Bulchevy's Book of English Verse - LightNovelsOnl.com
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William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
161. Sonnets xvii
O NEVER say that I was false of heart, Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify!
As easy might I from myself depart, As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie: That is my home of love; if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so prepost'rously be stain'd, To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: For nothing this wide Universe I call, Save thou, my Rose; in it thou art my all.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
162. Sonnets xviii
LET me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compa.s.s come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom:-- If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
163. Sonnets xix
TH' expense of Spirit in a waste of shame Is l.u.s.t in action; and till action, l.u.s.t Is perjured, murderous, b.l.o.o.d.y, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had, Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait On purpose laid to make the taker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in possession so; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this h.e.l.l.
William Shakespeare. 1564-1616
164. Sonnets xx
POOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth-- My sinful earth these rebel powers array-- Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men; And Death once dead, there 's no more dying then.
Richard Rowlands. 1565-1630?
165. Lullaby
UPON my lap my sovereign sits And sucks upon my breast; Meantime his love maintains my life And gives my sense her rest.
Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me; So may thy mother and thy nurse Thy cradle also be.
Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wis.h.i.+ng would; Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should.
Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thyself Vouchsafing to be mine.
Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Thomas Nashe. 1567-1601
166. Spring
SPRING, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing-- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay-- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet-- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet Spring!
Thomas Nashe. 1567-1601
167. In Time of Pestilence 1593
ADIEU, farewell earth's bliss!
This world uncertain is: Fond are life's l.u.s.tful joys, Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly; I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health; Physic himself must fade; All things to end are made; The plague full swift goes by; I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flower Which wrinkles will devour; Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair; Dust hath closed Helen's eye; I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Strength stoops unto the grave, Worms feed on Hector brave; Swords may not fight with fate; Earth still holds ope her gate; Come, come! the bells do cry; I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Wit with his wantonness Tasteth death's bitterness; h.e.l.l's executioner Hath no ears for to hear What vain art can reply; I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Haste therefore each degree To welcome destiny; Heaven is our heritage, Earth but a player's stage.
Mount we unto the sky; I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
168. Cherry-Ripe
THERE is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: There cherries grow which none may buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619
169. Laura
