  to  the  infernal  deep, 

Proclaiming  silence,  study,  ease,  and  sleep.' 

As  for  day, 

'  In  hell  thus  let  her  sit,  and  never  rise. 
Till  morns  leave  blushing  at  her  cruelties.' 

In  a  work  published  almost  immediately  after  The  Shadow  0/ 
Night,  in  Ovid's  Banquet  of  Sense,  Chapman  '  consecrates  his 
strange  poems  to  those  searching  spirits  whom  learning  hath 
made  noble.'  Nothing  can  well  be  more  pedantic  than  the  con- 
ception of  the  Banquet  of  Sense.  Ovid  watches  Julia  at  her 
bath,  and  his  gratification  is  described  in  a  singular  combination 
of  poetical  and  psychological  conceits.  Yet  in  this  poem,  the 
redeeming   qualities   of  Chapman   and  the  soothing  influence  of 


512  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

that  anodyne  which  most  availed  him  in  his  contest  with  life,  are 
already  evident.  Learning  is  already  beginning  to  soothe  his 
spirit  with  its  spell.  To  Learning,  as  we  shall  see,  he  ascribed  all 
the  excellences  which  a  modern  critic  assigns  to  culture.  Learn- 
ing, in  a  wide  and  non-natural  sense,  is  his  staj',  support,  and 
comfort.  In  the  Banquet  of  Sense,  too,  he  shows  that  patriotic 
pride  in  England,  that  enjoyment  of  her  beauty,  which  dignify  the 
Carmen  Epicum,  de  Gtiiana,  and  appear  strangely  enough  in 
the  sequel  oi  Hero  and  Leander.  There  are  exquisite  lines  in  the 
Banquet  of  Sense,  like  these,  for  example,  which  suggest  one  of 
Giorgione's  glowing  figures  : — 

'  She  lay  at  length  like  an  immortal  &oiil, 
At  endless  rest  in  blest  Elysium.^ 

But  Chapman's  interest  in  natural  science  breaks  in  unseasonably — ■ 

'  Betwixt  mine  eye  and  object,  certain  lines 
Move  in  the  figure  of  a  pyramis, 
Whose  chapter  in  mine  eyes  gray  apple  shines. 
The  base  within  my  sacred  object  is ; ' 

— singular  reflections  of  a  lover  by  his  lady's  bower  ! 

Chapman  could  not  well  have  done  a  rasher  thing  than  '  suppose 
himself  executor  to  the  unhappily  deceased  author  of  Hero  and 
Leander.  A  poet  naturally  didactic,  Chapman  dwelt  on  the  im- 
propriety of  Leander's  conduct,  and  confronted  him  with  the 
indignant  goddess  of  Ceremony.  In  a  passage  which  ought  to 
interest  modern  investigators  of  Ceremonial  Government,  the 
poet    makes    'all    the    hearts    of  deities'   hurry   to    Ceremony's 

feet  :— 

'She  led  Religion,  all  her  body  was 
Clear  and  transparent  as  the  purest  glass ; 
Devotion,  Order,  State,  and  Reverence, 
Her  shadows  were ;  Society,  Memory ; 
All  which  her  sight  made  live,  her  absence  die.' 

The  allegory  is  philosophical  enough,  but  strangely  out  of  place. 
The  poem  contains  at  least  one  image  worthy  of  Marlowe — 

'  Ilis  most  kind  sister  all  his  secrets  knew. 
And  to  her,  singing  like  a  shower,  he  flew.' 

This  too,  of  Hero,  might  have  been  written  by  the  master  of 
verse : — 


CHAPMAN.  Ti  I ' 


'  Her  fresh  heat  blood  cast  figures  in  her  eyes, 
And  she  supposed  she  saw  in  Neptune's  skies 
How  her  star  wander"d,  washed  in  smarting  brine, 
For  her  love's  sake,  that  with  immortal  wine 
Should  be  embathed,  and  swim  in  more  heart's-easc, 
Than  there  was  water  in  the  Sestian  seas.' 

It  is  in  The  Tears  of  Peace  (1609),  an  allegory  addressed  to 
Chapman's  patron,  the  short-lived  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  that 
the  poet  does  his  best  to  set  forth  his  theory  of  life  and  morality. 
He  'sat  to  it,'  he  says,  to  his  '  criticism  of  life,'  and  he  was  guided 
in  his  thoughts  by  his  good  genius.  Homer.  Inspired  by  Homer, 
he  rises  above  himself,  his  peevishness,  his  controversies,  his  angry 
contempt  of  popular  opinion,  and  he  beholds  the  beauty  of  renun- 
ciation, and  acquiesces  in  a  lofty  stoicism  : — 

'  Free  suffering  for  the  truth  makes  sorrow  sing. 
And  mourning  far  more  sweet  than  banquetting.' 

He  comforts  himself  with  the  belief  that  Learning,  rightly  under- 
derstood,  is  the  remedy  against  discontent  and  restlessness  : — 

'For  Learning's  truth  makes  all  life's  vain  war  cease.' 

It  is  Learning  that 

'  Turns  blood  to  soul,  and  makes  both  one  calm  man.' 

By  Learning  man  reaches  a  deep  knowledge  of  himself,  and  of 
his  relations  to  the  world,  and  '  Learning  the  art  is  of  good  hfe' : — 

*  het  all  men  judge,  who  is  it  can  de»y 
That  the  rich  crown  of  old  Humanity 
Is  s/ill  your  birthright  f  and  was  neer  let  down 
From  heaven  for  rule  of  beasts'  lives,  but  your  own?* 

These  noble  words  still  answer  the  feverish  debates  of  the  day, 
for,  whatever  our  descent, 

'  Still,  at  the  worst,  we  are  the  sons  of  men ! ' 

In  this  persuasion.  Chapman  can  consecrate  his  life  to  his  work, 
can  cast  behind  him  fear  and  doubt, 

'  This  glass  of  air,  broken  with  less  than  breath, 
This  slave  bound  face  to  face  to  death  till  death.' 
VOL.  I.  L  I 


514  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

His  work  was  that  which  the  spirit  of  Homer  put  upon  him,  in  the 
green  fields  of  Hitchin. 

'  There  did  shine, 
A  beam  of  Homer's  freer  soul  in  mine,' 

he  says,  and  by  virtue  of  that  beam,  and  of  his  devotion  to 
Homer,  George  Chapman  still  lives.  When  he  had  completed  his 
translations  he  could  say, 

'  The  work  that  I  was  born  to  do,  is  done.' 

Learning  and  work  had  been  his  staff  through  life,  and  had  won 
him  immortality.  But  for  his  Homer,  Chapman  would  only  be 
remembered  by  professional  students.  His  occasional  inspired 
lines  would  not  win  for  him  many  readers.  But  his  translations 
of  the  IHad  and  Odyssey  are  masterpieces,  and  cannot  die. 

Chapman's  theory  of  translation  allowed  him  great  latitude. 
He  conceived  it  to  be  'a  pedantical  and  absurd  affectation  to  turn 
his  author  word  for  word,'  and  maintained  that  a  translator, 
allowing  for  the  different  genius  of  the  Greek  and  English  tongues, 
'must  adorn'  his  original  'with  words,  and  such  a  style  and  form 
of  oration,  as  are  most  apt  for  the  language  into  which  they  are 
converted.'  This  is  an  unlucky  theory,  for  Chapman's  idea  of 
'the  style  and  form  of  oration  most  apt  for'  English  poetry  was 
remote  indeed  from  the  simplicity  of  Homer.  The  more  he 
admired  Homer,  the  more  Chapman  felt  bound  to  dress  him  up 
in  the  height  of  rhetorical  conceit.  He  excused  himself  by  the 
argument,  that  we  have  not  the  epics  as  Homer  imagined  them, 
that  '  the  books  were  not  set  together  by  Homer.'  He  probably 
imagined  that,  if  Homer  had  had  his  own  way  with  his  own  works, 
he  would  have  produced  something  much  more  in  the  Chapman 
manner,  and  he  kindly  added,  ever  and  anon,  a  turn  which  he 
fancied  Homer  would  approve.  The  English  reader  must  be  on 
his  guard  against  this  custom  of  Chapman's,  and  must  remember, 
too,  that  the  translator's  erudition  was  exceedingly  fantastic.  Thus 
Chapman  derives  the  difficult  word  dX(pr]a-Ti)s  from  the  letter  «A<^o, 
the  first  in  the  Greek  alphabet,  and  decides  that  the  men  whom 
Homer  calls  dA(/)?jo-Tat,  are  what  modern  slang  calls  'A  i  men.' 
Again,  he  names  the  Phoenician  who  seduced  the  nurse  of 
Eumaeus,  '  a  great-wench-net-layer,'  a  word  derived  by  him  from 
jToXviraiwaXot,  thus,  '  naXevo,  periraho  in  retia,  et  naU,  pud  la.'' 
He  is  full  of  these  strange  philological   theories,  and  he   boldly 


CHAPMAN.  51 ; 


lets  them  loose  in  his  translations.  Chapman  has  another  great 
fault,  allied  indeed  to  a  great  excellence.  In  his  speed,  in  the 
rapidity  of  the  movement  of  his  lines,  he  is  Homeric.  The  last 
twelve  books  of  the  Iliad  w&re.  struck  out  at  a  white  heat,  in  fifteen 
weeks.  Chapman  was  carried  away  by  the  current  of  the  Homeric 
verse,  and  this  is  his  great  saving  merit.  Homer  inspires  him, 
however  uncouth  his  utterance,  as  Apollo  inspired  the  Pythoness. 
He  'speaks  out  loud  and  bold,'  but  not  clear.  In  the  heat  of  his 
hurry.  Chapman  flies  at  any  rhyme  to  end  his  line,  and  then  his 
rhyme  has  to  be  tagged  on  by  the  introduction  of  some  utterly 
un-Homeric  mode  of  expression.  Thus,  in  Chapman,  the  majestic 
purity  of  Homer  is  tormented,  the  bright  and  equable  speed  of 
the  river  of  verse  leaps  brawling  over  rocks  and  down  narrow 
ravines.  What  can  be  more  like  Chapman,  and  less  like  Homer, 
than  these  lines  in  the  description  of  the  storm, 

'  How  all  the  tops  he  bottoms  with  the  deeps, 
And  in  the  bottoms  all  the  tops  he  steeps '  ? 

Here  the  Greek  only  says  'Zeus  hath  troubled  the  deep.'  It  is 
thus  that  Chapman  '  adorns  his  original.'  Faults  of  this  kind  are 
perhaps  more  frequent  in  the  Iliad  than  in  the  Odyssey.  Cole- 
ridge's taste  was  in  harmony  with  general  opinion  when  he  pre- 
ferred the  latter  version,  with  its  manageable  metre,  to  the  ruder 
strain  of  the  Iliad,  of  which  the  verse  is  capable  of  degenerating 
into  an  amble,  or  dropping  into  a  trot.  The  crudities,  the  in- 
appropriate quaintnesses  of  Chapman's  Homer,  are  visible  enough, 
when  we  read  only  a  page  or  two,  here  and  there,  in  the  work. 
Neither  Homer,  nor  any  version  of  Homer,  should  be  studied 
piece-meal.  '  He  must  not  be  read,'  as  Chapman  truly  says,  '  for 
a  few  lines  with  leaves  turned  over  capriciously  in  dismembered 
fractions,  but  throughout  ;  the  whole  drift,  weight,  and  height  of 
his  works  set  before  the  apprehensive  eyes  of  his  judge.'  Thus 
read,  the  blots  on  Chapman's  Homer  almost  disappear,  and  you 
see  'the  massive  and  majestic  memorial,  where  for  all  the  flaws 
and  roughnesses  of  the  weather-beaten  work  the  great  workmen 
of  days  unborn  would  gather  to  give  honour  to  his  name.' 

A.  L.\XG. 


Ll  2 


r,i6  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Thames. 

[From  Ovid's  Banquet  of  Sense i\ 

Forward  and  back  and  forward  went  he  thus, 
Like  wanton  Thamysis  that  hastes  to  greet 
The  brackish  court  of  old  Oceanus  ; 
And  as  by  London's  bosom  she  doth  fleet, 

Casts  herself  proudly  through  the  bridge's  twists, 
Where,  as  she  takes  again  her  crystal  feet, 

She  curls  her  silver  hair  like  amourists, 
Smooths  her  bright  cheeks,  adorns  her  brow  with  ships, 
And,  empress-like,  along  the  coast  she  trips. 

Till  coming  near-  the  sea,  she  hears  him  roar, 
Tumbling  her  churlish  billows  in  her  face. 
Then,  more  dismay'd  than  insolent  before, 
Charged  to  rough  battle  for  his  smooth  embrace, 

She  croucheth  close  within  her  winding  banks, 
And  creeps  retreat  into  her  peaceful  palace  ; 

Yet  straight  high-flowing  in  her  female  pranks 
Again  she  will  be  wanton,  and  again, 
By  no  means  staid,  nor  able  to  contain. 

[From  The  Tears  of  Peace ^ 

The  Spirit  of  Homer. 

*  I  am,'  said  he,  '  that  spirit  Elysian, 
That  in  thy  native  air,  and  on  the  hill 
Next  Hitchin's  left  hand,  did  thy  bosom  fill 
With  such  a  flood  of  soul,  that  thou  wert  fain, 
With  exclamations  of  her  rapture  then, 
To  vent  it  to  the  echoes  of  the  vale  ; 
When,  meditating  of  me,  a  sweet  gale 
Brought  me  upon  thee  ;   and  thou  didst  inherit 
My  true  sense,  for  the  time  then,  in  my  spirit  ; 


CHAPMAN.  5 1  7 


And  I,  invisibly,  went  prompting  thee 

To  those  fair  greens  where  thou  didst  English  me.' 

Scarce  he  had  utter'd  this,  when  well  I  knew 
It  was  my  Prince's  Homer  ;    whose  dear  view 
Renew'd  my  grateful  memory  of  the  grace 
His  Highness  did  me  for  him  ;   which  in  face 
Methought  the  Spirit  show'd,  was  his  delight, 
And  added  glory  to  his  heavenly  plight  : 
Who  told  me,  he  brought  stay  to  all  my  state  ; 
That  he  was  Angel  to  me,  Star,  and  Fate  ; 
Advancing  colours  of  good  hope  to  me  ; 
And  told  me  my  retired  age  should  see 
Heaven's  blessing  in  a  free  and  harmless  life, 
Conduct  me,  thro'  earth's  peace-pretending  strife, 
To  that  true  Peace,  whose  search  I  still  intend, 
And  to  the  calm  shore  of  a  loved  end. 

The  Procession  of  Time. 

Before  her  flew  Affliction,  girt  in  storms, 

Gash'd  all  with  gushing  wounds,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  bane  and  misery  frowning  in  her  face  ; 

Whom  Tyranny  and  Injustice  had  in  chase  ; 

Grim  Persecution,  Poverty,  and  Shame  ; 

Detraction,  Envy,  foul  Mishap  and  lame  ; 

Scruple  of  Conscience  ;    Fear,  Deceit,  Despair ; 

Slander  and  Clamour,  that  rent  all  the  air  ; 

Hate,  War,  and  Massacre  ;   uncrowned  Toil ; 

And  Sickness,  t'  all  the  rest  the  base  and  foil. 

Crept  after  ;    and  his  deadly  weight,  trod  down 

Wealth,  Beauty,  and  the  glory  of  a  Crown. 

These  usher'd  her  far  off ;    as  figures  given 

To  show  these  Crosses  borne,  make  peace  with  heaven. 

But  now,  made  free  from  them,  next  her  before  ; 

Peaceful  and  young,  Herculean  Silence  bore 

His  craggy  club  ;    which  up  aloft,  he  hild  ; 

With  which,  and  his  fore-finger's  charm  he  still'd 

All  sounds  in  air  ;    and  left  so  free  mine  ears, 

That  1  might  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres, 


5i8  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

And  all  the  angels  singing  out  of  heaven  ; 
Whose  tunes  were  solemn,  as  to  passion  given  ; 
For  now,  that  Justice  was  the  happiness  there 
For  all  the  wrongs  to  Right  inflicted  here. 
Such  was  the  passion  that  Peace  now  put  on  ; 
And  on  all  went  ;    when  suddenly  was  gone 
All  light  of  heaven  before  us  ;    from  a  wood. 
Whose  light  foreseen,  now  lost,  amazed  we  stood, 
The  sun  still  gracing  us  ;    when  now,  the  air 
Inflamed  with  meteors,  we  discover'd  fair, 
The  skipping  goat ;    the  horse's  flaming  mane  ; 
Bearded  and  trained  comets  ;    stars  in  wane  ; 
The  burning  sword,  the  firebrand-flying  snake  ; 
The  lance  ;    the  torch  ;    the  licking  fire  ;   the  drake  ; 
And  all  else  meteors  that  did  ill  abode  ; 
The  thunder  chid  ;    the  lightning  leap'd  abroad  ; 
And  yet  when  Peace  came  in  all  heaven  was  clear. 
And  then  did  all  the  horrid  wood  appear, 
Where  mortal  dangers  more  than  leaves  did  grow  ; 
In  which  we  could  not  one  free  step  bestow, 
For  treading  on  some  murther'd  passenger 
Who  thither  was,  by  witchcraft,  forced  to  err  : 
Whose  face  the  bird  hid  that  loves  humans  best ; 
That  hath  the  bugle  eyes  and  rosy  breast, 
And  is  the  yellow  Autumn's  nightingale. 


Helen  on  the  Rampart. 

[From  Iliad  III.] 

They  reach'd  the  Scaean  towers, 
Where  Priam  sat,  to  see  the  fight,  with  all  his  counsellors  ; 
Panthous,  Lampus,  Clytius,  and  stout  Hicetaon, 
Thymoetes,  wise  Antcnor,  and  profound  Ucalegon  ; 
All  grave  old  men  ;   and  soldiers  they  had  been,  but  for  age 
Now  left  the  wars  ;   yet  counsellors  they  were  exceeding  sage. 
And  as  in  well-grown  woods,  on  trees,  cold  spiny  grasshoppers       J 
Sit  chirping,  and  send  voices  out,  that  scarce  can  pierce  our  ears       ■ 


CHAPMAN.  519 


For  softness,  and  their  weak  faint  sounds  ;  so,  talking  on  the  tower, 
These  seniors  of  the  people  sate  ;  who  when  they  saw  the  power 
Of  beauty,  in  the  queen,  ascend,  even  those  cold-spirited  peers. 
Those  wise  and  almost  wither'd  men,  found  this  heat  in  their  years. 
That  they  were  forced  (through  whispering)  to  say  :  '  What  man 

can  blame 
The  Greeks  and  Trojans  to  endure,  for  so  admired  a  dame, 
So  many  miseries,  and  so  long  ?    In  her  sweet  countenance  shine 
Looks  like  the  Goddesses'.     And  yet  (though  never  so  divine) 
Before  we  boast,  unjustly  still,  of  her  enforced  prize, 
And  justly  suffer  for  her  sake,  wnth  all  our  progenies, 
Labour  and  ruin,  let  her  go  ;   the  profit  of  our  land 
Must  pass  the   beauty.'      Thus,  though  these  could   bear  so   fit 

a  hand 
On  their  affections,  yet,  when  all  their  gravest  powers  were  used, 
They  could  not  choose  but  welcome  her,  and  rather  they  accused 
The  gods  than  beauty. 


The  Camp  at  Night. 

[From  Iliad  VIH.] 

The  winds  transferr'd  into  the  friendly  sky 
Their  supper's  savour  ;   to  the  which  they  sat  dehghtfully. 
And  spent  all  night  in  open  field  ;  fires  round  about  them  shined. 
As  when  about  the  silver  moon,  when  air  is  free  from  wind, 
And  stars   shine   clear,  to   whose   sweet   beams,  high   prospects, 

and  the  brows 
Of  all  steep  hills  and  pinnacles,  thrust  up  themselves  for  shows, 
And  even  the  lowly  valleys  joy  to  glitter  in  their  sight. 
When  the  unmeasured  firmament  bursts  to  disclose  her  light, 
And  all  the  signs  in  heaven  are  seen,  that  glad  the  shepherd's 

heart  ; 
So  many  fires  disclosed  their  beams,  made  by  the  Trojan  part, 
Before  the  face  of  I  lion,  and  her  bright  turrets  show'd. 
A  thousand  courts  of  guard  kept  fires,  and  every  guard  allow'd 
Fifty  stout  men,  by  whom  their  horse  eat  oats  and  hard  white  corn, 
And  all  did  wishfully  expect  the  silver-throned  morn. 


5^0  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  grief  of  Achilles  for  the  slaying  of  Patroclus, 
Menoetius'  Son, 

[From  Iliad  XVIII.] 

They  fought  still  like  the  rage  of  fire.     And  now  Antilochus 

Came  to  ^acides,  whose  mind  was  much  solicitous 

For  that  which,    as   he   fear'd,  was   fall'n.     He  found  him  near 

the  fleet 
With  upright  sail-yards,  uttering  this  to  his  heroic  conceit  : 
*Ay  me,    why   see   the    Greeks    themselves,    thus    beaten    fi-om 

the  field, 
And  routed  headlong  to  their  fleet  ?     O  let  not  heaven  yield 
Effect  to  what  my  sad  soul  fears,  that,  as  I  was  foretold. 
The  strongest  Myrmidon  next  me,  when  I  should  still  behold 
The  sun's  fair  light,  must  part  with  it.     Past  doubt  Menoetius'  son 
Is  he  on  whom  that  fate  is  wrought.     O  wretch,  to  leave  undone 
What  I  commanded  ;   that,  the  fleet  once  freed  of  hostile  fire, 
Not  meeting  Hector,  instantly  he  should  his  powers  retire.' 

As  thus  his  troubled  mind  discoursed,  Antilochus  appear'd. 
And  told  with   tears   the  sad  news  thus  :    '  My  lord,  that   must 

be  heard 
Which  would  to  heaven  I  might  not  tell  ;  Menoetius'  son  lies  dead, 
And  for  his  naked  corse  (his  arms  already  forfeited, 
And  worn  by  Hector)  the  debate  is  now  most  vehement.' 

This  said,  grief  darken'd  all  his  powers.     With  both  his  hands 
he  rent 
The  black  mould  from  the  forced  earth,  and  pour'd  it  on  his  head, 
Smear'd  all  his  lovely  face  ;   his  weeds,  divinely  fashioned. 
All  filed  and  mangled  ;   and  himself  he  threw  upon  the  shore, 
Lay,  as  laid  out  for  funeral,  then  tumbled  round,  and  tore 
His  gracious  curls.     His  ecstasy  he  did  so  far  extend. 
That  all  the  ladies  won  by  him  and  his  now  slaughter'd  friend. 
Afflicted  strangely  for  his  plight,  came  shrieking  from  the  tents. 
And  fell  about  him,  beat  their  breasts,  their  tender  lineaments 
Dissolved  with  sorrow.    And  with  them  wept  Nestor's  warlike  son, 
I'"cll  by  him,  holding  his  fair  hands,  in  fear  he  would  have  done 


CHAPMAN. 


His  person  violence  ;    his  heart,  extremely  straiten'd,  bum'd, 
Beat,  swell'd,  and  sigh'd  as  it  would  burst.    So  terribly  he  mourn'd, 
That  Thetis,  sitting  in  the  deeps  of  her  old  father's  seas, 
Heard,  and  lamented. 


Hermes  in  Calypso's  Island. 

[From  Odys-ey  F.] 

Thus  charged  he  ;   nor  Argicides  denied, 
But  to  his  feet  his  fair  wing'd  shoes  he  tied, 
Ambrosian,  golden  ;   that  in  his  command 
Put  either  sea,  or  the  unmeasured  land. 
With  pace  as  speedy  as  a  puft  of  wind. 
Then  up  his  rod  went,  with  which  he  declined 
The  eyes  of  any  waker,  when  he  pleased, 
And  any  sleeper,  when  he  wish'd,  diseased. 

This  took,  he  stoop'd  Pieria,  and  thence 
Glid  through  the  air,  and  Neptune's  confluence 
Kiss'd  as  he  flew,  and  check'd  the  waves  as  light 
As  any  sea-mew  in  her  fishing  flight 
Her  thick  wings  sousing  in  the  savoury  seas, 
Like  her,  he  pass'd  a  world  of  wilderness  ; 
But  when  the  far-oflf  isle  he  touch'd,  he  went 
Up  from  the  blue  sea  to  the  continent. 
And  reach'd  the  ample  cavern  of  the  Queen, 
Whom  he  found  within  ;  without  seldom  seen. 
A  sun-like  fire  upon  the  hearth  did  flame  ; 
The  matter  precious,  and  divine  the  frame  ; 
Of  cedar  cleft  and  incense  was  the  pile, 
That  breathed  an  odour  round  about  the  isle. 
Herself  was  seated  in  an  inner  room, 
Whom  sweetly  sing  he  heard,  and  at  her  loom. 
About  a  curious  web,  whose  yarn  she  threw 
In  with  a  golden  shittle.     A  grove  grew 
In  endless  spring  about  her  cavern  round, 
With  odorous  cypress,  pines,  and  poplars  crown'd. 


52  2  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Where  hawks,  sea-owls,  and  long-tongued  bittours  bred, 

And  other  birds  their  shady  pinions  spread  ; 

All  fowls  maritimal  ;   none  roosted  there. 

But  those  whose  labours  in  the  waters  were. 

A  vine  did  all  the  hollow  cave  embrace, 

Still  green,  yet  still  ripe  bunches  gave  it  grace. 

Four  fountains,  one  against  another,  pour'd 

Their  silver  streams  ;    and  meadows  all  enflower'd 

With  sweet  balm-gentle,  and  blue  violets  hid, 

That  deck'd  the  soft  breasts  of  each  fragrant  mead. 

Should  any  one,  though  he  immortal  were, 

Arrive  and  see  the  sacred  objects  there, 

He  would  admire  them,  and  be  over-joy'd  ; 

And  so  stood  Hermes'  ravish'd  powers  employ'd. 

But  having  all  admir'd,  he  enter'd  on 
The  ample  cave,  nor  could  be  seen  unknown 
Of  great  Calypso  (for  all  Deities  are 
Prompt  in  each  other's  knowledge,  though  so  far 
Sever'd  in  dwellings)  but  he  could  not  see 
Ulysses  there  within  ;   without  was  he 
Set  sad  ashore,  where  'twas  his  use  to  view 
Th'  unquiet  sea,  sigh'd,  wept,  and  empty  drew 
His  heart  of  comfort. 


Odysseus'  Speech  to  Nausicaa, 

[From  Odyssey  VI.'] 

All  in  flight 
The  virgins  scatter'd,  frighted  with  this  sight, 
About  the  prominent  windings  of  the  flood. 
All  but  Nausicaa  fled  ;   but  she  fast  stood  : 
Pallas  had  put  a  boldness  in  her  breast, 
And  in  her  fair  limbs  tender  fear  comprest. 
And  still  she  stood  him,  as  resolved  to  know 
What  man  he  was  ;  or  out  of  what  should  grow 
His  strange  repair  to  them.     And  here  was  he 
Put  to  his  wisdom  ;   if  her  virgin  knee 


CHAPMAN.  523 


He  should  be  bold,  but  kneeling,  to  embrace  ; 

Or  keep  aloof,  and  try  with  words  of  grace. 

In  humblest  suppliance,  if  he  might  obtain 

Some  cover  for  his  nakedness,  and  gain 

Her  grace  to  show  and  guide  him  to  the  town. 

The  last  he  best  thought,  to  be  worth  his  own, 

In  weighing  both  well  ;   to  keep  still  aloof, 

And  give  with  soft  words  his  desires  their  proof ; 

Lest,  pressing  so  near  as  to  touch  her  knee. 

He  might  incense  her  maiden  modesty. 

This  fair  and  filed  speech  then  shew'd  this  was  he 

'  Let  me  beseech,  O  queen,  this  truth  of  thee, 
Are  you  of  mortal,  or  the  deified  race? 
If  of  the  Gods,  that  th'  ample  heavens  embrace, 
I  can  resemble  you  to  none  above 
So  near  as  to  the  chaste-bom  birth  of  Jove, 
The  beamy  Cynthia.     Her  you  full  present. 
In  grace  of  every  God-like  lineament. 
Her  goodly  magnitude,  and  all  th'  address 
You  promise  of  her  very  perfectness. 
If  sprung  of  humans,  that  inhabit  earth. 
Thrice  blest  are  both  the  authors  of  your  birth  ; 
Thrice  blest  your  brothers,  that  in  your  deserts 
Must,  even  to  rapture,  bear  delighted  hearts, 
To  see,  so  like  the  first  trim  of  a  tree. 
Your  form  adorn  a  dance.     But  most  blest  he, 
Of  all  that  breathe,  that  hath  the  gift  t'  engage 
Your  bright  neck  in  the  yoke  of  marriage, 
And  deck  his  house  with  your  commanding  merit. 
I  have  not  seen  a  man  of  so  much  spirit, 
Nor  man,  nor  woman,  I  did  ever  see. 
At  all  parts  equal  to  the  parts  in  thee.  . 
T'  enjoy  your  sight,  doth  admiration  seize 
My  eyes,  and  apprehensive  faculties. 
Lately  in  Delos  (with  a  charge  of  men 
Arrived,  that  render'd  me  most  wretched  then, 
Now  making  me  thus  naked)  I  beheld 
The  burthen  of  a  palm,  whose  issue  swell'd 
About  Apollo's  fane,  and  that  put  on 


524  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

A  grace  like  thee  ;   for  Earth  had  never  none 

Of  all  her  sylvan  issue  so  adorn'd. 

Into  amaze  my  very  soul  was  turn'd, 

To  give  it  observation  ;   as  now  thee 

To  view,  O  virgin,  a  stupidity 

Past  admiration  strikes  me,  join'd  with  fear 

To  do  a  suppliant's  due,  and  press  so  near, 

As  to  embrace  thy  knees. 

The  Song  the  Sirens  sung. 

[From  Odyssey  XII.'] 

'  Come  here,  thou  worthy  of  a  world  of  praise, 
That  dost  so  high  the  Grecian  glory  raise  ; 
Ulysses  !    stay  thy  ship,  and  that  song  hear 
That  none  pass'd  ever  but  it  bent  his  ear, 
But  left  him  ravish'd,  and  instructed  more 
By  us,  than  any  ever  heard  before. 
For  we  know  all  things  whatsoever  were 
In  wide  Troy  labour'd  ;   whatsoever  there 
The  Grecians  and  the  Trojans  both  sustain'd 
By  those  high  issues  that  the  Gods  ordain'd. 
And  whatsoever  all  the  earth  can  show 
T'  inform  a  knowledge  of  desert,  we  know.' 

Odysseus  reveals  himself  to  his  Father. 

[From  Ody.sey  XX I V.] 

All  this  haste  made  not  his  staid  faith  so  free 
To  trust  his  words  ;   who  said  :    'If  you  are  he. 
Approve  it  by  some  sign.'     '  This  scar  then  see,' 
Replied  Ulysses,  'given  me  by  the  boar 
Slain  in  Parnassus  ;    I  being  sent  before 
By  yours  and  by  my  honour'd  mother's  will, 
To  see  your  sire  Autolycus  fulfil 
The  gifts  he  vow'd  at  giving  of  my  name. 
I  '11  tell  you,  too,  the  trees,  in  goodly  frame 


CHAPMAN^ 

Of  this  fair  orchard,  that  I  ask'd  of  you 

Being  yet  a  child,  and  follow'd  for  your  show, 

And  name  of  ever)'  tree.     You  gave  me  then 

Of  fig-trees  forty,  apple-bearers  ten, 

Pear-trees  thirteen,  and  fifty  ranks  of  vine  ; 

Each  one  of  which  a  season  did  confine 

For  his  best  eating.     Not  a  grape  did  grow 

That  grew  not  there,  and  had  his  heavy  brow 

When  Jove's  fair  daughters,  the  all-ripening  Hours, 

Gave  timely  date  to  it.'     This  charged  the  powers 

Both  of  his  knees  and  heart  with  such  impression 

Of  sudden  comfort,  that  it  gave  possession 

Of  all  to  trance  ;   the  signs  were  all  so  true  ; 

And  did  the  love  that  gave  them  so  renew. 

He  cast  his  arms  about  his  son  and  sunk, 

The  circle  slipping  to  his  feet  ;   so  shrunk 

Were  all  his  age's  forces  with  the  fire 

Of  his  young  love  rekindled.     The  old  sire 

The  son  took  up  quite  lifeless.     But  his  breath 

Again  respiring,  and  his  soul  from  death 

His  body's  powers  recovering,  out  he  cried, 

And  said  :    '  O  Jupiter  !    I  now  have  tried 

That  still  there  live  in  heaven  remembering  Gods 

Of  men  that  serve  them  ;  though  the  periods 

They  set  on  their  appearances  are  long 

In  best  men's  sufferings,  yet  as  sure  as  strong 

They  are  in  comforts  ;  be  their  strange  delays 

Extended  never  so  from  days  to  days. 

Yet  see  the  short  joys  or  the  soon-fix'd  fears 

Of  helps  withheld  by  them  so  many  years  : 

For  if  the  wooers  now  have  paid  the  pain 

Due  to  their  impious  pleasures,  now  again 

Extreme  fear  takes  me,  lest  we  straight  shall  sec 

The  Ithacensians  here  in  mutiny; 

Their  messengers  dispatch'd  to  win  to  friend 

The  Cephallenian  cities.' 


525 


MICHAEL    DRAYTON. 


[Michael  Drayton  was  bom  at  Hartshull  in  Warwickshire  about  the 
year  1563.  He  died  on  the  23rd  of  December,  1631,  and  lies  buried  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  In  1591  he  published  The  Harmony  of  the  Church, 
which  was  for  some  unknown  reason  refused  a  licence,  and  has  never  been 
reprinted  till  recently.  It  was  followed  hy  Idea  and  The  Pastorals,  1593; 
Mortimeriados  (the  Barons'  Wars"),  159^;  The  Heroical  Epistles  (one  had 
been  separately  printed  159S);  The  Owl,  1604;  L^^^e^ffs  of  Cromwell  and 
others,  1607-1613;  Polyolbion  (first  eighteen  books  1612,  whole  1622);  The 
Battle  of  Agincourt,  1626  ;  besides  minor  works  at  intervals.] 

The  sentence  which  Hazlitt  allots  to  Drayton  is  perhaps  one  of 
the  inost  felicitous  examples  of  short  metaphorical  criticism. 
'  His  mind,'  says  the  critic,  'is  a  rich  marly  soil  that  produces  an 
abundant  harvest  and  repays  the  husbandman's  toil ;  but  few 
flaunting  flowers,  the  garden's  pride,  grow  in  it,  nor  any  poisonous 
weeds.'  Such  figurative  estimates  must  indeed  always  be  in  some 
respects  unsatisfactory,  yet  in  this  there  is  but  little  of  inadequac. 
It  is  exceedingly  uncommon  for  the  reader  to  be  transported 
by  anything  that  he  meets  with  in  the  author  of  the  Polyolbion. 
Drayton's  jewels  five  words  long  are  of  the  rarest,  and  their  sparkle 
when  they  do  occur  is  not  of  the  brightest  or  most  enchanting 
lustre.  But  considering  his  enormous  volume,  he  is  a  poet  of 
surprisingly  high  merit.  Although  he  has  written  some  fifty  or 
sixty  thousand  lines,  the  bulk  of  them  on  subjects  not  too  favour- 
able to  poetical  treatment,  he  has  yet  succeeded  in  giving  to  the 
whole  an  unmistakeably  poetical  flavour,  and  in  maintaining  that 
flavour  throughout.  The  variety  of  his  work,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  unfailing  touch  by  which  he  lifts  that  work,  not  indeed  into 
the  highest  regions  of  poetry,  but  far  above  its  lower  confines,  are 
his  most  remarkable  characteristics.  The  Polyolbiott,  the  Heroical 
Epislles,  the  Odes,  the  Ballad  of  Agincourt,  and  the  Nyinphidia 
are  strikingly  unlike  each  other  in  the  qualities  required  for  sue- 


DRAYTON.  527 


cessful  treatment  of  them,  yet  they  are  all  successfully  treated.  It 
is  something  to  have  written  the  best  war  song  in  a  language, 
its  best  fantastic  poem,  and  its  only  topographical  poem  of  real 
value.  Adverse  criticism  may  contend  that  the  Nymphidia  and 
the  Polyolbion  were  not  worth  thie  doing,  but  this  is  another 
matter  altogether.  That  the  Ballad  of  Agmcotirt  was  not  worth 
the  doing,  no  one  who  has  any  fondness  for  poetry  or  any  appre- 
ciation of  it  will  attempt  to  contend.  In  the  lyric  work  of  the 
Odes,  scanty  as  it  is,  there  is  the  same  evidence  of  master)'  and  of 
what  may  be  called  thoroughness  of  workmanship.  Exacting 
critics  may  indeed  argue  that  Drayton  has  too  much  of  the 
thoroughly  accomplished  and  capable  workman,  and  too  little 
of  the  divinely  gifted  artist.  It  may  be  thought,  too,  that  if  he 
had  written  less  and  concentrated  his  efforts,  the  average  merit  of 
his  work  would  have  been  higher.  There  is,  at  any  rate,  no  doubt 
that  the  bulk  of  his  productions,  if  it  has  not  interfered  with  their 
value,  has  interfered  with  their  popularity. 

The  Barons'  Wars,  which,  according  to  some  theories,  should 
have  been  Drayton's  best  work,  is  perhaps  his  worst.  The  stanza, 
which  he  has  chosen  for  good  and  well-expressed  reasons,  is  an 
effective  one,  and  the  subject  might  have  been  made  interesting. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  it  has  but  little  interest.  The  somewhat  '  kite- 
and-crow '  character  of  the  disturbance  chronicled  is  not  relieved 
by  any  vigorous  portraiture  either  of  Mortimer  or  of  Edward  of  of 
the  Queen.  The  first  and  last  of  these  personages  are  much  better 
handled  in  the  Heroical  Epistles.  The  level  of  these  latter  and 
of  the  Legends  is  decidedly  high.  Not  merely  do  they  contain 
isolated  passages  of  great  beauty,  but  the  general  interest  of  them 
is  well  sustained,  and  the  characters  of  the  writers  subtly  dif- 
ferenced. One  great  qualification  which  Drayton  had  as  a  writer 
of  historical  and  geographical  verse  was  his  possession  of  what 
has  been  called,  in  the  case  of  M.  Victor  Hugo,  la  science  des  novis. 
No  one  who  has  an  ear  can  fail  to  recognise  the  felicity  of  the 
stanza  in  Agincourt  which  winds  up  with  '  Ferrars  and  Fanhope,' 
and  innumerable  examples  of  the  same  kind  occur  elsewhere. 
Without  this  science  indeed  the  Polyolbion  would  have  been 
merely  an  awkward  gazetteer.  As  it  is,  the  *  strange  herculean 
task,'  to  borrow  its  author's  description  of  it,  has  been  very  happily 
performed.  It  may  safely  be  assumed  that  very  few  living  English- 
men have  read  it  through.  But  those  who  have  will  probably 
agree  that  there  is  a  surprising  interest  in  it,  and  that  this  interest 


528  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

is  kept  up  by  a.  very  artful  admixture  of  styles  and  subjects. 
Legends,  fancy  pieces  such  as  that  of  the  Marriage  of  Thame  and  Isis, 
with  its  unmatched  floral  description,  accounts  of  rural  sports  and 
the  like,  ingeniously  divei'sify  the  merely  topographical  narrative. 
Had  the  Polyolbion  been  its  author's  only  work.  Goldsmith's  sneer 
would  still  have  been  most  undeserved.  But  the  variety  of 
Drayton's  performance  is  almost  as  remarkable  as  its  bulk.  This 
variety  it  is  impossible  to  represent  fully  either  in  this  notice  or  in 
the  extracts  which  accompany  it.  But  to  the  foregoing  remarks  it 
may  be  added  that  Drayton  was  master  of  a  very  strong  and  at 
the  same  time  musical  decasyllabic  line.  His  practice  in  Alexan- 
drines and  in  complicated  stanzas  seems  to  have  by  no  means 
injured  his  command  of  the  ordinary  heroic  couplet.  His  series 
of  Sonnets  to  Idea  is  perhaps  his  least  successful  work  if  we  com- 
pare him  with  other  men,  just  as  TJic  Barons'  Wars  is  his  worst 
performance  if  his  own  work  only  be  considered.  The  Nymphidia 
has  received  higher  praise  than  any  other  of  his  poems,  and  its 
fantastic  conception  and  graceful  tripping  metre  deserve  this  praise 
well  enough.  The  curious  poems  of  The  Owl  and  The  Man  in  the 
Moon  show,  if  they  show  nothing  else,  his  peculiar  faculty  of  raising 
almost  any  subject  to  a  certain  poetical  dignity  by  dint  of  skilful 
treatment.  Lastly,  his  prose  Prefaces  deserve  attention  here,  be- 
cause many  of  them  display  the  secret  of  his  workmanlike  skill. 
It  is  evident  from  them  that  Drayton  was  as  far  as  possible  from 
holding  the  false  and  foolish  improvisation-theory  of  poetry,  and 
they  testify  to  a  most  careful  study  of  his  predecessors  and  con- 
temporaries, and  to  deliberate  practice  in  the  use  of  the  poet's  tools 
of  language  and  metre. 

G.  Saintsbury. 


Drayton:  529 


Queen  Margaret  to  William  de  la  Pool, 
Duke  of  Suffolk. 

What  news  (sweet  Pool)  look'st  thou  my  hnes  should  tell 
But  like  the  tolling  of  the  doleful  bell 
Bidding  the  deaths-man  to  prepare  the  grave  ? 
Expect  from  me  no  other  news  to  have. 
My  breast,  which  once  was  mirth's  imperial  throne, 
A  vast  and  desert  wilderness  is  grown  : 
Like  that  cold  region,  from  the  world  remote, 
On  whose  breem  seas  the  icy  mountains  float  ; 
Where  those  poor  creatures,  banished  from  the  light, 
Do  hve  impris'ned  in  continual  night. 
No  object  greets  my  soul's  internal  eyes 
But  divinations  of  sad  tragedies  : 
And  care  takes  up  her  solitary  inn 
Where  youth  and  joy  their  court  did  once  begin. 
As  in  September,  when  our  year  resigns 
The  glorious  sun  to  the  cold  wat'ry  signs 
Which  through  the  clouds  looks  on  the  earth  in  scorn  ; 
The  little  bird  yet  to  salute  the  morn 
Upon  the  naked  branches  sets  her  foot. 
The  leaves  then  lying  on  the  mossy  root, 
And  there  a  silly  chirriping  doth  keep 
As  though  she  fain  would  sing,  yet  fain  would  weep, 
Praising  fair  Summer,  that  too  soon  is  gone, 
Or  sad  for  Winter,  too  fast  coming  on  : 
In  this  strange  plight  I  mourn  for  thy  depart, 
Because  that  weeping  cannot  ease  my  heart. 
Now  to  our  aid  who  stirs  the  neighb'ring  kings  ? 
Or  who  from  France  a  puissant  army  brings? 
Who  moves  the  Norman  to  abet  our  war? 
Or  brings  in  Burgoyne  to  aid  Lancaster? 
Who  in  the  North  our  lawful  claim  commends 
To  win  us  credit  with  our  valiant  friends  ? 
VOL.  I.  M  m 


530  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

To  whom  shall  I  my  secret  griefs  impart  ? 

Whose  breast  shall  be  the  closet  of  my  heart? 

The  ancient  heroes'  fame  thou  didst  revive, 

As  from  them  all  thyself  thou  didst  derive  : 

Nature  by  thee  both  gave  and  taketh  all, 

Alone  in  Pool  she  was  too  prodigal  ; 

Of  so  divine  and  rich  a  temper  wrought, 

As  Heav'n  for  thee  perfection's  depth  had  sought. 

Well  knew  King  Henry  what  he  pleaded  for, 

When  he  chose  thee  to  be  his  orator  ; 

Whose  angel-eye,  by  powerful  influence. 

Doth  utter  more  than  human  eloquence  : 

That  if  again  Jove  would  his  sports  have  tried, 

He  in  thy  shape  himself  would  only  hide  ; 

Which  in  his  love  might  be  of  greater  pow'r, 

Than  was  his  nymph,  his  flame,  his  swan,  his  show'r. 


To  THE  Cambro-Britons  and  their  Harp, 
HIS  Ballad  of  Agincourt. 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry  ; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train. 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marcheth  tow'rds  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour ; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day. 
With  those  that  stopp'd  his  way, 
Where  the  French  gen'ral  lay 

With  all  his  power. 


DRAYTON.  531 


Which  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  king  sending. 
Which  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then. 
Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed. 
Yet  have  we  well  begun. 
Battles  so  bravely  won. 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

And  for  myself  (quoth  he), 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be, 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain. 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain, 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell. 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell. 

Under  our  swords  they  fell. 

No  less  our  skill  is. 
Than  when  our  grandsire-great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat. 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopp'd  the  French  lilies. 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led, 
With  the  main,  Henry  sped, 
Amongst  his  hench-men. 
M  m  2 


532  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Exeter  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there, 
O  Lord,  how  hot  they  were, 
On  the  false  Frenchmen  ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone, 
Armour  on  armour  shone, 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan. 

To  hear,  was  wonder  ; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make, 
The  very  earth  did  shake, 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpinghatn, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces  ; 
When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather  ; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts. 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw. 
And  forth  their  bilbos  drew. 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy  ; 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent. 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went, 

Our  men  were  hardy. 


DRAYTON.  533 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broad  sword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it, 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent. 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloucester,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood. 
For  famous  England  stood. 

With  his  brave  brother ; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright. 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another, 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade. 
And  cruel  slaughter  made. 

Still  as  they  ran  up  ; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby, 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry; 
O  when  shall  English  men, 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry? 


534  77/^  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Arming  of  Pigwiggen. 

[From  Nyrnphidia.'] 

(He)  quickly  arms  him  for  the  field, 
A  little  cockle-shell  his  shield, 
Which  he  could  very  bravely  wield, 

Yet  could  it  not  be  pierced  : 
His  spear  a  bent  both  stiff  and  strong, 
And  well  near  of  two  inches  long  ; 
The  pile  was  of  a  horsefly's  tongue. 

Whose  sharpness  naught  reversed. 

And  put  him  on  a  coat  of  mail. 

Which  was  of  a  fish's  scale. 

That  when  his  foe  should  him  assail, 

No  point  should  be  prevailing. 
His  rapier  was  a  hornet's  sting, 
It  was  a  very  dangerous  thing  ; 
For  if  he  chanc'd  to  hurt  the  king, 

It  would  be  long  in  healing. 

His  helmet  was  a  beetle's  head, 
Most  horrible  and  full  of  dread. 
That  able  was  to  strike  one  dead, 

Yet  it  did  well  become  him  : 
And  for  a  plume  a  horse's  hair, 
W'hich  being  tossed  by  the  air, 
Had  force  to  strike  his  foe  with  fear, 

And  turn  his  weapon  from  him. 

Himself  he  on  an  earwig  set. 

Yet  scarce  he  on  his  back  could  get. 

So  oft  and  high  he  did  curvet 

Ere  he  himself  could  settle  : 
He  made  him  turn,  and  stop,  and  bound. 
To  gallop,  and  to  trot  the  round. 
He  scarce  could  stand  on  any  ground, 

He  was  so  full  of  mettle. 


DRA  YTON.  535 


From  '  Polyolbion.' 

[Song  XV.  1.  147.] 

The  Naiads  and  the  nymphs  extremely  overjoy'd, 

And  on  the  winding  banks  all  busily  employ'd, 

Upon  this  joyful  day,  some  dainty  chaplets  twine  : 

Some  others  chosen  out,  with  fingers  neat  and  fine, 

Brave  anadems  do  make  :    some  baldrics  up  do  bind  : 

Some,  garlands  :    and  to  some  the  nosegays  were  assigned 

As  best  their  skill  did  serve.     But  for  that  Thame  should  be 

Still  man-like  as  himself,  therefore  they  will  that  he 

Should  not  be  drest  with  flowers  to  garden  that  belong 

(His  bride  that  better  fit),  but  only  such  as  sprung 

From  the  replenish'd  meads  and  fruitful  pastures  near. 

To  sort  which  flowers,  some  sit,  some  making  garlands  were  ; 

The  primrose  placing  first,  because  that  in  the  spring 

It  is  the  first  appears,  then  only  flourishing  ; 

The  azur'd  hare-bell  next  with  them  they  neatly  mix'd, 

T'  allay  whose  luscious  smell  they  woodbind  plac'd  betwixt. 

Amongst  those  things  of  scent,  there  prick  they  in  the  lily  : 

And  near  to  that  again  her  sister  daffodilly. 

To  sort  these  flowers  of  show,  with  th'  other  that  were  sweet, 

The  cowslip  then  they  couch,  and  the  oxlip  for  her  meet ; 

The  columbine  amongst  they  sparingly  do  set. 

The  yellow  kingcup  wrought  in  many  a  curious  fret, 

And  now  and  then  among,  of  eglantine  a  spray. 

By  which  again  a  course  of  lady-smocks  they  lay : 

The  crow-flower,  and  thereby  the  clover  flower  they  stick, 

The  daisy,  over  all  those  sundry  sweets  so  thick, 

As  Nature  doth  herself  to  imitate  her  right  : 

Who  seems  in  that  her  pearl  so  greatly  to  delight, 

That  every  plain  therewith  she  powd'reth  to  behold  : 

The  crimson  darnel  flowers,  the  blue-bottle  and  gold, 

Which  though  esteem'd  but  weeds,  yet  for  their  dainty  hues, 

And  for  their  scent  not  ill,  they  for  this  purpose  choose. 


536  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


Thus  having  told  you  now  the  bridegroom  Thame  was  drest, 

I'll  show  you  how  the  bride  fair  Isis  was  invest; 

Sitting  to  be  attired  under  her  bower  of  state, 

Which  scorns  a  meaner  sort  than  fits  a  princely  rate, 

In  anadems,  for  whom  they  curiously  dispose 

The  red,  the  dainty  white,  the  goodly  damask  rose  ; 

For  the  rich  rub)'^,  pearl,  and  amethyst,  men  place 

In  kings'  imperial  crowns,  the  circle  that  enchase. 

The  brave  carnation  then,  with  sweet  and  sovereign  power 

(So  of  his  colour  call'd,  although  a  July  flower). 

With  th*  other  of  his  kind,  the  speckled  and  the  pale  : 

Then  th'  odoriferous  pink,  that  sends  forth  such  a  gale 

Of  sweetness  ;   yet  in  scents  as  various  as  in  sorts. 

The  purple  violet  then,  the  pansy  there  supports  : 

The  marj'gold  above  t'  adorn  the  arched  bar  : 

The  double  daisy,  thrift,  the  button-bachelor. 

Sweet-william,  sops-in-wine,  the  campion  :    and  to  these 

Some  lavender  they  put,  with  rosemary  and  bays  : 

Sweet  marjoram,  with  her  like,  sweet  basil  rare  for  smell. 

With  m^any  a  flower,  whose  name  were  now  too  long  to  tell  : 

And  rarely  with  the  rest,  the  goodly  fleur-de-lis. 


JOSEPH     HALL. 


[Joseph  Hall,  successively  Bishop  of  Exeter  and  Norwich,  was  born 
July  1st,  1574,  at  Bristow  Park,  near  Ashby  de  la  Zouch,  in  Leicestershire. 
His  prose  writings,  which  are  very  voluminous,  have  gained  him  the  title 
of  the  Christian  Seneca.  His  polemical  works  brought  him  into  collis'on 
with  Milton  ;  his  sermons  rank  among  the  most  eloquent  in  our  language ; 
his  characters  of  Virtues  and  Vices  were  the  delight  of  Lamb ;  and  his 
Occasional  Meditations  still  maintain  their  popularity.  He  terminated  a 
life  of  much  usefulness  and  many  troubles  at  Higham,  near  Norwich,  Sep- 
tember 8th,  1656,  in  the  eighty-second  year  of  his  age.  As  a  poet  Hall  is 
known  only  by  his  Satires,  which  were  written  when  he  was  a  very  young 
man.  They  came  out  in  two  instalments,  the  first  of  which  was  entitled 
Virgidemiarum,  Fir^t  three  Bookes  of  Toolhlesse  Satyrs — Poetical,  Academical, 
Moral,  and  appeared  in  1597;  the  second,  entitled  Virgidemiarum,  The  three 
Last  Bookes  of  Byting  Satyrs,  were  published  in  the  following  year.  Both 
parts  were  reprinted  in  1599,  and  again  in  1602.] 

Hall  boasts  that  he  was  the  first  English  satirist.  This  is  not 
true.  To  say  nothing  of  the  fathers  of  our  tongue,  and  of  the 
satires  of  Barklay,  Skelton,  Roye,  and  Gascoigne,  he  had  been 
anticipated  in  his  own  walk  by  Thomas  Lodge,  whose  Fig  for 
MoDius  appeared  in  1593.  Hall  has  however  a  higher  claim  to 
praise.  He  was  the  founder  of  a  great  dynasty  of  satirists.  He 
made  satire  popular,  and  he  determined  its  form.  Marston  imme- 
diately succeeded  him  as  his  disciple  ;  the  author  oi  Skialetheia,  the 
author  oi Microcynicojt,  and  innumerable  other  anonymous  satirists 
followed  in  rapid  succession,  till  we  reach  Donne  and  Jonson, 
Wither  and  Marvel,  Dryden  and  Oldham.  In  all  these  poets 
the  influence  of  Hail  is  either  directly  or  indirectly  perceptible. 
Dryden  had  in  all  probability  perused  him  with  care,  and  Pope 
was  so  sensible  of  his  merits  that  he  not  only  carefully  interlined 
his  copy  of  Hall,  but  expressed  much  regret  that  he  had  not  been 
acquainted  with  his  Satires  sooner. 

Hall's  abilities,  not  only  as  a  satirist,  but  as  a  descriptive  writer 
and  as  a  master  of  style,  are  of  a  high  order.     His  models  were,  he 


538  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

tells  us,  Horace,  Juvenal,  and  Persius.  With  the  first  he  has  little 
in  common  ;  he  has  none  of  his  sobriety,  none  of  his  grace,  none 
of  his  urbanity.  To  the  influence  of  the  third  is  to  be  attributed 
his  most  characteristic  defect,  obscurity,  an  obscurity  which  arises 
not  from  confusion  or  plethora  of  thought,  but  from  affectation 
in  expression,  from  archaic  phraseology,  from  unfamiliar  com- 
binations, from  recondite  allusions,  from  elliptical  apostrophes,  and 
from  abrupt  transitions.  To  Juvenal  his  obligations  were  great 
indeed.  He  borrows  his  phrases,  his  turns,  his  rhetorical  exaggera- 
tions, his  trick  of  allusive  and  incidental  satire,  his  reflections,  his 
whole  method  of  dealing  with  and  delineating  vice.  But  borrow- 
ing he  assimilates.  Hall's  satire  is  distinguished  by  its  vehemence 
and  intrepidity.  He  has  himself  described  the  savage  delight 
with  which  he  applied  himself  to  satirical  composition,  and  every 
fervid  page  testifies  the  truth  of  his  confession.  He  never  seems 
to  flag  :  his  energy  and  fertility  of  invective  are  inexhaustible. 
He  has  in  his  six  books  bared  and  lashed  every  vice  in  the  long  and 
dreary  catalogue  of  human  frailty ;  but  the  reader,  soon  surfeited, 
is  glad  to  leave  him  to  pursue  his  ungrateful  task  alone.  Nor  is 
Hall  more  attractive  when  painting  the  minor  foibles  of  mankind  ; 
for  his  humour  is  hard,  his  touch  heavy,  and  his  wit  saturnine.  As 
a  delineator  of  men  and  manners  he  will  always  be  interesting. 
His  Satires  are  a  complete  picture  of  English  society  at  the  end 
of  the  sixteenth  century.  His  sketches  are  vivid  and  singularly 
realistic,  for  he  has  the  rare  art  of  being  minute  without  being 
prolix,  of  crowding  without  confusing  his  canvas  ;  and  he  united 
the  faculty  of  keen  observation  to  great  natural  insight.  History 
is  indeed  almost  as  much  beholden  to  him  as  satire. 

His  style  is,  for  the  age  at  which  his  poems  appeared,  wonderful. 
Though  marred  by  the  defects  to  which  we  have  referred,  it  is  as 
a  rule  at  once  energetic  and  elegant,  at  once  fluent  and  felicitous, 
at  once  terse  and  ornate.  He  carried  the  heroic  couplet  almost 
to  perfection.  His  versification  is  indeed  sometimes  so  voluble 
and  vigorous,  that  we  might,  as  Campbell  well  observed,  imagine 
ourselves  reading  Dryden.     To  cull  one  or  two  examples  : — 

'  Fond  fool !    six  feet  shall  serve  for  all  thy  store, 
And  he  that  cares  for  most  shall  find  no  more.' 

'Nay,  let  the  Devil  and  .St.  Valentine 
Be  gossips  to  those  ribald  rhymes  of  thine, 
And  each  day  dying  lives,  and  living  dies.* 


HALL.  539 

He  is  the  first  of  our  authors  to  evince  decided  powers  of  epi- 
grammatic expression,  and  to  diversify  the  heroic  couplet  by 
the  introduction  of  the  triplet.  It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that 
Hall's  most  vigorous  and  most  successful  writing  is  of  such 
a  character  as  makes  it  impossible  to  be  presented  to  general 
readers  in  our  day.  The  conclusion  of  the  first  satire  of  the 
fourth  book,  and  of  the  fourth  satire  of  the  same  book,  are  pas- 
sages in  question.  In  consulting  the  interests  of  propriety  we 
are,  we  must  add,  not  consulting  the  interests  of  Hall's  fame  as 
a  satirist,  though  the  shade  of  a  Father  of  the  Church  will  we 
trust  forgive  the  injury. 

Besides  these  Satires  he  was  the  author  of  a  few  miscellaneous 
poems,  chiefly  of  a  religious  and  elegiac  character,  but  they  are 
not  of  much  value. 

J.  Churton  Collins. 


540  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


The  Golden  Age. 

[From  Book  iii.  Satire  i.] 

Time  was,  and  that  was  termed  the  time  of  gold, 
When  world  and  time  were  young  that  now  are  old 
(When  quiet  Saturn  swayed  -the  mace  of  lead, 
And  pride  was  yet  unborn,  and  yet  unbred). 
Time  was,  that  whiles  the  autumn  fall  did  last, 
Our  hungry  sires  gap'd  for  the  falling  mast 

Of  the  Dodonian  oaks. 
Could  no  unhusked  acorn  leave  the  tree 
But  there  was  challenge  made  whose  it  might  be. 
And  if  some  nice  and  licorous  appetite 
Desir'd  more  dainty  dish  of  rare  delight, 
They  scal'd  the  stored  crab  with  clasped  knee 
Till  they  had  sated  their  delicious  eye  : 
Or  search'd  the  hopeful  thicks  of  hedgy  rows 
For  briery  berries,  or  haws,  or  sourer  sloes. 
Or  when  they  meant  to  fare  the  fin'st  of  all. 
They  lick'd  oak-leaves  bespread  with  honey-fall. 
As  for  the  thrice  three-angled  beech-nut  shell, 
Or  chestnut's  armed  husk  and  hid  kernell. 
No  squire  durst  touch,  the  law  would  not  afford.    . 
Kept  for  the  court,  and  for  the  king's  own  board, 
Their  royal  plate  was  clay,  or  wood,  or  stone  : 
The  vulgar,  save  his  hand,  else  he  had  none. 
Their  only  cellar  was  the  neighbour  brook  ; 
None  did  for  better  care,  for  better  look  ; 
Was  then  no  plaining  of  the  brewer's  scape, 
Nor  greedy  vintner  mix'd  the  strained  grape. 
The  king's  pavilion  was  the  grassy  green 
Under  safe  shelter  of  the  shady  trecn. 
Under  each  bank  men  laid  their  limbs  along, 
Not  wishing  any  ease,  not  fearing  wrong, 
Clad  with  their  own  as  they  were  made  of  old, 
Not  feeling  shame  nor  feeling  any  cold. 


HALL.  541 

Hollow  Hospitality. 

[From  Book  iii.  Sat.  3.] 

The  courteous  citizen  bade  me  to  his  feast 

With  hollow  words,  and  overly '  request  : 

'Come,  will  ye  dine  with  me  this  holiday?' 

I  yielded,  though  he  hop'd  I  would  say  nay: 

For  I  had  maiden'd  it,  as  many  use  ; 

Loath  for  to  grant,  but  loather  to  refuse. 

'  Alack,  sir,  I  were  loath — another  day, — 

I  should  but  trouble  you  ; — pardon  me,  if  you  may.' 

No  pardon  should  I  need  ;    for,  to  depart 

He  gives  me  leave,  and  thanks  too,  in  his  heart. 

Two  words  for  money,  Darbyshirian  wise  : 

(That's  one  too  many)  is  a  naughty  guise. 

Who  looks  for  double  biddings  to  a  feast. 

May  dine  at  home  for  an  importune  guest. 

I  went,  then  saw,  and  found  the  great  expense  ; 

The  face  and  fashions  of  our  citizens. 

Oh,  Cleopatrical  !    what  wanteth  there 

For  curious  cost,  and  wondrous  choice  of  cheer  ? 

Beef,  that  erst  Hercules  held  for  finest  fare  ; 

Pork,  for  the  fat  Boeotian,  or  the  hare 

For  Martial  ;    fish  for  the  Venetian  ; 

Goose-liver  for  the  licorous  Roman  ; 

Th'  Athenian's  goat  ;   quail,  lolaus'  cheer  ; 

The  hen  for  Esculape,  and  the  Parthian  deer  ; 

Grapes  for  Arcesilas",  figs  for  Pluto's  mouth, 

And  chestnuts  fair  for  Amarillis'  tooth. 

Hadst  thou  such  cheer?   wert  thou  ever  there  before? 

Never, — I  thought  so  :    nor  come  there  no  more. 

Come  there  no  more ;    for  so  meant  all  that  cost : 

Never  hence  take  me  for  thy  second  host. 

For  whom  he  means  to  make  an  often  guest, 

One  dish  shall  serve  ;    and  welcome  make  the  rest. 

Superficial.         ^  Plutarch,  Muralia  668  a,  calls  Aixcsilaus  ([>(.K60oTpvs. 


542  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


A  Coxcomb. 

[From  Book  iii.  Sat.  5.] 

Late  travelling  along  in  London  way 

Me  met,  as  seen  by  his  disguised  array, 

A  lusty  courtier,  whose  curled  head 

With  abron '  locks  was  fairly  furnished. 

I  him  saluted  in  our  lavish  wise  ; 

He  answers  niy  untimely  courtesies  : 

His  bonnet  vailed,  ere  ever  he  could  think 

The  unruly  wind  blows  off  his  periwinke. 

He  lights  and  runs  and  quickly  hath  him  sped 

To  overtake  his  overrunning  head. 

The  sportful  wind,  to  mock  the  headless  man, 

Tosses  apace  his  pitched  Rogerian  "^  : 

And  straight  it  to  a  deeper  ditch  hath  blown  ; 

There  must  my  yonker  fetch  his  waxen  crown. 

I  looked  and  laughed,  whiles  in  his  raging  mind 

He  cursed  all  courtesy  and  unruly  wind. 

I  looked  and  laughed,  and  much  I  marvelled 

To  see  so  large  a  causeway  on  his  head, 

And  me  bethought,  that  when  it  first  begon 

'Twas  some  shrewd  autumn  that  so  bared  the  bone. 

Is't  not  sweet  pride,  when  men  their  crowns  must  shade 

With  that  which  jerks  the  hams  of  every  jade. 

Or  floor-strewed  locks  from  off  the  Barber's  shears  ? 

But  wa.xen  crowns  well  'gree  with  borrowed  hairs. 

A  Deserted  Mansion. 

[From  Book  v.  Sat.  2.] 
Beat  the  broad  gates,  a  goodly  hollow  sound 
With  double  echoes  doth  again  rebound  ; 
But  not  a  dog  doth  bark  to  welcome  thee, 
Nor  churlish  porter  canst  thou  chafing  see  ; 
All  dumb  and  silent,  like  the  dead  of  night, 
Or  dwelling  of  some  sleepy  Sybarite. 
The  marl)le  pavement  hid  with  desert  weed. 
With  houseleck,  thistle,  dock,  and  hemlock  seed  : 
*  Auburn.  "  A  nickname  for  a  false  scalp. 


HALL.  543 

But  if  thou  chance  cast  up  thy  wondering  eyes, 

Thou  shalt  discern  upon  the  frontispiece 

OYAEI2  EISITO^  graven  up  on  high, 

A  fragment  of  old  Plato's  poesy : 

The  meaning  is,  '  Sir  Fool,  ye  may  be  gone, 

Go  back  by  leave,  for  way  here  lieth  none.' 

Look  to  the  towered  chimneys,  which  should  be 

The  windpipes  of  good  hospitality. 

Through  which  it  breathcth  to  the  open  air, 

Betokening  life,  and  liberal  welfare  ; 

Lo  there  the  unthankful  swallow  takes  her  rest, 

And  fills  the  tunnel  with  her  circled  nest  ; 

Nor  half  that  smoke  from  all  his  chimneys  goes 

Which  one  tobacco  pipe  drives  through  his  nose. 

So  rawbone  hunger  scorns  the  mudded  walls, 

And  'gins  to  revel  it  in  lordly  halls. 

Advice  to  Marry  betimes. 

[From  Book  iv.  Sat.  4.] 

Wars,  God  forfend  !    nay  God  defend  from  war  ; 

Soon  are  sons  spent,  that  not  soon  reared  are. 

Gallio  may  pull  me  roses  ere  they  fall, 

Or  in  his  net  entrap  the  tennis  ball. 

Or  tend  his  spar-hawk  mantling  in  her  mew, 

Or  yelping  beagles'  busy  heels  pursue, 

Or  watch  a  sinking  cork  upon  the  shore. 

Or  halter  finches  through  a  privy  door. 

Or  list  he  spend  the  time  in  sportful  game, 

In  daily  courting  of  his  lovely  dame. 

Hang  on  her  lips,  melt  in  her  wanton  eye. 

Dance  in  her  hand,  joy  in  her  jollity: 

Here's  little  peril,  and  much  lesser  pain. 

So  timely  Hymen  do  the  rest  restrain. 

Hie  wanton  Gallio  and  wed  betime. 

Why  should'st  thou  lose  the  pleasures  of  thy  prime  ? 

Seest  thou  the  rose  leaves  fall  ungathered  ? 

Then  hie  thee,  wanton  Gallio,  to  wed. 

^  •  Let  no  man  enter.' 


JOHN    MARSTON. 


[Marston  has  been  identified  with  an  Oxford  man  of  that  name  who  was 
admitted  B.A.  in  1593,  and  with  Maxton  or  Mastone,  'the  new  poet'  men- 
tioned in  Henslowe's  Diary  in  1599.  But  nothing  is  known  of  his  private 
life.  He  published  The  Metamorphosis  of  Pygmaliori  s  Image  and  Certain 
Satires  in  1598,  and  The  Scourge  of  Villany,  Three  Books  of  Satires,  in  the 
same  year.  He  was  conjoined  with  Chapman  and  Jonson  in  the  composi- 
tion of  the  play  called  Eastivard  Ho !  which  had  unpleasant  consequences 
for  its  authors,  and  he  wrote  several  plays  by  himself,  the  dates  of  which 
range  from  1602  to  161 3.] 

If  we  were  asked  whether  Marston  should  be  classed  as  a  satirist 
or  as  a  dramatist,  it  would  be  difficult  to  give  a  satisfactory  answer. 
His  plays  are  full  of  satiric  power,  and  his  satires  are  not  without 
evidences  of  the  dramatist's  way  of  looking  at  life.  The  personages 
of  his  dramas,  though  boldly  and  fully  pourtrayed,  are  set  up  as 
types  of  base  or  noble  humanity,  to  be  vehemently  disliked  or  liked. 
The  author  is  far  from  being  impartial  in  his  exhibition  of  their 
character  ;  the  reader  seems  to  be  aware  of  him  standing  by  with 
a  stern  moral  purpose  to  emphasize  their  vices  and  their  virtues. 
In  his  satires,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has  a  habit  of  turning  round 
upon  himself  which  may  truly  be  called  dramatic.  He  rails,  and 
then  rails  at  himself  for  railing  ;  pours  forth  torrents  of  abuse  upon 
the  objects  of  his  dislike, — dancing,  fencing,  sonnetteering  dandies, 
apish  scholars,  pedants,  gulls,  perfumed  inamoratos, — the  vices, 
the  effeminacies,  the  affectations  of  the  time, — and  then  vituperates 
himself  no  less  roundly  as  a  vile,  snarling,  canker-eaten,  rusty 
cur,  who  will  rake  everything  into  his  tumbril,  and  cannot  see 
good  in  anything.  The  Elizabethan  time  was  too  large  and  full- 
blooded,  too  full  of  sanguine  aspiration,  of  prosperous  bustle  and 
variety,  to  be  favourable  to  the  production  of  satire.  It  was  not 
sufficiently  out  of  temper  with  itself  to  encourage  the  satirist. 
Marston's  so-called  satires  are  rather  wild  buffooneries,  than  the 


MARSTON.  645 


offspring  of  deep-seated  and  savage  indignation.  Though  the 
language  is  strong  enough  to  warrant  the  idea  that  he  was  much 
offended  by  the  profligacy  and  apish  fopperies  of  the  gilded  youth 
of  the  time,  and  he  makes  himself  out  to  be  a  terrible  cynic,  '  who 
cannot  choose  but  bite,'  he  does  not  really  bite,  but  only  belabours 
with  a  clown's  cudgel  of  inflated  skin. 

The  eloquence  of  Hall's  satires  makes  one  hesitate  to  say  that 
the  language  had  not  then  been  developed  into  a  fitting  instrument 
for  polished  satire,  but,  however  this  may  be,  Marston  made  no 
attempt  at  rapier-like  thrusts  of  cynical  wit.  He  guffawed  at 
Hall's  '  worthless  satires,'  and  the  graceful  archaism  of  his  style, 
which  seemed  to  him  as  contemptible  as  any  of  the  minor  vices 
which  the  satirist  undertook  to  expose.  Hall  in  one  of  his  satires 
expressed  a  wish  that  he  could  use  the  freedom  of  speech  of  the 
ancient  satirists.  Marston  gratified  this  wish  without  scruple,  to 
such  an  extent  that  he  has  been  stigmatised  as  the  most  filthy  and 
scurrilous  writer  of  his  time.  To  the  first  of  these  epithets  Marston 
has  some  claim,  but  to  call  him  scurrilous  conveys  an  imputation 
of  ill-nature  which  would  be  most  undeserved.  That  he  could 
write  better  things  than  the  coarse,  rugged,  furious,  ribald,  broadly- 
humorous  couplets  which  he  called  satires,  and  which  he  estimated 
himself  at  their  true  value,  when  he  took  his  '  solemn  conge  of  this 
fusty  world,'  may  be  seen  by  any  one  who  consults  Charles  Lamb's 
extracts  from  his  plays,  or  better  still,  the  plays  themselves. 

W.   MiNTO. 


VOL.  I.  N  n 


546  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


To  Detraction. 

Foul  canker  of  fair  virtuous  action, 

Vile  blaster  of  the  freshest  blooms  on  earth, 

Envy's  abhorred  child,  Detraction, 

I  here  expose  to  thy  all-tainting  breath 

The  issue  of  my  brain  ;  snarl,  rail,  bark,  bite, 
Know  that  my  spirit  scorns  Detraction's  spite. 

Know  that  the  Genius,  which  attendeth  on 

And  guides  my  powers  intellectual. 

Holds  in  all  vile  repute  Detraction. 

My  soul — an  essence  metaphysical, 

That  in  the  basest  sort  scorns  critics'  rage 
Because  he  knows  his  sacred  parentage — 

My  spirit  is  not  puff'd  up  with  fat  fume 
Of  slimy  ale,  nor  Bacchus'  heating  grape  ; 
My  mind  disdains  the  dungy  muddy  scum 
Of  abject  thoughts  and  Envy's  raging  hate. 
'True  judgment  slight  regards  Opinion, 
A  sprightly  wit  disdains  Detraction.' 

A  partial  praise  shall  never  elevate 

My  settled  censure  of  my  own  esteem  ; 

A  canker'd  verdict  of  malignant  hate 

Shall  ne'er  provoke  me,  worse  myself  to  deem. 

Spite  of  despite,  and  rancour's  villany, 

I  am  myself,  so  is  my  poesy. 


To  Everlasting  Oblivion. 

Thou  miglity  gulf,  insatiate  cormorant ! 

Deride  me  not,  though  1  seem  petulant 
To  fall  into  thy  chops.     Let  others  pray 
For  ever  their  fair  poems  flourish  may, 


1 


MARSTON.  547 


But  as  for  me,  hungry  Oblivion 
Devour  me  quick.     Accept  my  orison, 

My  earnest  prayers,  which  do  importune  thee 
With  gloomy  shade  of  thy  still  empery 
To  veil  both  me  and  my  rude  poesy. 
Far  worthier  lines,  in  silence  of  thy  state, 
Do  sleep  securely,  free  from  love  or  hate  ; 
From  which  this  living  ne'er  can  be  exempt, 
But  whilst  it  breathes,  will  hate  and  furj'  tempt. 
Then  close  his  eyes  with  thy  all-dimming  hand. 
Which  not  right-glorious  actions  can  withstand ; 
Peace,  hateful  tongues  ;  I  now  in  silence  pace, 
Unless  some  hound  do  wake  me  from  my  place. 
I  with  this  sharp,  yet  well-meant  poesy 
Will  sleep  secure,  right  free  from  injury 
Of  cankered  hate,  or  rankest  villainy. 


N  n  2 


SIR    JOHN    DAVIES. 


[Born  at  Tisbury,  Wiltshire,  and  educated  at  Winchester  and  New 
College,  Oxford.  After  a  somewhat  riotous  youth,  he  gained  the  friend- 
ship and  patronage  of  Lords  Mountjoy  and  Ellesmere,  and  became  Solicitor- 
and  Attorney-General  for  Ireland  under  James.  On  the  dismissal  of  Chief 
Justice  Crew  by  Charles  I  in  Nov.  1626,  Sir  John  Davies,  who  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  zealous  championship  of  anti-popular  views,  was 
appointed  his  successor.  He  did  not  live  however  to  enter  upon  the 
office,  dying  suddenly  of  apoplexy  in  the  following  month.  The  Orchestra, 
or  a  Poeme  of  Dauticing  was  licensed  1593,  published  1596;  Nosce  Teipsuni 
was  published  1599  ;  Hymns  to  Astraea  1599.  Davies  was  a  contributor  to 
England's  Helicon  (1600)  and  to  Davi^ons  Poetical  Rhapsody  (1602).  An 
edition  of  his  works  appeared  in  1622,  and  a  modern  complete  edition,  con- 
taining hitherto  unpublished  matter,  was  made  by  Mr.  Grosart  in  1869 
(republished  1876).] 

Sir  John  Davies  belongs  to  that  late  Elizabethan  circle  of  courtly 
poets  which  still  gathered  round  the  declining  age  of  the  great 
Queen  with  apparently  as  much  personal  devotion  as  the  circle  of 
Sidney  and  Spenser  had  gathered  round  her  prime.  His  Nosce 
Te/'psHin,  published  in  1599,  was  dedicated 

*  To  that  clear  majesty  which  in  the  North 
Doth  like  another  sun  in  glory  rise ; ' 

and  the  Hymns  to  Astraea,  which  appeared  in  the  same  year,  may 
be  ranked  as  one  of  the  most  readable  and  freely  written  expres- 
sions of  that  complex  sentiment  toward  the  Queen  of  which  each 
considerable  Elizabethan  poet  became  in  turn  the  mouthpiece. 
This  later  group  is  to  be  distinguished  on  the  one  hand  from  the 
earlier  lyrical  and  pastoral  school,  and  on  the  other  from  the  great 
dramatic  circle  which  crowds  the  foreground  of  this  second  period. 
Its  production  was  reflective  and  philosophical,  and  only  occasion- 
ally and  subordinately  either  lyrical  or  dramatic.  It  testified  to 
revolt  against  pastorals  and  love  poetry,  but  no  member  of  it  was 


S/A'  JOHN  DA  VIES.  549 

possessed  of  a  sufficiently  great  or  pliant  genius  to  achieve  any 
important  triumph  outside  the  older  and  well-worn  fashions.  Lord 
Brooke  in  point  of  power  reigns  supreme  among  these  philoso- 
phers in  verse,  but  Sir  John  'D^ivxe's  Nosce  Teipsuin  enjoyed  a  wider 
contemporary  reputation  than  anything  of  Lord  Brooke's,  and  has 
been  far  more  frequently  read  since.  It  is  a  strange  performance, 
and  is  to  be  admired  rather  for  the  measure  of  victory  it  obtains 
over  unfavourable  conditions,  than  for  any  absolute  poetical  merits. 
Some  handbook  of  Christian  philosophy  seems  to  have  fallen  in 
the  author's  way  during  a  year  of  retii'ement  at  Oxford, — possibly 
the  De  Natitra  HoiniJiis  of  Nemesius,  of  which  Wither  published 
an  English  translation  in  1636, — and  the  text  suited  a  sobered 
mood,  while  it  offered  an  opportunity  for  rehabilitating  a  reputation 
shaken  by  youthful  folly  and  extravagance.  Accordingly  the 
Nosce  Teipsuin  was  produced,  an  '  oracle  expounded  in  two 
Elegies — (i)  of  Human  Knowledge  ;  (2)  of  the  Soul  of  Man  and 
the  Immortality  thereof.'  It  is  an  exposition  in  the  verse  of 
Gondibert  and  the  Anmts  Mirabilis  of  what  Davies  himself  calls 
the  '  received  opinions,'  the  orthodox  metaphysic  of  his  time,  and 
treats  such  topics  as  '  what  the  soul  is  ; '  '  that  the  soul  is  more 
than  the  Temperature  of  the  Humors  of  the  Body;'  'that  the  soul 
is  created  immediately  by  God  ;'  '  the  vegetative  or  Quickening 
power  ;'  'the  power  of  sense,  the  Relations  between  wit  and  will,' 
&c.  (S:c.  All  these  interminable  and  tremendous  subjects  are 
indeed  handled  with  admirable  clearness  and-  brevity.  Where  Lord 
Brooke  would  have  wandered  on  to  unmeasured  length,  thinking 
his  way  from  cloud  to  clearness  with  laborious  sincerity,  Sir  John 
Davies,  a  man  of  far  inferior  temper  and  morale,  plays  the  artist 
with  his  inartistic  material,  clearly  foresees  his  end,  maps  out  his 
arguments  and  '  acclamations,'  and  infuses  just  so  much  imagina- 
tion and  so  much  eloquence  as  will  carry  the  subject  to  the  ears  it 
is  intended  to  reach.  Hallam  said  of  Nosce  Teipsuni  that  it 
scarcely  contained  a  languid  verse.  It  may  be  said  of  it  with 
equal  truth  that  it  scarcely  contains  a  verse  of  real  energy,  and 
that  it  shows  not  a  spark  of  that  genuine  poetic  gift  which  at  rare 
intervals  lightens  the  most  heavy  and  formless  of  Lord  Brooke's 
Treatises.  Nothing  in  Davies'  smoothly  turned  and  occasionally 
eloquent  introduction  to  his  subject  proper,  '  The  Elegy  of  Human 
Knowledge,'  has  the  poetic  flavour  of  such  lines  as  these,  which 
break  the  monotony  of  Lord  Brooke's  Treatise  on  the  same 
subject : — 


550  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


'The  chief  use  then  in  man  of  that  he  l<iiows, 

Is  his  painstaking  for  the  good  of  all ; 

Not  fleshly  weeping  for  our  own-made  woes. 

Not  laughing  from  a  melancholy  gall. 

Not  hating  from  a  soul  that  overflows 

With  bitterness,  breathed  out  from  inward  thrall; 
But  sweetly  rather  to  ease,  to  loose  or  bind, 
As  need  requires,  this  frail  fall'n  human  kind.' 

Expression  of  this  high  and  tender  quality  is  not  to  be  looked  for 
in  Nosce  Teipston.  The  poem  deals  with  an  eternally  poetic 
subject,  the  longings,  griefs,  and  destiny  of  the  soul,  in  such  a  way 
as  to  furnish  one  more  illustration  of  the  futility  of  '  philosophical 
poetry,' — of  the  inanner  in  which  the  attempt  to  combine  poetry 
and  science  extracts  all  pathos  and  all  influence  from  the  most 
pathetic  and  the  most  potent  of  themes.  From  this  judgment  we 
may  perhaps  exclude  the  passages,  quoted  below,  which  deserve  to 
live  when  the  rest  of  Nosce  Teipsum  is  forgotten. 

Orchestra  was  a  poem  of  the  author's  youth,  '  a  sudden  rash 
half-capreol  of  my  wit,'  as  he  calls  it  in  the  dedication.  It  is 
unfinished  and  immature  in  style,  but  there  is  considerable  charm 
in  its  wandering  fancifulness.  The  graceful  and  delicate  verse 
beginning  '  For  lo,  the  sea  that  fleets  about  the  land '  (p.  556),  will 
remind  a  reader  of  well-known  lines  in  the  Ancient  Mariner.  In 
one  or  two  other  passages  Sir  John  Davies  may  be  suggestively 
matched  with  modern  poets.  The  resemblance  of  his  38th  Epigram 
to  Wordsworth's  Power  of  Music  has  been  already  pointed  out,  and 
a  verse  of  another  modern  poem, — 

'  We  see  all  sights  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  glance  and  nod  and  bustle  by, 
And  never  once  possess  our  soul 
Before  we  die,' — 

recalls  a  passage  in  the  Elegy  '  Of  Human  Knowledge ' : — 

*  We  that  acquaint  ourselves  with  every  Zone, 
And  pass  both  Tropics,  and  behold  the  Poles, 
When  we  come  home  are  to  ourselves  unknown. 
And  unacquainted  still  with  our  own  souls.' 

Mary  A.  Ward. 


S//^  JOHN  DAVIES.  551 


The  Soul  compared  to  a  River, 

[From  Nosce  TeipsianJ] 

And  as  the  moisture,  which  the  thirsty  earth 
Sucks  from  the  sea,  to  fill  her  empty  veins, 
From  out  her  womb  at  last  doth  take  a  birth, 
And  runs  a  nymph  along  the  grassy  plains  : 

Long  doth  she  stay,  as  loth  to  leave  the  land, 
From  whose  soft  side  she  first  did  issue  make  ; 
She  tastes  all  places,  turns  to  every  hand, 
Her  flowr'y  banks  unwilling  to  forsake  : 

Yet  Nature  so  her  streams  doth  lead  and  carry, 
As  that  her  course  doth  make  no  final  stay. 
Till  she  herself  unto  the  ocean  marry, 
Within  whose  wat'ry  bosom  first  she  lay  : 

Even  so  the  Soul  which  in  this  earthly  mould 
The  Spirit  of  God  doth  secretly  infuse  ; 
Because  at  first  she  doth  the  earth  behold, 
And  only  this  material  world  she  views  : 

At  first  her  mother-earth  she  holdeth  dear. 

And  doth  embrace  the  world  and  worldly  things 
She  flies  close  by  the  ground,  and  hovers  here, 
And  mounts  not  up  with  her  celestial  wings. 

Yet  under  heaven  she  cannot  light  on  ought 
That  with  her  heavenly  nature  doth  agree  ; 
She  cannot  rest,  she  cannot  fix  her  thought. 
She  cannot  in  this-  world  contented  be  : 

For  who  did  ever  yet,  in  honour,  wealth. 
Or  pleasure  of  the  sense,  contentment  find  ? 
Who  ever  ceas'd  to  wish,  when  he  had  health  ? 
Or  having  wisdom  was  not  vext  in  mind  ? 


552  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Then  as  a  bee  which  among  weeds  doth  fall, 

Which  seem  sweet  flowers,  with  lustre  fresh  and  gay; 
She  lights  on  that,  and  this,  and  tasteth  all, 
But  pleas'd  with  none,  doth  rise,  and  soar  away ; 

So,  when  the  Soul  finds  here  no  true  content, 
And,  like  Noah's  dove,  can  no  sure  footing  take  ; 
She  doth  return  from  whence  she  first  was  sent, 
And  flies  to  Him  that  first  her  wings  did  make. 


The  Soul  compared  to  a  Virgin  wooed  in  Marriage. 
[From  the  Same.] 

As  a  king's  daughter,  being  in  person  sought 
Of  divers  princes,  who  do  neighbour  near  ; 
On  none  of  them  can  fix  a  constant  thought, 
Though  she  to  all  do  lend  a  gentle  ear : 

Yet  she  can  love  a  foreign  emperor. 

Whom  of  great  worth  and  power  she  hears  to  be  ; 
If  she  be  woo'd  but  by  ambassador. 
Or  but  his  letters,  or  his  pictures  see  : 

For  well  she  knows,  that  when  she  shall  be  brought 
Into  the  kingdom  where  her  spouse  doth  reign  ; 
Her  eyes  shall  see  what  she  conceiv'd  in  thought, 
Himself,  his  state,  his  glory,  and  his  train. 

So  while  the  virgin  Soul  on  earth  doth  stay, 
She  woo'd  and  tempted  is  ten  thousand  ways, 
By  these  great  powers,  which  on  the  earth  bear  sway; 
The  wisdom  of  the  world,  wealth,  pleasure,  praise  : 

With  these  sometime  she  doth  her  time  beguile. 
These  do  by  fits  her  fantasy  possess  ; 
But  she  distastes  them  all  within  a  while, 
And  in  the  sweetest  finds  a  tediousness. 

But  if  upon  the  world's  Almighty  King 

She  once  do  fix  her  humble  loving  thought ; 
Who  by  His  picture,  drawn  in  every  thing, 
And  sacred  messages,  her  love  hath  sought ; 


S/H  JOHN  DA  VIES.  553 


Of  Him  she  thinks,  she  cannot  think  too  much  ; 
This  honey  tasted  still,  is  ever  sweet  ; 
The  pleasure  of  her  ravished  thought  is  such, 
As  almost  here  she  with  her  bliss  doth  meet : 

But  when  in  Heaven  she  shall  His  essence  see, 
This  is  her  sovereign  good,  and  perfect  bliss  : 
Her  longings,  wishings,  hopes  all  finished  be, 
Her  joys  are  full,  her  motions  rest  in  this. 

There  is  she  crown'd  with  garlands  of  content, 
There  doth  she  manna  eat,  and  nectar  drink  ; 
That  Presence  doth  such  high  delights  present, 
As  never  tongue  could  speak,  nor  heart  could  think. 

AXTIXOUS   PRAISES    DANXIXG    BEFORE   OUEEN    PENELOPE. 

[From  Orchestra,  or  A  Poenie  of  Drnmcing.'] 

'  For  that  brave  Sun  the  Father  of  the  Day, 
Doth  love  this  Earth,  the  Mother  of  the  Night ; 
And  like  a  reveller  in  rich  array, 
Doth  dance  his  galliard  in  his  leman's  sight, 
Both  back,  and  forth,  and  sideways,  passing  light ; 
His  princely  grace  doth  so  the  gods  amaze, 
That  all  stand  still  and  at  his  beauty  gaze. 

*  But  see  the  Earth,  when  he  approacheth  near, 

How  she  for  joy  doth  spring  and  sweetly  smile  ; 

But  see  again  her  sad  and  heavy  cheer 

When  changing  places  he  retires  awhile  ; 

But  those  black  clouds  he  shortly  will  exile, 
And  make  them  all  before  his  presence  fly, 
As  mists  consum'd  before  his  cheerful  eye. 
****** 

'  And  now  behold  your  tender  nurse  the  Air 

And  common  neighbour  that  aye  runs  around ; 

How  many  pictures  and  impressions  fair 

Within  her  empty  regions  are  there  found  ; 

Which  to  your  senses  Dancing  do  propound. 

For  what  are  Breath,  Speech,  Echos,  Music,  Winds, 
But  Dancings  of  the  Air  in  sundry  kinds  ? 


554  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


'  For  when  you  breathe,  the  air  in  order  moves, 
Now  in,  now  out,  in  time  and  measure  true  ; 
And  when  you  speak,  so  well  she  dancing  loves. 
That  doubling  oft,  and  oft  redoubling  new, 
"With  thousand  forms  she  doth  herself  endue. 
For  all  the  words  that  from  our  lips  repair 
Are  nought  but  tricks  and  turnings  of  the  air. 

*  Hence  is  her  prattling  daughter  Echo  born. 
That  dances  to  all  voices  she  can  hear  ; 
There  is  no  sound  so  harsh  that  she  doth  scorn. 
Nor  any  time  wherein  she  will  forbear 
The  airy  pavement  with  her  feet  to  wear  ; 

And  yet  her  hearing  sense  is  nothing  quick, 

For  after  time  she  endeth  every  trick. 

'  And  thou  sweet  Music,  Dancing's  only  life, 
The  ear's  sole  happiness,  the  air's  best  speech  ; 
Loadstone  of  fellowship,  charming-rod  of  strife, 
The  soft  mind's  Paradise,  the  sick  mind's  leech  ; 
With  thine  own  tongue,  thou  trees  and  stones  canst  teach, 
That  when  the  Air  doth  dance  her  finest  measure, 
Then  art  thou  born,  the  gods'  and  men's  sweet  pleasure. 

'  Lastly,  where  keep  the  Winds  their  revelry. 
Their  violent  turnings,  and  wild  whirling  hays  \ 
But  in  the  Air's  translucent  gallery  ? 
Where  she  herself  is  turn'd  a  hundred  ways. 
While  with  those  Maskers  wantonly  she  plays  ; 

Yet  in  this  misrule,  they  such  rule  embrace, 

As  two  at  once  encumber  not  the  place. 

*  If  then  fire,  air,  wand'ring  and  fixed  lights 
In  every  province  of  the  imperial  sky. 
Yield  perfect  forms  of  dancing  to  your  sights, 
In  vain  I  teach  the  ear,  that  which  the  eye 
With  certain  view  already  doth  descry. 

But  for  your  eyes  perceive  not  all  they  sec, 

In  this  I  will  your  Senses  master  be. 

'  country-dances. 


SIR  JOHN  DA  VIES.  655 

'  For  lo  the  Sea  that  fleets  about  the  Land, 
And  like  a  girdle  clips  her  solid  waist, 
Music  and  measure  both  doth  understand  ; 
For  his  great  crystal  eye  is  always  cast 
Up  to  the  Moon,  and  on  her  fixed  fast  ; 

And  as  she  danceth  in  her  pallid  sphere, 

So  danceth  he  about  his  Centre  here. 

'  Sometimes  his  proud  green  waves  in  order  set, 

One  after  other  flow  unto  the  shore  ; 

Which,  when  they  have  with  many  kisses  wet, 

They  ebb  away  in  order  as  before  ; 

And  to  make  kno^^^l  his  courtly  love  the  more. 
He  oft  doth  lay  aside  his  three-forked  mace, 
And  with  his  arms  the  timorous  Earth  embrace. 

*  Only  the  Earth  doth  stand  for  ever  still, 
Her  rocks'  remove  not,  nor  her  mountains  meet, 
(Although  some  wits  enriched  with  Learning's  skill 
Say  heav'n  stands  firm,  and  that  the  Earth  doth  fleet, 
And  swiftly  turneth  underneath  their  feet  ;) 
Yet  though  the  Earth  is  ever  steadfast  seen. 
On  her  broad  breast  hath  Dancing  ever  been. 

'  For  those  blue  veins  that  through  her  body  spread, 
Those  sapphire  streams  which  from  great  hills  do  spring 
(The  Earth's  great  dugs  ;  for  every  wight  is  fed 
With  sweet  fresh  moisture  from  them  issuing  ;) 
Observe  a  dance  in  their  wild  wandering  ; 
And  still  their  dance  begets  a  murmur  sweet, 
And  still  the  murmur  with  the  dance  doth  meet.' 


556  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 


[From  Hymnes  of  Astraea,  in  Acrostiche  Verse^ 

To  THE  Spring. 
E  arth  now  is  green,  and  heaven  is  blue, 
L  ively  Spring  which  makes  all  new, 
I  oily  Spring,  doth  enter  ; 
S  weet  young  sun-beams  do  subdue 
A  ngry,  ag^d  Winter. 

B  lasts  are  mild,  and  seas  are  calm, 
E  very  meadow  flows  with  balm, 
T  he  Earth  wears  all  her  riches  ; 
H  armonious  birds  sing  such  a  psalm, 
A  s  ear  and  heart  bewitches. 

R  eserve  (sweet  Spring)  this  Nymph  of  ours, 

E  ternal  garlands  of  thy  flowers, 

G  reen  garlands  never  wasting  : 

I  n  her  shall  last  our  state's  fair  Spring, 

N  ow  and  for  ever  flourishing, 

A  s  long  as  Heaven  is  lasting. 

To  THE  Nightingale. 
E  very  night  from  even  to  morn, 
L  ove's  Chorister  amid  the  thorn 
I  s  now  so  sweet  a  singer  ; 
S  o  sweet,  as  for  her  song  I  scorn 
Apollo's  voice,  and  finger. 

B  ut  Nightingale,  sith  you  delight 
E  ver  to  watch  the  starry  night ; 
T  ell  all  the  stars  of  heaven, 
H  eaven  never  had  a  star  so  bright, 
A  s  now  to  Earth  is  given. 

R  oyal  Astraea  makes  our  day 
E  ternal  with  her  beams,  nor  may 
G  ross  darkness  overcome  her  ; 
I   now  perceive  why  some  do  write, 
N  o  country  hath  so  short  a  night, 
A  s  England  hath  in  Summer. 


SIR  JOHN  DAVIES.  557 


To  THE  Month  of  September. 

E  ach  month  hath  praise  in  some  degree  ; 
L  et  May  to  others  seem  to  be 
I  n  sense  the  sweetest  Season  ; 
S  eptember  thou  art  best  to  me, 
A  nd  best  doth  please  my  reason. 

B  ut  neither  for  thy  corn  nor  wine 

E  xtol  I  those  mild  days  of  thine, 

T  hough  corn  and  wine  might  praise  thee  ; 

H  eaven  gives  thee  honour  more  divine, 

A  nd  higher  fortunes  raise  thee. 

R  enown'd  art  thou  (sweet  month)  for  this, 

E  mong  thy  days  her  birth-day  is  ; 

G  race,  plenty,  peace  and  honour 

I  n  one  fair  hour  with  her  were  born  ; 

N  ow  since  they  still  her  crown  adorn, 

A  nd  still  attend  upon  her. 


JOHN    DONNE. 


[Born  1573,  in  London;  his  mother  being  a  descendant  of  Sir  Thomas 
More.  He  studied  both  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  and  also  at  Lincoln's 
Inn ;  travelled  in  Italy  and  Spain,  '  and  returned  perfect  in  their  languages.' 
He  was  afterwards  in  the  service  of  Lord  Chancellor  Ellesmere  and  others, 
and  in  1610  was  persuaded  by  James  I  'to  enter  into  sacred  orders.'  In 
1621  the  king  made  him  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  and  he  held  other  benefices. 
He  died  in  163 1.  Izaak  Walton's  celebrated  Life  was  prefixed  to  his  Eighty 
Sermons,  fol„  T640;  and  this  Life  asserts  that  'most  of  his  poems  were  written 
before  the  twentieth  year  of  his  age.'  The  Poems  were  collected  and  first 
published  posthumously  in  1633  :  but  Hnrl.  MS.  51 10  (British  Museum),  is 
entitled,  'Jhon  Dunne  his  Satyres  anno  domini  1593.'] 

Donne's  contemporary  reputation  as  a  poet,  and  still  more  as 
a  preacher,  was  immense  ;  and  a  glance  at  his  works  would  suffice 
to  show  that  he  did  not  deserve  the  contempt  with  which  he  was 
subsequently  treated.  But  yet  his  chief  interest  is  that  he  was  the 
principal  founder  of  a  school  which  especially  expressed  and  re- 
presented a  certain  bad  taste  of  his  day.  Of  his  genius  there  can 
be  no  question  ;  but  it  was  perversely  directed.  One  may  almost 
invert  Jonson's  famous  panegyric  on  Shakespeare,  and  say  that 
Donne  was  not  for  all  time  but  for  an  age. 

To  this  school  Dr.  Johnson  has  given  the  title  of  the  Meta- 
physical ;  and  for  this  title  there  is  soinething  to  be  said.  '  Donne,' 
says  Dryden,  *  affects  the  metaphysics  not  only  in  his  Satires,  but 
in  his  amorous  verses  where  Nature  only  should  reign,  and  perplexes 
the  minds  of  the  fair  sex  with  nice  speculations  of  philosophy  when 
he  should  engage  their  hearts  and  entertain  them  with  the  soft- 
nesses of  love.'  Thus  he  often  ponders  over  the  mystery  of  love, 
and  is  exercised  by  subtle  questions  as  to  its  nature,  origin, 
endurance.  I5ut  a  yet  more  notable  distinction  of  this  school  than 
its  philosophising,  shallow  or  deep,  is  what  may  be  called  its 
fantasticality,  its  quaint  wit,  elaborate  ingenuity,  far-fetched 
allusiveness ;    and  it   might   better  be    called   the   Ingenious,  or 


DONNE.  559 

Fantastic  School.  Various  and  out-of-the-way  information  and 
learnincj  is  a  necessary  quahfication  for  membership.  Donne  in 
one  of  his  letters  speaks  of  his  '  embracing  the  worst  voluptuous- 
ness, an  hydroptic  immoderate  desire  of  human  learning  and 
languages.'  Eminence  is  attained  by  using  such  stores  in  the  way 
to  be  least  expected.  The  thing  to  be  illustrated  becomes  of 
secondary  importance  by  the  side  of  the  illustration.  The  more 
unlikely  and  surprising  and  preposterous  this  is,  the  greater  the 
success.  This  is  wit  of  a  kind.  From  one  point  of  view,  wit,  as 
Dr.  Johnson  says, '  may  be  considered  as  a  kind  o{ discordia  concors  ; 
a  combination  of  dissimilar  images  or  discovery  of  occult  resem- 
blances in  things  apparently  unlike.  Of  wit  thus  defined  they 
[Donne  and  his  followers]  have  more  than  enough.  The  most 
heterogeneous  ideas  are  yoked  by  violence  together  ;  nature  and 
art  are  ransacked  for  illustrations,  comparisons,  and  allusions  ; 
their  learning  instructs,  and  their  subtility  surprises  ;  but  the 
reader  commonly  thinks  his  improvement  dearly  bought,  and 
though  he  sometimes  admires  is  seldom  pleased.' 

And  so  in  the  following  curious  passage  from  Donne's  Dedica- 
tion of  certain  poems  to  Lord  Craven  it  should  be  observed  how 
'  wit '  and  '  poetry '  are  made  to  correspond  :  '  Amongst  all  the 
monsters  this  unlucky  age  has  teemed  with,  I  find  none  so  pro- 
digious as  the  poets  of  these  late  times  [this  is  very  much  what 
Donne's  own  critics  must  say],  wherein  men,  as  if  they  would  level 
undertakings  too  as  well  as  estates,  acknowledging  no  inequality 
of  parts  and  judgments,  pretend  as  indifferently  to  the  chair  of  wit 
as  to  the  pulpit,  and  conceive  themselves  no  less  inspired  with  the 
spirit  of  poetry  than  with  that  of  religion.'  Dryden  styles  Donne 
'  the  greatest  wit  though  not  the  best  poet  of  our  nation.' 

The  taste  which  this  school  represents  marks  other  literatures 
besides  our  own  at  this  time.  It  was  'in  the  air'  of  that  age  ;  and 
so  was  not  originated  by  Donne.  But  it  was  he  who  in  England 
first  gave  it  full  expression— who  was  its  first  vigorous  and  effective 
and  devoted  spokesman.  And  this  secures  him  a  conspicuous 
position  in  the  history  of  our  literature  when  we  remember  how 
prevalent  was  the  fashion  of 'conceits'  during  the  first  half  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  and  that  amongst  those  who  followed  it  more 
or  less  are  to  be  mentioned,  to  say  nothing  of  the  earlier  poems 
of  Milton  and  Waller  and  Dryden,  Suckling,  Denham,  Herbert, 
Crashaw,  Cleveland,  Cowley. 

This  misspent  learning,  this  excessive  ingenuity,  this  laborious 


56o  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

wit  seriously  mars  almost  the  whole  of  Donne's  work.  For  the 
most  part  we  look  on  it  with  amazement  rather  than  with  pleasure. 
It  reminds  us  rather  of  a  '  pyrotechnic  display,'  with  its  unex- 
pected flashes  and  explosions,  than  of  a  sure  and  constant  light 
(compare  the  Valediction  given  in  our  selections).  We  weary 
of  such  unmitigated  cleverness — such  ceaseless  straining  after 
novelty  and  surprise.  We  long  for  something  simply  thought, 
and  simply  said. 

His  natural  gifts  were  certainly  great.  He  possesses  a  real 
energy  and  fervour.  He  loved,  and  he  suffered  much,  and  he 
writes  with  a  passion  which  is  perceptible  through  all  his  artificiali- 
ties. Such  a  poem  as  The  Will  is  evidence  of  the  astonishing 
rapidity  and  brightness  of  his  fancy. 

He  also  claims  notice  as  one  of  our  earliest  formal  satirists. 
Though  not  published  till  much  later,  there  is  proof  that  some  at 
least  of  his  satires  were  written  three  or  four  years  before  those  of 
Hall.  Two  of  them  (ii.  and  iv.)  were  reproduced — 'versified' — in 
the  last  century  by  Pope,  acting  on  a  suggestion  by  Dryden  ; 
No.  iii.  was  similarly  treated  by  Parnell.  In  these  versions,  along 
with  the  roughness  of  the  metre,  disappears  much  of  the  general 
vigour  ;  and  it  should  be  remembered  that  the  metrical  roughness 
was  no  result  of  incapacity,  but  was  designed.  Thus  the  charge 
of  metrical  uncouthness  so  often  brought  against  Donne  on  the 
ground  of  his  satires  is  altogether  mistaken.  How  fluently  and 
smoothly  he  could  write  if  he  pleased,  is  attested  over  and  over 
again  by  his  lyrical  pieces. 

John  W.  Hales. 


DONNE.  561 


Song. 

Go  and  catch  a  falling  star, 
Get  with  child  a  mandrake  root, 
Tell  me  where  all  times  past  are, 
Or  who  cleft  the  Devil's  foot  ; 
Teach  me  to  hear  mermaids  singing, 
Or  to  keep  off  envy's  stinging. 

And  find 

What  wind 
Serves  to  advance  an  honest  mind. 

If  thou  be'st  born  to  strange  sights. 
Things  invisible  go  see, 
Ride  ten  thousand  days  and  nights 
Till  age  snow  white  hairs  on  thee  ; 
Thou,  when  thou  return'st,  wilt  tell  me 
All  strange  wonders  that  befell  thee, 

And  swear 

No  where 
Lives  a  woman  true  and  fair. 

If  thou  find'st  one  let  me  know. 

Such  a  pilgrimage  were  sweet  ; 

Yet  do  not,  I  would  not  go, 

Though  at  next  door  we  might  meet ; 

Though  she  were  true  when  you  met  her, 

And  last,  when  you  wrote  your  letter, 

Yet  she 

Will  be 
False,  ere  I  come,  to  two  or  three. 


A  Valediction  forbidding  Mourning. 

As  virtuous  men  pass  mildly  away. 
And  whisper  to  their  souls  to  go. 
Whilst  some  of  their  sad  friends  do  say, 
'  Now  his  breath  goes,'  and  some  say  '  No ' 
VOL.  I.  00 


562  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

So  let  us  meet  and  make  no  noise, 
No  tear-floods,  nor  sigh-tempests  move, 
'Twere  profanation  of  our  joys, 
To  tell  the  laity  our  love. 

Moving  of  th'  Earth  brings  harm  and  fears. 
Men  reckon  what  it  did  and  meant ; 
But  trepidation  of  the  spheres, 
Though  greater  far,  is  innocent. 

Dull  sublunary  lovers'  love, 
(Whose  soul  is  sense)  cannot  admit 
Of  absence,  'cause  it  doth  remove 
The  thing  which  elemented  it. 

But  we  by  a  love  so  far  refin'd, 
That  ourselves  know  not  what  it  is, 
Inter-assured  of  the  mind. 
Careless  eyes,  lips,  and  hands,  to  miss  ; 

Our  two  souls  therefore,  which  are  one, 
Though  I  must  go,  endure  not  yet 
A  breach,  but  an  expansion, 
Like  gold  to  airy  thinness  beat. 

If  they  be  two,  they  are  two  so 
As  stiff  twin  compasses  are  two. 
Thy  soul,  the  fix'd  foot,  makes  no  show 
To  move,  but  doth,  if  th'  other  do. 

And  though  it  in  the  centre  sit, 
Yet  when  the  other  far  doth  roam, 
It  leans  and  hearkens  after  it, 
And  grows  erect  as  that  comes  home. 

Such  wilt  thou  be  to  me,  who  must 
Like  th'  other  foot,  obliquely  run. 
Thy  firmness  makes  my  circle  just, 
And  maliCij  me  end  where  1  bct^un. 


DONNE.  563 


Song. 


Sweetest  love,  I  do  not  go 
For  weariness  of  thee, 
Nor  in  hope  the  world  can  show 
A  fitter  love  for  me  ; 

But  since  that  I 
Must  die  at  last,  'tis  best 
Thus  to  use  myself  in  jest 
By  feigned  deaths  to  die. 

Yesternight  the  Sun  went  hence 
And  yet  is  here  to-day. 
He  hath  no  desire  nor  sense, 
Nor  half  so  short  a  way  ; 
Then  fear  not  me, 
But  believe  that  I  shall  make 
Hastier  journeys,  since  I  take 
More  wings  and  spurs  than  he. 

O  how  feeble  is  man's  power, 
That  if  good  fortune  fall, 
Cannot  ado  another  hour. 
Nor  a  lost  hour  recall ! 

But  come  bad  chance, 
And  we  join  to  't  our  strength, 
And  we  teach  it  art  and  length, 
Itself  o'er  us  t'  advance. 

When  thou  sigh'st  thou  sigh'st  not  wind, 
But  sigh'st  my  soul  away ; 
When  thou  v/eep'st  unkindly  kind, 
My  life's  blood  doth  decay. 

It  cannot  be 
That  thou  lov'st  me,  as  thou  say'st ; 
If  in  thine  my  life  thou  waste, 
Thou  art  the  life  of  me. 
002 


564  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

Let  not  thy  divining  heart 
Forethink  me  any  ill, 
Destiny  may  take  my  part 
And  may  thy  fears  fulfil  ; 
But  think  that  we 
Are  but  laid  aside  to  sleep  : 
They  who  one  another  keep 
Alive,  ne'er  parted  be. 


From  'Verses  to  Sir  Henry  Wootton.' 

Be  then  thine  own  home,  and  in  thyself  dwell ; 

Inn  anywhere  ;  continuance  maketh  Hell. 

And  seeing  the  snail,  which  everywhere  doth  roam, 

Carrying  his  own  house  still,  is  still  at  home : 

Follow  (for  he  's  easy  pac'd)  this  snail, 

Be  thine  own  palace,  or  the  world's  thy  jail. 

But  in  the  world's  sea  do  not  like  cork  sleep 

Upon  the  water's  face,  nor  in  the  deep 

Sink  like  a  lead  without  a  line  :  but  as 

Fishes  glide,  leaving  no  print  where  they  pass, 

Nor  making  sound,  so  closely  thy  course  go ; 

Let  men  dispute  whether  thou  breathe  or  no : 

Only  in  this  be  no  Galenist.     To  make 

Court's  hot  ambitions  wholesome,  do  not  take 

A  dram  of  country's  dulness ;  do  not  add 

Correctives,  but  as  chymics  purge  the  bad. 

But,  sir,  I  advise  not  you,  I  rather  do 

Say  o'er  those  lessons  which  I  learn'd  of  you  : 

Whom,  free  from  Germany's  schisms,  and  lightness 

Of  France,  and  fair  Italie's  faithlessness. 

Having  from  these  suck'd  all  they  had  of  wOrth 

And  brought  home  that  faith  which  you  carry'd  forth, 

I   throughly  love  :  but  if  myself  I've  won 

To  know  my  rules,  I  have,  and  you  have,  Donne. 


DONNE. 


The  Will. 


565 


Before  I  sigh  my  last  gasp,  let  me  breathe, 
Great  Love,  some  legacies  ;  here  I  bequeath 
Mine  eyes  to  Argus,  if  mine  eyes  can  see. 
If  they  be  blind,  then  Love,  I  give  them  thee  ; 
My  tongue  to  Fame  ;  to  ambassadors  mine  ears  ; 

To  women,  or  the  sea,  my  tears  ; 
Thou,  Love,  hast  taught  me  heretofore 
By  making  me  serve  her  who  had  twenty  more. 
That  I  should  give  to  none,  but  such  as  had  too  much  before. 

My  constancy  I  to  the  planets  give, 

My  truth  to  them  who  at  the  court  do  live  ; 

Mine  ingenuity  and  openness 

To  Jesuits  ;  to  buffoons  my  pensiveness  ; 

My  silence  to  any,  who  abroad  hath  been  ; 

My  money  to  a  Capuchin. 
Thou,  Love,  taught'st  me,  by  appointing  me 
To  love  there,  where  no  love  receiv'd  can  be, 
Only  to  give  to  such  as  have  an  incapacity. 

My  faith  I  give  to  Roman  Catholics  ; 
AH  my  good  works  unto  the  schismatics 
Of  Amsterdam  ;  my  best  civility 
And  courtship,  to  an  university  ; 
My  modesty  I  give  to  shoulders  bare  ; 

My  patience  let  gamesters  share. 
Thou,  Love,  taught'st  me,  by  making  me 
Love  her  that  holds  my  love  disparity. 
Only  to  give  to  those  that  count  my  gifts  indignity. 

I  give  my  reputation  to  those 
Which  were  my  friends  ;  my  industry  to  foes  ; 
To  schoolmen  I  bequeath  my  doubtfulness  ; 
My  sickness  to  physicians,  or  excess  ; 


566  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

To  Nature,  all  that  I  in  rhyme  have  writ ; 

And  to  my  company  my  wit ; 
Thou,  Love,  by  making  me  adore 
Her,  who  begot  this  love  in  me  before, 
Taught'st  me  to  make,  as  though  I  gave,  when  I  did  but  restore. 

To  him  for  whom  the  passing  bell  next  tolls 
I  give  my  physic  books  ;  my  written  roUs 
Of  moral  counsels  I  to  Bedlam  give  ; 
My  brazen  medals,  unto  them  which  live 
In  want  of  bread  ;  to  them  which  pass  among 

All  foreigners,  my  English  tongue, 
Thou,  Love,  by  making  me  love  one 
Who  thinks  her  friendship  a  fit  portion 
For  younger  lovers,  dost  my  gifts  thus  disproportion. 

Therefore  I'll  give  no  more  ;  but  I'll  undo 

The  world  by  dying  ;  because  love  dies  too. 

Then  all  your  beauties  will  be  no  more  worth 

Than  gold  in  mines,  where  none  doth  draw  it  forth  ; 

And  all  your  graces  no  more  use  shall  have 

Than  a  sun-dial  on  a  grave. 
Thou,  Love,  taughtest  me,  by  making  me 
Love  her,  who  doth  neglect  both  me  and  thee, 
To  invent  and  practise  this  one  way  to  annihilate  all  three. 


Vols.  II,   III,   and    IV    of 

THE  ENGLISH   POETS: 
SELECTIONS, 

WITH   CRITICAL   INTRODUCTIONS   BY   VARIOUS   WRITERS, 

AND 

A    GENERAL    INTRODUCTION    BY 
MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 

EDITED    BY 

THOMAS    HUMPHRY   WARD,  M.A. 

The  aim  of  this  book  is  to  furnish  in  a  convenient  form 
a  thoroughly  representative  selection  of  English  poetry,  from 
Chaucer  to  modern  times,  excluding  the  drama  and  the 
writings   of  living  poets. 

The  distinguishing  feature  is  that  the  work  of  selection 
and  criticism  has  been  entrusted  to  a  number  of  different 
writers,  who  have  been  chosen  for  their  special  acquaintance 
with  the  poets  and  the  periods  with  which  they  deal.  It  is 
hoped  that  the  book  may  thus  claim  a  degree  of  authority 
which  could  not  be  claimed  by  any  single  writer  who  should 
attempt  to  cover  the  whole  vast  field  of  English  poetry. 

Vol.  II, 

Ben  Jonson Prof.  A.  W.  Ward. 

Drummond  of  Hawthornden  .  The  Editor. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher .     .     .  A.  C.  Bradley. 
Browne,  Wither  and  Habington  W.  T.  ARNOLD. 

Herrick,  &c E.  W.  GOSSE. 

Herbert,  Crashaw,  &c.    .     .     .  G.  A.  SiMCOX. 

Cowley The  Editor 

Waller,  Denham,  &c.      ...  E.  W.  GosSE. 

Milton Mark  Pattison. 

Marvell Goldwin  Smith. 

Minor  Restoration  poets      .     .  E.  W.   GosSE. 

Butler W.  E.  Henley. 

Dryden Prof.  A.  W.  Ward. 

[Turn  over. 


In  Vols.  Ill  and  IV,  which  are  to  be  pubUshed  immediately, 
the  following  are  the  principal  subjects : — 

Vol.  III. 

Swift Prof.  Nichol. 

Gay,  Prior,  &c Austin  Dobson. 

Pope Mark  Pattison. 

Allan  Ramsay W.  MiNTO. 

Thomson G.  Saintsbury. 

Akenside Prof.  Dowden. 

The  Wesleys The  Dean  of  Westminster. 

Collins A.  C.  Swinburne. 

Gray Matthew  Arnold. 

Goldsmith Prof.  Dowden. 

Chatterton A.  Lang. 

Cowper The  Editor. 

Burns Dr.  Service. 

Crabbe W.  J.  Courthope. 

Vol.  IV. 

Wordsworth The  Dean  of  St.  Paul's. 

Coleridge W.  H.  Pater. 

Rogers        \ 

Southey     [ SiR  Henry  Taylor. 

Campbell   ' 

Scott GoLDWiN  Smith. 

Moore E.  W.  GOSSE. 

Byron J.  A.  Symonds. 

Shelley F.  W.  H.  Myers. 

Keats Matthew  Arnold. 

Landor Lord  Houghton. 

Hood  and  Praed AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

Kcblc The  Dean  of  Westminster. 

Clough The  Editor. 


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