 | Poetical works (1908) |  |
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APPENDIX TO THE POEMS OF GILES FLETCHER
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[ELEGIES ON HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES]
[I]
Upon the most lamented departure
of the right hopefull, and blessed Prince
Henrie
Prince of
Wales.
The weeping time of Heav'n is now come in,
Kindely the season clowdes of sorrowe beares,
To smile, ô let it be a deadly sinne
And happy hee, his merry looks forswears,
See heav'n for us is melted into teares:
O deerest Prince how many hearts wear knowne
To save thy life, that would have lost their owne?
Kindely the season clowdes of sorrowe beares,
To smile, ô let it be a deadly sinne
And happy hee, his merry looks forswears,
See heav'n for us is melted into teares:
O deerest Prince how many hearts wear knowne
To save thy life, that would have lost their owne?
When thou thy Countreys griefe, weart once her glory,
How was this blessed Isle crown'd with delight;
So long it never knew how to be sorry,
But anchor'd all her joyes upon thy sight;
The musique every whear did freely lite:
The Sheapheards pip't, and countrey byrds did sing,
The water-nymphs came dauncing from their spring.
How was this blessed Isle crown'd with delight;
So long it never knew how to be sorry,
But anchor'd all her joyes upon thy sight;
The musique every whear did freely lite:
The Sheapheards pip't, and countrey byrds did sing,
The water-nymphs came dauncing from their spring.
It was the mother then of harmeles pleasure
The Queene of beawty all men came to see,
And poore it could not bee, thou weart her treasure,
Onely it was a little prowde of thee,
Aye mee, that ever so it might not bee!
The Garden of the world, whear nothing wanted,
Another Paradise, that God had planted.
The Queene of beawty all men came to see,
And poore it could not bee, thou weart her treasure,
Onely it was a little prowde of thee,
Aye mee, that ever so it might not bee!
The Garden of the world, whear nothing wanted,
Another Paradise, that God had planted.
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Her happie fields wear dec'kt with every flowre,
That with her sweetest lookes Peace smil'd to see it:
Delight it selfe betwixt her breasts did bowre,
And oft her rustique Nymphs thy coach would meet,
And strow with flowers the way before thy feete.
But now those flowers wee woont to strow before thee,
Dead, in thy grave wee throw them to adore thee.
That with her sweetest lookes Peace smil'd to see it:
Delight it selfe betwixt her breasts did bowre,
And oft her rustique Nymphs thy coach would meet,
And strow with flowers the way before thy feete.
But now those flowers wee woont to strow before thee,
Dead, in thy grave wee throw them to adore thee.
Sleepe softly, royall Ghost, in that cold bed,
Let deaths pale chambers give thee easie rest,
Whear all the Princely bones lie buried,
With guilded crowns and long white scepters drest.
Ah, little look't they thou shouldst be their guest!
What makes the heav'ns proclaime such open warres?
Wee did not owe thee so soone to the starres.
Let deaths pale chambers give thee easie rest,
Whear all the Princely bones lie buried,
With guilded crowns and long white scepters drest.
Ah, little look't they thou shouldst be their guest!
What makes the heav'ns proclaime such open warres?
Wee did not owe thee so soone to the starres.
And yet our vowes doe not thy starres envie thee,
Bathe thee in joyes, wee in our teares will swim:
Wee doe not unto heav'n, or God denie thee,
Onely the Muses begge this leave of him,
To fill with teares their fountaine to the brim,
And as thou sett'st emparadis'd above,
To powre out to thee rivers of their love.
Bathe thee in joyes, wee in our teares will swim:
Wee doe not unto heav'n, or God denie thee,
Onely the Muses begge this leave of him,
To fill with teares their fountaine to the brim,
And as thou sett'st emparadis'd above,
To powre out to thee rivers of their love.
See how the yeare with thee is stricken dead,
And from her bosome all her flowers hath throwne,
With thee the trees their haires fling from their head,
And all the Sheapheards pipes are deadly blowne,
All musique now, and mirth is hatefull growne:
Onely Halcyons sad lamenting pleases,
And that Swans dirge, that, as hee sings, deceases.
And from her bosome all her flowers hath throwne,
With thee the trees their haires fling from their head,
And all the Sheapheards pipes are deadly blowne,
All musique now, and mirth is hatefull growne:
Onely Halcyons sad lamenting pleases,
And that Swans dirge, that, as hee sings, deceases.
Heav'n at thy death deni'd our world his light,
Ne suff'red one pale starre abroad to peepe,
And all about the world the winds have sigh'd,
Nor can the watrie-nymphs (so fast they weepe)
Within their banks their flouds of sorrow keepe.
Suffer us, in this deluge of distresse,
Thee, if not to enjoy, at least to blesse.
Ne suff'red one pale starre abroad to peepe,
And all about the world the winds have sigh'd,
Nor can the watrie-nymphs (so fast they weepe)
Within their banks their flouds of sorrow keepe.
Suffer us, in this deluge of distresse,
Thee, if not to enjoy, at least to blesse.
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Bedded in all the roses of delight
Let thy engladded soule embalmed lie,
Imbrightned into that celestiall light,
Which all Gods saintly Lamps doth glorifie,
Thear boast thy kinred with the Deitie
Whear God his Sonne, and Christ his Brother greet thee,
And thy too little glorious Sisters meete thee.
Let thy engladded soule embalmed lie,
Imbrightned into that celestiall light,
Which all Gods saintly Lamps doth glorifie,
Thear boast thy kinred with the Deitie
Whear God his Sonne, and Christ his Brother greet thee,
And thy too little glorious Sisters meete thee.
But ô thou desert Island, that art found
Cast in the seas deepe bosome by mishap,
As if with our salt teares thou all weart drown'd,
And hadst from heav'n drop't into sorrowes lap;
Desolate house! what mantle now shall wrap
Thy naked sides? poore widow, made to mourne,
To whom wilt thou thy sad addresses tourne?
Cast in the seas deepe bosome by mishap,
As if with our salt teares thou all weart drown'd,
And hadst from heav'n drop't into sorrowes lap;
Desolate house! what mantle now shall wrap
Thy naked sides? poore widow, made to mourne,
To whom wilt thou thy sad addresses tourne?
Alas, the silent Angels on his tombe
Can him no honour, thee no comfort sing,
Their pretie weeping lookes may well become
Themselves, but him to life can never bring.
Thee therefore, deerest Prince, from perishing
Or yet alive wee in our hearts will save,
Or dead with thee, our hearts shall be thy grave.
Can him no honour, thee no comfort sing,
Their pretie weeping lookes may well become
Themselves, but him to life can never bring.
Thee therefore, deerest Prince, from perishing
Or yet alive wee in our hearts will save,
Or dead with thee, our hearts shall be thy grave.
Henrie farewell, heav'ns soone-restored Exile,
Immortall Garland of thy Fathers head,
Mantle of honour to this naked Isle,
Bright drop of heav'n, on whose wish't nuptiall bed
Now all our ripest hopes hung blossomed.
Farewell, farewell; hearke how the Angels sing,
On earth our Prince is now in heav'n a King.
Immortall Garland of thy Fathers head,
Mantle of honour to this naked Isle,
Bright drop of heav'n, on whose wish't nuptiall bed
Now all our ripest hopes hung blossomed.
Farewell, farewell; hearke how the Angels sing,
On earth our Prince is now in heav'n a King.
G. F. T. C.
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FRAGMENTARY VERSE TRANSLATIONS IN THE REWARD OF THE FAITHFULL
I.
[O this my country is, thy soule shall say]
O this my country is, thy soule shall say,Hence was my birth, & here shall be my stay.
II.
[The Rose is faire & fading, short and sweet]
The Rose is faire & fading, short and sweet,Passe softly by her:
And in a moment you shall see her fleet,
And turne a bryer.
III.
[She's black: what then? so are dead coales, but cherish]
She's black: what then? so are dead coales, but cherish,And with soft breath them blow,
And you shall see them glow as bright and flourish,
As spring-borne Roses grow.
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IV.
[Death and the Grave make even all estates.]
Death and the Grave make even all estates.There, high, and low, & rich, & poor are mates.
V.
[The poor man dies but once: but O that I]
The poor man dies but once: but O that IAlready dead, have yet three deaths to die.
VI.
[It was not he that did them injurie.]
It was not he that did them injurie.But fove and Fate, and the night Furie.
VII.
[Men say their faults are ours when their own wils]
Men say their faults are ours when their own wilsBeyond their fate, are authours of their ills.
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VIII.
[No, first of all O let the Muses wings]
No, first of all O let the Muses wingsWhose sacred fountaine in my bosome springs
Receive, and landing mee above the starres,
Shew me the waies of hevẽ: but if the barres
Of unkinde Nature stoppe so high a flight,
The Woods and Fields shall be my next delight.
IX.
[Faine would the Oxe the borses trappin[g]s weare]
Faine would the Oxe the borses trappin[g]s weare;And faine the Horse the Oxes yoake would beare.
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