Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CIV. Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra. LOVE'S INCONSISTENCY. I fynde no peace and all my warre is done,I feare and hope, I bourne and freese lyke yse;I flye above the wynde, yet cannot ryse;And nought I have, yet all the worlde I season,That looseth, nor lacketh, holdes me in pryson,And holdes me not, yet can I escape no wyse.Nor lets me leeve, nor die at my devyce,And yet of death it giveth none occasion.Without eye I see, and without tongue I playne;I desyre to perishe, yet aske I health;I love another, and yet I hate my self;I feede in sorrow and laughe in all my payne,Lykewyse pleaseth me both death and lyf,And my delight is cawser of my greif. Wyatt.[S] Warfare I cannot wage, yet know not peace;I fear, I hope, I burn, I freeze again;Mount to the skies, then bow to earth my face;Grasp the whole world, yet nothing can obtain.His prisoner Love nor frees, nor will detain;In toils he holds me not, nor will release;He slays me not, nor yet will he unchain;Nor joy allows, nor lets my sorrow cease.Sightless I see my fair; though mute, I mourn;I scorn existence, and yet court its stay;Detest myself, and for another burn;By grief I'm nurtured; and, though tearful, gay;[Pg 133]Death I despise, and life alike I hate:Such, lady, dost thou make my wayward state!
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Written by
William Strode |
When men for injuryes unsatisfy'd,
For hopes cutt off, for debts not fully payd,
For legacies in vain expected, mourne
Over theyr owne respects within the urne,
Races of tears all striveing first to fall
As frequent are as eye and funerall;
Then high swolne sighes drawne in and sent out strong
Seeme to call back the soule or goe along.
Goodness is seldome such a theam of woe
Unless to her owne tribe some one or two;
But here's a man, (alas a shell of man!)
Whose innocence, more white than silver swan,
Now finds a streame of teares; such perfect greif
That in the traine of mourners hee is cheife
Who lives the greatest gainer; and would faine
Bee now prefer'd unto his loss againe.
The webb of nerves with subtill branches spred
Over the little world, are in theyr head
Scarce so united as in him were knitt
All his dependants: Hee that strives to sitt
So lov'd of all must bee a man as square
As vertues selfe; which those that fly and feare
Can never hate. How seldome have we seene
Such store of flesh joyn'd with so little sin?
His body was not greater than his soule,
Whose limbs were vertues able to controule
All grudg of sloth: and as the body's weight
Hal'd to the centre; so the soule as light
Heav'd upward to her goale. This civill jarre
Could not hold out, but made them part as farre
As earth and heaven: from whence the one shall come
To make her mate more fresh, less cumbersome.
After so sound a sleepe, so sweet a rest,
And both shall then appeare so trimly drest
As freinds that goe to meet: the body shall
Then seeme a soule, the soule Angellicall:
A beautious smile shall passe from that to this,
The joyning soule shall then the body kisse
With its owne lipps: so great shall be the store
Of joy and love that now thei'l part no more;
Such hope hath dust! besides which happines
Death hath not made his earthly share the lesse,
Or quite bereft him of his honors here,
But added more; for liveing hee did steere
The fellowes only; but since hee is dead
Hee's made a president unto theyr head.
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