Important Beyond All This: 100 Poems by 100 People

By Larry Hammer

A selection of single poem each by a hundred different authors writing between the late 15th century and 1922, selected to best represent each poet. Containing a variety of subjects, styles, and lengths — some of them anthology staples for good reason, while others deserve to be — it is a perfect poetry collection for pleasure reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Larry Hammer
• Release date: Apr 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370760312

Larry Hammer

Larry Hammer is a writer, poet, and translator living in Arizona.

Book preview

Important Beyond All This

100 Poems by 100 People

selected from works published before 1923

edited by Larry Hammer

Cholla Bear Press, Tucson

copyright © 2018

Corrected edition

ChollaBearLogo

Cover art: detail from Un étang près de Nangis by Paul-Désiré Trouillebert

courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

ALSO BY LARRY HAMMER:

as translator

One Hundred People, One Poem Each

Ice Melts in the Wind

These Things Called Dreams

as editor

Story Lines

First League Out

Table of Contents

Introduction

1. Anonymous

15th century?

"Westron wind, when wilt thou blow"

2. John Skelton

c.1460-1529: courtier, rector of Diss

To Mistress Margaret Hussey

3. Thomas Wyatt

1503-1542: courtier, diplomat

"They flee from me, that sometime did me seek"

4. George Gascoigne

c.1539-1578: soldier of fortune

"And if I did, what then?"

5. Edmund Spenser

c.1552-1599: courtier, colonial landlord

Epithalamion

6. Christopher Marlowe

1564-1593: playwright, spy

Hero and Leander

7. Philip Sidney

1554-1586: courtier, soldier, novelist

"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies!"

8. Samuel Daniel

1562-1619: tutor, historian, farmer

"And yet I cannot reprehend the flight"

9. Michael Drayton

1563-1631: poet

"Since there’s no help, come, let us kiss and part"

10. William Shakespeare

1564-1616: actor, playwright

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds"

11. Mary Wroth

1587?-1651?: lady-in-waiting, novelist

A Crown of Sonnets Dedicated to Love

12. Mary Herbert

1561-1621: noblewoman, translator

Psalm 104

13. Aemelia Lanyer

1569-1645: lady-in-waiting, poet

Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum

14. Ben Jonson

1572-1637: bricklayer, soldier, playwright

On My First Daughter

15. Thomas Nashe

1567-1601: playwright, novelist, satirist

"Adieu, farewell, earth’s bliss"

16. Walter Ralegh

1552-1618: courtier, adventurer

The Lie

17. John Harington

1561-1612: courtier, inventor, translator, satirist

On Treason

18. John Davies

1569-1626: lawyer, member of parliament, attorney general, judge

Orchestra

19. Richard Corbet

1582-1635: court chaplain, vicar, bishop

The Fairies Farewell, or God a Mercy Will

20. John Donne

1572-1631: courtier, lawyer, member of parliament, dean of Saint Paul’s (London)

The Canonization

21. Thomas Campion

1567-1620: physician, song-writer

"When to her lute Corinna sings"

22. Robert Herrick

1591-1674: vicar of Dean Prior

Upon Julia’s Clothes

23. Thomas Carew

c.1594-1640: courtier

Ask me no more where Jove bestows

24. George Herbert

1593-1633: member of parliament, rector of Bemerton

Jordan (II)

25. Anne Bradstreet

c.1612-1672: colonial housewife

A Letter to Her Husband, Absent upon Public Employment

26. John Milton

1608-1674: parliamentary polemicist, foreign secretary, epic poet

"Methought I saw my late espousèd saint"

27. Andrew Marvel

1621-1678: tutor, Milton’s secretary, member of parliament

To His Coy Mistress

28. John Suckling

1609-1642: courtier, soldier of fortune, member of parliament, inventer of cribbage

"Why so pale and wan, fond lover?"

29. Richard Lovelace

1618-1657: courtier, landowner

To Lucasta, Going Beyond the Seas

30. John Dryden

1631-1700: playwright, poet laureate, critic, translator

Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day

31. Katherine Philips

1632-1664: parliamentary housewife, translator

Orinda to Lucasia Parting, October, 1661, at London

32. Aphra Behn

1640-1689: playwright, novelist, spy

To the Fair Clarinda, Who Made Love to Me

33. John Wilmot

1647-1680: courtier, rake

The Disabled Debauchee

34. Anne Finch

1661-1720: lady-in-waiting, noblewoman

The Change

35. Jonathan Swift

1667-1747: secretary, satirist, novelist, dean of Saint Patrick’s (Dublin)

Stella’s Birthday March 13, 1719

36. Matthew Prior

1664-1721: diplomat, politician, satirist

"The merchant, to secure his treasure"

37. Sarah Dixon

1672-1765: ?

Lines Occasioned by the Burning of Some Letters

38. Mary Wortley Montagu

1690-1762: diplomat’s wife, travel writer

A Summary of Lord Lyttleton’s Advice to a Lady

39. Alexander Pope

1688-1744: poet, translator, conservative polemicist

Epistle to Miss Blount, On Her Leaving the Town, After the Coronation

40. Christopher Smart

1722-1771: scholar, Grub Street hack, devotional poet

"For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry"

41. Jean (or Jane) Elliot

1727-1805: noblewoman

The Flowers of the Forest

42. George Crabbe

1754-1832: surgeon, vicar

His Late Wife’s Wedding Ring

43. Elizabeth Hands

1746-1815: domestic servant, housewife

On an Unsociable Family

44. Robert Burns

1759-1796: farmer, tax collector, song-writer, musical folklorist

To a Louse

45. William Blake

1757-1827: artist, engraver, mystic

For the Sexes: the Gates of Paradise

46. Mary Tighe

1772-1810: parliamentary housewife

Psyche; or, the Legend of Love

47. Mary Robinson

c.1757-1800: actor, royal mistress, novelist

"Is it to love, to fix the tender gaze"

48. Walter Landor

1775-1864: playwright, historical vignettist

"Mother, I cannot mind my wheel"

49. Thomas Moore

1779-1852: singer, song-writer, actor

"Believe me, if all those endearing young charms"

50. Leigh Hunt

1784-1859: critic, essayist, editor & publisher

Rondeau

51. Walter Scott

1771-1832: laywer, judge, musical folklorist, novelist

The Lady of the Lake

52. Samuel Coleridge

1772-1834: poet, critic, philosopher

Kubla Khan

53. George Gordon, Lord Byron

1788-1824: a mad, bad, and dangerous to know nobleman

The Vision of Judgment

54. Percy Shelley

1792-1822: poet, idealist

Letter to Maria Gisborne

55. John Keats

1795-1821: surgeon, poet

Ode to a Nightingale

56. Thomas Beddoes

1803-1849: physician, playwright

Dirge

57. Alfred Tennyson

1809-1892: poet, poet laureate

Tithonus

58. Henry Longfellow

1807-1882: language professor

The Children’s Hour

59. Elizabeth Barrett Browning

1806-1861: poet

"When our two souls stand up erect and strong"

60. Robert Browning

1812-1889: poet

Two in the Campagna

61. Emily Bronte

1818-1848: schoolteacher, novelist

"The night is darkening round me"

62. Walt Whitman

1819-1892: typesetter, journalist, editor, government clerk

The Last Invocation

63. Adelaide Proctor

1825-1864: philanthropist, feminist

A Lost Chord

64. Matthew Arnold

1822-1888: critic, educator

Dover Beach

65. Arthur Clough

1819-1861: teacher, educator

Amours de Voyage

66. Lewis Carroll

1832-1898: mathematician, deacon, photographer

The Hunting of the Snark

67. Dante Rossetti

1828-1882: artist, poet, translator

The Woodspurge

68. Christina Rossetti

1830-1894: poet

Goblin Market

69. James Thomson

1834-1882: soldier, office clerk, journalist, critic

The City of Dreadful Night

70. William Morris

1834-1896: architect, artisan, interior designer, entrepreneur, publisher, socialist, novelist, poet, and prolific

The Haystack in the Flood

69. Algernon Swinburne

1837-1909: radical poet, playwright, critic

A Forsaken Garden

72. Thomas Hardy

1840-1928: architect, novelist

Your Last Drive

73. Emily Dickinson

1830-1886: gardener, recluce

"There’s a certain Slant of light"

74. Gerard Hopkins

1844-1889: Jesuit priest, teacher

The Windhover

75. Michael Field

1846-1914 & 1862-1913 (joint pen-name): poet, playwright

Nightfall

76. Robert Louis Stevenson

1850-1894: lawyer, novelist, travel writer

Requiem

77. Oscar Wilde

1856-1900: playwright, short-story writer, critic, wit

The Ballad of Reading Gaol

78. Arthur Symons

1865-1945: critic, editor, translator

White Heliotrope

79. Ernest Dowson

1867-1900: office clerk, translator, short-story writer

Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae

80. E. A. Robinson

1869-1935: poet

Eros Turannos

81. Charlotte Mew

1869-1928: short-story writer

A Quoi Bon Dire

82. A. E. Housman

1859-1936: patent clerk, classical scholar

"The chestnut casts his flambeaux"

83. William Yeats

1865-1939: playwright, politician, creative mythographer

Wild Swans at Coole

84. John Masefield

1878-1967: sailor, novelist, poet laureate

Sea Fever

85. Rudyard Kipling

1865-1936: journalist, short-story writer, novelist

The Sea and the Hills

86. Robert Service

1874-1958: banker, novelist

The Spell of the Yukon

87. Robert Frost

1875-1963: farmer, teacher

Hyla Brook

88. Edward Thomas

1878-1917: biographer, critic

The Owl

89. Sara Teasdale

1884-1933: poet

I Shall Not Care

90. Elinor Wylie

1885-1938: society wife, editor, novelist

Wild Peaches

91. Edna Millay

1892-1950: poet, playwright

Recuerdo

92. Siegfried Sassoon

1886-1967: cricket player, novelist, memoirist

Survivors

93. Wilfred Owen

1893-1918: teacher, tutor

Futility

94. E. E. Cummings

1894-1962: painter, playwright

"the bigness of cannon"

95. Amy Lowell

1874-1925: poet, critic

The Taxi

96. Ezra Pound

1885-1972: editor, critic, fascist polemicist

The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter

97. T. S. Eliot

1888-1965: banker, publisher, playwright, critic

La Figlia Che Piange

98. Wallace Stevens

1879-1955: lawyer, executive

Sunday Morning

99. H.D.

1886-1961: novelist, memoirist

Garden

100. Marianne Moore

1887-1972: secretary, librarian, editor, critic

Poetry

Index of People and Poems

Also Available

Introduction

This anthology selects a single poem each by a hundred different authors writing in English between the late 15th century and 1922. The former boundary is soft, reflecting when Early Modern English became Modern enough to need minimal glossing. The latter is as hard as law can make it: publication in 1923 is the copyright horizon in the United States. It’s not that good poems weren’t written after that year, but this is a non-commercial collection.

It is also a personal collection—the poem I see best representing each poet, the one I want want to remember them by. Some are obvious choices, anthology staples for good reason. Some are less obvious, and a few I hope will be new discoveries. All are works I consider Good Stuff, poetry that proves itself upon my pulse, to use Keats’s guideline. Poetry I want people to know and love, and that together make a good reading anthology—one with enough variety of subjects, styles, and lengths to entertain.

In general, each poem is a complete work. I follow the convention that a sonnet can be detached from a sequence as a separate poem, and likewise a song from a play, but otherwise a multisection work is not partable, especially when it’s a connected narrative. Three poems are unfinished works that were published in that state, plus one is an excerpt justified on the grounds that we don’t have the complete text anyway. As for people, I’ve slightly stretched the definition there as well: one is indefinite while another is a two-person collaboration. The arrangement is loosely chronological by birth date, with the exact sequence occasionally shifted slightly to bring out the conversation of poets over time.

One I hope you enjoy.

—Larry Hammer

Important Beyond All This

1. Anonymous:

Westron wind, when will thou blow

WESTRON wind, when will thou blow,

The small rain down can rain?

Christ, if my love were in my arms

And I in my bed again.

Source: Interpreting Western Wind, Charles Frey. ELH, Vol. 43, No. 3 (Autumn, 1976), pp. 259-278.

2. John Skelton:

To Mistress Margaret Hussey

MERRY Margaret,

As midsummer flower,

Gentil as falcon

Or hawk of the tower.

With solace and gladness,

Much mirth and no madness,

All good and no badness,

So joyously,

So maidenly,

So womanly

Her demeaning

In every thing,—

Far, far passing

That I can endite

Or suffice to write

Of merry Margaret,

As midsummer flower,

Gentil as falcon

Or hawk of the tower.

As patient and as still

And as full of good will

As fair Isiphill,

Coriander,

Sweet pomander,

Good Cassander;

Steadfast of thought,

Well made, well wrought;

Far may be sought

Erst that ye can find

So courteous, so kind

As merry Margaret,

This midsummer flower,

Gentil as falcon

Or hawk of the tower.

Source: Poetry of the English Renaissance 1509-1660, ed. J. William Hebel & Hoyt H. Hudson. New York: F. S. Crofts & Co., 1941.

3. Thomas Wyatt:

They flee from me that sometime did me seek

THEY flee from me that sometime did me seek,

With naked foot stalking in my chamber:

I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,

That now are wild, and do not once remember

That sometime they have put themselves in danger

To take bread at my hand, and now they range,

Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise

Twenty times better; but once, in special,

In thin array, after a pleasant guise,

When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,

And she me caught in her arms long and small,

Therewith all sweetly did me kiss,

And softly said, Dear heart, how like you?

It was no dream; I lay broad waking

But all is turnèd, through my gentleness,

Into a strange fashion of forsaking,

And I have leave to go, of her goodness;

And she also to use new-fangleness.

But since that I so unkindly am served,

I fain would know what she hath deserved.

Source: The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1918, ed. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, 1939.

4. George Gascoigne:

And if I did, what then?

"AND if I did, what then?

Are you aggrieved therefore?

The Sea hath fish for every man,

And what would you have more?"

Thus did my Mistress once

Amaze my mind with doubt

And popped a question for the nonce

To beat my brains about.

Whereto I thus replied:

"Each fisherman can wish

That all the Sea at every tide

Were his alone to fish.

"And so did I, in vain,

But since it may not be,

Let such fish there as find the gain,

And leave the loss for me.

"And with such luck and loss

I will content myself

Till tides of turning time may toss

Such fishers on the shelf.

"And when they stick on sands,

That every man may see:

Then will I laugh and clap my hands

As they do now at me."

Source: The Adventures of Master F. J., George Gascoigne, 1573.

5. Edmund Spenser:

Epithalamion

YE learnèd sisters which have oftentimes

Been to me aiding, others to adorn:

Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rhymes,

That even the greatest did not greatly scorn

To hear their names sung in your simple lays,

But joyed in their praise.

And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn,

Which death, or love, or fortune’s wreck did raise,

Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn,

And teach the woods and waters to lament

Your doleful dreariment.

Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside,

And having all your heads with garland crown’d,

Help me mine own love’s praises to resound,

Nor let the same of any be envied:

So Orpheus did for his own bride,

So I unto myself alone will sing,

The woods shall to me answer and my echo ring.

Early before the world’s light-giving lamp,

His golden beam upon the hills doth spread,

Having dispersed the night’s uncheerful damp,

Do ye awake, and with fresh lustihead,

Go to the bower of my belovèd love,

My truest turtledove,

Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,

And long since ready forth his masque to move,

With his bright tead that flames with many a flake,

And many a bachelor to wait on him,

In their fresh garments trim.

Bid her awake therefore and soon her dight,

For, lo, the wishèd day is come at last,

That shall for all the pains and sorrows past,

Pay to her usury of long delight:

And whilst she doth her dight,

Do ye to her of joy and solace sing,

That all the woods may answer and your echo ring.

Bring with you all the Nymphs that you can hear

Both of the rivers and the forests green:

And of the sea that neighbors to her near,

All with gay garlands goodly well beseen.

And let them also with them bring in hand

Another gay garland

For my fair love of lilies and of roses,

Bound truelove-wise with a blue silk riband.

And let them make great store of bridal poses,

And let them eke bring store of other flowers

To deck the bridal bowers.

And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,

For fear the stones her tender foot should wrong

Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,

And diapered like the discolored mead.

Which done, do at her chamber door await,

For she will waken straight,

The whiles do ye this song unto her sing,

The woods shall to you answer and your echo ring.

Ye Nymphs of Mulla which with careful heed,

The silver scaly trouts do tend full well,

And greedy pikes which use therein to feed,

(Those trouts and pikes all others do excel)

And ye likewise which keep the rushy lake,

Where none do fishes take,

Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light,

And in his waters which your mirror make,

Behold your faces as the crystal bright,

That when you come whereas my love doth lie,

No blemish she may spy.

And eke ye lightfoot maids which keep the deer,

That on the hoary mountain use to tower,

And the wild wolves which seek them to devour,

With your steel darts do chase from coming near,

Be also present here,

To help to deck her and to help to sing,

That all the woods may answer and your echo ring.

Wake, now my love, awake; for it is time,

The Rosy Morn long since left Tithones’ bed,

All ready to her silver coach to climb,

And Phoebus ’gins to show his glorious head.

Hark how the cheerful birds do chaunt their lays

And carol of love’s praise.

The merry Larks their matins sings aloft,

The Thrush replies, the Mavis descant plays,

The Ouzell shrills, the Ruddock warbles soft,

So goodly all agree with sweet consent,

To this day’s merriment.

Ah my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long,

When meeter were that ye should now awake,

T’ await the coming of your joyous make,

And harken to the bird’s lovelearnèd song,

The dewy leaves among.

For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,

That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreams,

And her fair eyes like stars that dimmèd were

With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams

More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear.

Come now ye damsels, daughters of delight,

Help quickly her to dight,

But first come ye fair Hours which were begot

In Jove’s sweet paradise of Day and Night,

Which do the seasons of the year allot,

And all that ever in this world is fair

Do make and still repair.

And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen,

The which do still adorn her beauty’s pride,

Help to adorn my beautifulest bride:

And as ye her array, still throw between

Some graces to be seen,

And as ye use to Venus, to her sing,

The whiles the woods shall answer and your echo ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come,

Let all the virgins therefore well away,

And ye fresh boys that tend upon her groom

Prepare yourselves; for he is coming straight.

Set all your things in seemly good array

Fit for so joyful day,

The joyfulest day that ever sun did see.

Fair Sun, show forth thy favorable ray,

And let thy life-full heat not fervent be

For fear of burning her sunshiny face,

Her beauty to disgrace.

O fairest Phoebus, father of the Muse,

If ever I did honor thee aright,

Or sing the thing, that mote thy mind delight,

Do not thy servant’s simple boon refuse,

But let this day, let this one day be mine,

Let all the rest be thine.

Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing,

That all the woods shall answer and their echo ring.

Hark how the minstrels ’gin to shrill aloud

Their merry music that resounds from far,

The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling croud,

That well agree withouten breach or jar.

But most of all the damsels do delight,

When they their timbrels smite,

And thereunto do dance and carol sweet,

That all the senses they do ravish quite,

The whiles the boys run up and down the street,

Crying aloud with strong confusèd noise,

As if it were one voice.

Hymen io Hymen, Hymen they do shout,

That even to the heavens their shouting shrill

Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill,

To which the people standing all about,

As in approvance do thereto applaud

And loud advance her laud,

And evermore they Hymen Hymen sing,

That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.

Lo where she comes along with portly pace

Like Phoebe from her chamber of the East,

Arising forth to run her mighty race,

Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.

So well it her beseems that ye would ween

Some angel she had been.

Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire,

Sprinkled with pearl, and perling flowers between,

Do like a golden mantle her attire,

And being crownèd with a garland green,

Seem like some maiden Queen.

Her modest eyes abashèd to behold

So many gazers, as on her do stare,

Upon the lowly ground affixèd are.

Nor dare lift up her countenance too bold,

But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,

So far from being proud.

Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing,

That all the woods may answer and your echo ring.

Tell me, ye merchants’ daughters, did ye see

So fair a creature in your town before?

So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,

Adorned with Beauty’s grace and Virtue’s store,

Her goodly eyes like Sapphires shining bright,

Her forehead ivory white,

Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded,

Her lips like cherries charming men to bite,

Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded,

Her paps like lilies budded,

Her snowy neck like to a marble tower,

And all her body like a palace fair,

Ascending up with many a stately stair,

To honor’s seat and chastity’s sweet bower.

Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze,

Upon her so to gaze,

Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,

To which the woods did answer and your echo ring?

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,

The inward beauty of her lively sprite,

Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree,

Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,

And stand astonished like to those which read

Medusa’s mazeful head.

There dwells sweet love and constant chastity,

Unspotted faith and comely womenhead,

Regard of honor and mild modesty;

There Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne,

And giveth laws alone.

The which the base affections do obey,

And yield their services unto her will,

Nor thought of thing uncomely ever may

Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill.

Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures,

And unrevealèd pleasures,

Then would ye wonder and her praises sing,

That all the woods should answer and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love,

Open them wide that she may enter in,

And all the posts adorn as doth behove,

And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,

For to receive this Saint with honor due,

That cometh in to you.

With trembling steps and humble reverence,

She cometh in, before th’ Almighty’s view:

Of her ye virgins learn obedience,

When so ye come into those holy places,

To humble your proud faces;

Bring her up to th’ high altar that she may,

The sacred ceremonies there partake,

The which do endless matrimony make,

And let the roaring organs loudly play

The praises of the Lord in lively notes,

The whiles with hollow throats

The choristers the joyous anthem sing,

That all the woods may answer and their echo ring.

Behold whiles she before the altar stands

Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks

And blesseth her with his two happy hands,

How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,

And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain,

Like crimson dyed in grain,

That even th’ angels which continually

About the sacred altar do remain,

Forget their service and about her fly,

Oft peeping in her face that seems more fair

The more they on it stare.

But her sad eyes still fastened on the ground

Are governèd with goodly modesty,

That suffers not one look to glance awry,

Which may let in a little thought unsound.

Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,

The pledge of all our band?

Sing ye sweet angels, Alleluia sing,

That all the woods may answer and your echo ring.

Now all is done; bring home the bride again,

Bring home the triumph of our victory,

Bring home with you the glory of her gain,

With joyance bring her and with jollity.

Never had man more joyful day then this,

Whom heaven would heap with bliss.

Make feast therefore now all this live long day,

This day forever to me holy is,

Pour out the wine without restraint or stay,

Pour not by cups, but by the bellyful,

Pour out to all that will,

And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine,

That they may sweat, and drunken be withal.

Crown ye God Bacchus with a coronal,

And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine,

And let the Graces dance unto the rest;

For they can do it best:

The whiles the maidens do their carol sing,

To which the woods shall answer and their echo ring.

Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town,

And leave your wonted labors for this day:

This day is holy; do ye write it down,

That ye forever it remember may.

This day the sun is in his chiefest height,

With Barnaby the bright,

From whence declining daily by degrees,

He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,

When once the Crab behind his back he sees.

But for this time it ill ordainèd was,

To chose the longest day in all the year,

And shortest night, when longest fitter wear:

Yet never day so long, but late would pass.

Ring ye the bells, to make it wear away,

And bonfires make all day,

And dance about them, and about them sing:

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Ah, when will this long weary day have end,

And lend me leave to come unto my love?

How slowly do the hours their numbers spend?

How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?

Hast thee, O fairest planet, to thy home

Within the Western foam:

Thy tired steeds long since have need of rest.

Long though it be, at last I see it gloom,

And the bright evening star with golden crest

Appear out of the East.

Fair child of beauty, glorious lamp of love

That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead,

And guidest lovers through the night’s dread,

How cheerfully thou lookest from above,

And seemst to laugh atween thy twinkling light

As joying in the sight

Of these glad many which for joy do sing,

That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.

Now cease ye damsels your delights forepast;

Enough is it, that all the day was yours:

Now day is done, and night is nighing fast:

Now bring the bride into the bridal bowers.

Now night is come, now soon her disarray,

And in her bed her lay;

Lay her in lilies and in violets,

And silken curtains over her display,

And odored sheets, and arras coverlets.

Behold how goodly my fair love does lie

In proud humility;

Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took,

In Tempe, lying on the flowery grass,

Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was,

With bathing in the Acidalian brook.

Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone,

And leave my love alone,

And leave likewise your former lay to sing:

The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring.

Now welcome night, thou night so long expected,

That long day’s labor dost at last defray,

And all my cares, which cruel love collected,

Hast summed in one, and cancelèd for aye:

Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,

That no man may us see,

And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,

From fear of peril and foul horror free.

Let no false treason seek us to entrap,

Nor any dread disquiet once annoy

The safety of our joy:

But let the night be calm and quietsome,

Without tempestuous storms or sad affray:

Like as when Jove with fair Alcmena lay,

When he begot the great Tirynthian groom:

Or like as when he with thyself did lie,

And begot Majesty.

And let the maids and young men cease to sing:

Nor let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.

Let no lamenting cries, nor doleful tears,

Be heard all night within nor yet without:

Nor let false whispers, breeding hidden fears,

Break gentle sleep with misconceivèd doubt.

Let no deluding dreams, nor dreadful sights

Make sudden sad affrights;

Nor let housefires, nor lightning’s helpless harms,

Nor let the phooka, nor other evil sprites,

Nor let mischievous witches with their charms,

Nor let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not,

Fray us with things that be not.

Let not the screech-owl, nor the stork be heard:

Nor the night raven that still deadly yells,

Nor damnèd ghosts called up with mighty spells,

Nor gristly vultures make us once afeared:

Nor let th’ unpleasant choir of frogs still croaking

Make us to wish they’re choking.

Let none of these their dreary accents sing;

Nor let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.

But let still Silence true night watches keep,

That sacred peace may in assurance reign,

And timely sleep, when it is time to sleep,

May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plain,

The whiles a hundred little wingèd loves,

Like divers feathered doves,

Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,

And in the secret dark, that none reproves,

Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread

To filch away sweet snatches of delight,

Concealed through covert night.

Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will,

For greedy pleasure, careless of your toys,

Thinks more upon her paradise of joys,

Then what ye do, albeit good or ill.

All night therefore attend your merry play,

For it will soon be day:

Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing,

Nor will the woods now answer, nor your echo ring.

Who is the same, which at my window peeps?

Or whose is that fair face, that shines so bright,

Is it not Cynthia, she that never sleeps,

But walks about high heaven all the night?

O fairest goddess, do thou not envy

My love with me to spy:

For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,

And for a fleece of wool, which privily,

The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,

His pleasures with thee wrought.

Therefore to us be favorable now;

And sith of women’s labors thou hast charge,

And generation goodly dost enlarge,

Incline thy will t’ effect our wishful vow,

And the chaste womb inform with timely seed,

That may our comfort breed:

Till which we cease our hopeful hap to sing,

Nor let the woods us answer, nor our echo ring.

And thou great Juno, which with awful might

The laws of wedlock still dost patronize,

And the religion of the faith first plight

With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize:

And eke for comfort often callèd art

Of women in their smart,

Eternally bind thou this lovely band,

And all thy blessings unto us impart.

And thou glad Genius, in whose gentle hand,

The bridal bower and genial bed remain,

Without blemish or stain,

And the sweet pleasures of their love’s delight

With secret aid dost succor and supply,

Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny,

Send us the timely fruit of this same night.

And thou fair Hebe, and thou Hymen free,

Grant that it may so be.

Till which we cease your further praise to sing,

Nor any woods shall answer, nor your echo ring.

And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,

In which a thousand torches flaming bright

Do burn, that to us wretched earthly clods,

In dreadful darkness lend desired light;

And all ye powers which in the same remain,

More then we men can fain,

Pour out your blessing on us plenteously,

And happy influence upon us rain,

That we may raise a large posterity,

Which from the earth, which they may long possess,

With lasting happiness,

Up to your haughty palaces may mount,

And for the guerdon of their glorious merit

May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,

Of blessed saints for to increase the count.

So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this,

And cease till then our timely joys to sing,

The woods no more us answer, nor our echo ring.

Song made in lieu of many ornaments,

With which my love should duly have been decked,

Which cutting off through hasty accidents,

Ye would not stay your dew time to expect,

But promised both to recompense,

Be unto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endless monument.

tead] torch.  dight] dress.  diapered] variegated.  Mulla] Awbeg, a stream that flows through Spenser’s Irish estate of Kilcolman, County Cork.  mavis] song-thrush.  ruddock] robin.  ouzell] blackbird.  croud] fiddle.  read] perused.

Source: Amoretti and Epithalamion, Edmund Spenser. London: P. S. for W. Ponsonby, 1595. Facs. edn.: Scholar Press, 1968.

6. Christopher Marlowe:

Hero and Leander

ON Hellespont, guilty of true-love’s blood,

In view and opposite two cities stood,

Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune’s might;

The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.

At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,

Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,

And offered as a dower his burning throne,

Where she should sit for men to gaze upon.

The outside of her garments were of lawn,

The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;

Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove,

Where Venus in her naked glory strove

To please the careless and disdainful eyes

Of proud Adonis, that before her lies.

Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,

Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.

Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,

From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath.

Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves

Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives.

Many would praise the sweet smell as she passed,

When ’twas the odor which her breath forth cast;

And there for honey bees have sought in vain,

And, beat from thence, have lighted there again.

About her neck hung chains of pebblestone,

Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone.

She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind

Would burn or parch her hands, but to her mind,

Or warm or cool them, for they took delight

To play upon those hands, they were so white.

Buskins of shells, all silvered used she,

And branched with blushing coral to the knee;

Where sparrows perched of hollow pearl and gold,

Such as the world would wonder to behold.

Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,

Which, as she went, would chirrup through the bills.

Some say for her the fairest Cupid pined

And looking in her face was stricken blind.

But this is true: so like was one the other,

As he imagined Hero was his mother.

And oftentimes into her bosom flew,

About her naked neck his bare arms threw,

And laid his childish head upon her breast,

And, with still panting rocked, there took his rest.

So lovely fair was Hero, Venus’ nun,

As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,

Because she took more from her than she left,

And of such wondrous beauty her bereft.

Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack,

Since Hero’s time hath half the world been black.

Amorous Leander, beautiful and young,

(Whose tragedy divine Musaeus sung,)

Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none

For whom succeeding times make greater moan.

His dangling tresses, that were never shorn,

Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,

Would have allured the vent’rous youth of Greece

To hazard more than for the golden fleece.

Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her sphere;

Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.

His body was as straight as Circe’s wand;

Jove might have sipped out nectar from his hand.

Even as delicious meat is to the taste,

So was his neck in touching, and surpassed

The white of Pelop’s shoulder. I could tell ye

How smooth his breast was and how white his belly;

And whose immortal fingers did imprint

That heavenly path with many a curious dint

That runs along his back, but my rude pen

Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men,

Much less of powerful gods. Let it suffice

That my slack Muse sings of Leander’s eyes,

Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his

That leaped into the water for a kiss

Of his own shadow and, despising many,

Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.

Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen

Enamored of his beauty had he been.

His presence made the rudest peasant melt

That in the vast uplandish country dwelt.

The barbarous Thracian soldier, moved with nought,

Was moved with him and for his favor sought.

Some swore he was a maid in man’s attire,

For in his looks were all that men desire,

A pleasant smiling cheek, a speaking eye,

A brow for love to banquet royally;

And such as knew he was a man, would say,

"Leander, thou art made for amorous play.

Why art thou not in love, and loved of all?

Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall."

The men of wealthy Sestos every year,

(For his sake whom their goddess held so dear,

Rose-cheeked Adonis) kept a solemn feast.

Thither resorted many a wandering guest

To meet their loves; such as had none at all,

Came lovers home from this great festival.

For every street like to a firmament

Glistered with breathing stars who, where they went,

Frighted the melancholy earth which deemed

Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seemed,

As if another Phaeton had got

The guidance of the sun’s rich chariot.

But far above the loveliest Hero shined

And stole away th’ enchanted gazer’s mind,

For like sea nymphs’ enveigling Harmony,

So was her beauty to the standers by.

Nor that night-wandering, pale, and wat’ry star

(When yawning dragons draw her thirling car

From Latmus’ mount up to the gloomy sky

Where, crowned with blazing light and majesty,

She proudly sits) more overrules the flood

Than she the hearts of those that near her stood.

Even as, when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase,

Wretched Ixion’s shaggy footed race,

Incensed with savage heat, gallop amain

From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain.

So ran the people forth to gaze upon her,

And all that viewed her were enamored on her.

And as in fury of a dreadful fight,

Their fellows being slain or put to flight,

Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead stricken,

So at her presence all surprised and taken,

Await the sentence of her scornful eyes.

He whom she favors lives, the other dies.

There might you see one sigh, another rage;

And some, (their violent passions to assuage)

Compile sharp satires, but alas too late,

For faithful love will never turn to hate.

And many seeing great princes were denied

Pin’d as they went, and thinking on her died.

On this feast day, O cursed day and hour,

Went Hero thorough Sestos from her tower

To Venus’ temple, where unhappily

As after chanced, they did each other spy.

So fair a church as this had Venus none.

The walls were of discolored jasper stone

Wherein was Proteus carved, and o’erhead

A lively vine of green sea agate spread,

Where by one hand lightheaded Bacchus hung,

And, with the other, wine from grapes out wrung.

Of crystal shining fair the pavement was.

The town of Sestos called it Venus’ glass.

There might you see the gods in sundry shapes

Committing heady riots, incest, rapes.

For know, that underneath this radiant floor

Was Danae’s statue in a brazen tower,

Jove slyly stealing from his sister’s bed,

To dally with Idalian Ganymede,

And for his love Europa bellowing loud,

And tumbling with the Rainbow in a cloud;

Blood quaffing Mars heaving the iron net

Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set;

Love kindling fire to burn such towns as Troy;

Sylvanus weeping for the lovely boy

That now is turned into a cypress tree,

Under whose shade the wood gods love to be.

And in the midst a silver altar stood.

There Hero, sacrificing turtle’s blood,

Vailed to the ground, vailing her eyelids close,

And modestly they opened as she rose.

Thence flew Love’s arrow with the golden head,

And thus Leander was enamored.

Stone still he stood, and evermore he gazed

Till with the fire that from his countenance blazed

Relenting Hero’s gentle heart was struck.

Such force and virtue hath an amorous look.

It lies not in our power to love or hate,

For will in us is overruled by fate.

When two are stripped, long ere the course begin

We wish that one should lose, the other win.

And one especially do we affect

Of two gold ingots like in each respect.

The reason no man knows; let it suffice

What we behold is censured by our eyes.

Where both deliberate, the love is slight:

Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

He kneeled, but unto her devoutly prayed.

Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,

Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him;

And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.

He started up, she blushed as one ashamed,

Wherewith Leander much more was inflamed.

He touched her hand; in touching it she trembled.

Love deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled.

These lovers parleyed by the touch of hands;

True love is mute, and oft amazed stands.

Thus while dumb signs their yielding hearts entangled,

The air with sparks of living fire was spangled,

And night, deep drenched in misty Acheron,

Heaved up her head, and half the world upon

Breathed darkness forth (dark night is Cupid’s day).

And now begins Leander to display

Love’s holy fire, with words, with sighs, and tears,

Which like sweet music entered Hero’s ears,

And yet at every word she turned aside,

And always cut him off as he replied.

At last, like to a bold sharp sophister,

With cheerful hope thus he accosted her.

"Fair creature, let me speak without offence.

I would my rude words had the influence

To lead thy thoughts as thy fair looks do mine,

Then shouldst thou be his prisoner, who is thine.

Be not unkind and fair; misshapen stuff

Are of behavior boisterous and rough.

O shun me not, but hear me ere you go.

God knows I cannot force love as you do.

My words shall be as spotless as my youth,

Full of simplicity and naked truth.

This sacrifice, (whose sweet perfume descending

From Venus’ altar, to your footsteps bending)

Doth testify that you exceed her far,

To whom you offer, and whose nun you are.

Why should you worship her? Her you surpass

As much as sparkling diamonds flaring glass.

A diamond set in lead his worth retains;

A heavenly nymph, beloved of human swains,

Receives no blemish, but ofttimes more grace;

Which makes me hope, although I am but base:

Base in respect of thee, divine and pure,

Dutiful service may thy love procure.

And I in duty will excel all other,

As thou in beauty dost exceed Love’s mother.

Nor heaven, nor thou, were made to gaze upon,

As heaven preserves all things, so save thou one.

A stately builded ship, well rigged and tall,

The ocean maketh more majestical.

Why vowest thou then to live in Sestos here

Who on Love’s seas more glorious wouldst appear?

Like untuned golden strings all women are,

Which long time lie untouched, will harshly jar.

Vessels of brass, oft handled, brightly shine.

What difference betwixt the richest mine

And basest mold, but use? For both, not used,

Are of like worth. Then treasure is abused

When misers keep it; being put to loan,

In time it will return us two for one.

Rich robes themselves and others do adorn;

Neither themselves nor others, if not worn.

Who builds a palace and rams up the gate

Shall see it ruinous and desolate.

Ah, simple Hero, learn thyself to cherish.

Lone women like to empty houses perish.

Less sins the poor rich man that starves himself

In heaping up a mass of drossy pelf,

Than such as you. His golden earth remains

Which, after his decease, some other gains.

But this fair gem, sweet in the loss alone,

When you fleet hence, can be bequeathed to none.

Or, if it could, down from th’enameled sky

All heaven would come to claim this legacy,

And with intestine broils the world destroy,

And quite confound nature’s sweet harmony.

Well therefore by the gods decreed it is

We human creatures should enjoy that bliss.

One is no number; maids are nothing then

Without the sweet society of men.

Wilt thou live single still? One shalt thou be,

Though never singling Hymen couple thee.

Wild savages, that drink of running springs,

Think water far excels all earthly things,

But they that daily taste neat wine despise it.

Virginity, albeit some highly prize it,

Compared with marriage, had you tried them both,

Differs as much as wine and water doth.

Base bullion for the stamp’s sake we allow;

Even so for men’s impression do we you,

By which alone, our reverend fathers say,

Women receive perfection every way.

This idol which you term virginity

Is neither essence subject to the eye

No, nor to any one exterior sense,

Nor hath it any place of residence,

Nor is’t of earth or mould celestial,

Or capable of any form at all.

Of that which hath no being do not boast;

Things that are not at all are never lost.

Men foolishly do call it virtuous;

What virtue is it that is born with us?

Much less can honor be ascribed thereto;

Honor is purchased by the deeds we do.

Believe me, Hero, honor is not won

Until some honorable deed be done.

Seek you for chastity, immortal fame,

And know that some have wronged Diana’s name?

Whose name is it, if she be false or not

So she be fair, but some vile tongues will blot?

But you are fair, (aye me) so wondrous fair,

So young, so gentle, and so debonair,

As Greece will think if thus you live alone

Some one or other keeps you as his own.

Then, Hero, hate me not nor from me fly

To follow swiftly blasting infamy.

Perhaps thy sacred priesthood makes thee loath.

Tell me, to whom mad’st thou that heedless oath?"

To Venus, answered she and, as she spake,

Forth from those two tralucent cisterns brake

A stream of liquid pearl, which down her face

Made milk-white paths, whereon the gods might trace

To Jove’s high court.

He thus replied: "The rites

In which love’s beauteous empress most delights

Are banquets, Doric music, midnight revel,

Plays, masks, and all that stern age counteth evil.

Thee as a holy idiot doth she scorn

For thou in vowing chastity hast sworn

To rob her name and honor, and thereby

Committ’st a sin far worse than perjury,

Even sacrilege against her deity,

Through regular and formal purity.

To expiate which sin, kiss and shake hands.

Such sacrifice as this Venus demands."

Thereat she smiled and did deny him so,

As put thereby, yet might he hope for moe.

Which makes him quickly re-enforce his speech,

And her in humble manner thus beseech.

"Though neither gods nor men may thee deserve,

Yet for her sake, whom you have vowed to serve,

Abandon fruitless cold virginity,

The gentle queen of love’s sole enemy.

Then shall you most resemble Venus’ nun,

When Venus’ sweet rites are performed and done.

Flint-breasted Pallas joys in single life,

But Pallas and your mistress are at strife.

Love, Hero, then, and be not tyrannous,

But heal the heart that thou hast wounded thus,

Nor stain thy youthful years with avarice.

Fair fools delight to be accounted nice.

The richest corn dies, if it be not reaped;

Beauty alone is lost, too warily kept."

These arguments he used, and many more,

Wherewith she yielded, that was won before.

Hero’s looks yielded but her words made war.

Women are won when they begin to jar.

Thus, having swallowed Cupid’s golden hook,

The more she strived, the deeper was she strook.

Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still

And would be thought to