Aside from a few dates and names, Gascoigne’s biography is best contained in some of his finest poems—Gascoigne’s Woodmanship, in the Dan Bartholmew poems, of which the Dolorous Discourses is one, in The Green Knight’s Farewell to Fancy, in the several Memories, and elsewhere. Gascoigne was a student at Trinity College, Cambridge, and he studied law at Gray’s Inn; from 1557 to 1559 he was a member of Parliament.
In virtually every calling that he followed, Gascoigne was a failure; he failed as a courtier, he failed as a gentleman farmer, he failed as a soldier—a series of defeats movingly explained and justified in his greatest poem, Gascoigne’s Woodmanship. But he was perhaps the best-known English writer of his own day; he composed a blank verse tragedy, Jocasta, which was an adaptation of an Italian play; he wrote a comedy in prose, Supposes, again an adaptation, from Ariosto; he wrote a long satire in blank verse, The Steel Glass, a work for which he is, most unfortunately, best remembered; he wrote a fictional prose narrative, the Adventures of Master F.J., the first narrative of its sort to appear in English; and he wrote the first important treatise on English prosody, Certain Notes of Instruction. His first book of poetry was A Hundreth Sundrie Flowers, which was reissued with additions and alterations in 1575 as The Posies of George Gascoigne, Esquire.
Gascoigne is certainly the most important poet of the purely Native movement and is one of the six or eight greatest poets of the century. His best work is found in his longer poems, where his powers of structure are best displayed. Though his diction is often harsh, it is deliberately so, as was that of a poet he resembles, John Donne; his poems move with a strange, rough dignity, and he is powerful in a way that no other poet of his century was. A valuable work upon his life is George Gascoigne, Elizabethan Courtier, Soldier, and Poet, by C. T. Prouty (1942).
TEXT:
The Complete Works of George Gascoigne, Vol. I, edited by John W. Cunliffe (1907).
George Gascoigne’s Hundreth Sundrie Flowers, edited by C. T. Prouty, (1942).
THE PASSION OF A LOVER
I smile sometimes, although my grief be great,
To hear and see these lovers paint their pain,
And how they can in pleasant rimes repeat
The passing pangs which they in fancies feign.
But if I had such skill to frame a verse,
I could more pain than all their pangs rehearse.
Some say they find nor peace nor power to fight,
Which seemeth strange; but stranger is my state.
I dwell in dole, yet sojourn with delight;
Reposed in rest, yet wearied with debate.
For flat repulse might well appease my will,
But fancy fights to try my fortune still.
Some other say they hope, yet live in dread;
They freeze, they flame, they fly aloft, they fall;
But I nor hope with hap to raise my head
Nor fear to stoop, for why my gate is small.
Nor can I freeze, with cold to kill my heart,
Nor yet so flame, as might consume my smart.
How live I then, which thus draw forth my days?
Or tell me how I found this fever first?
What fits I feel? what distance? what delays?
What grief? what ease? what like I best? what worst?
These things they tell, which seek redress of pain;
And so will I, although I count it vain.
I live in love, even so I love to live
(Oh happy state, twice happy he that finds it);
But love to life this cognizance doth give,
This badge, this mark; to every man that minds it,
Love lendeth life, which, dying, cannot die,
Nor living live: and such a life lead I.
The sunny days which glad the saddest wights,
Yet never shine to clear my misty moon:
No quiet sleep, amid the moonshine nights,
Can close mine eyes, when I am woebegone;
Into such shades my peevish sorrow shrouds
That Sun and Moon are still to me in clouds.
And feverlike I feed my fancy still
With such repast as most impairs my health,
Which fever first I caught by wanton will
When coals of kind did stir my blood by stealth;
And gazing eyes in beauty put such trust
That love enflamed my liver all with lust.
My fits are like the fever-hectic fits,
Which one day quakes within and burns without,
The next day heat within the bosom sits,
And shivering cold the body goes about.
So is my heart most hot when hope is cold,
And quaketh most when I most heat behold.
Tormented thus without delays I stand,
All ways in one and evermore shall be,
In greatest grief when help is nearest hand,
And best at ease if death might make me free;
Delighting most in that which hurts my heart,
And hating change which might relieve my smart.
Yet you, dear dame, to whom this cure pertains,
Devise betimes some drams for my disease,
A noble name shall be your greatest gains,
Whereof be sure, if you will work mine ease,
And though fond fools set forth their fits as fast,
Yet grant with me that Gascoigne’s passion passed.
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 ease is builded all on trust,
And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy.
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 shoon,
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.
Can watch and sing when others sleep,
And taketh pleasure in her pain,
To wray the woe that makes her weep,
So sing I now for to bewray
The loathsome life I lead alway.
The which to thee, dear wench, I write,
That knowest 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.
THE LULLABY OF A LOVER
Sing lullaby, as women do,
Wherewith they bring their babes to rest,
And lullaby can I sing too
As womanly as can the best.
With lullaby they still the child,
And if I be not much beguiled,
Full many wanton babes have I
Which must be stilled with lullaby.
First lullaby my youthful years;
It is now time to go to bed,
For crooked age and hoary hairs
Have won the haven within my head.
With lullaby, then, youth be still;
With lullaby content thy will;
Since courage quails and comes behind,
Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind.
Which wonted were to glance apace.
For every glass may now suffice
To show the furrows in my face;
With lullaby then wink awhile,
With lullaby your looks beguile;
Let no fair face nor beauty bright
Entice you eft with vain delight.
And lullaby, my wanton will;
Let reason’s rule now reign thy thought,
Since all too late I find by skill
How dear I have thy fancies bought;
With lullaby now take thine ease,
With lullaby thy doubts appease.
For trust to this: if thou be still,
My body shall obey thy will.
Eke lullaby, my loving boy,
My little Robin, take thy rest;
Since age is cold and nothing coy,
Keep close thy coin, for so is best;
With lullaby be thou content,
With lullaby thy lusts relent,
Let others pay which hath mo pence;
Thou art too poor for such expense.
Thus lullaby, my youth, mine eyes,
My will, my ware, and all that was.
I can no mo delays devise,
But welcome pain, let pleasure pass;
With lullaby now take your leave,
With lullaby your dreams deceive;
And when you rise with waking eye,
Remember then this lullaby.
GASCOIGNE’S PRAISE OF HIS MISTRESS
The hap which Paris had as due for his desert,
Who favored Venus for her face and scorned Minerva’s art,
May serve to warn the wise that they no more esteem
The glistering gloss of beauty’s blaze than reason should it deem.
Dan Priam’s younger son found out the fairest dame
That ever trod on Troyan mold. What followed of the same?
I list not bruit her bale; let others spread it forth;
But for his part, to speak my mind, his choice was little worth.
My meaning is but this: who marks the outward show,
And never gropes for grafts of grace which in the mind should grow,
May chance upon such choice as trusty Troilus had,
And dwell in dole as Paris did, when he would fain be glad.
How happy then am I whose hap hath been to find
A mistress first that doth excel in virtues of the mind,
And yet therewith hath joined such favor and such grace
As Pandar’s niece if she were here, would quickly give her place;
Within whose worthy breast Dame Bounty seeks to dwell,
And saith to beauty: yield to me, since I do thee excel;
Between whose heavenly eyes doth right remorse appear,
And pity placëd by the same doth much amend her cheer;
Who in my dangers deep did deign to do me good,
Who did relieve my heavy heart, and sought to save my blood;
Who first increased my friends and overthrew my foes,
Who loved all them that wished me well, and likëd none but those.
O Ladies, give me leave; I praise her not so far,
Since she doth pass you all as much as Titan stains a star.
You hold such servants dear, as able are to serve;
She held me dear when I, poor soul, could no good thing deserve.
You set by them that swim in all prosperity;
She set by me when as I was in great calamity.
You best esteem the brave and let the poorest pass;
She best esteemed my poor good will, all naked as it was.
But whither am I went? What humor guides my grain?
I seek to weigh the woolsack down with one poor pepper grain.
I seem to pen her praise that doth surpass my skill;
I strive to row against the tide, I hop against the hill.
Then let these few suffice: she Helen stains for hue,
Dido for grace, Cresside for cheer, and is as Thisbe true.
Yet if you further crave to have her name displayed,
Dame Favor is my mistress’ name, Dame Fortune is her maid.
GASCOIGNE’S GOOD MORROW
You that have spent the silent night
In sleep and quiet rest,
And joy to see the cheerful light
That riseth in the east—
Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart,
Come help me now to sing;
Each willing wight come bear a part,
To praise the heavenly King.
And you whom care in prison keeps,
Or sickness doth suppress,
Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps,
Or dolors do distress—
Yet bear a part in doleful wise,
Yea, think it good accord
And acceptáble sacrifice
Each spirit to praise the Lord.
The dreadful night with darksomeness
Had overspread the light,
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness
Had over-pressed our might—
A glass wherein we may behold
Each storm that stops our breath,
Our bed the grave, our clothes like mold,
And sleep like dreadful death.
Yet, as this deadly night did last
But for a little space,
And heavenly day now night is past
Doth show his pleasant face—
So must we hope to see God’s face
At last in heaven on high,
When we have changed this mortal place
For immortality.
And of such haps and heavenly joys
As then we hope to hold,
All earthly sights, all worldly toys
Are tokens to behold.
The day is like the day of doom,
The sun, the Son of Man,
The skies the heavens, the earth the tomb
Wherein we rest till then.
The rainbow bending in the sky,
Bedecked with sundry hues,
Is like the seat of God on high,
And seems to tell these news:
That as thereby he promised
To drown the world no more,
So by the blood which Christ hath shed
He will our health restore.
The misty clouds that fall sometime
And overcast the skies
Are like to troubles of our time,
Which do but dim our eyes;
But as such dews are dried up quite
When Phoebus shows his face,
So are such fancies put to flight
Where God doth guide by grace.
The carrion crow, that loathsome beast,
Which cries against the rain,
Both for her hue and for the rest
The Devil resembleth plain:
And as with guns we kill the crow,
For spoiling our relief,
The Devil so must we overthrow
With gunshot of belief.
The little birds which sing so sweet
Are like the angels’ voice,
Which render God his praises meet
And teach us to rejoice;
And as they more esteem that mirth
Than dread the night’s annoy,
So must we deem our days on earth
But hell to heavenly joy.
Unto which joys for to attain
God grant us all his grace,
And send us after worldly pain
In heaven to have a place,
Where we may still enjoy that light
Which never shall decay;
Lord, for thy mercy, lend us might
To see that joyful day!
GASCOIGNE’S MEMORIES: II
The vain excess of flattering fortune’s gifts
Envenometh the mind with vanity,
And beats the restless brain with endless drifts
To stay the staff of worldly dignity;
The beggar stands in like extremity.
Wherefore to lack the most and leave the least,
I count enough as good as any feast.
By too, too much Dan Croesus caught his death,
And bought with blood the price of glittering gold;
By too, too little many one lacks breath,
And starves in streets a mirror to behold:
So pride for heat, and poverty pines for cold.
Wherefore to lack the most and leave the least,
I count enough as good as any feast.
Store makes no sore: lo, this seems contrary,
And more the merrier is a proverb eke;
But store of sores may make a malady,
And one too many maketh some to seek,
When two be met that banquet with a leek:
Wherefore to lack the most and leave the least,
I count enough as good as any feast.
The rich man surfeiteth by gluttony,
Which feedeth still, and never stands content;
The poor again he pines for penury,
Which lives with lack when all and more is spent:
So too much and too little both be shent.
Wherefore to lack the most and leave the least,
I count enough as good as any feast.
The conqueror with uncontented sway
Doth raise up rebels by his avarice;
The recreant doth yield himself a prey
To foreign spoil by sloth and cowardice:
So too much and too little both be vice.
Wherefore to lack the most and leave the least,
I count enough as good as any feast.
If so thy wife be too, too fair of face,
It draws one guest too many to thine inn;
If she be foul, and foilëd with disgrace,
In other pillows prickst thou many a pin:
So foul prove fools, and fairer fall to sin.
Wherefore to lack the most and leave the least,
I count enough as good as any feast.
And of enough, enough, and now no more,
Because my brains no better can devise;
When things be bad, a small sum maketh store,
So of such verse a few may soon suffice;
Yet still to this my weary pen replies
That I said last; and though you like it least,
It is enough and as good as a feast.
GASCOIGNE’S MEMORIES: III
The common speech is, spend and God will send;
But what sends he? A bottle and a bag,
A staff, a wallet, and a woeful end
For such as list in bravery so to brag.
Then if thou covet coin enough to spend,
Learn first to spare thy budget at the brink,
So shall the bottom be the faster bound;
But he that list with lavish hand to link
(In like expense) a penny with a pound,
May chance at last to sit aside and shrink
His harebrained head without Dame Dainty’s door.
Hick, Hob, and Dick, with clouts upon their knee,
Have many times more goonhole groats in store
And change of crowns more quick at call than he,
Which let their lease and took their rent before.
For he that raps a royal on his cap,
Before he put one penny in his purse,
Had need turn quick and broach a better tap,
Or else his drink may chance go down the worse.
I not deny but some men have good hap
To climb aloft by scales of courtly grace
And win the world with liberality;
Yet he that yerks old angels out apace
And hath no new to purchase dignity,
When orders fall, may chance to lack his grace;
For haggard hawks mislike an empty hand.
So stiffly some stick to the mercer’s stall,
Till suits of silk have sweat out all their land;
So oft thy neighbors banquet in thy hall,
Till Davie Debet in thy parlor stand
And bids thee welcome to thine own decay.
I like a lion’s looks not worth a leek
When every fox beguiles him of his prey;
What sauce but sorrow serveth him a week,
Which all his cates consumeth in one day?
First use thy stomach to a stand of ale,
Before thy Malmesey come in merchant’s books,
And rather were for shift thy shirt of mail,
Than tear thy silken sleeves with tenter-hooks;
Put feathers in thy pillows great and small,
Let them be prinked with plumes, that gape for plumes;
Heap up both gold and silver safe in hooches,
Catch, snatch, and scratch for scrapings and for crumbs
Before thou deck thy hat on high with brooches.
Let first thine one hand hold fast all that comes,
Before that other learn his letting fly:
Remember still that soft fire makes sweet malt;
No haste but good, who means to multiply:
Bought wit is dear, and dressed with sour salt;
Repentance comes too late; and then say I,
Who spares the first and keeps the last unspent,
Shall find that sparing yields a goodly rent.
GASCOIGNE’S MEMORIES: IV
1. In haste, post haste, when first my wandering mind
Beheld the glistering court with gazing eye,
Such deep delights I seemed therein to find
As might beguile a graver guest than I.
The stately pomp of Princes and their peers
Did seem to swim in floods of beaten gold;
The wanton world of young delightful years
Was not unlike a heaven for to behold,
Wherein did swarm, for every saint, a Dame—
So fair of hue, so fresh of their attire,
As might excel Dame Cynthia for fame,
Or conquer Cupid with his own desire.
These and such like were baits that blazëd still
Before mine eye to feed my greedy will.
2. Before mine eye to feed my greedy will,
Gan muster eke mine old acquainted mates,
Who helped the dish of vain delight to fill
My empty mouth with dainty delicates;
And foolish boldness took the whip in hand
To lash my life into this trustless trace,
Till all in haste I leaped aloof from land,
And hoist up soil to catch a courtly grace.
Each lingering day did seem a world of woe,
Till in that hapless haven my head was brought;
Waves of wanhope so tossed me to and fro
In deep despair to drown my dreadful thought:
Each hour a day, each day a year did seem,
And every year a world my will did deem.
3. And every year a world my will did deem,
Till lo, at last to court now am I come,
A seemly swain that might the place beseem,
A gladsome guest embraced of all and some.
Not there content with common dignity,
My wandering eye in haste—yea, post, post, haste—
Beheld the blazing badge of bravery,
For want whereof I thought my self disgraced.
Then peevish pride puffed up my swelling heart
To further forth so hot an enterprise,
And comely cost began to play his part
In praising patterns of mine own devise.
Thus all was good that might be got in haste,
To prink me up, and make me higher placed.
4. To prink me up and make me higher placed,
All came too late that tarried any time;
Pills of provision pleasëd not my taste;
They made my heels too heavy for to climb.
Me thought it best that boughs of boisterous oak
Should first be shred to make my feathers gay,
Till at the last a deadly dinting stroke
Brought down the bulk with edgetools of decay.
Of every farm I then let fly a lease
To feed the purse that paid for peevishness,
Till rent and all were fallen in such disease
As scarce could serve to maintain cleanliness.
The bough, the body, fine, farm, lease, and land—
All were too little for the merchant’s hand.
5. All were too little for the merchant’s hand,
And yet my bravery bigger than his book:
But when this hot account was coldly scanned,
I thought high time about me for to look.
With heavy cheer I cast my head aback
To see the fountain of my furious race;
Compared my loss, my living, and my lack,
In equal balance with my jolly grace,
And saw expenses grating on the ground
Like lumps of lead to press my purse full oft,
When light reward and recompence were found
Fleeting like feathers in the wind aloft.
These thus compared, I left the court at large;
For why? The gains doth seldom quit the charge.
6. For why? The gains doth seldom quit the charge;
And so say I, by proof too dearly bought.
My haste made waste, my brave and brainsick barge
Did float too fast to catch a thing of nought;
With leisure, measure, mean, and many mo,
I might have kept a chair of quiet state,
But hasty heads can not be settled so
Till crooked Fortune give a crabbed mate.
As busy brains must beat on tickle toys,
As rash invention breeds a raw device,
So sudden falls do hinder hasty joys;
And as swift baits do fleetest fish entice,
So haste makes waste; and therefore now I say,
No haste but good, where wisdom makes the way.
7. No haste but good, where wisdom makes the way—
For proof whereof, behold the simple snail,
Who sees the soldier’s carcass cast away,
With hot assault the castle to assail;
By line and leisure climbs the lofty wall
And wins the turret’s top more cunningly
Than doughty Dick, who lost his life and all
With hoisting up his head too hastily.
The swiftest bitch brings forth the blindest whelps;
The hottest fevers coldest cramps ensue;
The nakedst need hath ever lastest helps:
With Neville, then, I find this proverb true:
That haste makes waste, and therefore still I say
No haste but good, where wisdom makes the way.
That selfsame tongue which first did thee entreat
To link thy liking with my lucky love,
That trusty tongue must now these words repeat:
I love thee still, my fancy cannot move.
That dreadless heart which durst attempt the thought
To win thy will with mine for to consent,
Maintains that vow which love in me first wrought:
I love thee still, and never shall repent.
That happy hand which hardily did touch
Thy tender body to my deep delight
Shall serve with sword to prove my passion such
As loves thee still, much more than it can write.
Thus love I still with tongue, hand, heart, and all,
And when I change, let vengeance on me fall.
DAN BARTHOLMEW’S DOLOROUS DISCOURSES
I have entreated care to cut the thread
Which all too long hath held my lingering life,
And here aloof now have I hid my head
From company thereby to stint my strife.
This solitary place doth please me best,
Where I may wear my willing mind with moan,
And where the sighs which boil out of my breast
May scald my heart, and yet the cause unknown.
All this I do, for thee my sweetest sour,
For whom of yore I counted not of care,
For whom with hungry jaws I did devour
The secret bait which lurkëd in the snare;
For whom I thought all foreign pleasures pain,
For whom, again, all pain did pleasure seem;
But only thine, I found all fancies vain;
But only thine, I did no dolors deem.
Such was the rage that whilom did possess
The privy corners of my mazëd mind,
When hot desire did count those torments less
Which gained the gaze that did my freedom bind.
And now, with care, I can record those days
And call to mind the quiet life I led
Before I first beheld thy golden rays,
When thine untruth yet troubled not my head.
Remember thou, as I cannot forget,
How I had laid both love and lust aside,
And how I had my fixëd fancy set
In constant vow forever to abide:
The bitter proof of pangs in pleasure past,
The costly taste, of honey mixed with gall;
The painted heaven which turned to hell at last;
The freedom feigned, which brought me but to thrall;
The lingering suit, well fed with fresh delays;
The wasted vows which fled with every wind;
The restless nights to purchase pleasing days;
The toiling days to please my restless mind.
All these, with more, had bruisëd so my breast
And graft such grief within my groaning heart,
That I had left Dame Fancy and the rest
To greener years, which might endure the smart.
My weary bones did bear away the scars
Of many a wound receivëd by disdain;
So that I found the fruit of all those wars
To be naught else but pangs of unknown pain.
And now mine eyes were shut from such delight,
My fancy faint, my hot desires were cold,
When cruel hap presented to my sight
Thy maiden’s face, in years which were not old.
I think the Goddess of revenge devised
So to be wreaked on my rebelling will,
Because I had in youthful years despised
To taste the baits, which ’ticed my fancy still.
How so it were, God knows, I cannot tell;
But if I lie, you Heavens, the plague be mine;
I saw no sooner how delight did dwell
Between those little infant’s eyes of thine
But straight a sparkling coal of quick desire
Did kindle flame within my frozen heart,
And yielding fancy softly blew the fire
Which since hath been the cause of all my smart.
What need I say? Thy self for me can swear
How much I tendered thee in tender years.
Thy life was then to me, God knows, full dear;
My life to thee is light, as now appears.
I loved thee first, and shall do to my last;
Thou flattered’st first, and so thou wouldst do still.
For love of thee full many pains I passed;
For deadly hate thou seekest me to kill.
I cannot now with manly tongue rehearse
How soon that melting mind of thine did yield;
I shame to write in this waymenting verse
With how small fight I vanquished thee in field.
But Caesar, he—which all the world subdued—
Was never yet so proud of victory,
Nor Hannibal, with martial feats endued,
Did so much please himself in policy
As I, poor I, did seem to triumph then,
When first I got the bulwarks of thy breast;
With hot alarms I comforted my men,
In foremost rank I stood before the rest
And shook my flag, not all to show my force,
But that thou mightst thereby perceive my mind;
Askaunces, lo, now could I kill thy corse,
And yet my life is unto thee resigned.
Well, let this pass; and think upon the joy,
The mutual love, the confidence, the trust,
Whereby we both abandonëd annoy
And fed our minds with fruits of lovely lust.
Think on the tithe, of kisses got by stealth
Of sweet embracings shortenëd by fear;
Remember that which did maintain our health;
Alas, alas, why should I name it here?
And in the midst of all those happy days,
Do not forget the changes of my chance,
When in the depth of many wayward ways
I only sought what might thy state advance.
Thou must confess how much I cared for thee,
When of my self—I cared not for my self;
And when my hap was in mishaps to be,
Esteemed thee more than all the worldly pelf.
Mine absent thoughts did beat on thee alone
When thou hadst found a fond and newfound choice;
For lack of thee I sunk in endless moan,
When thou in change didst tumble and rejoice.
O mighty gods, needs must I honor you,
Needs must I judge your judgments to be just,
Because she did forsake him that was true,
And with false love did cloak a feignëd lust!
By high decrees you ordainëd the change
To light on such as she must needs mislike;
A meet reward for such as seek to range
When fancy’s force their feeble flesh doth strike.
But did I then give bridle to thy fall?
Thou headstrong, thou, accuse me if thou can!
Did I not hazard love, yea, life and all,
To ward thy will from that unworthy man?
And when by toil I travailëd to find
The secret causes of thy madding mood,
I found naught else but tricks of Cressid’s kind,
Which plainly proved that thou wert of her blood.
I found that absent Troilus was forgot
When Diomede had got both brooch and belt,
Both glove and hand, yea, heart and all, God wot,
When absent Troilus did in sorrows swelt.
These tricks, with more, thou knowst thyself I found,
Which now are needless here for to rehearse,
Unless it were to touch a tender wound
With corrosives my panting heart to perse.
But as the hound is counted little worth
Which giveth over for a loss or twain,
And cannot find the means to single forth
The stricken deer which doth in herd remain;
Or as the kindly spaniel which hath sprung
The pretty partridge for the falcon’s flight
Doth never spare but thrusts the thorns among
To bring this bird yet once again to sight;
And though he know by proof—yea, dearly bought—
That seld or never, for his own avail,
This weary work of his in vain is wrought,
Yet spares he not, but labors tooth and nail,
So labored I to save thy wandering ship,
Which reckless then was running on the rocks;
And though I saw thee seem to hang the lip,
And set my great good will as light as flocks,
Yet hauled I in the mainsheet of thy mind
And stayed thy course by anchors of advice;
I won thy will into a better wind
To save thy ware, which was of precious price.
And when I had so harborëd thy bark
In happy haven, which safer was than Dover,
The Admiral, which knew it by the mark,
Straight challenged all, and said thou wert a rover.
Then was I first in thy behalf to plead;
Yea, so I did, the Judge can say no less;
And whiles in toil this loathsome life I lead,
Camest thou thyself the fault for to confess,
And down on knee before thy cruel foe
Didst pardon crave, accusing me for all,
And saidst I was the cause that thou didst so,
And that I spun the thread of all thy thrall.
Not so content, thou furthermore didst swear
That of thy self thou never meant to swerve—
For proof whereof thou didst the colors wear
Which might bewray what saint thou meant to serve.
And that thy blood was sacrificëd eke
To manifest thy steadfast, martyred mind,
Till I perforce, constrained thee for to seek
These raging seas, adventures there to find.
Alas, alas, and out alas for me,
Who am enforcëd thus for to repeat
The false reports and cloakëd guiles of thee
Whereon too oft my restless thoughts do beat.
But thus it was, and thus God knows it is—
Which when I found by plain and perfect proof
My musing mind then thought it not amiss
To shrink aside, lamenting all aloof,
And so to beat my simple shiftless brain
For some device that might redeem thy state.
Lo, here the cause for why I take this pain;
Lo, how I love the wight which me doth hate;
Lo, thus I lie and restless rest in Bath,
Whereas I bathe not now in bliss, perdie,
But boil in bale and scamble thus in scath,
Because I think on thine unconstancy.
And wilt thou know how here I spend my time
And how I draw my days in dolors still?
Then stay awhile; give ear unto my rime
So shalt thou know the weight of all my will.
When Titan is constrainëd to forsake
His leman’s couch, and climbeth to his cart,
Then I begin to languish for thy sake;
And with a sigh, which may bewray my smart,
I clear mine eyes whom gum of tears has glued,
And up on foot I set my ghost-like corse;
And when the stony walls have oft renewed
My piteous plaints with echoes of remorse,
Then do I cry and call upon thy name,
And thus I say: Thou curst and cruel both,
Behold the man which taketh grief for game,
And loveth them which most his name do loathe.
Behold the man which ever truly meant,
And yet accused as author of thine ill;
Behold the man which all his life hath spent
To serve thy self and aye to work thy will;
Behold the man, which only for thy love
Did love himself, whom else he set but light;
Behold the man, whose blood for thy behove
Was ever pressed to shed itself outright.
And canst thou now condemn his loyalty?
And canst thou craft to flatter such a friend?
And canst thou see him sink in jeopardy?
And canst thou seek to bring his life to end?
Is this the right reward for such desart?
Is this the fruit of seed so timely sown?
Is this the price appointed for his part?
Shall truth be thus by treason overthrown?
Then farewell, faith, thou art no woman’s fere.
And with that word I stay my tongue in time;
With rolling eyes I look about each where
Lest any man should hear my raving rime.
And all in rage, enragëd as I am,
I take my sheet, my slippers, and my gown,
And in the Bath from whence but late I came,
I cast myself in dolors there to drown.
There all alone I can myself convey
Into some corner where I sit unseen,
And to my self, there naked, can I say:
Behold these brawn-fallen arms which once have been
Both large and lusty, able for to fight;
Now are they weak, and wearishe God he knows,
Unable now to daunt the foul despite
Which is presented by my cruel foes.
Thy thighs are thin, my body lank and lean;
It hath no bombast now, but skin and bones:
And on mine elbow as I lie and lean,
I see a trusty token for the nonce.
I spy a bracelet bound about mine arm,
Which to my shadow seemeth thus to say:
Believe not me; for I was but a charm
To make thee sleep when others went to play.
And as I gaze thus galded all with grief,
I find it fazëd almost quite in sunder.
Than think I thus: thus wasteth my relief,
And though I fade, yet to the world, no wonder.
For as this lace by leisure learns to wear,
So must I faint, even as the candle wasteth.
These thoughts, dear sweet, within my breast I bear;
And to my long home, thus my life it hasteth.
Herewith I feel the drops of sweltering sweat
Which trickle down my face, enforcëd so,
And in my body feel I likewise beat
A burning heart which tosseth to and fro.
Thus all in flames I cinder-like consume,
And were it not that wanhope lends me wind,
Soon might I fret my fancies all in fume,
And like a ghost my ghost his grave might find.
But freezing hope doth blow full in my face,
And cold of cares becomes my cordial,
So that I still endure that irksome place
Where sorrow seethes to scald my skin withal.
And when from thence or company me drives,
Or weary woes do make me change my seat,
Then in my bed my restless pains revives,
Until my fellows call me down to meat.
And when I rise, my corpse for to array,
I take the glass, sometimes; but not for pride,
For God he knows my mind is not so gay,
But for I would in comeliness abide.
I take the glass, wherein I seem to see
Such withered wrinkles and so foul disgrace
That little marvel seemeth it to me,
Though thou so well didst like the noble face.
The noble face was fair and fresh of hue,
My wrinkled face is foul and fadeth fast;
The noble face was unto thee but new,
My wrinkled face is old and clean outcast;
The noble face might move thee with delight,
My wrinkled face could never please thine eye.
Lo, thus of crime I covet thee to quite,
And still accuse myself of surquidry,
As one that am unworthy to enjoy
The lasting fruit of such a love as thine;
Thus as I tickled still with every toy,
And when my fellows call me down to dine,
No change of meat provokes mine appetite,
Nor sauce can serve to taste my meats withal;
Then I devise the juice of grapes to dight,
For sugar and for cinnamon I call,
For ginger, grains, and for each other spice
Wherewith I mix the noble wine apace;
My fellows praise the depth of my devise,
And say it is as good as Ippocrace.
As Ippocrace, say I? And then I swelt,
My fainting limbs straight fall into a swown;
Before the taste of Ippocrace is felt,
The naked name in dolors doth me drown;
For then I call unto my troubled mind
That Ippocrace hath been thy daily drink,
That Ippocrace hath walked with every wind.
In bottles that were fillëd to the brink,
With Ippocrace thou banquetedst full oft,
With Ippocrace thou madst thyself full merry;
Such cheer had set thy new love so aloft
That old love now was scarcely worth a cherry.
And then again I fall into a trance;
But when my breath returns against my will,
Before my tongue can tell my woeful chance,
I hear my fellows how they whisper still.
One saith that Ippocrace is contrary
Unto my nature and complexión,
Whereby they judge that all my malady
Was long of that by alteratión.
Another saith: No, no, this man is weak;
And for such weak, so hot things are not best.
Then at the last I hear no liar speak
But one which knows the cause of mine unrest,
And saith : This man is, for my life, in love;
He hath received repulse, or drunk disdain.
Alas, cry I; and ere I can remove,
Into a swown I soon return again.
Thus drive I forth, my doleful dining time,
And trouble others with my troubles still;
But when I hear the bell hath passëd prime,
Into the Bath I wallow by my will,
That there my tears, unseen, might ease my grief;
For though I starve, yet have I fed my fill;
In privy pangs I count my best relief.
And still I strive in weary woes to drench,
But when I plunge, then woe is at an ebb;
My glowing coals are all too quick to quench.
And I, too warm, am wrappëd in the web
Which makes me swim against the wishëd wave;
Lo, thus, dear wench, I lead a loathsome life,
And greedily I seek the greedy grave
To make an end of all these storms and strife;
But death is deaf, and hears not my desire,
So that my days continue still in dole,
And in my nights I feel the secret fire
Which close in embers coucheth like a coal,
And in the day hath been but rakëd up
With covering ashes of my company;
Now breaks it out and boils the careful cup
Which in my heart doth hang full heavily.
I melt in tears, I swelt in chilling sweat,
My swelling heart breaks with delay of pain,
I freeze in hope, yet burn in haste of heat,
I wish for death, and yet in life remain.
And when dead sleep doth close my dazzled eyes,
Then dreadful dreams my dolors do increase.
Methinks I lie awake in woeful wise
And see thee come, my sorrows for to cease.
Me seems thou sayest, my good, What meaneth this?
What ails thee thus to languish and lament?
How can it be that bathing all in bliss,
Such cause unknown disquiets thy content?
Thou dost me wrong to keep so close from me
The grudge or grief which grippeth now thy heart,
For well thou knowest I must thy partner be
In bale, in bliss, in solace, and in smart.
Alas, alas, these things I deem in dreams;
But when mine eyes are open and awake,
I see not thee, where with the flowing streams
Of brinish tears their wonted floods do make.
Thus as thou seest I spend both nights and days,
And for I find the world did judge me once
A witless writer of these lovers’ lays,
I take my pen and paper for the nonce,
I lay aside this foolish riding rime.
And as my troubled head can bring to pass,
I thus bewray the torments of my time:
Bear with my Muse, it is not as it was.
GASCOIGNE’S WOODMANSHIP
My worthy Lord, I pray you wonder not
To see your woodman shoot so oft awry,
Nor that he stands amazëd like a sot
And lets the harmless deer, unhurt, go by.
Or if he strike a doe which is but carren,
Laugh not, good Lord, but favor such a fault;
Take will in worth, he would fain hit the barren;
But though his heart be good, his hap is naught.
And therefore now I crave your Lordship’s leave
To tell you plain what is the cause of this:
First, if it please your honor to perceive
What makes your woodman shoot so oft amiss,
Believe me, Lord, the case is nothing strange:
He shoots awry almost at every mark;
His eyes have been so usëd for to range,
That now, God knows, they be both dim and dark.
For proof he bears the note of folly now,
Who shot sometimes to hit Philosophy:
And ask you why? Forsooth, I make avow,
Because his wanton wits went all awry.
Next that, he shot to be a man of law,
And spent some time with learnëd Littleton;
Yet in the end he provëd but a daw,
For law was dark and he had quickly done.
Then could he wish Fitzherbert such a brain
As Tully had, to write the law by art,
So that with pleasure, or with little pain,
He might, perhaps, have caught a truant’s part.
But all too late, he most misliked the thing
Which most might help to guide his arrow straight:
He winkëd wrong, and so let slip the string
Which cast him wide, for all his quaint conceit.
From thence he shot to catch a courtly grace,
And thought even there to wield the world at will;
But out, alas, he much mistook the place,
And shot awry at every rover still.
The blazing baits which draw the gazing eye,
Unfeathered there his first affectión;
No wonder then although he shot awry,
Wanting the feathers of discretión.
Yet more than them, the marks of dignity
He much mistook, and shot the wronger way,
Thinking the purse of prodigality,
Had been best mean to purchase such a prey.
He thought the flattering face which fleareth still
Had been full fraught with all fidelity,
And that such words as courtiers use at will
Could not have varied from the verity.
But when his bonnet, buttonëd with gold,
His comely cape, begarded all with gay,
His bombast hose, with linings manifold,
His knit silk stocks and all his quaint array,
Had picked his purse of all the Peter pence
Which might have paid for his promotión,
Then, all too late, he found that light expense
Had quite quenched out the court’s devotión.
So that since then the taste of misery
Hath been always full bitter in his bit,
And why? Forsooth, because he shot awry,
Mistaking still the marks which others hit.
But now behold what mark the man doth find:
He shoots to be a soldier in his age;
Mistrusting all the virtues of the mind,
He trusts the power of his personage,
As though long limbs led by a lusty heart
Might yet suffice to make him rich again;
But flushing frays have taught him such a part
That now he thinks the wars yield no such gain.
And sure I fear, unless your lordship deign,
To train him yet into some better trade,
It will be long before he hit the vein,
Whereby he may a richer man be made.
He cannot climb as other catchers can,
To lead a charge before himself be led;
He cannot spoil the simple sakeless man
Which is content to feed him with his bread;
He cannot pinch the painful soldier’s pay,
And shear him out his share in ragged sheets;
He cannot stop to take a greedy prey
Upon his fellows groveling in the streets;
He cannot pull the spoil from such as pill,
And seem full angry at such foul offense,
Although the gain content his greedy will
Under the cloak of contrary pretence.
And nowadays the man that shoots not so
May shoot amiss, even as your woodman doth;
But then you marvel why I let them go,
And never shoot, but say farewell, forsooth.
Alas, my Lord, while I do muse hereon,
And call to mind my youthful years misspent,
They give me such a bone to gnaw upon
That all my senses are in silence pent.
My mind is rapt in contemplatión,
Wherein my dazzled eyes only behold
The black hour of my constellatión,
Which framëd me so luckless on the mold.
Yet therewithal I cannot but confess
That vain presumption makes my heart to swell,
For thus I think: not all the world, I guess,
Shoots bet than I; nay, some shoots not so well.
In Aristotle somewhat did I learn
To guide my manners all by comeliness,
And Tully taught me somewhat to discern
Between sweet speech and barbarous rudeness.
Old Parkins, Rastall, and Dan Bracten’s books
Did lend me somewhat of the lawless Law;
The crafty courtiers with their guileful looks
Must needs put some experience in my maw.
Yet cannot these with many masteries mo
Make me shoot straight at any gainful prick,
Where some that never handled such a bow
Can hit the white, or touch it near the quick;
Who can nor speak nor write in pleasant wise,
Nor lead their life by Aristotle’s rule,
Nor argue well on questions that arise,
Nor plead a case more than my Lord Mayor’s mule,
Yet can they hit the marks that I do miss,
And win the mean which may the man maintain.
Now when my mind doth mumble upon this,
No wonder then although I pine for pain.
And whiles mine eyes behold this mirror thus,
The herd goeth by, and farewell, gentle does.
So that your Lordship quickly may discuss
What blinds mine eyes so oft, as I suppose.
But since my Muse can to my Lord rehearse
What makes me miss, and why I do not shoot,
Let me imagine in this worthless verse
If right before me, at my standing’s foot
There stood a doe, and I should strike her dead,
And then she prove a carrion carcass too,
What figure might I find within my head
To ’scuse the rage which ruled me so to do?
Some might interpret by plain paraphrase
That lack of skill or fortune led the chance,
But I must otherwise expound the case;
I say Jehovah did this doe advance,
And made her bold to stand before me so,
Till I had thrust mine arrow to her heart,
That by the sudden of her overthrow
I might endeavor to amend my part,
And turn mine eyes that they no more behold
Such guileful marks as seem more than they be:
And though they glister outwardly like gold,
Are inwardly but brass, as men may see.
And when I see the milk hang in her teat,
Me thinks it saith, Old babe, now learn to suck,
Who in thy youth couldst never learn the feat
To hit the whites which live with all good luck.
Thus have I told, my Lord, God grant in season,
A tedious tale in rime, but little reason.
IN PRAISE OF A GENTLEWOMAN
If men may credit give to true reported fames,
Who doubts but stately Rome had store of lusty, loving dames?
Whose ears have been so deaf as never yet heard tell
How far the fresh Pompeia for beauty did excel?
And golden Marcus, he that swayed the Roman sword,
Bare witness of Bohemia, by credit of his word.
What need I more rehearse, since all the world did know
How high the floods of beauty’s blaze within those walls did flow?
And yet in all that choice a worthy Roman knight—
Antonius, who conquerëd proud Egypt by his might—
Not all to please his eye, but most to ease his mind
Chose Cleopatra for his love, and left the rest behind.
A wondrous thing to read: in all his victory
He snapped but her for his own share, to please his fantasy.
She was not fair, God wot; the country breeds none bright;
Well may we judge her skin the foil, because her teeth were white.
Percase her lovely looks some praises did deserve,
But brown I dare be bold she was, for so the soil did serve.
And could Antonius forsake the fair in Rome
To love his nutbrown lady best, was this an equal doom?
I dare well say dames there did bear him deadly grudge;
His sentence had been shortly said, if Faustine had been judge.
For this I dare avow (without vaunt be it spoke):
So brave a knight as Anthony held all their necks in yoke.
I leave not Lucrece out, believe in her who list;
I think she would have liked his lure, and stoopëd to his fist.
What moved the chieftain, then, to link his liking thus?
I would some Roman dame were here, the question to discuss.
But I that read her life do find therein by fame
How clear her courtesy did shine in honor of her name.
Her bounty did excel, her truth had never peer,
Her lovely looks, her pleasant speech, her lusty loving cheer.
And all the worthy gifts that ever yet were found,
Within this good Egyptian Queen did seem for to abound.
Wherefore he worthy was to win the golden fleece,
Which scorned the blazing stars in Rome to conquer such a peace.
And she to quite his love, in spite of dreadful death,
Enshrined with snakes within his tomb, did yield her parting breath.
Allegoria
If fortune favored him, then may that man rejoice,
And think himself a happy man by hap of happy choice.
Who loves and is beloved of one as good, as true,
As kind as Cleopatra was, and yet more bright of hue—
Her eyes as grey as glass, her teeth as white as milk,
A ruddy lip, a dimpled chin, a skin as smooth as silk.
A wight what could you more, that may content man’s mind,
And hath supplies for every want, that any man can find;
And may himself assure, when hence his life shall pass,
She will be stung to death with snakes, as Cleopatra was.
THE GREEN KNIGHT’S FAREWELL TO FANCY
Fancy (quoth he), farewell, whose badge I long did bear,
And in my hat full harebrainedly thy flowers did I wear.
Too late I find, at last, thy fruits are nothing worth;
Thy blossoms fall and fade full fast, though bravery bring them forth.
By thee I hoped always in deep delights to dwell,
But since I find thy fickleness, Fancy (quoth he), farewell.
Thou madst me live in love, which wisdom bids me hate;
Thou bleardst mine eyes and madst me think that faith was mine by fate.
By thee those bitter sweets did please my taste alway;
By thee I thought that love was light and pain was but a play.
I thought that beauty’s blaze was meet to bear the bell,
And since I find myself deceived, Fancy (quoth he), farewell.
The gloss of gorgeous courts by thee did please mine eye;
A stately sight me thought it was to see the brave go by,
To see there feathers flaunt, to mark their strange device,
To lie along in ladies’ laps, to lisp and make it nice;
To fawn and flatter both I likëd sometimes well,
But since I see how vain it is, Fancy (quoth he), farewell.
When court had cast me off, I toilëd at the plow;
My fancy stood in strange conceits; to thrive I wot not how:—
By mills, by making malt, by sheep, and eke by swine,
By duck and drake, by pig and goose, by calves and keeping kine,
By feeding bullocks fat, when price at markets fell;
But since my swains eat up my gains, Fancy (quoth he), farewell.
In hunting of the deer my fancy took delight;
All forests knew my folly still; the moonshine was my light.
In frosts I felt no cold; a sunburnt hue was best;
I sweat and was in temper still; my watching seemëd rest.
What dangers deep I passed, it folly were to tell;
And since I sigh to think thereon, Fancy (quoth he), farewell.
A fancy fed me once to write in verse and rime,
To wray my grief, to crave reward, to cover still my crime,
To frame a long discourse on stirring of a straw,
To rumble rime in raff and ruff, yet all not worth a haw;
To hear it said, There goeth the man that writes so well;
But since I see what poets be, Fancy (quoth he), farewell.
At music’s sacred sound my fancies eft begun
In concords, discords, notes and clefts, in tunes of unison;
In hierarchies and strains, in rests, in rule and space,
In monochords and moving moods, in bourdons under bass.
In descants and in chants, I strainëd many a yell,
But since musicians be so mad, Fancy (quoth he), farewell.
To plant strange country fruits, to sow such seeds likewise,
To dig and delve for new found roots, where old might well suffice;
To prune the water-boughs, to pick the mossy trees—
Oh, how it pleased my fancy once!—to kneel upon my knees,
To graft a pippin stock when sap begins to swell;
But since the gains scarce quite the cost, Fancy (quoth he), farewell.
Fancy (quoth he), farewell, which made me follow drums,
Where powdered bullets serves for sauce to every dish that comes;
Where treason lurks in trust, where Hope all hearts beguiles,
Where mischief lieth still in wait, when fortune friendly smiles;
Where one day’s prison proves that all such heavens are hell,
And such I feel the fruits thereof; Fancy (quoth he), farewell.
If reason rule my thoughts, and God vouchsafe me grace,
Then comfort of philosophy shall make me change my race;
And fond I shall it find that fancy sets to show,
For weakly stands that building still which lacketh grace below.
But since I must accept my fortunes as they fell,
I say, God send me better speed; and, Fancy, now farewell!
bale: torment.
grutch: grudge.
shoon: show.
bewray: reveal.
bruit her bale: report her misery.
shent: disgraced, shamed.
foilëd: polluted.
goonhole groats: small coins.
raps a royal on his cap: i.e., pays in gold coins for his hat.
broach a better tap: i.e., find a better way.
angels: gold coins worth about ten shillings.
cates: cakes.
hooches: chests, coffers.
Neville: Alexander Neville, the young poet and translator; he was a friend of Barnabe Googe, and was probably at Gray’s Inn with Gascoigne. Neville had given Gascoigne a Latin proverb, “where-upon he [Gascoigne] compiled these seven sonnets in sequence.” See also note on p. 99.
waymenting: lamenting.
Askaunces: as if saying.
perse: pierce.
bewray: betray, reveal.
scamble: make one’s way.
scath: damage, sorrow.
leman: sweetheart, mistress.
fere: companion, mate.
wearishe: wizened, shriveled.
galded: galled.
fazëd: unraveled, worn through.
quite: requite.
surquidry: arrogance, pride, presumption.
dight: prepare, mix.
My worthy Lord: Arthur, Lord Grey of Wilton, a patron and friend of both Spenser and Gascoigne. The occasion of this poem is a winter hunt at Grey’s estate in Bedfordshire, shortly after Gascoigne had returned to England from the Spanish War.
carren: carrion; i.e., a pregnant doe.
Littleton: Sir Thomas Littleton, a justice of the Common Pleas, author of the famous Littleton’s Tenures.
Fitzherbert: Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, a well-known bar-rister, whose La Grande Abridgement was the first attempt to systematize the whole of English law.
Tully: Cicero.
fleareth: grins or grimaces fawningly, with a secondary implication of mocking or ridicule.
begarded all with gay: adorned with facings of bright, vari-colored materials.
Peter pence: formerly a tax due to the papal see; here, used to indicate money for bribery.
sakeless: guiltless.
pill: pillage.
Parkins, Rastall, Bracten: English jurists, authors of several important legal treatises.
prick: target.
water-boughs: undergrowth.
pippin: young apple tree.