 | John Harington of Stepney |  |
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B. POEMS OF DOUBTFUL ATTRIBUTION
II B 1
[The lyf ys longe that lothsomly doth last]
The lyf ys longe that lothsomly doth last
the dolefull dayes draw slowly to their date
the present panges and paynfull plage skarce past
yeldes greif aye greene to stablishe thie estate
so that I fynde in this great storme and stryfe
that death ys sweete that shortyth suche a lyfe
the dolefull dayes draw slowly to their date
the present panges and paynfull plage skarce past
yeldes greif aye greene to stablishe thie estate
so that I fynde in this great storme and stryfe
that death ys sweete that shortyth suche a lyfe
Yet by the stroke of this straunge over throw
at whiche conflyct in thraldome I was thrust
my god I thanck I am well tawght to know
from whence man came and eke whearto he must
and by the way uppon how feoble force
his tearme doth stand till death shall end his coorce
at whiche conflyct in thraldome I was thrust
my god I thanck I am well tawght to know
from whence man came and eke whearto he must
and by the way uppon how feoble force
his tearme doth stand till death shall end his coorce
The pleasaunt yeares that seme so swiftlye ronne
the mery dayes to end so fast that flete
the joyfull nightes of which day dawth so sone
the happie howres whiche mo do mysse than meete
do all consume as snow agaynst the sonne
and death makes end of all that lyf begonne
the mery dayes to end so fast that flete
the joyfull nightes of which day dawth so sone
the happie howres whiche mo do mysse than meete
do all consume as snow agaynst the sonne
and death makes end of all that lyf begonne
Syns death shall dure till all the world lye waste
what meaneth man to shonne death than so sore
as man might make that lyf shuld alway last
without regarde the Lorde hath lead before
the dawnce of death whiche all must ronne on roo
thowh how or when hym self doth only know
what meaneth man to shonne death than so sore
as man might make that lyf shuld alway last
without regarde the Lorde hath lead before
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thowh how or when hym self doth only know
Yf man wold mynd what bourdens lyf doth brynge
what greevous Crymes to god he doth commytt
what greefes do grow what daungers dayly springe
with no safe howre in all his dayes to sytt
he wold sure thinck as with great cawse I do
the day of death wear better of the two
what greevous Crymes to god he doth commytt
what greefes do grow what daungers dayly springe
with no safe howre in all his dayes to sytt
he wold sure thinck as with great cawse I do
the day of death wear better of the two
Death is a porte wherby we passe to joye
Lyf ys a lake that drowneth all in payne
Death is so deare it ceasyth all anoy
Lyf is so lewd that all it yelds ys vayne
For as by lyf to bondage man was browght
Even so by death was freedome lykewyse wrought
Lyf ys a lake that drowneth all in payne
Death is so deare it ceasyth all anoy
Lyf is so lewd that all it yelds ys vayne
For as by lyf to bondage man was browght
Even so by death was freedome lykewyse wrought
Wherefore with pawle lett all flesshe wishe and pray
to be dissolv'd from this fowle flesshye masse
or at the least be armde agaynst the day
that they be fownd good Sowldyours prest to passe
From lyf to death from death to lyf agayne
to suche a lyfe as ever shall remayne
to be dissolv'd from this fowle flesshye masse
or at the least be armde agaynst the day
that they be fownd good Sowldyours prest to passe
From lyf to death from death to lyf agayne
to suche a lyfe as ever shall remayne
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II B 2
[When I looke back and in my self behold]
When I looke back and in my self behold
the wandring wayes that youth could not discrye
and see the fearfull course that youthe did holde
and meat in mynd eche steppe I strayed awrye
my knees I bow and from my hart I call
O Lord forgeat youthes fawltes and follyes all
the wandring wayes that youth could not discrye
and see the fearfull course that youthe did holde
and meat in mynd eche steppe I strayed awrye
my knees I bow and from my hart I call
O Lord forgeat youthes fawltes and follyes all
For now I see how skant youthe was of skill
I fynde by profe, his pleasures all be payne
I feele the Sower, that sweetnes than did still
I taste the gall, hydd under sugred trayne
and with a mynd Repentaunt of all Crymes
Pardon I aske for youth ten thowsand tymes
I fynde by profe, his pleasures all be payne
I feele the Sower, that sweetnes than did still
I taste the gall, hydd under sugred trayne
and with a mynd Repentaunt of all Crymes
Pardon I aske for youth ten thowsand tymes
The humble hart hath dawnted the prowd mynd
Knowledge hath geven to ignoraunce the fall
Wysdome hath tawght that folly coulde not fynd
and age hath youth his subject and his thrall
wherefore I pray O Lorde of lif and truth
Cansell the crymes commytted in my youth
Knowledge hath geven to ignoraunce the fall
Wysdome hath tawght that folly coulde not fynd
and age hath youth his subject and his thrall
wherefore I pray O Lorde of lif and truth
Cansell the crymes commytted in my youth
Thow that didest grawnt the wyse king his request
thow that in whale thye prophett did'st preserve
Thow that forgav'st the wounding of thy brest
Thow that didst save the thyef in state to sterve
Thow only good and gever of all grace
forgeve the giltes that grew in youthes greene race
thow that in whale thye prophett did'st preserve
Thow that forgav'st the wounding of thy brest
Thow that didst save the thyef in state to sterve
Thow only good and gever of all grace
forgeve the giltes that grew in youthes greene race
Thow that of grace restoredst the blynd to sight
Thow that by powre to lyf didst raise the dead
Thow that of favor madest the lame goe ryght
Thow that for love thye lif and blood out bledd
Thow that canst heale and helpp in all assayes
Wype oute of mynd the wantes of youths vayne wayes
Thow that by powre to lyf didst raise the dead
Thow that of favor madest the lame goe ryght
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Thow that canst heale and helpp in all assayes
Wype oute of mynd the wantes of youths vayne wayes
And now sence hope by grace with doubtlesse mynd
doth preace to thee by prayer t'appease thyne Ire
and synce with trust to speede I seeke to fynde
and wayte through faith t'attayne this just desyre
lord mynd no more youthes errour nor unskill
but able age to do thie hollye will
doth preace to thee by prayer t'appease thyne Ire
and synce with trust to speede I seeke to fynde
and wayte through faith t'attayne this just desyre
lord mynd no more youthes errour nor unskill
but able age to do thie hollye will
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II B 3
[Unto my songe geve eare that wyll]
Unto my songe geve eare that wyll
and deeme my doinges as you please
for I shall tell yf you be still
what trade I toke to lyve in ease
and how those wayes that I wayd best
in fyne did fayle to myne unrest
and deeme my doinges as you please
for I shall tell yf you be still
what trade I toke to lyve in ease
and how those wayes that I wayd best
in fyne did fayle to myne unrest
The dayes were once and very late
my hart and I might leape at lardge
and was not shutt within the gate
of loves desyre nor toke no chardge
of any thing that did pertayne
as toching love in any payne
my hart and I might leape at lardge
and was not shutt within the gate
of loves desyre nor toke no chardge
of any thing that did pertayne
as toching love in any payne
My thought was free my hart was light
I toke no care who wept who laught
I playd by day I slept by night
I reckt no whit who lost who sought
From all suche thinges my hart was free
and I my self at lybertye
I toke no care who wept who laught
I playd by day I slept by night
I reckt no whit who lost who sought
From all suche thinges my hart was free
and I my self at lybertye
I tooke no heede of tauntes nor toyes
as lyefe to see them frowne as smyle
their woes I mockt I skorn'd their joyes
I fownd their frawds and every wyle
and to my self oft tymes I smyl'de
to see how love had them begylde
as lyefe to see them frowne as smyle
their woes I mockt I skorn'd their joyes
I fownd their frawds and every wyle
and to my self oft tymes I smyl'de
to see how love had them begylde
Thus in the nett of my conceyt
I masked fourthe amonge the sort
of suche as fedd uppon the bayte
that Cupyde layd for his disporte
and ever as I saw them caught
I them beheld and there at laught
I masked fourthe amonge the sort
of suche as fedd uppon the bayte
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and ever as I saw them caught
I them beheld and there at laught
Tyll at the last when Cupyd spyde
my skornfull will and spitefull use
and saw I past not who was tyede
so that my self myght lyve still loose
he sett hym self to lye in wayte
and in my way he cast a bayte
my skornfull will and spitefull use
and saw I past not who was tyede
so that my self myght lyve still loose
he sett hym self to lye in wayte
and in my way he cast a bayte
Suche one as never nature made
I dare well say but she alone
suche one she was that wolde envade
an hart more hard than marble stone
suche one she is I know it right
nature her made to shew her might
I dare well say but she alone
suche one she was that wolde envade
an hart more hard than marble stone
suche one she is I know it right
nature her made to shew her might
Than as a man all in a Maze
Whan use of reason is a way
So I began to stare and gaze
and sodenly without delay
or that I had the wytt to looke
I swallowid upp both bayte and hooke
Whan use of reason is a way
So I began to stare and gaze
and sodenly without delay
or that I had the wytt to looke
I swallowid upp both bayte and hooke
Whiche dayly greevythe more and more
by sondry kyndes of carefull woo
and none a lyve may heale the sore
save she alone that hurt me so
in whome my health doth now concyst
to heale or hurt even as she lyst
by sondry kyndes of carefull woo
and none a lyve may heale the sore
save she alone that hurt me so
in whome my health doth now concyst
to heale or hurt even as she lyst
Wherefore synce now that I am caught
and fest so fast I can not flee
be you by myne example taught
Whiche in your fancyes fynd you free
dispyse them not that lovers are
Least you lack powre to flye the snare
and fest so fast I can not flee
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Whiche in your fancyes fynd you free
dispyse them not that lovers are
Least you lack powre to flye the snare
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II B 4
[O Happy dames, that may embrace]
O Happy dames, that may embraceThe frute of your delight,
Help to bewaile the wofull case,
And eke the heavy plight
Of me, that wonted to rejoyce
The fortune of my pleasant choyce:
Good Ladies, help to fill my moorning voyce.
In ship, freight with rememberance
Of thoughts, and pleasures past,
He sailes that hath in governance
My life, while it wil last:
With scalding sighes, for lack of gale,
Furdering his hope, that is his sail
Toward me, the swete port of his avail.
Alas, how oft in dreames I se
Those eyes, that were my food,
Which somtime so delited me,
That yet they do me good.
Wherwith I wake with his returne,
Whose absent flame did make me burne.
But when I find the lacke, Lord how I mourne?
When other lovers in armes acrosse,
Rejoyce their chiefe delight:
Drowned in teares to mourne my losse,
I stand the bitter night,
In my window, where I may see,
Before the windes how the cloudes flee.
Lo, what a mariner love hath made me.
And in grene waves when the salt flood
Doth rise, by rage of winde:
A thousand fansies in that mood
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Alas, now drencheth my swete fo,
That with the spoyle of my hart did go,
And left me but (alas) why did he so?
And when the seas waxe calme againe,
To chase fro me annoye.
My doubtfull hope doth cause me plaine:
So dreade cuts of my joye.
Thus is my wealth mingled with wo,
And of ech thought a dout doth growe,
Now he comes, will he come? alas, no no.
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II B 5
[Erst in Arcadia's londe much prais'd was found]
Erst in Arcadia's londe much prais'd was found
A lustie tree far rearing t'ward the skie,
Sacred to Jove, and placed on high grounde,
Beneath whose shade did gladsome shepherds hie,
Met plenteous good, and oft were wont to shunne
Bleak winters drizzle, summers parching sunne.
A lustie tree far rearing t'ward the skie,
Sacred to Jove, and placed on high grounde,
Beneath whose shade did gladsome shepherds hie,
Met plenteous good, and oft were wont to shunne
Bleak winters drizzle, summers parching sunne.
Outstretch'd in all the luxurie of ease,
They pluck'd rich mistletoe of virtue rare;
Their lippe was temptede by each kindlie breeze,
That wav'd the branch to proffer acorns fair;
While out the hollowd root, with sweets inlaide,
The murm'ring bee her daintie hoard betrayde.
They pluck'd rich mistletoe of virtue rare;
Their lippe was temptede by each kindlie breeze,
That wav'd the branch to proffer acorns fair;
While out the hollowd root, with sweets inlaide,
The murm'ring bee her daintie hoard betrayde.
The fearless bird safe bosom'd here its neste,
Its sturdie side did brave the nipping winde,
Where many a creeping ewe mought gladlie reste
Warme comforte here to all and ev'ry kinde
Where hunge the leaf well sprint with honey dew,
Whence dropt their cups, the gamboling fairie knew.
Its sturdie side did brave the nipping winde,
Where many a creeping ewe mought gladlie reste
Warme comforte here to all and ev'ry kinde
Where hunge the leaf well sprint with honey dew,
Whence dropt their cups, the gamboling fairie knew.
But ah! in luckless day what mischief 'gan
'Midst fell debate, and madd'ning revelrie,
When tipsie Bacchus had bewitched Pan,
For sober swains so thankless neer mought be;
Tho' passinge strange—'twas bruited all arounde,
This goodlie tree did shadowe too much grounde.
'Midst fell debate, and madd'ning revelrie,
When tipsie Bacchus had bewitched Pan,
For sober swains so thankless neer mought be;
Tho' passinge strange—'twas bruited all arounde,
This goodlie tree did shadowe too much grounde.
With much despight they aim its overthrow,
And sorrie jestes its wonted giftes deride,
How 'snaring birdlimes made of mistletoe;
Nor trust their flocks to shelter 'neath its side;
It drops chill venom on our ewes, they cry,
And subtle serpent at its root doth lie.
And sorrie jestes its wonted giftes deride,
How 'snaring birdlimes made of mistletoe;
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It drops chill venom on our ewes, they cry,
And subtle serpent at its root doth lie.
Eftsoons the axe doth rear its deadlie blowe,
Arounde dothe eccho bear each labouringe stroke;
Now to the grounde its loftie head doth bowe,
Then angry Jove aloud in thunder spoke,
On high Olympus next mine tree I'll place,
Heav'n's still unscann'd by sich ungrateful race.
Arounde dothe eccho bear each labouringe stroke;
Now to the grounde its loftie head doth bowe,
Then angry Jove aloud in thunder spoke,
On high Olympus next mine tree I'll place,
Heav'n's still unscann'd by sich ungrateful race.
| John Harington of Stepney | |