In me thou see 'st the twilight of such day To love that well which thou must leave ere long. SONNET LXXIV. But be contented: when that fell arrest The worth of that is that which it contains, Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth? To you, to you, all song of praise is due, Only in you my song begins and endeth. 21. e., by comparison 4 miracles are not wonders 3 sorrows CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1564-1593) And we will sit upon the rocks, And I will make thee beds of roses, A gown made of the finest wool, A belt of straw and ivy buds The shepherd swains shall dance and sing SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552?-1618)* 8 16 24 Neither of the two poems here given as Raleigh's can be ascribed to him with much confidence. The first appeared in England's Helicon over the name "Ignoto." The MS. of the second bears the initials "Sr. W. R." Time drives the flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, But could youth last, and love still breed, PILGRIM TO PILGRIM As you came from the holy land Met you not with my true love As I went to the holy land, That have come, that have gone? Such a one did I meet, good sir, 16 Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear, She hath left me here all alone, Who sometimes did me lead with herself, 7 end 24 8 16 famous An ancient Priory in Norfolk, with a shrine of Our Lady, the object of many pilgrimages until its dissolution in 1538 (Eng. Lit., p. 79). "A lover growing or grown old, it would seem, has been left in the lurch by the object of his affections. As all the world thronged to Walsingham the lover supposes that she too must have gone that way; and meeting a pilgrim returning from that English Holy Land, asks him if he has seen any thing of her runaway ladyship."-J. W. Hales. What's the cause that she leaves you alone, | Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone. White his shroud as the mountain snow, With true-love showers. FROM CYMBELINE Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin With everything that pretty is, Arise, arise! THOMAS DEKKER (1570?-1641?) FROM PATIENT GRISSELL Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? O sweet content! Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want 's burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king. O sweet content, O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace! apace! apace! apace! THOMAS CAMPION (d. 1619) There is a garden in her face 5 thickly strewn Which, in his height of pride, To the King sending?; 6 who (the French general) 8 16 24 * In the course of the Hundred Years' War the English won three great victories over the French in the face of enormous odds-Crécy in 1346. Poitiers in 1356, and Agincourt in 1415. The last was won by Henry the Fifth. and so well was the glory of it remembered that after nearly two hundred years Drayton could celebrate it in this ballad, which bids fair to stand as the supreme national ballad of England. Breathless from the first word to the last, rude and rhythmic as the tread of an army, it arouses the martial spirit as few things but its imitators can. |