Texts pandora gull sjarm

A New Book of Verse

Texts

This offbeat mini-anthology consists of poems listed in the Table of Contents which for the most part aren’t elsewhere on the Web, or not in sufficiently readable texts. To get an idea of their variousness, click on Sampler .

 

Whanne mine eyhnen misten

Whanne mine eyhnen misten
And mine eren sissen,
And my nose koldet
And my tunge foldet
And my rude slaket
And mine lippes blaken
And mine mouth grennet,
And my spotel rennet
And mine her riset
And mine herte griset
And my honden bivien,
And mine fet stivien—
All too late, all too late,
Whanne the bere is at the gate.

Anonymous, 13th century

Of all wemen that ever were borne

Of all wemen that ever were borne,
That bere childer, abide and see
How my sone lyeth me beforne,
Upon my skirte, taken from the Tree.
Your childer ye daunce upon youre knee,
With laghing, kissing and mery chere:
Beholde my childe, beholde wele me,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

O! woman, woman, wele is thee:
Thy childe capps thou castest upon.
Thou pikest his here, beholdest his ble,
Thou wottest not wele when thou haste don.
But ever, alas, I make my mon,
To see my sonis hedd as it is here:
I prike out thornes by oon and oon,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

O! woman, a chaplet chosen thou has:
Thy childe to were it dose thee liking.
Thou pinnest it on—grete joye thou mas.
And I sitt with my sone sore weping.
His chaplet is thornes sore pricking.
His mouth I kisse with a careful chere.
I sit weping and thou singing,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

O! wemen, loketh to me ageine,
That playe and kisse youre childer pappis.
To see my sone I have grete peine,
In his breste so grete a gappe is,
And on his body so many swappis,
With blody lippis I kisse him here.
Alas! Full harde me thinkis my happis,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

O! woman, thou takest thy childe by the hand,
And seyste, ‘Dere sone, gif me a stroke.’
My sonis handes are so bledand
To loke on them me liste not to layke.
His handes he sufferd for thy sake
Thus to be bored with nailes sere.
When thou makes mirth gret sorrows I make,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

Beholde! Wemen, when that ye play,
And have your childer on kne daunsand,
Ye fele ther fete, so fete are they,
And to youre sight full well likand.
But the most fingers of mine hand
Thorow my sonis fete I may put here,
And pulle it out sore bledand,
For now lyeth dedd my dere son, dere.

Therfore, wemen, by town and strete,
Your childer handes when ye beholde,
Ther breste, ther body, and ther fete,
God were on my sone to thinke, and ye wolde,
How care hath made my herte full colde,
To see my sone with naile and spere,
With scourge and thornes manifolde,
Wounded and dedd my dere sone, dere.

Anonymous, ca.1450

Wele , well; pikest , tidy ; ble , face; mas , makest;
chere , face; swappis , blows; happis , lot; sere , diverse;
so fete , so comely; most , biggest; God , Good; and ye , if you

Ballade: Les Contradits de Franc Gontier

Gontier ne crains, il n’a nuls hommes
Et mieux que moi n’est herité.
Mais en ce débat-ci nous sommes,
Car il loue sa pauvreté,
Etre pauvre hiver et été,
Et à felicité repute
Ce que tiens à malheureté;
Lequel a tort? Or en discute:

Sur mol duvet assis, un gras chanoine,
Lez un brasier en chambre bien natée
A son côté gisand Dame Sidoine,
Blanche, tendre, polie et attintée,
Boire ypocras à jour et à nuitée
Rire, jouer, mignonner et baiser,
Et nu à nu pour mieux des corps s’aiser,
Les vis tous deux par un trou de mortaise;
Lors je connus que pour deuil apaiser
Il n’est trésor que de vivre à son aise.

Si Franc Gontier et sa compagne Hélène
Eussent cette douce vie hantée,
D’oignons, civots, qui causent forte haleine
N’acontassent une bise tostée.
Tout leur maton, ne toute leur potée,
Ne prise un ail, je le dis sans noiser.
S’ils se vantent coucher sous le rosier,
Lequel vaut mieux, lit cotoyé de chaise?
Qu’en dites-vous? Faut-il à ce muser?
Il n’est trésor que de vivre à son aise.

De gros pain bis vivent, d’orge, d’avoine,
Et boivent eau tout au long de l’année
Tous les oiseaux d’ici en Babiloine
A tel écot une seule journée
Ne me tendroient, non une matinée.
Or s’ébatte, de par Dieu, Franc Gontier,
Hélène o lui, sous le bel eglantier,
Si bien leur est, cause n’ai qu’il me pèse
Mais quoi que soit du laboureux métier,
Il n’est trésor que de vivre à son aise.

Prince, juge pour tôt nous accorder.
Quant est de moi, mais qu’à nul ne deplaise,
Petit enfant, j’ay oï recorder
Il n’est trésor que de vivre à son aise.

François Villon (c. 1431– c.1463)

The Reply to Franc Gontier

A plump canon lounging on an eiderdown
Near the fire in a thickly carpeted room
Lady Sidonia stretching out beside him
White, delectable, glistening, primped
Sipping mulled wine by day and by night
Laughing, toying, dallying, kissing
Both completely naked for their bodies’ delight
So I spied them through a mortise chink
Then I knew that for casting off grief
There’s no treasure like high living.

If only Franc Gontier and his friend Helen
Had got a little used to the easy life
They wouldn’t now be garnishing their black toast
With onions and leeks that foul the breath
All their yoghurt and vegetable soups
Aren’t worth one garlic, meaning no offense
Though they go on about sleeping under the rose tree
Can they beat a bed with a chair beside it?
What do you say? Don’t bother to think twice
There’s no treasure like living high

They live on coarse bread of barley and oats
And drink only water the year around
But all the birds from here to Babylon
Couldn’t make me stick it for one day
On such a diet, no not for a morning
So let him get on with it, by God, Franc Gontier
And his Helen under the pretty eglantine
If that’s what they like it’s fine with me
But whatever may be said for life at the plough
There’s no treasure like living high

Prince decide so we can quickly agree
But as for me, let no one take offense
When I was a child I used to hear them say
There’s no treasure like living high

pandora charms à vendres="cite">François Villon (c. 1431– c.1463)
Tr. Galway Kinnell

To the Merchantis of Edinburgh

See Glossary

1. Quhy will ye merchantis of renoun
Lat Edinburgh your nobill toun
For laik of reformatioun
The commone proffeitt tyine and fame?
Think ye not schame,
That onie uther regioun
Sall with dishonour hurt your name?

2. May nane pas throw your principall gaittis
For stink of haddockis and of scaitti,
For cryis of carlingis and debaittis,
For fensum flyttingis of defame;
Think ye not schame,
Befoir strangeris of all estaittis
That sic dishonour hurt your name?

3. Your stinkand scull that standis dirk
Haldis the lycht fra your parroche kirk;
Your foirstair makis your housis mirk
Lyk na cuntray bot heir at hame;
Think ye not schame,
Sa litill polesie to work
In hurt and sklander of your name?

4. At your hie Croce quhar gold and silk
Sould be, there is bot crudis and milk;
And at your Trone bot cokill and wilk,
Pansches, pudingis of Jok and Jame;
Think ye not schame,
Sen as the world sayis that ilk
In hurt and sclander of your name?

5. Your commone menstrallis hes no tone
But Now the Day Dawis, and Into Joun;
Cunningar men man serve Sanct Cloun
And nevir to uther craftis clame;
Think ye not schame,
To hald sic mowaris on the moyne
In hurt and sclander of your name?

6. Tailyouris, soutteris and craftis vyll
The fairest of your streittis does fyll,
And merchandis at the stinkand styll
Ar hamperit in ane hony came;
Think ye not schame,
That ye have nether witt nor wyll
To win yourselff ane bettir name?

7. Your burgh of beggeris is ane nest,
To schout thai swentyouris will not rest;
All honest folk they do molest,
Sa piteuslie thai cry and rame:
Think ye not schame,
That for the poore hes nothing drest,
In hurt and sclander of your name?

8. Your proffeit daylie dois incres,
Your godlie workis les and les;
Through streittis nane may mak progres
For cry of cruikit, blind, and lame;
Think ye not schame,
That ye sic substance dois posses
And will nocht win ane bettir name?

9. Sen for the Court and the Sessioun
The great repair of this regioun
Is in your burgh, thairfoir be boun
To mend all faultis that ar to blame,
And eschew schame;
Gif thai pas to ane uther toun
Ye will decay, and your great name.

10. Thairfoir strangeris and liegis treit,
Tak not ouer meikle for thair meit,
And gar your merchandis be discreit,
That na extortiounes be, proclame
All fraud and schame;
Keip ordour, and poore nighbouris beit,
That ye may gett ane bettir name.

11. Singular proffeit so dois yow blind,
The common proffeit gois behind;
I pray that Lord remeid to fynd
That deit into Jerusalem,
And gar yow schame!
That sum tyme ressoun may yow bind
For to win bak to you guid name.

William Dunbar (ca 1460–ca 1525)

Meditatioun in Wyntir

In to thir dirk and drublie dayis,
Quhone sabill all the hewin arrayis
With mystie vapouris, cluddis, and skyis
Nature all curage me denyis
Off sangis, ballattis, and of playis.

Quhone that the nycht dois lenth in houris
With wind, with haill, and havy schouris,
My dule spreit dois lurk for schoir,
My hairt for languor dois forloir,
For laik of Symmer with his flouris,

I walk, I turne, sleip may I nocht,
I vexit am with havie thocht;
This warld all ouir I cast about,
And ay the mair I am in dout,
The mair that I remeid have socht.

I am assayit on everie syde:
Despair sayis ay, “In tyme provyde
And get sum thing quhairon to leif,
Or with grit trouble and mischeif
Thow sall in to this court abyd.”

Then Patience sayis, “Be not agast:
Hald Hoip and Treuthe within the fast,
And lat Fortoun wirk furthe hir rage,
Quhone that no rasoun may assuage,
Quhill that hir glas be run and past.”

And Prudence in my eir sayis ay,
“Quhy wald thow hald that will away?
Or craif that thow may have no space,
Thow tending to ane uther place,
A journay going everie day?”

And than sayis Age, “My freind, cum neir,
And be not strange, I the requeir;
Cum, brodir, by the hand me tak,
Remember thow hes compt to mak
Off all thi tyme thow spendit heir.”

Syne Deid castis upe his yettis wyd,
Saying, “This oppin sall the abyd;
Albeid that thow wer neuer sa stout,
Undir this lyntall sall thow lowt,
There is nane uther way besyde.”

For feir of this all day I drowp,
No gold in kist, nor wyne in cowp,
No ladeis bewtie, not luiffis blys,
May lat me to remember this,
How glaid that ever I dyne or sowp.

Yit quhone the nycht begynnis to schort
It does my spreit some pairt confort,
Off thocht oppressit with the schowris;
Cum lustie Symmer with thi flowris,
That I may leif in sum disport.

William Dunbar (ca 1460–ca 1525)

drublie> gloomy / quhone>when / sabill>blackness / hewin>heaven / arrayis>clothes

dule>melancholy / lurk>cower / for schoir> from dread / forloir> grow forlorn

ouir>over

assayit>tried out / ay>always / leif>live

rasoun>reasoning / glas>hour-glass

strange>aloof / compt>account

Syne>Then / yettis>gates / oppin>open / albeid>all be it, although/ stout>brave / lowt>stoop

kist>chest / lat>allow / off thocht>although

On the Nativity of Christ

Rorate celi desuper!
Hevins distill your balmy schouris,
For now is rissin the bricht day ster
From the ros Mary, flour of flouris;
The clere sone quhome no clud devouris,
Surminting Phebus in the est,
Is cumin of his hevinly touris
Et nobis puer natus est.

Archangellis, angellis and dompnationis,
Tronis, potestatis and marteiris seir,
And all ye hevinly operationis,
Ster, planeit, firmament and speir,
Fyre, erd, air and watter cleir
To him give loving, most and lest,
That come in to so meik maneir,
Et nobis puer natus est.

Synnairs be glaid and pennance do
And thank your Makar hairtfully,
For he that ye mycht nocht cum to
To yow is cumin full humly,
Your saulis with his bluid to by
And lous yow of the feindis arrest,
And only of his awin mercy;
Pro nobis puer natus est.

All clergy do to him inclyne
And bow unto that barne benyng,
And do your observance devyne
To him that is of kingis King;
Ensence his alter, reid and sing
In haly kirk with mynd degest,
Him honouring attour all thing,
Qui nobis puer natus est.

Celestiall fowlis in the are
Sing with your nottis upoun hicht,
In firthis and in forrestis fair
Be myrthfull now, at all your mycht,
For passit is your dully nycht,
Aurora hes the cluddis perst.
The son is rissin with glaidsum lycht
Et nobis puer natus est.

Now spring up flouris fra the rute,
Revert yow upwart naturally
In honour of the blissit frute
That rais up from the rose Mary;
Lay out your levis lustily,
From deid tak lyfe now at the lest
In wirschip of that Prince wirthy,
Qui nobis puer natus est.

Sing hevin imperiall, most of hicht,
Regions of air mak armony;
And fishe in flud and foull of flicht
Be myrthfull, and mak melody:
All Gloria in excelsis cry,
Hevin, erd, se, man, bird and best,
He that is crownit abone the sky
Pro nobis puer natus est.

William Dunbar (ca 1460–ca 1525)

Rorate celi desuper >Send down dew from above / ster>star / clere>bright, beautiful /sone>son / surminting>surmounting, surpassing / is cumin of>is coming from / touris>towers / Et nobis… > And unto us a son is born.

Dompnationis>Dominions / Tronis>Thrones / marteirisseir>various martyrs / operationis>agencies / speir>sphere / come in to so meik>that came in such a modest/ that ye mycht nocht come to>to whom you may not come

arrest > grip, clutches

All clergy…>All you clergy, bend towards him barne>bairn, child / benyng> benign, gentle / Ensence>Perfume with incense / degest>solemn / attour>beyond

firthis>woods

Now spring up flouris>Now flowers, spring up / Revert yow upwart>Spring up afresh

Abone>above

It sings and swings along gloriously, celebrating a major event in an orderly world, like the birth of an heir to a great kingdom where the Classical and the Christian cohabit as naturally as they do in the great paintings of that time.

But to internalize it one has to voice it, giving the obviously phonetic spellings the sound values that they look as if they have without worrying about whether “yow” is yow, or yoh or yoo, or “incline” is inclyne or incleen, and with the recognition that “-is” can signify a plural ( “angellis”) or a possessive (“feindis”), and that words that the structure require to rhyme do in fact rhyme, giving us “Mary” as “Marie” and “wirthy” as “wirthee,” and that there are no mystical concepts behind unfamiliar words.

Reading it aloud with a confident forward movement helps one to see how mild, relatively, are the differences in spelling and syntax from later southern English when words are voiced—rissin (risen), ster (star), erd (earth), awin (own), reid (read), etc.

There are no mysteries here:
To yow [he] is cumin full humly,
Your saulis with his bluid to by
And lous youw of the feindis arrest
To yow (what else?) is comin’/coming very humbly, your souls with his blood (what else? to buy (what else?) and lous (loose, free) you from the fiend’s (what? hold? grip?).

As to metre, the lines would go:
To yów is cúmin fúll humlée
Your saúlis wíth his blúid to bee
And loús yow óf the féíndis arrést.

If one wants to go broader and deeper, there’s always the marvelous online Dictionary of the Scottish Language . http://www.dsl.ac.uk/

En voyant sa dame au matin

En voyant sa dame au matin
Pres du feu où elle se lace,
Où est le coeur qui ja se lace
De regarder son beau tetin?

Alors se dit maint bon tatin
Quand on s’entretien face à face
En voyant sa dame au matin.

En ung beau corset de satin
Quant on la tient et on l’embrasse,
C’est ce qui tout ennuy efface,
Maulgré faulx Dangier, le mastin,
En voyant sa dame au matin.

Anonyme, vers 1480

Watching His Lady

Watching his lady in the morning
Beside the fire as she laces up,
Where is the heart that was growing bored
With looking at her lovely tits?

So says many a friendly chap
Describing confidentially
Watching his lady in the morning.

In a beautiful satin corset,
When you’re hugging and kissing her,
That’s what drives the boredom off,
Despite Old Scary, the guardian dog,
Watching his lady in the morning.

Anon., ca 1480
Tr. JF

A Lamentation of Queen Elizabeth

See Note

O ye that put your trust and confidence
In worldly joy and frail prosperity,
That so live here as ye should never hence,
Remember death and look here upon me.
Ensample I think there may no better be.
Your self wot well that in this realm was I
Your queen but late, and lo now here I lie.

Was I not born of old worthy lineage?
Was not my mother queen, my father king?
Was I not a king’s fere in marriage?
Had I not plenty of every pleasant thing?
Merciful God, this is a strange reckoning:
Riches, honour, wealth and ancestry
Hath me forsaken, and lo now here I lie.

If worship might have kept me, I had not gone.
If wit might have me saved, I needed not fear.
If money might have help, I lackéd none.
But O good God what vaileth all this gear?
When death is come, thy mighty messenger,
Obey we must, there is no remedy,
Me hath he summoned, and lo here I lie.

Yet was I late promiséd otherwise,
This year to live in wealth and delice.
Lo whereto cometh thy blandishing promise
O false astrology and divinatrice,
Of God’s secrets, making thy self so wise!
How true is for this year thy prophecy!
The year yet lasteth and lo now here I lie.

O brittle wealth, aye full of bitterness,
Thy single pleasure doubled is with pain.
Account my sorrow first and my distress,
In sundry wise, and reckon there again
The joy that I have had, and I dare sayn,
For all my honour, enduréd yet have I
More woe than wealth, and lo now here I lie.

Where are our castles now, where are our towers?
Goodly Richmond, soon art thou gone from me;
At Westminster that costly work of yours,
Mine own dear lord, now shall I never see.
Almighty God vouchsafe to grant that ye
For you and your children well may edify.
My palace builded is, and lo now here I lie.

Adieu, mine own dear spouse, my worthy lord.
The faithful love that did us both combine
In marriage and peaceable concord
Into your hands here I clean resign
To be bestowed upon your children and mine.
Erst were you father, and now must ye supply
The mother’s part also, for lo now here I lie.

Farewell, my daughter lady Margaret.
God wot full oft it grievéd hath my mind
That ye should go where we should seldom meet.
Now am I gone, and have left you behind.
O mortal folk, that we be very blind;
That we least fear, full oft it is most nigh:
From you depart I first, and lo now here I lie.

Farewell, madame, my lord’s worthy mother,
Comfort your son, and be ye of good cheer.
Take all a worth, for it will be no nother.
Farewell, my daughter Katherine late the fere
To prince Arthur, mine own child so dear.
It booteth not for me to weep or cry;
Pray for my soul, for lo now here I lie.

Adieu, Lord Henry, my loving son, adieu.
Our Lord increase your honour and estate.
Adieu, my daughter Mary, bright of hue.
God make you virtuous, wise, and fortunate.
Adieu, sweet heart, my little daughter Kate;
Thou shalt, sweet babe, such is thy destiny,
Thy mother never know, for lo now here I lie.

Lady Cecily, Anne, and Katherine,
Farewell my well-beloved sisters three;
O Lady Bridget, other sister mine,
Lo here the end of worldly vanity.
Now well are ye that earthly folly flee,
And heavenly things love and magnify.
Farewell and pray for me, for lo now here I lie.

Adieu my lords, adieu my ladies all,
Adieu my faithful servants everychone.
Adieu my commons whom I never shall
See in this world, wherefrom to Thee alone,
Immortal God verily three and one,
I me commend Thy infinite mercy
Show to Thy servant, for lo now here I lie.

(1503)

Thomas More (1478–1535)

ensample> example; fere> companion, spouse; divinatrice> fortune-telling?;
erst> first; everychone> every one; nother> different

Lament of the Maister of Erskine

Departe, departe, departe,
Allace! I must departe
Frome hir that hes my hart,
With hairt ful soir,
Against my will in deid,
And can find no remeid,
I wait, the panis of deid
Can do no more.

Now must I go, allace!
Frome sicht of her sueit face,
The grund of all my grace
And soverane:
Quhat chanss that may fall me
Sall I nevir mirry be,
Unto the tyme I se
My sueit agane.

I go, and wait not quhair,
I wandir heir and thair,
I weip and sichis rycht sair,
With panis smart;
Now most I pass away,
In wild and wilsum way:
Allace! this wofull day
We suld depart.

My spreit dois quaik for dreid,
My thirlit hairt dois bleid,
My panis dois exceed;
Quhat suld I say?
I wofull wycht alone,
Makand ane petous mone,
Allace! my hairt is gone,
For evir and ay.

Throw langour of my sueit,
So thirlit is my spreit,
My dayis are most compleit,
Throe hir absence:
Chryst, sen scho know my smert,
Ingrawit is my hairt,
Becaus I must departe,
From hir presens.

Adew, my awin sueit thing,
My joy and comforting,
My mirth and sollessing,
Of erdly gloir;
Fair weill, my lady bricht,
And my remembrance rycht;
Fair weill, and haif gud nycht:
I say no moir.

Alexander Scott (1520–158?)

A New Ballade of the Marigolde

(On the Accession of Mary I, 1553)

See Note

The God above, for man’s delight,
Hath here ordaynèd everything—
Sonne, Moone, and Sterres, shinyng so bright,
With all kinde fruites that here doth spring,
And Flowrs that are so flourishyng.
Amonges all which that I beholde,
As to my minde best contentyng,
I doo commende the Marigolde.

In Veare first springeth the Violet;
The Primrose, then, also, doth spred;
The Couslip sweete abroade doth get;
The Daisye gaye sheweth forth her hed;
The Medowes greene, so garnishèd,
Most goodly (truly) to beholde,
For which God is to be praisèd:
Yet I commende the Marigolde.

The Rose that chearfully doth shewe
At Midsomer, her course hath shee;
The Lilye white after doth growe;
The Columbine then see may yee;
The Joliflowre in fresh degree,
With sundrie mo than can be tolde:
Though they never so pleasaunt bee,
Yet I commend the Marigolde.

Though those which here are mentionèd
Bee delectàble to the iye,
By whom sweete smelles are ministred,
The sense of man to satisfye,
Yet each as serveth his fantasye;
Wherefor to say I wyll be bolde,
And to avoide all flaterye,
I doo commende the Marigolde.

All these but for a time doth serve,
Soone come, soone gone, so doth they fare,
At fervent heates and stormes they sterve,
Fadying away, their staulkes left bare.
Of that I praise, thus say I dare,
Shee sheweth glad cheere in heate and colde,
Moche profitying to hertes in care,
Such is this floure, the Marigolde.

The Marigolde Floure, mark it well,
With Sonne doth open, and also shut;
Which (in a meaning) to us doth tell
To Christ, God’s Sonne, our willes to put,
And by his woorde to set our futte.
Stiffly to stande, as Champions bolde,
From the truthe to stagger nor stutte,
For which I praise the Marigolde.

To Marie, our Queene, that Floure so sweete,
This Marigolde I do apply,
For that the name doth serve so meete,
And properlee, in each partie,
For her enduryng paciently
The stormes of such, as list to scolde
At her dooynges, with cause why,
Loth to see spring this Marigolde.

She may be calde Marigolde well,
Of Marie (chiefe), Christes mother deere,
That as in heaven shee doth excel,
And Golde in earth, to have no peere:
So (certainly) shee shineth cleere,
In Grace and honour double folde,
The like was never earst seene here,
Such is this floure, the Marigolde.

Her education well is knowne,
From her first age how it hath wrought;
In singler Vertue shee hath growne,
And servyng God, as she well ought;
For which he had her in his thoughte,
And showed her Graces manifolde,
In her estate to see her broghte,
Though some did spite this Marigolde.

Yf shee (in faith) had erred a-misse,
Which God, most sure, doth understande,
Wolde he have doone, as provèd is,
Her Enmies so to bring to hande?
No, be ye sure, I make a bande,
For servyng him he needes so wolde
Make her to Reigne over Englande,
So loveth hee this Marigolde.

Her conversacion, note who list,
It is more heavenly than terraine,
For which God doth her Actes assiste;
All meekenesse doth in her remaine:
All is her care, how to ordayne,
To have God’s Glorie here extolde;
Of Poore and Riche, shee is most fayne.
Christ save, therefore, this Marigolde.

Sith so it is, God loveth her,
And shee, His Grace, as doth appeare;
Ye may be bolde as to referre
All doubtfulnesse as to her most cleare,
That, as her owne, in like maneare
She wilth your welthes, both yong and olde,
Obey her, then, as your Queene deare,
And say: Christ save this Marigolde.

Christ save her in her High Estate,
Therin (in rest) long to endure;
Christ so all wronges here mitigate,
That all may be to his pleasure:
The high, the lowe, in due mesure,
As membres true with her to holde,
So eache to be th’others treasure.
In cherishing the Marigolde.

Be thou (O God) so good as thus
Thy Perfect Fayth to see take place;
Thy peace thou plant here among us,
That Errour may go hide his face,
So to concorde us in eache case,
As in thy Courte, it is enrolde,
Wee all (as one) to love her Grace,
That is our Queene, this Marigolde.

God save the Queene

William Forrest, Priest.

Veare> Spring; sterve>die; stutte>stumble; earst>before;
singleer>singular; terraine>earthly, worldly; fayne>desirous;
wilth your welthes>wills (desires) your well-being;

Ces longues nuits d’hiver, où la Lune ocieuse

Ces longues nuits d’hiver, où la Lune ocieuse
Tourne si lentement son char tout à l’entour,
Ou le Coq si tardif nous annonce le jour,
Où la nuit semble un an à l’ame soucieuse:

Je fusse mort d’ennui sans ta forme douteuse,
Qui vient par une feinte alleger mon amour,
Et faisant toute nue entre mes bras sejour,
Me pipe doucement d’une joie meteuse.

Vraie tu es farouche, et fiere en cruauté:
De toi fausse on jouit en toute privauté
Pres ton mort je m’endors, pres de lui je repose:

Rien ne m’est refusé. Le bon sommeil ainsi
Abuse par le faux mon amoureux souci.
S’abuser en amour n’est pas mauvaise chose.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

In these long winter nights when the lazy Moon

In these long winter nights when the lazy Moon
Steers her chariot so slowly on its way,
When the cockerel so tardily calls the day,
When night to the troubled soul seems years through:

I would have died of misery if not for you,
In shadowy form, coming to ease my fate,
Utterly naked in my arms, to lie and wait,
Sweetly deceiving me with a specious view.

The real you is fierce, of pitiless cruelty:
The false you one enjoys, in true intimacy,
I sleep beside your ghost, rest by an illusion:

Nothing’s denied me. So kind sleep deceives
My loving sorrows with your false reality.
In love there is no harm in self-delusion.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)
Tr. A.S. Klein

Chanson

Douce Maistress touche,
Pour soulager mon mal,
Ma bouche de ta bouche
Plus rouge que Coral;
Que mon col soit pressé
De tes bras enlassé.

Puis face dessus face
Regarde moy les yeux,
Afin que ton trait passe
En mon coeur soucieux,
Coeur qui ne vit sinon
D’Amour et de ton nom.

Je l’ay veu fier et brave,
Avant que ta beauté
Pour estre ton esclave
Du sein me l’eust osté
Mais son mal luy plaist bien,
Pourveu qu’il meure tien.

Belle, par qui je donne
À mes yeux tant d’esmoy,
Baise moy ma mignonne,
Cent fois rebaise moy;
Et quoy? faut-il en vain
Languit dessus ton sein?

Maistresse je n’ay garde
De vouloir t’esveiller.
Heureux quand je regarde
Tex beaux yeux sommeiller:
Heureux quand je les voy
Endormis dessus moy.

Veux-tu que je les baise
Afin de les ouvrir?
Hà, tu fais la mauvaise
Pour me faire mourir:
Je meurs entre tes bras,
Et s’il ne t’en chaut pas.

Hà! ma chère ennemie,
Si tu veux m’appaiser,
Redonne moy la vie
Par l’esprit d’un baiser.
Hà! j’en sens la douceur
Couler jusques au coeur.

J’aime la douce rage
D’amour continuel,
Quad d’un mesme courage
Le soing est mutuel.
Heureux sera le jour
Que je mourray d’amour.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

Song

To relieve my pain,
Sweet mistress, touch
My mouth with yours,
Redder than coral,
With your arms tight
Around my neck.

Then, face close to mine,
Gaze into my eyes,
And let your dart pierce
My anxious heart,
A heart living only
For Love and you.

I’ve known it brave and proud
Before your beauty
Stole it from my breast
To make it your slave,
But it’s happy with the pain,
Provided it dies yours.

So lovely that my eyes
Are seething, seething,
Kiss me, my darling,
Kiss me a hundred times;
And then? Must I lie in vain
Upon your bosom … ?

Oh mistress mine, I can relax now.
No need to wake you.
I’m happy just watching
Your lovely eyes drowsing
Happy when I see them
Asleep underneath me.

But how about a kiss or two,
To reopen them…?
Oh, you’re being wicked,
You’re simply killing me
I’m dying in your arms
And it doesn’t bother you.

My dear sweet enemy,
If you want to be really nice.
Just bring me back to life
With a well-placed kiss …
Ah! I can feel the sweetness
Flowing up to my heart.

I love the sweet storm
Of continual passion
When we’ve the same desires
And can come together.
It will be bliss
When I really die of love.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)
Tr. JF

D’une Courtizanne à Venus

Si je puis ma jeunesse folle,
Hantant les bordeaux, garantir
De ne pouvoir jamais sentir
Ne poulains, chancre, ne verole,

O Venus! de Bacus compaigne,
À toi je promets, en mes voeus,
Mon éponge, et mes faus cheveus,
Mon fard, mon miroer, et mon paigne.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

From a Courtesan to Venus

If my wanton youth can be certain,
As it haunts the brothels,
That it will never have to know
Buboes, cankers, or pockmarks,

O Venus! companion of Bacchus,
I'll see that you inherit,
My little sponge and my hairpieces,
My rouge, my mirror, and my comb.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)
Tr. JF

“O long winter nights”

O long winter nights, bane of my existence,
Give me patience and allow me to sleep.
The very mention of you makes my whole body
Shudder and sweat, you treat me so cruelly.

Sleep, however briefly, never hovers over
My always-open eyes, and I can’t press
Eyelid upon eyelid, but only groan,
Suffering, like Ixion, unending pain.

Old dark of earth, the dark of hell,
You hold open my eyes with chains of iron,
And ravage my body with a thousand stabbing pains.

To stop them for ever, let death come to me.
O death, our common haven, our human comforter,
Put an end to my suffering, I beseech you with clasped hands.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)
Tr. JF

Of all the birds that I do know

Of all the birds that I do know,
Philip my sparrow hath no peer;
For sit she high, or sit she low,
Be she far off, or be she near,
There is no bird so fair, so fine,
Nor yet so fresh as this of mine;
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

Come in a morning merrily
When Philip hath been lately fed;
Or in an evening soberly
When Philip list to go to bed;
It is a heaven to hear my Phipp,
How she can chirp with merry lip,
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

She never wanders far abroad,
But is at home when I do call.
If I command she lays on load
With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
That I believe she hath no peer.
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

And yet besides all the good sport
My Philip can both sing and dance,
With new found toys of sundry sort
My Philip can both prick and prance.
And if you say but: fend cut, Phipp!
Lord, how the peat will turn and skip!
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

And to tell truth he were to blame,
Having so fine a bird as she
To make him all this goodly game
Without suspect or jealousy;
He were a churl and knew no good,
Would see her faint for lack of food,
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

George Gascoigne (ca. 1528–1577)

The Night is Neir Gone

See Glossary /a>

Hay! now the day dawis,
The jolie Cok crawis,
Now shroudis the shawis
Throw Natur anone,
The thissell-cok cryis
On Lovers wha lyis,
Nou skaillis the skyis:
The nicht is neir gone.

The fields owerflowis
With gowans that growis
Quhair lilies lyk low is,
Als rid as the rone.
The turtill that trew is
With nots that renewis
Hir partie persewis:
The night is neir gone.

Nou hairtis with hyndis
Conforme to thair kindis,
Hie tursis thair tyndis
On grund whair they grone,
Nou hurchonis with hairis
Ay passis in pairis,
Quhilk deuly declairis
The night is neir gone.

The sesone excellis
Throgh sweetnes that smellis;
Nou Cupid compellis
Our hairtis echone
On Venus wha waikis
To muse on our maikis,
Syn sing for thair saikis,
The night is neir gone.

All curageous knichtis
Aganis the day dichtis
The breist plate that bright is
To fight with thair fone,
The stoned steed stampis
Throu curage and crampis
Syn on the land lampis:
The night is neir gone.

The freikis on feildis
That wight wapins weildis
With shyning bright sheildis
As Titan in trone;
Stiff speiris in reistis
Ower cursoris cristis
Ar brok in thair breistis:
The night is neir gone.

So hard att thair hittis
Some sweyis, some sittis
And some perforce flittis
On grund whill they grone;
Syn groomis that gay is
On blonkis that brayis
With swordis assayis:
The night is neir gone.

Alexander Montgomerie (b. ca 1543–1558; d. 1598)

The Secreit Prais of Love

See Glossary /a>

As everie object to the outward ee
Dissaivis the sight and semis as it is sene
Quhen not bot shap and cullour yit we se
For no thing els is subject to the ene,
As stains and trees appearing gray and grene,
Quhais quantities upon the sight depends,
Bot qualities the cunning comprehends.

Even sa wha sayis they sie me as I am,
I mene a man, suppose they sie me move,
Of ignorance they do tham selfis condam
By syllogisme this properly I prove.
Quha sees (by look) my loyaltie in love,
Quhat hurt in hairt, what hope or hap I haiv?
Quhilk ressone movis the senses to consaiv.

Imagination is the outward ee
To spy the richt anatomie of mynd
Quhilk (by some secreit sympathie) may see
The force of love quhilk can not be defynd,
Quharthrou the hairt according to his kynd
Compassionat, as it appeirs plane
Participats of plesur or of pane.

Of hevins or earth some simlitude or shape
By cunning craftismen to the ees appeir,
Bot who is he can counterfurt the ape
Or paint a passion papable, I speir,
Quhilk enters by the organ of the eir
And bot, when it is pithily exprest,
And yit I grant the gritest pairt is gest?

Suppose the hevins be huge for to behold,
Contening all within their compass wyde,
The starris be tyme (thogh tedious) may be told
Because within a certin bounds they byd.
The carde the earth from waters may devyde,
But who is he can limit Love, I wene,
Quhom nather carde nor compas can contene.

Quhat force is this subdeuing all and sum?
Quhat force is this that makes the tygris tame?
Quhat force is this that na man can ouircum?
Quhat force is this that rightlie nane can name?
Quhat force is this that careis sik a fame?
A vehemency that words can not reveill
Quhßilk I conclude to suffer and conceill.

Alexander Montgomerie (b. ca 1543–1558; d. 1598)

A Godly Prayer

See Glossary /a>

Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.
I am not worthy to be call’d thy chylde
Who stubburnely haif look’t so long astray,
Not lyke thy sone bot lyk the prodigue wyld.
My sillie saull with sin is so defyld
That Satan seeks to catch it as his pray.
God grant me grace that he may be begyld.
Peccavi Pater, Miserere mei.

I am abash’d hou I dar be sa bald
Befor thy godly presence to appeir
Or hazard anes the hevins to behald
Who am unworthy that the earth suld beir,
Yit damne me noght whom thou hes boght so deir
Sed salvum me fac dulcis fili Dei
For out of Luk this leson nou I leir.
Peccavi Pater, Miserere mei.

If thou O Lord with rigour wouldst revenge,
What flesh befor thee faultless suld be fund?
Or who is he whois conscience can him clenge?
But by his birth to Satan he is bund,
Yit of thy grace thou took away that grund
And sent thy Sone our penalty to pay
To saiv us from that hiddious hellish hund.
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

I hope for mercy thogh my sinnis be huge,
I grant my gylt and grone to thee for grace.
Thogh I suld flie whair sall I find refuge?
In hevin O Lord? thair is thy dwelling place,
The erth thy futstule, yea in hel is (alace)
Doun with the dead, bot all must thee obey.
Thairfor I cry whill I haif tyme and space
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

O gratious God my gyltines forgive
In sinners death since thou dost not delyte
But rather that they suld convert and live
As witnessis thy sacred holy wryte.
I pray thee then thy promise to perfyte
In me, and I sal with the Psalmist say
To get thy prais and wondrous works indyte.
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

Suppose I slyde, let me not sleep in sleuth,
In stinking sty with Satans sinful swyn
Bot mak my tongue the trompet of thy treuth
And lend my verse sik wings as ar divine.
Sin thou hes grantit me so good ingyn
To Loif thee, Lord, in gallant style and gay
Let me no moir so trim a talent tyne.
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

Thy Spirit my spirit to speik with speed inspire.
Help holy Ghost, and be Montgomeries muse.
Flie doun on me in forked tongues of fyre
As thou did on thy oune Apostills use
And with thy fyre me fervently infuse
To laud thee, Lord, and longer not delay.
My former foolish fictiouns I refuse.
Peccavi Pater, Miserere mei.

Stoup stubborne stomock that hes bene so stout,
Stoup filthie flesh and carioun of clay,
Stoup hardnit hairt befor thee Lord and lout,
Stoup, stoup in tyme, defer not day by day.
Thou knouis not weill wen thou man pass away.
The Tempter als is bissie to betrey.
Confes thy sinnis and shame not for to say
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

To gret Jehovah let all glore be gevin
Wha shupe my saull to his similitude
And to his sone whom he sent doun from hevin
When I wes lost to buy me with his blude
And to the holy Ghost my gyder gude
Who must confirme my faith to tak no fray.
In me cor mundum crea, I conclude.
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

Alexander Montgomerie (b. ca 1543–1558; d. 1598)

The text comes from Alexander Montgomerie, Poems , 2 vols., ed. David J. Parkinson (2000), with the following tweaks: v>w, u>w (as in dueling/dweling), the>thee, thought>thogh

To the Honour of the Ladyis, and the Fortification of their Fame.

See Glossary /a>

Just to declair the hie Magnificence,
And Bountie grit that in the Ladyis is,
The Wirdyness and Verteus Excelence,
The Laud, the Truth, the Bewtie, and the Bliss,
My Barbir Tung unworthy is I wiss;
But nicht the less my Pen I will apply,
To say the Suth, thoch Eloquence I miss,
Of Femenyne the Fame to fortifie.

Thocht Doctors auld Addresses their Delyt,
To dyt of Ladys Defamation,
Wae worth the Wicht sould set his Appityte,
To reid sic Rolls of Reprobation;
But tittat mak plain Proclamation,
To gather all sic Lybills bisselie,
And in the Fyre mak their Location,
Of Femenyne the Fame to fortifie.

For quho sae list the Richt trew to reherse,
To humane Glore they mak Habilitie;
Quehen Men ar sad at them solace they ferss,
As Habitickles of all Humanity,
They bring grit Weirs aft to Tranquilitie,
Malice of Men they meis and pacifie,
To Saul and Body baith Utilitie;
Therfore all Men their Fame sould fortifie.

Althoucht a Man had as much Gude to spend
As all the Empyres of this Globe around;
Wer Women wanting Weil-fare were at End,
Without their Comfort Care sould him confound;
Quhair they abyde thair Bliss does ay abound,
And quahair they flie Felicetie gaes by;
But thair Solace nae Sage may be eir found;
Thairfore all Men their Fame sould fortifie.

Sen GOD has grantit them sie Gudliness,
And formid them after sae fine fassoun,
Syne put sic bluming Bewtie in thair Face,
Quhy sould not Men hald them of grit Renown?
Sen God has given to them sae grit Guerdoun,
And with sie Meiknes does them magnifie,
Quhy sould Men mak to them Comparisone,
But owre all quhair their Fames to fortifie?

Or Mary myld, the Maid immaculate,
To fortifie of Femenyne the Fame,
CHRYST was incarnate and incorporate,
And nurist was nyn Months within hir Wame;
And aftir born, and bocht us frae the Blame
Of Bellial , that brint us bitterlie;
That heavenly Honour saves the Sex frae Shame,
And owre al quahair their Fame does fortifie.

John Stewart (ca. 1545–ca. 1605)

C’est une estrange loy de souffrir que l’on couche

C’est une estrange loy de souffrir que l’on couche
En une mesme chambre, et l’amie et lamant,
Separez l’un de l’autre, et n’oser seulement
La nuict se relever, et moins ouvrir le bouche:

Amans je vos diray pourquoy cela me touche,
Tout auprès de mon lict couche journellement,
Celle dont la beaute me blesse incessamment,
Toujours avec Amour je suis à l’escarmouche:

Ainsi que vous voyez une biche amoureuse
Sortir le chef baissé de sa couche espineuse,
L’oeil encor my sille de sommeil gracieuse;

Je vois ainsi du lict cette belle descendre,
Je meurs, en la voyant si doucement estendre
Ses bras aux rais luisans du feu chaud de ses yeux.

First pub. 1639

Cristofle de Beaujeu (1552–1635)

It’s a curious law that permits putting

It’s a curious law that permits putting
Beloved and lover in one bedchamber,
But separated, and not even daring
To relieve themselves, let alone open their mouths.

Lovers, I’ll tell you why this touches me.
Right beside my bed lies every night
She whose beauty wounds me without respite.
For me Love is always a skirmishing.

Like when one’s observed an amorous doe
Emerging with lowered head from her thorny lair,
Her eyes half closed still from a graceful sleep;

So this beauty steps from her bed in the morning
And I die watching as she gently stretches out
Her arms in the shining rays of the fire of her eyes.

Christofle de Beaujeu (1552–1635)
Tr. JF

Down in the depth of mine iniquity

Down in the depth of mine iniquity,
That ugly center of infernal spirits,
Where each sin feels her own deformity,
In these peculiar torments she inherits,
Deprived of human graces, and divine,
Even there appears this saving God of mine.

And in this fatal mirror of transgression,
Shows man as fruit of his degeneration,
The error’s ugly infinite impression,
Which bears the faithless down to desperation;
Deprived of human graces and divine,
Even there appears this saving God of mine.

In power and truth, Almighty and eternal,
Which on the sin reflects strange desolation,
With glory scourging all the Sprites infernal,
And uncreated hell with unprivation;
Deprived of human graces, not divine,
Even there appears this saving God of mine.

For on this spiritual Cross condemned lying,
To pains infernal by eternal doom,
I see my Saviour for the same sins dying,
And from that hell I feared, to free me come;
Deprived of human graces, not divine,
Thus hath his death raised up this soul of mine.

Fulke Greville (1554–1628)

Lady Anne Bothwell’s Lament

Balow my Boy, lye still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep;
If thou’lt be silent, I’ll be glad,
Thy Mourning makes my Heart full sad;
Balow my Boy, thy Mother’s Joy,
Thy Father bred me great Annoy.
Balow, my Boy, lye still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

Balow, my Darling, sleep a while,
And when thou wak’st, then sweetly smile,
But smile not as thy Father did,
To cozen Maids, nay God forbid;
But in thine Eye, his Look I see,
The tempting Look that ruin’d me.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

When he began to court my Love,
And with his sugar’d Words to move,
His tempting Face and flatt’ring Chear,
In time to me did not appear;
But now I see, that cruel he
Cares neither for his Babe nor me.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest Youth,
That ever kist a Woman’s Mouth;
Let never any after me
Submit unto thy Courtesy;
For if they do, O! cruel thou
Will her abuse, and care not how.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

I was too cred’lous at the first
To grant thee all a Maiden durst;
Thou swore for ever true to prove,
Thy Faith unchang’d, unchang’d thy Love;
But quick as Thought the Change is wrought,
Thy Love’s no more, thy Promise nought.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

I wish I were a Maid again,
From young men’s Flatt’ry I’d refrain,
For now unto my Grief I find,
They are all perjur’d and unkind.
Bewitching Charms bred all my Harms,
Witness my Babe lies in my Arms.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

I take my Fate from bad to worse,
That I must needs be now a Nurse,
And lull my young Son on my Lap,
From me, sweet Orphan, take the Pap.
Balow, my Child, thy Mother mild
Shall wail, as from all Bliss exil’d.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Balow my Boy, weep not for me,
Whose greatest Grief’s for wronging thee;
Nor pity her deserved Smart,
Who can blame none but her fond Heart:
For, too soon trusting latest finds,
With fairest Tongues are falsest Minds.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Balow my Boy, thy Father’s fled,
When he the thriftless Son has play’d;
Of Vows and Oaths, forgetful he
Prefer’d the Wars to thee and me:
But now, perhaps, thy Curse and mine,
Makes him eat Acorns with the Swine.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

But curse not him, perhaps now he
Stung with Remorse, is blessing thee:
Perhaps at Death; for who can tell.
Whether the Judge opf Heaven or Hell,
By some proud Foe has struck the Blow,
And laid the dear Deceiver low?
Balow, my Boy, &c.

I wish I were into that Bounds
Where he lies smother’d in his Wounds,
Repeating, as he pants for Air,
My Name, whom once he call’d his Fair.
No Woman’s yet so fiercely set,
But she’ll forgive, tho’ not forget.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

If Linnen lacks, for my Love’s sake,
Then quickly to him would I make
My Smock once for his Body meet,
And wrap him in that Winding-sheet.
Ah me! how happy had I been,
If he had ne’er been wrapt therein!
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Balow my Boy, I’ll weep for thee;
Too soon, alake, thou’lt weep for me:
Thy Griefs are growing to a Sum,
God grant thee Patience when they come,
Born to sustain thy Mother’s Shame,
A hapless Fate, a Bastard’s Name!
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Anonymous

Balow>a lullaby; “a word used in hushing a child to sleep”
(Dictionary of the Scots Language)

Text from Orpheus Caledonius; A Collection of Scots Songs
set to Music by William Thomson (1733 edition).

Aux Cuisses

Quoi? bessons pilotis, quoi? gemelle colonne,
Soutien de la chapelle, ou marglier est mon coeur,
Blanc soliveau marbrin, que tremble tu d’horreur,
Quand, pretre. En ton beau temple un motet je fredonne.

Mainte autre belle Église appreuve ma vois bonne,
Bien que j’enfonce bas, si n’ai-je le son dur:
Pare nature est mon fa, bemol ferme le choeur,
Je rentre droit au ton, quand par fois je m’entonne.

Je sçai conter la pause, et tenir le tacet,
J’accorde bien ma voix à trois, à quatre, à set:
Prenés, donc, ô piliers, plaisir à ma Musique,

Craignés, cliquant si fort, de discorder no sons:
Si vous goutés le miel de mes douces chansons,
Vous n’avourés jamais autre chantre en pratique.

1585

Jean-Édouard du Monin (1557–1586)

To Her Thighs

What? –foundations of legs? What? –a twin column?
Supports of the chapel where my heart keeps watch?
White marble joists, why do you quake in horror
When, priest-like, in your temple I hum a motet?

Many another lovely church likes my fine voice.
And what if I plunge down low if the sound isn’t harsh,
My bass is natural, it’s the choir that’s flat
I land right back on the note when I happen to stray.

I know how to count a pause and hold a silence
I can fit in with three, or four, or seven others.
So, oh you pillars, please enjoy my music.

Don’t risk creating a discord with those protestings.
Once you’ve tasted the honey of my sweet songs
You’ll never want to confess to another poet.

Jean-Édouard du Monin (1557—1586)
Tr. JF

Bethsabe’s Song

Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair;
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me:
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.

George Peele (c.1557–1596)

Whenas the rye

When as the rye reach to the chin,
And chopcherry, chopcherry ripe within,
Strawberries swimming in the cream,
And school-boys playing in the stream;
Then O, then O, then O my true love said,
Till that time come again,
She could not live a maid.

George Peele (c.1557–1596)

Fair maiden

Fair maiden, white and red,
Comb me smooth, and stroke my head;
And thou shalt have some cockle bread.
Gently dip, but not too deep,
For fear thou make the golden beard to weep.
Fair maid, white and red,
Comb me smooth, and stroke my head;
And every hair a sheave shall be,
And every sheave a golden tree.

George Peele (c.1557–1596)

Hierusalem , my happy home
To the Tune of “Diana”

Hierusalem , my happie home,
when shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrowes have an end?
thy joyes when shall I see?

O happie harbour of the saintes,
O sweete and pleasant soyle,
In thee no sorrow may be founde,
no greefe, no care, no toyle.

In thee no sicknesse may be seene,
no hurt, no ache, no sore;
There is no death nor uglie devill,
there is life for evermore.

No dampishe mist is seen in thee,
no could nor darksome night;
There everie soule shines as the sunne,
there god himself gives light.

There lust and lukar cannot dwell,
there envie beares no sway;
There is no hunger, heate, nor coulde,
but pleasure everie way.

Hierusalem , Hierusalem ,
god grant I once may see
They endless joyes, and of the same
partaker aye to be.

Thy walles are made of precious stones;
thy bulwarkes, diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right Orient pearle,
exceedinge riche and rare.

Thy terrettes and thy Pinacles
with Carbuncles do shine;
Thy verie streetes are paved with gould,—
surpassinge cleare and fine.

Thy houses are of Ivorie,
thy windoes Cristale cleare;
Thy tyles are made of beaten gould—
O god, that I were there!

Within thy gates nothing doeth come
that is not passinge cleane;
No spider’s web, no durt, no dust,
no filth may there be seene.

Ay my sweete home, Hierusalem ,
would god I were in thee;
Would god my woes were at an end,
thy joyes that I might see!

Thy saintes are crown’d with glorie great,
they see god face to face;
They triumph still, they still rejoyce,
most happie is their case.

Wee that are here in banishment
gontinuallie doe mourne;
We sighe and sobbe, we weepe and weale,
perpetuallie we groane.

Our sweete is mixt with bitter gaule,
our pleasure is but paine,
Our joyes scarce last the lookeing on,
our sorrowes still remaine;

But there they live in such delight,
such pleasure, and such play,
As that to them a thousand yeares
doth seeme as yeaster-day.

Thy Viniards and thy Orchards are
most beautifull and faire,
Full furnishèd with trees and fruites,
most wonderfull and rare.

Thy gardens and thy gallant walkes
continually are greene;
There growes such sweete and pleasant flowers
as no where else are seene.

There is nector and Ambrosia made,
there is muske and Civette sweete;
There mainie a faire and daintie drugge
are trodden under feete.

There Cinemon, there sugar, growes;
there narde and balme abound.
What tounge can tell or hart conceive
the joyes that there are founde?

Thy happy Saints (Jerusalem)
do bathe in endless blisse;
None but those blessèd soules can tell
how great thy glory is.

Quyt through the streetes with silver sound
the flood of life doth flowe;
Upon whose bankes, on every syde,
the wood of life doth growe.


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