Written by
Michael Drayton |
Define my weal, and tell the joys of Heav'n;
Express my woes, and show the pains of Hell;
Declare what fate unlucky stars have giv'n,
And ask a world upon my life to dwell;
Make known the faith that Fortune could not move;
Compare myu worth with others' base desert;
Let virtue be the touchstone of my love,
So may the heav'ns read wonders in my heart;
Behold the clouds which have eclips'd my sun,
And view the crosses which my course do let;
Tell me if ever since the world begun
So fair a rising had so foul a set,
And see if Time (if he would strive to prove)
Can show a second to so pure a love.
|
Written by
William Shakespeare |
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LX. Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso. HE PRAYS THAT SHE WILL BE NEAR HIM AT HIS DEATH, WHICH HE FEELS APPROACHING. Go, plaintive verse, to the cold marble go,Which hides in earth my treasure from these eyes;[Pg 291]There call on her who answers from yon skies,Although the mortal part dwells dark and low.Of life how I am wearied make her know,Of stemming these dread waves that round me rise:But, copying all her virtues I so prize,Her track I follow, yet my steps are slow.I sing of her, living, or dead, alone;(Dead, did I say? She is immortal made!)That by the world she should be loved, and known.Oh! in my passage hence may she be near,To greet my coming that's not long delay'd;And may I hold in heaven the rank herself holds there! Nott. Go, melancholy rhymes! your tribute bringTo that cold stone, which holds the dear remainsOf all that earth held precious;—uttering,If heaven should deign to hear them, earthly strains.Tell her, that sport of tempests, fit no moreTo stem the troublous ocean,—here at lastHer votary treads the solitary shore;His only pleasure to recall the past.Tell her, that she who living ruled his fate,In death still holds her empire: all his care,So grant the Muse her aid,—to celebrateHer every word, and thought, and action fair.Be this my meed, that in the hour of deathHer kindred spirit may hail, and bless my parting breath! Woodhouselee.
|
Written by
Edmund Spenser |
THey that in course of heauenly spheares are skild,
To euery planet point his sundry yeare:
in which her circles voyage is fulfild,
as Mars in three score yeares doth run his spheare
So since the winged God his planet cleare,
began in me to moue, one yeare is spent:
the which doth longer vnto me appeare,
then al those fourty which my life outwent.
Then by that count, which louers books inuent,
the spheare of Cupid fourty yeares containes:
which I haue wasted in long languishment,
that seemd the longer for my greater paines.
But let me loues fayre Planet short her wayes
this yeare ensuing, or else short my dayes.
|
Written by
William Shakespeare |
Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LX. Io son sì stanco sotto 'l fascio antico. HE CONFESSES HIS ERRORS, AND THROWS HIMSELF ON THE MERCY OF GOD. Evil by custom, as by nature frail,I am so wearied with the long disgrace,That much I dread my fainting in the raceShould let th' original enemy prevail.Once an Eternal Friend, that heard my cries,Came to my rescue, glorious in his might,Arm'd with all-conquering love, then took his flight,That I in vain pursued Him with my eyes.But his dear words, yet sounding, sweetly say,"O ye that faint with travel, see the way!Hopeless of other refuge, come to me."What grace, what kindness, or what destinyWill give me wings, as the fair-feather'd dove,To raise me hence and seek my rest above? Basil Kennet. So weary am I 'neath the constant thrallOf mine own vile heart, and the false world's taint,That much I fear while on the way to faint,And in the hands of my worst foe to fall.Well came, ineffably, supremely kind,A friend to free me from the guilty bond,[Pg 84]But too soon upward flew my sight beyond,So that in vain I strive his track to find;But still his words stamp'd on my heart remain,All ye who labour, lo! the way in me;Come unto me, nor let the world detain!Oh! that to me, by grace divine, were givenWings like a dove, then I away would flee,And be at rest, up, up from earth to heaven! Macgregor.
|
Written by
Ben Jonson |
LX. — TO WILLIAM LORD MOUNTEAGLE. Lo, what my country should have done (have raised An obelisk, or column to thy name, Or, if she would but modestly have praised Thy fact, in brass or marble writ the same) I, that am glad of thy great chance, here do ! And proud, my works shall out-last common deeds, Durst think it great, and worthy wonder too, But thine, for which I do't, so much exceeds ! My country's parents I have many known ; But, saver of my country, THEE alone.
|