BARNABE BARNES from Parthenophil and Parthenophe

	[Sestina]
	Then, first with lockes disheveled, and bare,
	Straite guirded, in a chearefull calmie night:
	Having a fier made of greene Cypresse woode,
	And with male franckincense on alter kindled
	I call on threefould Hecate with teares,
	And here (with loude voyce) invocate the furies:

	For their assistance, to me with their furies:
	Whilst snowye steedes in coach bright Phoebe bare.
	Ay me Parthenophe smiles at my teares,
	I neither take my rest by day, or night:
	Her cruell loves in me such heate have kindled.
	Hence goate and bring her to me raging woode:

	Hecate tell which way she comes through the woode.
	This wine aboute this aulter, to the furies
	I sprinkle, whiles the Cypresse bowes be kindled,
	This brimstone earth within her bowelles bare,
	And this blew incense sacred to the night.
	This hand (perforce) from this bay this braunche teares.

	So be she brought which pittied not my teares.
	And as it burneth with the Cypresse woode
	So burne she with desier by day and night.
	You goddes of vengance, and avenge-full furies
	Revenge, to whom I bende on my knees bare.
	Hence goate, and bring her with loves outrage kindled.

	Hecate make signes if she with love come kindled.
	Thinke on my passions Hec’ate, and my teares:
	This Rosemariene (whose braunche she cheefely bare
	And loved best) I cut both barke and woode,
	Broke with this brasen Axe, and in loves furies
	I treade on it, rejoycing in this night:

	And saying, let her her feele such woundes this night.
	About this alter, and rich incense kindled
	This lace and Vervine to loves bitter furies
	I binde, and strewe, and with sadde sighes and teares
	About I beare her Image raging woode.
	Hence goate and bring her from her bedding bare:

(…)

	Come blessed goate, that my sweet Lady bare:
	Where hast thou beene (Parthenophe) this night?
	What, cold? Sleepe by this fier of Cypresse woode
	Which I much longing for thy sake have kindled,
	Weepe not, come loves and wipe away her teares:
	At length yet, wilt thou take away my furies?

	Ay me, embrace me, see those ouglye furies.
	Come to my bed, least they behold thee bare
	And beare thee hence. They will not pittie teares,
	And these still dwell in everlasting night:
	Ah loves, sweet love, sweet fiers for us hath kindled,
	But not inflam’d, with franckinsense, or woode,

	The furies, they shall hence into the woode,
	Whiles Cupid shall make calmer his hot furies,
	And stand appeased at our fier’s kindled.
	Joyne; joyne (Parthenophe) thy selfe unbare,
	None can perceive us in the silent night,
	Now will I cease from sighes, lamentes, and teares,

	And cease (Parthenophe) sweet cease thy teares:
	Beare golden Apples thornes in every woode,
	Joyne heavens, for we conjoyne this heavenly night:
	Let Alder trees beare Apricockes (dye furies)
	And Thistles Peares, which prickles lately bare.
	Now both in one with equall flame be kindled:

	Dye magicke bowes, now dye, which late were kindled:
	Here is mine heaven: loves droppe in steede of teares.
	It joynes, it joynes, ah both embracing bare.
	Let Nettles bring forth Roses in each woode,
	Last ever verdant woodes: hence former furies:
	Oh dye, live, joye: what? last continuall night,

	Sleepe Phoebus still with Thetis: rule still night.
	I melt in love, loves marrow-flame is kindled:
	Here will I be consum’d in loves sweet furies.
	I melt, I melt, watche Cupid my love-teares:
	If these be furies, oh let me be woode!
	If all the fierie element I bare

	Tis now acquitted: cease your former teares,
	For as she once with rage my bodie kindled,
	So in hers am I buried this night.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY from The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia

	STREPHON
	Yee Gote-heard Gods, that love the grassie mountaines,
	Yee Nimphes which haunt the springs in pleasant vallies,
	Ye Satyrs joyde with free and quiet forrests,
	Vouchsafe your silent eares to playning musique,
	Which to my woes gives still an early morning:
	And drawes the dolor on till wery evening.

	KLAIUS
	O Mercurie, foregoer to the evening,
	O heavenlie huntresse of the savage mountaines,
	O lovelie starre, entitled of the morning,
	While that my voice doth fill these wofull vallies,
	Vouchsafe your silent eares to plaining musique,
	Which oft hath Echo tir’d in secrete forrests.

	STREPHON
	I that was once free-burges of the forrests,
	Where shade from Sunne, and sporte I sought in evening,
	I that was once esteem’d for pleasant musique,
	Am banisht now among the monstrous mountaines
	Of huge despaire, and foule affliction’s vallies,
	Am growne a shrich-owle to my selfe each morning.

	KLAIUS
	I that was once delighted every morning,
	Hunting the wilde inhabiters of forrests,
	I that was once the musique of these vallies,
	So darkened am, that all my day is evening,
	Hart-broken so, that molehilles seeme high mountaines,
	And fill the vales with cries in steed of musique.

	STREPHON
	Long since alas, my deadly Swannish musique
	Hath made it selfe a crier of the morning,
	And hath with wailing strength clim’d highest mountaines:
	Long since my thoughts more desert be then forrests:
	Long since I see my joyes come to their evening,
	And state throwen downe to over-troden vallies.

	KLAIUS
	Long since the happie dwellers of these vallies,
	Have praide me leave my strange exclaiming musique,
	Which troubles their daye’s worke, and joyes of evening:
	Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:
	Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forrests,
	And make me wish my selfe layd under mountaines.

	STREPHON
	Me seemes I see the high and stately mountaines,
	Transforme themselves to lowe dejected vallies:
	Me seemes I heare in these ill-changed forrests,
	The Nightingales doo learne of Owles their musique:
	Me seemes I feele the comfort of the morning
	Turnde to the mortall serene of an evening.

	KLAIUS
	Me seemes I see a filthie clowdie evening,
	As soon as Sunne begins to clime the mountaines:
	Me seemes I feele a noysome sent, the morning
	When I doo smell the flowers of these vallies:
	Me seemes I heare, when I doo heare sweete musique,
	The dreadfull cries of murdred men in forrests.

	STREPHON
	I wish to fire the trees of all these forrests;
	I give the Sunne a last farewell each evening;
	I curse the fidling finders out of Musicke:
	With envie I doo hate the loftie mountaines;
	And with despite despise the humble vallies:
	I doo detest night, evening, day, and morning.

	KLAIUS
	Curse to my selfe my prayer is, the morning:
	My fire is more, then can be made with forrests;
	My state more base, then are the basest vallies:
	I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;
	Shamed I hate my selfe in sight of mountaines,
	And stoppe mine eares, lest I growe mad with Musicke.

	STREPHON
	For she, whose parts maintainde a perfect musique,
	Whose beawties shin’de more then the blushing morning,
	Who much did passe in state the stately mountaines,
	In straightnes past the Cedars of the forrests,
	Hath cast me, wretch, into eternall evening,
	By taking her two Sunnes from these darke vallies.

	KLAIUS
	For she, with whom compar’d, the Alpes are vallies,
	She, whose lest word brings from the spheares their musique,
	At whose approach the Sunne rase in the evening,
	Who, where she went, bare in her forhead morning,
	Is gone, is gone from these our spoyled forrests,
	Turning to desarts our best pastur’de mountaines.

	STREPHON
	These mountaines witnesse shall, so shall these vallies,

	KLAIUS
	These forrests eke, made wretched by our musique,
	Our morning hymne this is, and song at evening.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE from Love’s Labours Lost 1594

	ARMADO
	Holla, Approach.
	Enter all.
	This side is Hiems, Winter.
	This Ver, the Spring: the one maintained by the Owle,
	Th’other by the Cuckow.
	Ver, begin.

	Spring
	When Dasies pied, and Violets blew,
	And Cuckow-buds of yellow hew:
	And Ladie-smockes all silver white,
	Do paint the Medowes with delight.
	The Cuckow then on everie tree,
	Mockes married men, for thus sings he,
	Cuckow.
	Cuckow, Cuckow: O word of feare,
	Unpleasing to a married eare.

	When Shepherds pipe on Oaten strawes,
	And merrie Larkes are Ploughmens clockes:
	When Turtles tread, and Rookes and Dawes,
	And Maidens bleach their summer smockes:
	The Cuckow then on everie tree
	Mockes married men; for thus sings he, Cuckow.
	Cuckow, Cuckow: O word of feare,
	Unpleasing to a married eare.

	Winter
	When Isicles hang by the wall,
	And Dicke the Shepheard blowes his naile:
	And Tom beares logges into the hall,
	And Milke comes frozen home in paile:
	When blood is nipt, and waies be fowle,
	Then nightly sings the staring Owle
	Tu-whit to-who.
	A merrie note,
	While greasie Jone doth keele the pot.

	When all aloud the winde doth blow,
	And coffing drownes the Parsons saw:
	And birds sit brooding in the snow,
	And Marrians nose lookes red and raw:
	When roasted Crabs hisse in the bowle,
	Then nightly sings the staring Owle,
	Tu-whit to who:
	A merrie note,
	While greasie Jone doth keele the pot.

	ARMADO
	The Words of Mercurie,
	Are harsh after the songs of Apollo:
	You that way; we this way.
	Exeunt omnes.

(1598)

ANONYMOUS

	Weare I a Kinge I coude commande content;
	Weare I obscure unknowne shoulde be my cares,
	And weare I ded no thoughtes should me torment,
	Nor wordes, nor wronges, nor loves, nor hopes, nor feares.
	A dowtefull choyse of these thinges one to crave,
	A Kingdom or a cottage or a grave.

1595 EDMUND SPENSER from Amoretti

	Sonnet LXVII
	Lyke as a huntsman after weary chace,
	Seeing the game from him escapt away,
	sits downe to rest him in some shady place,
	with panting hounds beguiled of their pray:
	So after long pursuit and vaine assay,
	when I all weary had the chace forsooke,
	the gentle deare returnd the selfe-same way,
	thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke.
	There she beholding me with mylder looke,
	sought not to fly, but fearelesse still did bide:
	till I in hand her yet halfe trembling tooke,
	and with her owne goodwill hir fyrmely tyde.
	Strange thing me seemd to see a beast so wyld,
	so goodly wonne with her owne will beguyld.

	Sonnet LXVIII
	Most glorious Lord of lyfe that on this day,
	Didst make thy triumph over death and sin:
	and having harrowd hell didst bring away
	captivity thence captive us to win:
	This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin,
	and grant that we for whom thou diddest dye
	being with thy deare blood clene washt from sin,
	may live for ever in felicity.
	And that thy love we weighing worthily,
	may likewise love thee for the same againe:
	and for thy sake that all lyke deare didst buy,
	with love may one another entertayne.
	So let us love, deare love, lyke as we ought,
	love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL S.J. Decease Release

	The pounded spice both tast and sent doth please,
	In fading smoke the force doth incense shewe,
	The perisht kernell springeth with encrease,
	The lopped tree doth best and soonest growe.

	Gods spice I was and pounding was my due,
	In fadinge breath my incense savored best,
	Death was the meane my kyrnell to renewe,
	By loppinge shott I upp to heavenly rest.

	Some thinges more perfect are in their decaye,
	Like sparke that going out gives clerest light,
	Such was my happ whose dolefull dying daye
	Beganne my joy and termed fortunes spite.

	Alive a Queene, now dead I am a Sainte,
	Once Mary calld, my name nowe Martyr is,
	From earthly raigne debarred by restraint,
	In liew whereof I raigne in heavenly blisse.

	My life my griefe, my death hath wrought my joye,
	My frendes my foyle, my foes my weale procur’d,
	My speedy death hath shortned longe annoye,
	And losse of life an endles life assur’d.

	My skaffold was the bedd where ease I founde,
	The blocke a pillowe of Eternall reste,
	My hedman cast me in a blisfull swounde,
	His axe cutt off my cares from combred breste.

	Rue not my death, rejoyce at my repose,
	It was no death to me but to my woe,
	The budd was opened to lett out the Rose,
	The cheynes unloo’sd to lett the captive goe.

	A prince by birth, a prisoner by mishappe,
	From Crowne to crosse, from throne to thrall I fell,
	My right my ruthe, my titles wrought my trapp,
	My weale my woe, my worldly heaven my hell.

	By death from prisoner to a prince enhaunc’d,
	From Crosse to Crowne, from thrall to throne againe,
	My ruth my right, my trapp my stile advaunc’d,
	From woe to weale, from hell to heavenly raigne.

(1817)

ROBERT SOUTHWELL New Heaven, New Warre

	This little Babe so few dayes olde,
	Is come to ryfle sathans folde;
	All hell doth at his presence quake,
	Though he himselfe for cold doe shake:
	For in this weake unarmed wise,
	The gates of hell he will surprise.

	With teares he fights and winnes the field,
	His naked breast stands for a shield;
	His battring shot are babish cryes,
	His Arrowes lookes of weeping eyes,
	His Martiall ensignes cold and neede,
	And feeble flesh his warriers steede.

	His Campe is pitched in a stall,
	His bulwarke but a broken wall:
	The Crib his trench, hay stalks his stakes,
	Of Sheepheards he his Muster makes;
	And thus as sure his foe to wound,
	The Angells trumps alarum sound.

	My soule with Christ joyne thou in fight,
	Sticke to the tents that he hath pight;
	Within his Crib is surest ward,
	This little Babe will be thy guard:
	If thou wilt foyle thy foes with joy,
	Then flit not from this heavenly boy.

(1602)

ROBERT SOUTHWELL S.J. The Burning Babe

	As I in hoarie Winters night stoode shivering in the snow,
	Surpris’d I was with sodaine heate, which made my hart to glow;
	And lifting up a fearefull eye, to view what fire was neare,
	A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the ayre appeare;
	Who scorched with excessive heate, such floods of teares did shed,
	As though his floods should quench his flames, which with his teares were fed:
	Alas (quoth he) but newly borne, in fierie heates I frie,
	Yet none approach to warme their harts or feele my fire, but I;
	My faultlesse breast the furnace is, the fuell wounding thornes:
	Love is the fire, and sighs the smoake, the ashes, shame and scornes;
	The fewell Justice layeth on, and Mercie blowes the coales,
	The mettall in this furnace wrought, are mens defiled soules:
	For which, as now on fire I am to worke them to their good,
	So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood.
	With this he vanisht out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away,
	And straight I called unto minde, that it was Christmasse day.

(1602)

GEORGE PEELE from The Old Wives Tale

	When as the Rie reach to the chin,
	And chopcherrie chopcherrie ripe within,
	Strawberries swimming in the creame,
	And schoole boyes playing in the streame:
	Then O, then O, then O my true love said,
	Till that time come againe,
	Shee could not live a maid.

	VOICE.
	Gently dip: but not too deepe;
	For feare you make the goulden beard to weepe.
	[A head comes up with eares of Come, and she combes them in her lap.]
	Faire maiden white and red,
	Combe me smoothe, and stroke my head:
	And thou shalt have some cockell bread.
	Gently dippe, but not too deepe,
	For feare thou make the goulden beard to weep.
	[A head comes up full of golde, she combes it into her lap.]
	Faire maiden, white, and redde,
	Combe me smooth, and stroke my head;
	And every haire, a sheave shall be,
	And every sheave a goulden tree.

EDMUND SPENSER Prothalamion 1596

	1
	Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre,
	Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly play
	A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
	Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre:
	When I whom sullein care,
	Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay
	In Princes Court, and expectation vayne
	Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away,
	Like empty shaddowes, did aflict my brayne,
	Walkt forth to ease my payne
	Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes,
	Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes,
	Was paynted all with variable flowers,
	And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes,
	Fit to decke maydens bowres,
	And crowne their Paramours,
	Against the Brydale day, which is not long:
	Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

	2
	There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side,
	A Flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy,
	All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby,
	With goodly greenish locks all loose untyde,
	As each had bene a Bryde,
	And each one had a little wicker basket,
	Made of fine twigs entrayled curiously,
	In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket:
	And with fine Fingers, cropt full feateously
	The tender stalkes on hye.
	Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew,
	They gathered some; the Violet pallid blew,
	The little Dazie, that at evening closes,
	The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew,
	With store of vermeil Roses,
	To decke their Bridegromes posies,
	Against the Brydale day, which was not long:
	Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

	3
	With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe,
	Come softly swimming downe along the Lee;
	Two fairer Birds I yet did never see:
	The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew,
	Did never whiter shew,
	Nor Jove himselfe when he a Swan would be
	For love of Leda, whiter did appeare:
	Yet Leda was they say as white as he,
	Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare;
	So purely white they were,
	That even the gentle streame, the which them bare,
	Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
	To wet their silken feathers, least they might
	Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,
	And marre their beauties bright,
	That shone as heavens light,
	Against their Brydale day, which was not long:
	Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

	4
	Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill,
	Ran all in haste, to see that silver brood,
	As they came floating on the Christal Flood,
	Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still,
	Their wondring eyes to fill.
	Them seem’d they never saw a sight so fayre,
	Of Fowles so lovely, that they sure did deeme
	Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre
	Which through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme,
	For sure they did not seeme
	To be begot of any earthly Seede,
	But rather Angels or of Angels breede:
	Yet were they bred of Somers-heat they say,
	In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede
	The earth did fresh aray,
	So fresh they seem’d as day,
	Even as their Brydale day, which was not long:
	Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

	5
	Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
	Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field,
	That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
	All which upon those goodly Birds they threw,
	And all the Waves did strew,
	That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme,
	When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore
	Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,
	That they appeare through Lillies plenteous store,
	Like a Brydes Chamber flore:
	Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound,
	Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found,
	The which presenting all in trim Array,
	Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd,
	Whil’st one did sing this Lay,
	Prepar’d against that Day,
	Against their Brydale day, which was not long:
	Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

	6
	Ye gentle Birdes, the worlds faire ornament,
	And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower
	Doth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower,
	Joy may you have and gentle hearts content
	Of your loves couplement:
	And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love,
	With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile,
	Whose smile they say, hath vertue to remove
	All Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile
	For ever to assoile.
	Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord,
	And blessed Plentie wait upon your bord,
	And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,
	That fruitfull issue may to you afford,
	Which may your foes confound,
	And make your joyes redound,
	Upon your Brydale day, which is not long:
	Sweete Themmes run softlie, till I end my Song.

	7
	So ended she; and all the rest around
	To her redoubled that her undersong,
	Which said, their bridale daye should not be long.
	And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground,
	Their accents did resound.
	So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along,
	Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low,
	As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
	Yet did by signes his glad affection show,
	Making his streame run slow.
	And all the foule which in his flood did dwell
	Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell
	The rest, so far, as Cynthia doth shend
	The lesser starres. So they enranged well,
	Did on those two attend,
	And their best service lend,
	Against their wedding day, which was not long:
	Sweete Themmes run softly, till I end my song.

	8
	At length they all to mery London came,
	To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse,
	That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse:
	Though from another place I take my name,
	An house of auncient fame.
	There when they came, whereas those bricky towres,
	The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde,
	Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers,
	There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde,
	Till they decayd through pride:
	Next whereunto there standes a stately place,
	Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace
	Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell,
	Whose want too well, now feeles my freendles case:
	But Ah here fits not well
	Olde woes but joyes to tell
	Against the bridale daye, which is not long:
	Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

	9
	Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer,
	Great Englands glory and the Worlds wide wonder,
	Whose dreadfull name, late through all Spaine did thunder,
	And Hercules two pillors standing neere,
	Did make to quake and feare:
	Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie,
	That fillest England with thy triumphes fame,
	Joy have thou of thy noble victorie,
	And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name
	That promiseth the same:
	That through thy prowesse and victorious armes,
	Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes:
	And great Elisaes glorious name may ring
	Through al the world, fil’d with thy wide Alarmes,
	Which some brave muse may sing
	To ages following,
	Upon the Brydale day, which is not long:
	Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

	10
	From those high Towers, this noble Lord issuing,
	Like Radiant Hesper when his golden hayre
	In th’Ocean billowes he hath Bathed fayre,
	Descended to the Rivers open vewing,
	With a great traine ensuing.
	Above the rest were goodly to bee seene
	Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature
	Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene,
	With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
	Fit for so goodly stature:
	That like the twins of Jove they seem’d in sight,
	Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright.
	They two forth pacing to the Rivers side,
	Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight,
	Which at th’appointed tyde,
	Each one did make his Bryde,
	Against their Brydale day, which is not long:
	Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.

SIR JOHN DAVIES In Cosmum

	Cosmus hath more discoursing in his head,
	Then Jove, when Pallas issued from his braine,
	And still he strives to be delivered,
	Of all his thoughtes at once, but al in vaine.
	For as we see at all the play house dores,
	When ended is the play, the daunce, and song:
	A thousand townsemen, gentlemen, and whores,
	Porters and serving-men togither throng,
	So thoughts of drinking, thriving, wenching, war,
	And borrowing money, raging in his minde,
	To issue all at once so forwarde are,
	As none at all can perfect passage finde.

SIR JOHN DAVIES from Orchestra, or a Poeme of Dauncing

	[‘The speach of Love persuading men to learn Dancing’]
	And now behold your tender Nurse the Ayre Of the Ayre.
	And common neighbour that ay runns around,
	How many pictures and impressions faire
	Within her emptie regions are there found,
	Which to your sences Dauncing doe propound?
	For what are Breath, Speech, Ecchos, Musick, Winds,
	But Dauncings of the ayre in sundry kinds?

	For when you breath, the ayre in order moves,
	Now in, now out, in time and measure trew;
	And when you speake, so well she dauncing loves,
	That doubling oft, and oft redoubling new,
	With thousand formes she doth her selfe endew:
	For all the words that from your lips repaire,
	Are nought but tricks and turnings of the aire.

	Hence is her pratling daughter Eccho borne
	That daunces to all voyces she can heare:
	There is no sound so harsh that she doth scorne,
	Nor any time wherein she will forbeare
	The aiery pavement with her feete to weare.
	And yet her hearing sence is nothing quick,
	For after time she endeth every trick.

	And thou sweet Musick, Dauncings only life,
	The eares sole happines, the ayres best speach,
	Loadstone of fellowship, charming rod of strife,
	The soft minds Paradice, the sick minds Leach,
	With thine owne tongue thou trees and stones canst teach
	That when the Aire doth daunce her finest measure,
	Then art thou borne the Gods and mens sweet pleasure.

	Lastly, where keepe the Winds their revelry,
	Their violent turnings and wild whirling hayes?
	But in the Ayres tralucent gallery?
	Where she her selfe is turnd a hundreth wayes,
	While with those Maskers wantonly she playes;
	Yet in this misrule, they such rule embrace
	As two at once encomber not the place.

	If then fier, ayre, wandring and fixed lights
	In every province of th’imperiall skye,
	Yeeld perfect formes of dauncing to your sights,
	In vaine I teach the eare, that which the eye
	With certaine view already doth descrie.
	But for your eyes perceive not all they see,
	In this I will your sences maister bee.

	For loe the Sea that fleets about the Land, Of the Sea.
	And like a girdle clips her solide wast,
	Musick and measure both doth understand:
	For his great Christall eye is alwayes cast
	Up to the Moone, and on her fixed fast.
	And as she daunceth in her pallid spheere,
	So daunceth he about the Center heere.

	Sometimes his proud greene 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 knowne his Courtly Love the more,
	He oft doth lay aside his three-forkt Mace,
	And with his armes the timerous Earth embrace.

	Onely the Earth doth stand for ever still,
	Her rocks remove not, nor her mountaines meete,
	(Although some witts enricht with Learnings skill
	Say heav’n stands firme, and that the Earth doth fleete
	And swiftly turneth underneath their feete)
	Yet though the Earth is ever stedfast seene,
	On her broad breast hath Dauncing ever beene.

	For those blew vaines that through her body spred, Of the Rivers.
	Those saphire streams which from great hills do spring,
	(The Earths great duggs: for every wight is fed
	With sweet fresh moisture from them issuing)
	Observe a daunce in their wide wandering:
	And still their daunce begets a murmur sweete,
	And still the murmur with the daunce doth meete.

	Of all their wayes I love Mœanders path,
	Which to the tunes of dying Swans doth daunce,
	Such winding sleights, such turnes and tricks he hath,
	Such Creekes, such wrenches, and such daliaunce,
	That whether it be hap or heedlesse chaunce,
	In this indented course and wriggling play
	He seemes to daunce a perfect cunning >Hay.

1597 ANONYMOUS

	Since Bonny-boots was dead, that so divinely
	Could toot and foot it, (O he did it finely!)
	We ne’er went more a-Maying
	Nor had that sweet fa-laing. Fa la.

WILLIAM ALABASTER Of the Reed That the Jews Set in Our Saviour’s Hand

	Long time hath Christ, long time I must confess,
	Held me a hollow reed within his hand,
	That merited in hell to make a brand,
	Had not his grace supplied mine emptiness.
	Oft time with languor and newfangleness,
	Had I been borne away like sifted sand,
	When sin and Satan got the upper hand,
	But that his steadfast mercy did me bless.
	Still let me grow upon that living land,
	Within that wound which iron did impress,
	And made a spring of blood flow from thy hand.
	Then will I gather sap and rise and stand,
	That all that see this wonder may express,
	Upon this ground how well grows barrenness.

(1938)

WILLIAM ALABASTER Of His Conversion

	Away feare with thy projectes, noe false fyre
	which thou doest make, can ought my courage quaile
	or cause mee leward come, or strike my sayle;
	what if the world doe frowne att my retyre,
	what if denyall dash my wish’d desire
	and purblind pitty doe my state bewaile
	and wonder cross it selfe, and free speech raile
	and greatnes take it not, and death shew nigher?
	Tell them, my Soule, the feares that make mee quake:
	the smouldering brimstone, and the burninge lake,
	life feeding Death, Death ever life devowring,
	tormentes not moved, unheard, yett still roaring,
	God lost, hell fownd: ever, never begune:
	now bidd mee into flame from smoake to runne.

(1831)

ROBERT SIDNEY, EARL OF LEICESTER

	Forsaken woods, trees with sharpe storms opprest
	whose leaves once hidd, the sun, now strew the grownd
	once bred delight, now scorn, late usde to sownd
	of sweetest birds, now of hoars crowes the nest

	Gardens which once in thowsand coulers drest
	shewed natures pryde: now in dead sticks abownd
	in whome prowde summers treasure late was found
	now but the rags, of winters torn coate rest

	Medows whose sydes, late fayre brookes kist now slyme
	embraced holds: feelds whose youth green and brave
	promist long lyfe, now frosts lay in the grave

	Say all and I with them: what doth not tyme!
	But they whoe knew tyme, tyme will finde again
	I that fayre tymes lost, on tyme call in vaine

(1975)