ARTHUR GOLDING from The First Four Books of Ovid 1565

[Proserpine and Dis]

	While in this garden Proserpine was taking hir pastime,
	In gathering eyther Violets blew, or Lillies white as Lime,
	And while of Maidenly desire she fillde hir Maund and Lap,
	Endevoring to outgather hir companions there. By hap
	Dis spide hir: lovde hir: caught hir up: and all at once well neere:
	So hastie, hote, and swift a thing is Love, as may appeare.
	The Ladie with a wailing voyce afright did often call
	Hir Mother and hir waiting Maides, but Mother most of all
	And as she from the upper part hir garment would have rent,
	By chaunce she let her lap slip downe, and out the flowres went.
	And such a sillie simplenesse hir childish age yet beares,
	That even the verie losse of them did move hir more to teares.

[Daphne and Apollo]

	I pray thee Nymph Penaeis stay, I chase not as a fo:
	Stay Nymph: the Lambes so flee the Wolves, the Stags the Lions so:
	With flittring fethers sielie Doves so from the Gossehauke flie,
	And every creature from his foe. Love is the cause that I
	Do followe thee: alas alas how woulde it grieve my heart,
	To see thee fall among the briers, and that the bloud should start
	Out of thy tender legges, I wretch the causer of thy smart.
	The place is rough to which thou runst, take leysure I thee pray,
	Abate thy flight, and I my selfe my running pace will stay.
	Yet would I wishe thee take advise, and wisely for to viewe
	What one he is that for thy grace in humble wise doth sewe.
	I am not one that dwelles among the hilles and stonie rockes,
	I am no sheepehearde with a Curre, attending on the flockes:
	I am no Carle nor countrie Clowne, nor neathearde taking charge
	Of cattle grazing here and there within this Forrest large.
	Thou doest not know poore simple soule, God wote thou dost not knowe,
	From whome thou fleest. For if thou knew, thou wouldste not flee me so.
	In Delphos is my chiefe abode, my Temples also stande
	At Glaros and at Patara within the Lycian lande.
	And in the Ile of Tenedos the people honour mee.
	The king of Gods himself is knowne my father for to bee.
	By me is knowne that was, that is, and that that shall ensue,
	By mee men learne to sundrie tunes to frame sweete ditties true.
	In shooting I have stedfast hand, but surer hand had hee
	That made this wound within my heart that heretofore was free.
	Of Phisicke and of surgerie I found the Artes for neede
	The powre of everie herbe and plant doth of my gift proceede.
	Nowe wo is me that neare an herbe can heale the hurt of love
	And that the Artes that others helpe their Lord doth helpelesse prove.
	As Phœbus would have spoken more, away Penaeis stale
	With fearefull steppes, and left him in the midst of all his tale.
	And as shee ran the meeting windes hir garments backewarde blue,
	So that hir naked skinne apearde behinde hir as she flue,
	Hir goodly yellowe golden haire that hanged loose and slacke,
	With every puffe of ayre did wave and tosse behind hir backe.
	Hir running made hir seeme more fayre. The youthfull God therefore
	Coulde not abyde to waste his wordes in dalyance any more.
	But as his love advysed him he gan to mende his pace,
	And with the better foote before the fleeing Nymph to chace.
	And even as when the greedie Grewnde doth course the sielie Hare
	Amiddes the plaine and champion fielde without all covert bare,
	Both twaine of them do straine themselves and lay on footemanship,
	Who may best runne with all his force the tother to outstrip,
	The tone for safetie of his lyfe, the tother for his pray,
	The Grewnde aye prest with open mouth to beare the Hare away,
	Thrusts forth his snoute, and gyrdeth out, and at hir loynes doth snatch,
	As though he would at everie stride betweene his teeth hir latch:
	Againe in doubt of being caught the Hare aye shrinking slips,
	Upon the sodaine from his Jawes, and from betweene his lips:
	So farde Apollo and the Mayde: hope made Apollo swift,
	And feare did make the Mayden fleete devising how to shift.
	Howebeit he that did pursue of both the swifter went,
	As furthred by the feathred wings that Cupid had him lent:
	So that he would not let hir rest, but preased at hir heele
	So neere that through hir scattred haire shee might his breathing feele.
	But when she sawe hir breath was gone and strength began to fayle,
	The colour faded in hir cheekes, and ginning for to quayle,
	Shee looked too Penœus streame, and sayde, nowe Father dere,
	And if yon streames have powre of Gods, then help your daughter here.
	O let the earth devour me quicke, on which I seeme to fayre,
	Or else this shape which is my harme by chaunging straight appayre.
	This piteous prayer scarsly sed: hir sinewes waxed starke,
	And therewithall about hir breast did grow a tender barke.
	Hir haire was turned into leaves, hir armes in boughes did growe,
	Hir feete that were ere while so swift, now rooted were as slowe.
	Hir crowne became the toppe, and thus of that she earst had beene,
	Remayned nothing in the worlde, but beautie fresh and greene.
	Which when that Phœbus did beholde (affection did so move)
	The tree to which his love was turnde he coulde no lesse but love.
	And as he softly layde his hand upon the tender plant,
	Within the barke newe overgrowne he felt hir heart yet pant.
	And in his armes embracing fast hir boughes and braunches lythe,
	He proferde kisses too the tree: the tree did from him writhe.
	Well (quoth Apollo) though my Feere and spouse thou can not bee,
	Assuredly from this time forth yet shalt thou be my tree.
	Thou shalt adorne my golden lockes, and eke my pleasant Harpe,
	Thou shalt adorne my Quyver full of shaftes and arrowes sharpe,
	Thou shalt adorne the valiant knyghts and royall Emperours:
	When for their noble feates of armes like mightie conquerours,
	Triumphantly with stately pompe up to the Capitoll,
	They shall ascende with solemne traine that doe their deedes extoll.
	Before Augustus Pallace doore full duely shalt thou warde,
	The Oke amid the Pallace yarde aye faythfully to garde,
	And as my heade is never poulde nor never more without
	A seemely bushe of youthfull haire that spreadeth rounde about:
	Even so this honour give I thee continually to have
	Thy braunches clad from time to tyme with leaves both fresh and brave.
	Now when that Pean of this talke had fully made an ende,
	The Lawrell to his just request did seeme to condescende,
	By bowing of hir newe made boughes and tender braunches downe,
	And wagging of hir seemely toppe, as if it were hir crowne.

1567 ARTHUR GOLDING from The Fifteen Books of Ovid

[Medea’s Incantation]

	Before the Moone should circlewise close both hir homes in one
	Three nightes were yet as then to come. Assoone as that she shone
	Most full of light, and did behold the earth with fulsome face,
	Medea with hir haire rot trust so much as in a lace,
	But flaring on hir shoulders twaine, and barefoote, with hir gowne
	Ungirded, gate hir out of doores and wandred up and downe
	Alone the dead time of the night: both Man, and Beast, and Bird
	Were fast a sleepe: the Serpents slie in trayling forward stird
	So softly as you would have thought they still a sleepe had bene.
	The moysting Ayre was whist: no leafe ye could have moving sene.
	The starres alonly faire and bright did in the welkin shine.
	To which she lifting up hir handes did thrise hirselfe encline,
	And thrice with water of the brooke hir haire besprincled shee:
	And gasping thrise she opte hir mouth: and bowing downe hir knee
	Upon the bare hard ground, she said: O trustie time of night
	Most faithfull unto privities, O golden starres whose light
	Doth jointly with the Moone succeede the beames that blaze by day
	And thou three headed Hecaté who knowest best the way
	To compasse this our great attempt and art our chiefest stay:
	Ye Charmes and Witchcrafts, and thou Earth which both with herbe and weed
	Of mightie working furnishest the Wizardes at their neede:
	Ye Ayres and windes: ye Elves of Hilles, of Brookes, of Woods alone,
	Of standing Lakes, and of the Night approche ye everychone.
	Through helpe of whom (the crooked bankes much wondring at the thing)
	I have compelled streames to run cleane backward to their spring.
	By charmes I make the calme Seas rough, and make the rough Seas plaine
	And cover all the Skie with Cloudes, and chase them thence againe.
	By charmes I rayse and lay the windes, and burst the Vipers jaw,
	And from the bowels of the Earth both stones and trees doe drawe.
	Whole woods and Forestes I remove: I make the Mountaines shake,
	And even the Earth it selfe to grone and fearfully to quake.
	I call up dead men from their graves: and thee O lightsome Moone
	I darken oft, though beaten brasse abate thy perill soone
	Our Sorcerie dimmes the Morning faire, and darkes the Sun at Noone.

ALEXANDER SCOTT 1568

	To luve unluvit it is ane pane
	for scho that is my soverane
	sum wantoun man so he hes set hir
	that I can get no lufe agane
5	bot brekis my hairt and nocht the bettir.
	Quhen that I went with that sweit may
	to dance to sing to sport and pley
	and oft times in my armis plet hir
	I do now murne both nycht and day
10	and brekis my hart and nocht the bettir.
	Quhair I wes wont to se hir go
	rycht trymly passand to and fro
	with cumly smylis quhen that I met hir –
	and now I leif in pane and wo
15	and brekis my hairt and nocht the bettir.
	Quhattane ane glaikit fule am I
	to slay my self with malancoly
	sen weill I ken I may nocht get hir
	or quhat suld be the caus and quhy
20	to brek my hairt and nocht the bettir.
	My hairt, sen thou may nocht hir pleis
	adew! – as gud lufe cumis as gais.
	Go chus ane udir and foryet hir.
	God gif him dolour and diseis
25	that brekis thair hairt and nocht the bettir.

ANONYMOUS

	Christ was the word that spake it;
	Hee tooke the bread and brake it;
	And what that Word did make it,
	I doe beleeve and take it.

(1960)

1579 EDMUND SPENSER from The Shepheardes Calender

[Roundelay]

	Perigot	It fell upon a holly eve,
	Willye	hey ho hollidaye,
	Per.	When holly fathers wont to shrieve:
	Wil.	now gynneth this roundelay.
5	Per.	Sitting upon a hill so hye
	Wil.	hey ho the high hyll,
	Per.	The while my flocke did feede thereby,
	Wil.	the while the shepheard selfe did spill:
	Per.	I saw the bouncing Bellibone,
10	Wil.	hey ho Bonibell,
	Per.	Tripping over the dale alone,
	Wil.	she can trippe it very well:
	Per.	Well decked in a frocke of gray,
	Wil.	hey ho gray is greete,
15	Per.	And in a Kirtle of greene saye,
	Wil.	the greene is for maydens meete:
	Per.	A chapelet on her head she wore,
	Wil.	hey ho chapelet,
	Per.	Of sweete Violets therein was store,
20	Wil.	she sweeter then the Violet.
	Per.	My sheepe did leave theyr wonted foode,
	Wil.	hey ho seely sheepe,
	Per.	And gazd on her, as they were wood,
	Wil.	woode as he, that did them keepe.
25	Per.	As the bonilasse passed bye,
	Wil.	hey ho bonilasse,
	Per.	She rovde at me with glauncing eye,
	Wil.	as cleare as the christall glasse:
	Per.	All as the Sunnye beame so bright,
30	Wil.	hey ho the Sunne beame,
	Per.	Glaunceth from Phœbus face forthright,
	Wil.	so love into thy hart did streame:
	Per.	Or as the thonder cleaves the cloudes,
	Wil.	hey ho the Thonder,
35	Per.	Wherein the lightsome levin shroudes,
	Wil.	so cleaves thy soule a sonder:
	Per.	Or as Dame Cynthias silver raye
	Wil.	hey ho the Moonelight,
	Per.	Upon the glyttering wave doth playe:
40	Wil.	such play is a pitteous plight.
	Per.	The glaunce into my heart did glide,
	Wil.	hey ho the glyder,
	Per.	Therewith my soule was sharply gryde,
	Wil.	such woundes soone wexen wider.
45	Per.	Hasting to raunch the arrow out,
	Wil.	hey ho Perigot,
	Per.	I left the head in my hart roote:
	Wil.	it was a desperate shot.
	Per.	There it ranckleth ay more and more,
50	Wil.	hey ho the arrowe,
	Per.	Ne can I find salve for my sore:
	Wil.	love is a curelesse sorrowe.
	Per.	And though my bale with death I bought,
	Wil.	hey ho heavie cheere,
55	Per.	Yet should thilk lasse not from my thought:
	Wil.	so you may buye gold to deare.
	Per.	But whether in paynefull love I pyne,
	Wil.	hey ho pinching payne,
	Per.	Or thrive in welth, she shalbe mine.
60	Wil.	but if thou can her obteine.
	Per.	And if for gracelesse greefe I dye,
	Wil.	hey ho gracelesse griefe,
	Per.	Witnesse, shee slewe me with her eye:
	Wil.	let thy follye be the priefe.
65	Per.	And you, that sawe it, simple shepe,
	Wil.	hey ho the fayre flocke,
	Per.	For priefe thereof, my death shall weepe,
	Wil.	and mone with many a mocke.
	Per.	So learnd I love on a hollye eve,
70	Wil.	hey ho holidaye,
	Per.	That ever since my hart did greve.
	Wil.	now endeth our roundelay.

1580 EDMUND SPENSER Iambicum Trimetrum

	Unhappie Verse, the witnesse of my unhappie state,
	Make thy selfe fluttring wings of thy fast flying thought,
	And fly forth unto my Love, whersoever she be:
	Whether lying reastlesse in heavy bedde, or else,
	Sitting so cheerelesse at the cheerfull boorde, or else
	Playing alone carelesse on hir heavenlie Virginals.
	If in Bed, tell hir, that my eyes can take no reste:
	If at Boorde, tell hir, that my mouth can eate no meate:
	If at hir Virginals, tel hir, I can heare no mirth.
	Asked why? say: Waking Love suffereth no sleepe:
	Say, that raging Love dothe appall the weake stomacke:
	Say, that lamenting Love marreth the Musicall.
	Tell hir, that hir pleasures were wonte to lull me asleepe:
	Tell hir, that hir beautie was wonte to feede mine eyes:
	Tell hir, that hir sweete Tongue was wonte to make me mirth.
	Nowe doe I nightly waste, wanting my kindely reste:
	Nowe doe I dayly starve, wanting my lively foode:
	Nowe doe I alwayes dye, wanting thy timely mirth.
	And if I waste, who will bewaile my heavy chaunce?
	And if I starve, who will record my cursed end?
	And if I dye, who will saye: this was, Immerito?

JASPER HEYWOOD from the Latin of Seneca [Chorus from Hercules Furens] 1581

	Goe hurtles soules, whom mischiefe hath opprest
	Even in first porch of life but lately had,
	And fathers fury goe unhappy kind
	O litle children, by the way ful sad
	Of journey knowen.
	Goe see the angry kynges.

THOMAS WATSON My Love is Past 1582

	Ye captive soules of blindefold Cyprians boate,
	Marke with advise in what estate yee stande,
	Your Boteman never whistles mearie noate,
	And Folly keeping sterne, still puttes from lande,
	And makes a sport to tosse you to and froe
	Twixt sighing windes, and surging waves of woe.
	On Beawties rocke she runnes you at her will,
	And holdes you in suspense twixt hope and feare,
	Where dying oft, yet are you living still,
	But such a life, as death much better were;
	Be therefore circumspect, and follow me,
	When Chaunce, or chaunge of maners sets you free.
	Beware how you returne to seas againe:
	Hang up your votive tables in the quyre
	Of Cupids Church, in witnesse of the paine
	You suffer now by forced fond desire:
	Then hang your throughwett garmentes on the wall,
	And sing with me, that Love is mixt with gall.

ANONYMOUS A new Courtly Sonet, of the Lady Greensleeves. 1584

	To the new tune of Greensleeves
	Alas my love, ye do me wrong,
	to cast me off discurteously:
	And I have loved you so long,
	Delighting in your companie.

	Greensleeves was all my joy,
	Greensleeves was my delight:
	Greensleeves was my heart of gold, –
	And who but my ladie Greensleeeves.

	I have been readie at your hand,
	to grant what ever you would crave.
	I have both waged life and land,
	your love and good will for to have.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.,

	I bought thee kerchers to thy head,
	that were wrought fine and gallantly:
	I kept thee both at boord and bed,
	Which cost my purse wel favouredly,
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	I bought thee peticotes of the best,
	the cloth so fine as fine might be:
	I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
	and all this cost I spent on thee.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	Thy smock of silk, both faire and white,
	with gold embrodered gorgeously:
	Thy peticote of Sendall right:
	and thus I bought thee gladly.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	Thy girdle of gold so red,
	with pearles bedecked sumptuously:
	The like no other lasses had,
	and yet thou wouldst not love me,
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	Thy purse and eke thy gay guilt knives,
	thy pincase gallant to the eie:
	No better wore the Burgesse wives,
	and yet thou wouldst not love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	Thy crimson stockings all of silk,
	with golde all wrought above the knee,
	Thy pumps as white as was the milk,
	and yet thou wouldst not love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	Thy gown was of the grassie green,
	thy sleeves of Satten hanging by:
	Which made thee be our harvest Queen,
	and yet thou wouldst not love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	Thy garters fringed with the golde,
	And silver aglets hanging by,
	Which made thee blithe for to beholde,
	And yet thou wouldst not love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	My gayest gelding I thee gave,
	To ride where ever liked thee,
	No Ladie ever was so brave,
	And yet thou wouldst not love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	My men were clothed all in green,
	And they did ever wait on thee:
	Al this was gallant to be seen,
	and yet thou wouldst not love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	They set thee up, they took thee downe,
	they served thee with humilitie,
	Thy foote might not once touch the ground
	and yet thou wouldst not love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	For everie morning when thou rose,
	I sent thee dainties orderly:
	To cheare thy stomack from all woes,
	and yet thou wouldst not love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,
	But stil thou hadst it readily:
	Thy musicke still to play and sing,
	And yet thou wouldst not love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	And who did pay for all this geare,
	that thou didst spend when pleased thee
	Even I that am rejected here,
	and thou disdainst to love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	Wel, I wil pray to God on hie,
	that thou my constancie maist see:
	And that yet once before I die,
	thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

	Greensleeves now farewel adue,
	God I pray to prosper thee:
	For I am stil thy lover true,
	come once againe and love me.
	Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

1586 CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE

	My prime of youth is but a froste of cares:
	My feaste of joy, is but a dishe of payne:
	My cropp of corne, is but a field of tares:
	And all my good is but vaine hope of gaine:
	The daye is gone, and yet I sawe no sonn:
	And nowe I live, and nowe my life is donn

	The springe is paste, and yet it hath not sprong
	The frute is deade, and yet the leaves are greene
	My youth is gone, and yet I am but yonge
	I sawe the woorld, and yet I was not seene
	My threed is cutt, and yet it was not sponn
	And nowe I lyve, and nowe my life is donn.

	I saught my death, and founde it in my wombe
	I lookte for life, and sawe it was a shade.
	I trode the earth and knewe it was my Tombe
	And nowe I die, and nowe I am but made
	The glasse is full, and nowe the glass is rune
	And nowe I live, and nowe my life is donn

ANONYMOUS 1588

	Constant Penelope, sends to thee carelesse Ulisses,
	write not againe, but come sweet mate, thy self to revive me.
	Troy we do much envie, we desolate lost ladies of Greece:
	Not Priamus, nor yet all Troy can us recompence make.
	Oh, that he had when he first toke shipping to Lacedemon,
	that adulter I meane, had ben o’rewhelmed with waters:
	Then had I not lien now all alone, thus quivering for cold,
	nor used this complaint, nor have thought the day to be so long.

ANONYMOUS from Sixe Idillia… chosen out of… Theocritus

	[Adonis]
	When Venus first did see
	Adonis dead to be,
	With woeful tatterd heare
	And cheekes so wan and seare,
	The winged Loves she bad,
	The Bore should straight be had.
	Forthwith like birdes thay flie,
	And through the wood thay hie,
	The woefull beast thay finde,
	And him with cordes thay binde.
	One with a rope before
	Doth lead the captive Bore.
	Another on his backe
	Doth make his bow to cracke.
	The beast went wretchedly,
	For Venus horribly
	Hee fearde, who thus him curst:
	Of all the beasts the wurst,
	Didst thou this thigh so wounde?
	Didst thou my Love confounde?
	The beast thus spake in feare;
	Venus, to thee I sweare,
	By thee, and husband thine,
	And by these bands of mine,
	And by these hunters all,
	Thy husband faire and tall
	I minded not to kill,
	But as an image still,
	I him beheld for love,
	Which made me forward shove
	His thigh, that naked was,
	Thinking to kisse, alas,
	And that hath hurt me thus.
	Wherfore these teeth, Venus,
	Or punish, or cut out.
	Why beare I in my snowt
	These needlesse teeth about?
	If this maie not suffise,
	Cut off my chaps likewise.
	To ruth he Venus moves,
	And she commands the Loves
	His bands for to untie.
	After, he came not nie
	The wood, but at her wil,
	He followde Venus still.
	And cumming to the fire,
	He burnt up his desire.

1589 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

	My true love hath my hart, and I have his,
	By just exchange, one for the other giv’ne.
	I holde his deare, and myne he cannot misse:
	There never was a better bargaine driv’ne.
	My true love hath my hart and I have his.

	His hart in me, keepes me and him in one,
	My hart in him, his thoughtes and senses guides:
	He loves my hart, for once it was his owne:
	I cherish his, because in me it bides.
	My true love hath my hart and I have his.

SIR WALTER RALEGH 1590

	As you came from the holy land
	of Walsinghame
	Mett you not with my true love
	by the way as you came
	How shall I know your trew love
	That have mett many one
	As I went to the holy lande
	That have come that have gone
	She is neyther whyte nor browne
	Butt as the heavens fayre
	There is none hathe a form so divine
	In the earth or the ayre
	Such an one did I meet good Sir
	Suche an Angelyke face
	Who lyke a queene lyke a nymph did appere
	by her gate by her grace:
	She hath lefte me here all alone
	All allone as unknowne
	Who somtymes did me lead with her selfe
	And me lovde as her owne:
	Whats the cause that she leaves you alone
	And a new waye doth take:
	Who loved you once as her owne
	And her joye did you make:
	I have lovde her all my youth
	butt now ould as you see
	Love lykes not the fallyng frute
	From the wythered tree:
	Know that love is a careless chylld
	And forgets promysse paste:
	He is blynd, he is deaff when he lyste
	And in faythe never faste:
	His desyre is a dureless contente
	And a trustless joye
	He is wonn with a world of despayre
	And is lost with a toye:
	Of women kynde suche indeed is the love
	Or the word Love abused
	Under which many chyldysh desyres
	And conceytes are excusde:
	Butt trwe Love is a durable fyre
	In the mynde ever burnynge:
	Never sycke never ould never dead
	from itt selfe never turnynge.

(1628)