Elizabethan Poetry: An Anthology

By Dover Publications

The relative peace and prosperity of the Elizabethan age (1558–1603) fostered the growth of one of the most fruitful eras in literary history. Lyric poetry, prose, and drama flourished in sixteenth-century England in works that blended medieval traditions with Renaissance optimism.
This anthology celebrates the wit and imaginative creativity of the Elizabethan poets with a generous selection of their graceful and sophisticated verse. Highlights include sonnets from Astrophel and Stella, written by Sir Philip Sidney — a scholar, poet, critic, courtier, diplomat, soldier, and ideal English Renaissance man; poems by Edmund Spenser, whose works combined romance with allegory, adventure, and morality; and sonnets by William Shakespeare, whose towering poetic genius transcends the ages. Other celebrated contributors include John Donne ("Go, and catch a fallen star"), Ben Jonson ("Drink to me only with thine eyes"), and Christopher Marlowe ("The Passionate Shepherd to His Love"). The poetry of lesser-known figures such as Michael Drayton, Samuel Daniel, and Fulke Greville appears here, along with verses by individuals better known in other fields — Francis Bacon, Queen Elizabeth I, and Walter Raleigh — whose poems offer valuable insights into the spirit of the age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Release date: Mar 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9780486113630

Book preview

ANONYMOUS (1595–1608)

Most of the poems from this section were set to music as madrigals in the late 1580s and subsequently published in one of the nearly one hundred songbooks that appeared through the early 1600s. (Love was usually the topic of madrigals, which were always sung unaccompanied by instruments; the majority of the other songs were accompanied by lute.) While the madrigal form developed in Italy, English composers took it up and probably wrote more than musicians anywhere else, the most notable being William Byrd, Thomas Morley, John Dowland and Thomas Weekles. Any titles to the poems seem to have been added by the original or subsequent editors.

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Now is the month of maying,

When merry lads are playing

Each with his bonny lass

Upon the greeny grass.

The Spring, clad all in gladness,

Doth laugh at Winter’s sadness,

And to the bagpipe’s sound

The nymphs tread out their ground.

Fie then! why sit we musing,

Youth’s sweet delight refusing?

Say, dainty nymphs, and speak,

Shall we play barley-break?

A Sonnet in the Grace of Wit, of Tongue, of Face

Her face, her tongue, her wit, so fair, so sweet, so sharp,

First bent, then drew, now hit, mine eye, mine ear, my heart:

Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, to like, to learn, to love,

Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth lead, doth teach, doth move.

Her face, her tongue, her wit, with beams, with sound, with art,

Doth blind, doth charm, doth rule, mine eye, mine ear, my heart.

Mine eye, mine ear, my heart, with life, with hope, with skill,

Her face, her tongue, her wit, doth feed, doth feast, doth fill.

Oh face, oh tongue, oh wit, with frowns, with checks, with smart,

Wring not, vex not, wound not, mine eye, mine ear, my heart:

This eye, this ear, this heart, shall ’join, shall bind, shall swear,

Your face, your tongue, your wit, to serve, to love, to fear.

Love’s a Bee, and Bees Have Stings

Once I thought, but falsely thought

Cupid all delight had brought,

And that love had been a treasure,

And a palace full of pleasure,

But alas! too soon I prove,

Nothing is so sour as love;

That for sorrow my muse sings,

Love’s a bee, and bees have stings.

When I thought I had obtained

That dear solace, which if gained

Should have caused all joy to spring,

Viewed, I found it no such thing:

But instead of sweet desires,

Found a rose hemmed in with briars;

That for sorrow my muse sings,

Love’s a bee, and bees have stings.

Wonted pleasant life adieu,

Love hath changed thee for a new:

New indeed, and sour I prove it,

Yet I cannot choose but love it;

And as if it were delight,

I pursue it day and night;

That with sorrow my muse sings,

I love bees, though bees have stings.

Posies

Love resisted is a child;

Suffered, is a tiger wild.

The scourge of heaven and earth, hell, sea and land,

Is scourged and mastered by a human hand.

My heart’s heart likes my heart, and I again

Like my heart’s heart; so both content remain.

Mars and Cupid differ far,

Love cannot agree with war;

And till Mars and Love agree,

Look not, Love, to conquer me.

If Fortune’s hand be not a stop,

I will attain the highest top;

The which if Fortune do deny,

Fortune is to blame, not I.

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Except I love, I cannot have delight,

It is a care that doth to life belong;

For why I hold that life in great despite

That hath not soür mixed with sweet among.

And though the torments which I feel be strong,

Yet had I rather thus for to remain

Than laugh, and live, not feeling lover’s pain.

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April is in my mistress’ face,

And July in her eyes hath place,

Within her bosom is September,

But in her heart a cold December.

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My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,

It doth so well become her:

For every season she hath dressings fit,

For Winter, Spring, and Summer.

No beauty she doth miss,

When all her robes are on:

But Beauty’s self she is,

When all her robes are gone.

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Fie on this feigning!

Is love without desire?

Heat still remaining,

And yet no spark of fire?

Thou art untrue, nor wert with Fancy moved!

For Desire hath power on all that ever loved!

Sow some relenting!

Or grant thou dost not love!

Two hearts consenting,

Shall they no comforts prove?

Yield! or confess that Love is without Pleasure;

And that women’s bounties rob men of their treasure!

Truth is not placed

In words and forcèd smiles!

Love is not graced

With that which still beguiles!

Love, or dislike! yield fire, or give no fuel!

So mayest thou prove kind; or, at the least less, cruel!

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Come, sirrah Jack, ho!

Fill some tobacco.

Bring a wire

And some fire!

Haste away,

Quick I say!

Do not stay!

Shun delay!

For I drank none good to-day.

I swear that this tobacco

It’s perfect Trinidado.

By the Mass

Never was

Better gear

Than is here.

By the rood

For the blood

It is very very good.

Fill the pipe once more,

My brains dance trenchmore.

It is heady,

I am giddy.

Head and brains,

Back and reins,

Joints and veins

From all pains

It doth well purge and make clean.

For those that do condemn it,

Or such as not commend it,

Never were so wise to learn

Good tobacco to discern;

Let them go

Pluck a crow,

And not know,

As I do,

The sweet of Trinidado.

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In love with you, I all things else do hate;

I hate the Sun, that shows me not your face!

I hate my Stars, that make my fault my fate.

Not having you! I hate both Time and Place.

I hate Opinion, for her nice respects,

The chiefest hinderer of my dear delight;

I hate Occasion, for his lame defects;

I hate that Day worse than the blackest night,

Whose progress ends, and brings me not to you!

I hate the Night, because her sable wings

Aids not love, but hides you from my view.

I hate my Life, and hate all other things;

And Death I hate, and yet I know not why,

But that, because you live, I would not die.

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Crabbed age and youth

Cannot live together;

Youth is full of pleasance,

Age is full of care:

Youth like summer morn,

Age like winter weather;

Youth like summer brave,

Age like winter bare.

Youth is full of sport,

Age’s breath is short,

Youth is nimble, age is lame:

Youth is hot and bold,

Age is weak and cold;

Youth is wild, and age is tame.

Age, I do abhor thee;

Youth, I do adore thee;

O, my love, my love is young:

Age, I do defy thee;

O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,

For methinks thou stay’st too long.

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If fathers knew but how to leave

Their children wit, as they do wealth;

And could constrain them to receive

That physic which brings perfect health,

The world would not admiring stand

A woman’s face and woman’s hand.

Women confess they must obey;

We men will needs be servants still.

We kiss their hands, and what they say

We must commend be ’t never so ill.

Thus we like fools admiring stand

Her pretty foot and pretty hand.

We blame their pride, which we increase

By making mountains of a mouse.

We praise because we know we please.

Poor women are too credulous

To think that we admiring stand

Or foot, or face, or foolish hand.

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O sleep, fond Fancy, sleep, my head thou tirest

With false delight of that which thou desirest.

Sleep, sleep, I say, and leave my thoughts molesting,

Thy master’s head hath need of sleep and resting.

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If I could shut the gate against my thoughts,

And keep out sorrow from this room within,

Or memory could cancel all the notes

Of my misdeeds, and I unthink the sin,

How free, how clear, how clean my mind should lie,

Discharged of such a loathsome company.

Or were there other rooms without my heart,

That did not to my conscience join so near,

Where I might lodge the thoughts of sin apart,

That I might not their clamorous crying hear,

What peace, what joy, what ease should I possess,

Freed from their horrors that my soul oppress.

But, O my Saviour, who my refuge art,

Let thy dear mercies stand ’twixt them and me,

And be the wall to separate my heart,

So that I may at length repose me free,

That peace and joy and rest may be within,

And I remain divided from my sin.

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In midst of woods or pleasant grove

Where all sweet birds do sing,

Methought I heard so rare a sound,

Which made the heavens to ring.

The charm was good, the noise full sweet,

Each bird did play his part;

And I admired to hear the same;

Joy sprung into my heart.

The blackbird made the sweetest sound,

Whose tunes did far excel,

Full pleasantly and most profound

Was all things placed well.

Thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird,

Done with so good a grace,

Extols thy name, prefers the same

Abroad in every place.

Thy music grave, bedecked well

With sundry points of skill,

Bewrays thy knowledge excellent,

Engrafted in thy will.

My tongue shall speak, my pen shall write,

In praise of thee to tell.

The sweetest bird that ever was,

In friendly sort, farewell.

Life and Death

The longer life, the more offence;

The more offence, the greater pain;

The greater pain, the less defence;

The less defence, the lesser gain;

The loss of gain long ill doth try,

Wherefore, come Death, and let me die.

The shorter life, less count I find;

The less account, the sooner made;

The account soon made, the merrier mind;

The merrier mind doth thought evade;

Short life in truth this thing doth try,

Wherefore, come Death, and let me die.

Come, gentle Death, the ebb of care;

The ebb of care, the flood of life;

The flood of life, the joyful fare;

The joyful fare, the end of strife;

The end of strife, that thing wish I,

Wherefore, come Death, and let me die.

ANNE ASKEW (1521–1546)

Anne Askew was imprisoned for her Protestantism and executed for heresy by Henry VIII’s bishops.

The Ballad Which Anne Askew Made and Sang When She Was in Newgate

Like as the armed knight

Appointed to the field,

With this world will I fight

And Faith shall be my shield.

Faith is that weapon strong

Which will not fail at need.

My foes, therefore, among

Therewith will I proceed.

As it is had in strength

And force of Christés way,

It will prevail at length

Though all the devils say nay.

Faith in the fathers old

Obtained righteousness,

Which make me very bold

To fear no world’s distress.

I now rejoice in heart

And Hope bid me do so,

For Christ will take my part

And ease me of my woe.

Thou say’st, Lord, who so knock,

To them wilt thou attend.

Undo, therefore, the lock

And thy strong power send.

More en’mies now I have

Than hairs upon my head.

Let them not me deprave

But fight thou in my stead.

On thee my care I cast.

For all their cruel spite,

I set not by their haste,

For thou art my delight.

I am not she that list

My anchor to let fall,

For every drizzling mist

My ship substantial.

Not oft use I to write

In prose nor yet in rhyme,

Yet will I show one sight

That I saw in my time.

I saw a royal throne

Where Justice should have sit,

But in her stead was one

Of moody, cruel wit.

Absorbed was rightwisness

As of the raging flood,

Satan in his excess

Sucked up the guiltless blood.

Then thought I, Jesus Lord,

When Thou shalt judge us all

Hard is it to record

On these men what will fall.

Yet, Lord, I thee desire

For that they do to me

Let them not taste the hire

Of their iniquity.

FRANCIS BACON (1561–1626)

Bacon is more famous as England’s first modern essayist and for his role in Elizabethan and Jacobean politics than as a writer of verse. Percy Shelley, however, reflecting two hundred years later on Bacon’s prose, wrote that Bacon was primarily a poet.

The Life of Man

The world’s a bubble, and the life of man

Less than a span;

In his conception wretched, from the womb,

So to the tomb;

Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years

With cares and fears;

Who then to frail mortality shall trust

But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live oppressed,

What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools

To dandle fools;

The rural part is turned into a den

Of savage men;

And where’s a city from foul vice so free,

But may be termed the worst of all the three.

Domestic cares afflict the husband’s bed,

Or pains his head;

Those that live single take it for a curse,

Or do things worse;

These would have children, those that have them moan,

Or wish them gone;

What is it, then, to have, or have no, wife,

But single thraldom, or a double strife.

Our own affections still at home to please

Is a disease;

To cross the seas to any foreign soil

Peril and toil;

Wars with their noise affright us, when they cease

We’re worse in peace;

What then remains, but that we still should cry

For being born, and being born, to die.

BARNABE BARNES (C. 1569–1609)

The son of a bishop and a graduate of Oxford, Barnes wrote one of the many sonnet-cycles of the time.

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A blast of wind, a momentary breath,

A watery bubble symbolized with air,

A sun-blown rose, but for a season fair,

A ghostly glance, a skeleton of death;

A morning dew, pearling the grass beneath,

Whose moisture sun’s appearance doth impair;

A lightning glimpse, a muse of thought and care,

A planet’s shot, a shade which followeth,

A voice which vanisheth so soon as heard,

The thriftless heir of time, a rolling wave,

A show, no more in action than regard,

A mass of dust, world’s momentary slave,

Is man, in state of our old Adam made,

Soon born to die, soon flourishing to fade.

RICHARD BARNFIELD (1574–1627)

An admirer of Philip Sidney, Barnfield dedicated his The Affectionate Shepherd (1594) to Sidney’s Stella, Lady Penelope Rich. For almost three hundred years, his lyric As it fell upon a day was wrongly believed to be Shakespeare’s.

The Unknown Shepherd’s Complaint

My flocks feed not,

My ewes breed not,

My rams speed not,

All is amiss.

Love is dying,

Faith’s defying,

Heart’s denying,

Causer of this.

All our merry jigs are quite forgot;

All my lady’s love is lost, God wot;

Where our faith was firmly fixed in love,

There annoy is placed without remove.

One seely cross

Wrought all my loss,

O frowning Fortune, cursed fickle dame!

For now I see

Inconstancy

More in women than in many men to be.

In black mourn I,

All fear scorn I,

Love hath forlorn me,

Living in thrall.

Heart is bleeding,

All help needing,

O cruel speeding

Fraught with gall!

My shepherd’s pipe will sound no deal;

My wether’s bell rings doleful knell;

My curtal dog that wont to have played,

Plays not at all, but seems afraid.

My sighs so deep

Procures to weep

With howling noise to see my doleful plight.

How sighs resound

Through harkless ground,

Like thousand vanquished men in bloody fight.

Clear wells spring not,

Sweet birds sing not,

Loud bells ring not

Cheerfully.

Herds stand weeping,

Flocks all sleeping,

Nymphs back creeping

Fearfully.

All our pleasures known to us poor swains,

All our merry meetings on the plains,

All our evening sports from us are fled,

All