Engl200 Final--passage Identification

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William Shakespeare

1) 1564-16162) not much known about his life before his career.All recorded: his Christening, his marriage in 1582 at age eighteen to Anne Hathaway eight years his senior, the birth of his daughter, Susanna, was born six months later, in 1583, and twins, Hamnet and Judith in 1585, then seven years later in 1592 he was working as an actor in London.3) Shift in 1601-1607-- humor becomes dark and uneasy

Nature that hateth emptiness Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come. What field of all the civil wars Where his were not the deepest scars? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art, Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrooke's narrow case, That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn, While round the armed bands Did clap their bloody hands. He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try;

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: An Horatian Ode PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650

The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil th' unused armour's rust, Removing from the wall The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But thorough advent'rous war Urged his active star. And like the three-fork'd lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did through his own side His fiery way divide. For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous or enemy; And with such to enclose Is more than to oppose.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: An Horatian Ode PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650

Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame The force of angry Heaven's flame; And, if we would speak true, Much to the man is due, Who from his private gardens where He liv'd reserved and austere, As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot, Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the kingdom old Into another mould. Though justice against fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain; But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: An Horatian Ode PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650

Nor call'd the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bowed his comely head Down as upon a bed. This was that memorable hour Which first assur'd the forced pow'r. So when they did design The Capitol's first line, A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the state Foresaw its happy fate. And now the Irish are asham'd To see themselves in one year tam'd; So much one man can do That does both act and know.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: An Horatian Ode PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650=

The Pict no shelter now shall find Within his parti-colour'd mind; But from this valour sad Shrink underneath the plaid, Happy if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer. But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on; And for the last effect Still keep thy sword erect; Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A pow'r, must it maintain.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: An Horatian Ode PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650=

They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust; Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the republic's hand; How fit he is to sway That can so well obey. He to the Commons' feet presents A kingdom for his first year's rents; And, what he may, forbears His fame, to make it theirs, And has his sword and spoils ungirt, To lay them at the public's skirt. So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky, She, having kill'd, no more does search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falc'ner has her sure. What may not then our isle presume While victory his crest does plume! What may not others fear If thus he crown each year! A Cæsar he ere long to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all states not free, Shall climacteric be.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: An Horatian Ode PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650=

He makes the figs our mouths to meet And throws the melons at our feet, But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by his hand, From Lebanon, he stores the land, And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast, And in these rocks for us did frame A temple, where to sound his name. Oh let our voice his praise exalt, Till it arrive at heaven's vault; Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexic Bay. Thus sung they in the English boat An holy and a cheerful note, And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: Bermudas PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1653

Where the remote Bermudas ride In th' ocean's bosom unespy'd, From a small boat, that row'd along, The list'ning winds receiv'd this song. What should we do but sing his praise That led us through the wat'ry maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storm's and prelates' rage. He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night; And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: Bermudas PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1653

How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow'rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: The Garden PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650-1652

How well the skillful gard'ner drew Of flow'rs and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs!

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: The Garden PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650-1652

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings; And, till prepar'd for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk'd without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: The Garden PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650-1652

No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wond'rous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: The Garden PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650-1652

Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use, Did after him the world seduce, And from the fields the flowers and plants allure, Where nature was most plain and pure. He first enclosed within the gardens square A dead and standing pool of air, And a more luscious earth for them did knead, Which stupified them while it fed. The pink grew then as double as his mind; The nutriment did change the kind. With strange perfumes he did the roses taint, And flowers themselves were taught to paint. The tulip, white, did for complexion seek, And learned to interline its cheek: Its onion root they then so high did hold, That one was for a meadow sold. Another world was searched, through oceans new, To find the Marvel of Peru. And yet these rarities might be allowed To man, that sovereign thing and proud, Had he not dealt between the bark and tree, Forbidden mixtures there to see.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: The Mower Against Gardens PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650-1652

No plant now knew the stock from which it came; He grafts upon the wild the tame: That th' uncertain and adulterate fruit Might put the palate in dispute. His green seraglio has its eunuchs too, Lest any tyrant him outdo. And in the cherry he does nature vex, To procreate without a sex. 'Tis all enforced, the fountain and the grot, While the sweet fields do lie forgot: Where willing nature does to all dispense A wild and fragrant innocence: And fauns and fairies do the meadows till, More by their presence than their skill. Their statues, polished by some ancient hand, May to adorn the gardens stand: But howsoe'er the figures do excel, The gods themselves with us do dwell.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: The Mower Against Gardens PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650-1652

But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: To His Coy Mistress PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650-1652

Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: To His Coy Mistress PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650-1652

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

AUTHOR: Andrew Marvell TITLE: To His Coy Mistress PUBLISHED: from Poems, 1681, written in 1650-1652

May yet be there, and godwit, if we can; Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe'er, my man Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus, Livy, or of some better book to us, Of which we'll speak our minds, amidst our meat; And I'll profess no verses to repeat. To this, if ought appear which I not know of, That will the pastry, not my paper, show of. Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be; But that which most doth take my Muse and me, Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine, Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine; Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted, Their lives, as so their lines, till now had lasted. Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring, Are all but Luther's beer to this I sing.

AUTHOR: Ben Jonson TITLE: Inviting a Friend to Supper PUBLISHED: 1616 The simple things in life The poem is written as a dinner invitation to Jonson's most loyal patron, William Herbert, the Earl of Pembroke. In describing the prospect of a delicious meal, the poem advocates for modesty and political privacy between the speaker and the guest.

Of this we will sup free, but moderately, And we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by, Nor shall our cups make any guilty men; But, at our parting we will be as when We innocently met. No simple word That shall be uttered at our mirthful board, Shall make us sad next morning or affright The liberty that we'll enjoy tonight.

Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I Do equally desire your company; Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast With those that come, whose grace may make that seem Something, which else could hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates. Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate, An olive, capers, or some better salad Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen, If we can get her, full of eggs, and then Lemons, and wine for sauce; to these a cony Is not to be despaired of, for our money; And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks, The sky not falling, think we may have larks. I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come: Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some

But what can this (more than express their love) Add to thy free provisions, far above The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow With all that hospitality doth know; Where comes no guest but is allowed to eat, Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat; Where the same beer and bread, and selfsame wine, This is his lordship's shall be also mine, And I not fain to sit (as some this day At great men's tables), and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, A waiter doth my gluttony envy, But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; He knows below he shall find plenty of meat. The tables hoard not up for the next day; Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livery; all is there, As if thou then wert mine, or I reigned here: There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.

AUTHOR: Ben Jonson TITLE: To Penshurst PUBLISHED: 1616 The first 'country house poem'

Each morn and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Read in their virtuous parents' noble parts The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

AUTHOR: Ben Jonson TITLE: To Penshurst PUBLISHED: 1616 The first 'country house poem'

That found King James when, hunting late this way With his brave son, the prince, they saw thy fires Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame To entertain them; or the country came With all their zeal to warm their welcome here. What (great I will not say, but) sudden cheer Didst thou then make 'em! and what praise was heaped On thy good lady then, who therein reaped The just reward of her high housewifery; To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far; and not a room but dressed As if it had expected such a guest! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all. Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal. His children thy great lord may call his own, A fortune in this age but rarely known. They are, and have been, taught religion; thence Their gentler spirits have sucked innocence.

AUTHOR: Ben Jonson TITLE: To Penshurst PUBLISHED: 1616 The first 'country house poem'

She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus. Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Sun Rising stanza 3 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades.

Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry, with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come; The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses bring them, or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves in plum or pear.

AUTHOR: Ben Jonson TITLE: To Penshurst PUBLISHED: 1616 The first 'country house poem'

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold; Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told, Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air, Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport; Thy mount, to which the dryads do resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made, Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade; That taller tree, which of a nut was set At his great birth where all the Muses met. There in the writhèd bark are cut the names Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames; And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke The lighter fauns to reach thy Lady's Oak.

AUTHOR: Ben Jonson TITLE: To Penshurst PUBLISHED: 1616 The first 'country house poem'

Thy copse too, named of Gamage, thou hast there, That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land, that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed; The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies; and the tops, Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sidney's copse, To crown thy open table, doth provide The purpled pheasant with the speckled side; The painted partridge lies in every field, And for thy mess is willing to be killed. And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish, Fat aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As loath the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously at first themselves betray; Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land Before the fisher, or into his hand.

AUTHOR: Ben Jonson TITLE: To Penshurst PUBLISHED: 1616 The first 'country house poem'

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poore: With thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me. My tender age in sorrow did beginne And still with sicknesses and shame. Thou didst so punish sinne, That I became Most thinne. With thee Let me combine, And feel thy victorie: For, if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me. Related

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Easter Wings PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633 Emblem poem whose shape presents an emblem picture, the lines increasing and decreasing, imitate flight or the spiritual experience of falling and rising.

Who says that fictions only and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? Is all good structure in a winding stair? May no lines pass, except they do their duty Not to a true, but painted chair? Is it no verse, except enchanted groves And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines? Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves? Must all be veil'd, while he that reads, divines, Catching the sense at two removes? Shepherds are honest people; let them sing; Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime; I envy no man's nightingale or spring; Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme, Who plainly say, my God, my King.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Jordan (1) PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633 poetry does not require artificial artifice. Godo poetry does and require false things. Better to be truthful and value truth in beauty over fictitious beauty

When first my lines of heav'nly joyes made mention, Such was their lustre, they did so excell, That I sought out quaint words and trim invention; My thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell, Curling with metaphors a plain intention, Decking the sense, as if it were to sell. Thousands of notions in my brain did runne, Off'ring their service, if I were not sped: I often blotted what I had begunne; This was not quick enough, and that was dead. Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the sunne, Much lesse those joyes which trample on his head. As flames do work and winde, when they ascend, So did I weave my self into the sense. But while I bustled, I might heare a friend Whisper, How wide is all this long pretence! There is in love a sweetnesse readie penn'd; Copie out onely that, and save expense.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Jordan (2) PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633 you must write from the heart and not use hyperbolic writing, similar message to sonnet 1 of Astrophil and Stella Mutating language to make it pretty is wrong, prostitution of his poetry to make it pretty and distort his thoughts so that it can sell.

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lacked any thing. "A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here:" Love said, "You shall be he." "I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear, I cannot look on thee." Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?" "Truth Lord," but I have marred them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve." "And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?" "My dear, then I will serve." "You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat:" So I did sit and eat.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Love (3) PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633

My God, I heard this day That none doth build a stately habitation But he that means to dwell therein. What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, than is man, to whose creation All things are in decay? For man is ev'ry thing, And more: he is a tree, yet bears more fruit; A beast, yet is, or should be, more; Reason and speech we only bring; Parrots may thank us if they are not mute, They go upon the score. Man is all symmetry, Full of proportions, one limb to another, And all to all the world besides; Each part may call the furthest brother, For head with foot hath private amity, And both with moons and tides.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Man stanza 1,2,3 PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633

Nothing hath got so far But man hath caught and kept it as his prey; His eyes dismount the highest star; He is in little all the sphere; Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they Find their acquaintance there. For us the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow. Nothing we see but means our good, As our delight, or as our treasure; The whole is either our cupboard of food, Or cabinet of pleasure. The stars have us to bed; Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws; Music and light attend our head; All things unto our flesh are kind In their descent and being; to our mind In their ascent and cause.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Man stanza 4,5,6 PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633

Each thing is full of duty; Waters united are our navigation; Distinguished, our habitation; Below, our drink; above, our meat; Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty? Then how are all things neat! More servants wait on man Than he'll take notice of; in ev'ry path He treads down that which doth befriend him, When sickness makes him pale and wan. Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him. Since then, my God, thou hast So brave a palace built, O dwell in it, That it may dwell with thee at last! Till then, afford us so much wit, That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee, And both thy servants be.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Man stanza 7,8,9 PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633

Prayer the church's banquet, angel's age, God's breath in man returning to his birth, The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage, The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth Engine against th' Almighty, sinner's tow'r, Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear, The six-days world transposing in an hour, A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear; Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss, Exalted manna, gladness of the best, Heaven in ordinary, man well drest, The milky way, the bird of Paradise, Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood, The land of spices; something understood.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Prayer (1) PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633 Prayer is a seige engine, effort does not come easily but is worth it recipient of message hears the prayer

Having been tenant long to a rich lord, Not thriving, I resolvèd to be bold, And make a suit unto him, to afford A new small-rented lease, and cancel th' old. In heaven at his manor I him sought; They told me there that he was lately gone About some land, which he had dearly bought Long since on earth, to take possessiòn. I straight returned, and knowing his great birth, Sought him accordingly in great resorts; In cities, theaters, gardens, parks, and courts; At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth Of thieves and murderers; there I him espied, Who straight, Your suit is granted, said, and died.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Redemption PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633 old lease is the old covenant, new lease is the new covenant. Metaphor of property, God as Land Lord. finds Son of God beside thieves and murderers when he thought he would find him with people of 'high birth' in gardens, cities, theaters, gardens, parks, courts

Meeting with Time, slack thing, said I, Thy scythe is dull; whet it for shame. No marvel, sir, he did reply, If it at length deserve some blame; But where one man would have me grind it, Twenty for one too sharp do find it. Perhaps some such of old did pass Who above all things loved this life; To whom thy scythe a hatchet was, Which now is but a pruning knife. Christ's coming hath made man thy debtor, Since by thy cutting he grows better. And in his blessing thou art blessed, For where thou only wert before An executioner at best, Thou art a gardener now, and more, An usher to convey our souls Beyond the utmost stars and poles.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Time stanza 1,2,3 PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633

And this is that makes life so long, While it detains us from our God. Ev'n pleasures here increase the wrong, And length of days lengthens the rod. Who wants the place where God doth dwell Partakes already half of hell. Of what strange length must that needs be, Which ev'n eternity excludes! Thus far Time heard me patiently: Then chafing said, This man deludes: What do I here before his door? He doth not crave less time, but more.

AUTHOR: George Herbert TITLE: Time stanza 4,5 PUBLISHED: From "The Temple," the title of Herbert's volume sets his poems in relation to David's psalms for the Temple at Jerusalem; his are 'psalms' for the New Testament temple in the heart. Published in 1633

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love, Or chide my palsy, or my gout, My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout, With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve, Take you a course, get you a place, Observe his honor, or his grace, Or the king's real, or his stampèd face Contemplate; what you will, approve, So you will let me love. Alas, alas, who's injured by my love? What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned? Who says my tears have overflowed his ground? When did my colds a forward spring remove? When did the heats which my veins fill Add one more to the plaguy bill? Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still Litigious men, which quarrels move, Though she and I do love.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Canonization stanza 1 and 2 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades.

Happy those early days! when I Shined in my angel infancy. Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white, celestial thought; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first love, And looking back, at that short space, Could see a glimpse of His bright face; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness.

AUTHOR: Henry Vaughan TITLE: The Retreat PUBLISHED: 1650 The Retreat focuses largely on the glorification of childhood as a time of being innocent and close to God, prior to the 'sinful' (line 16) pollution of the human soul on Earth. The poem's opening couplet, 'Happy those early days! Platonic doctrine of preexistence combined with Mark 10.15: "Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein."

O, how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train, From whence th' enlightened spirit sees That shady city of palm trees. But, ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way. Some men a forward motion love; But I by backward steps would move, And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return.

AUTHOR: Henry Vaughan TITLE: The Retreat pt2 PUBLISHED: 1650

With what deep murmurs through time's silent stealth Doth thy transparent, cool, and wat'ry wealth Here flowing fall, And chide, and call, As if his liquid, loose retinue stay'd Ling'ring, and were of this steep place afraid; The common pass Where, clear as glass, All must descend Not to an end, But quicken'd by this deep and rocky grave, Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.

AUTHOR: Henry Vaughan TITLE: The Waterfall stanza 1 PUBLISHED: 1655

Dear stream! dear bank, where often I Have sate and pleas'd my pensive eye, Why, since each drop of thy quick store Runs thither whence it flow'd before, Should poor souls fear a shade or night, Who came, sure, from a sea of light? Or since those drops are all sent back So sure to thee, that none doth lack, Why should frail flesh doubt any more That what God takes, he'll not restore?

AUTHOR: Henry Vaughan TITLE: The Waterfall stanza 2 PUBLISHED: 1655

O useful element and clear! My sacred wash and cleanser here, My first consigner unto those Fountains of life where the Lamb goes! What sublime truths and wholesome themes Lodge in thy mystical deep streams! Such as dull man can never find Unless that Spirit lead his mind Which first upon thy face did move, And hatch'd all with his quick'ning love. As this loud brook's incessant fall In streaming rings restagnates all, Which reach by course the bank, and then Are no more seen, just so pass men. O my invisible estate, My glorious liberty, still late! Thou art the channel my soul seeks, Not this with cataracts and creeks.

AUTHOR: Henry Vaughan TITLE: The Waterfall stanza 2p2 PUBLISHED: 1655

They are all gone into the world of light! And I alone sit ling'ring here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest, After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days: My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays.

AUTHOR: Henry Vaughan TITLE: They are All Gone into the World of Light, stanza 1,2,3 PUBLISHED: 1655 a speaker's longing to understand what death is and where his loved ones have gone.

O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have show'd them me To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just, Shining nowhere, but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust Could man outlook that mark! He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest, may know At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.

AUTHOR: Henry Vaughan TITLE: They are All Gone into the World of Light, stanza 4,5,6 PUBLISHED: 1655

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep: So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes And into glory peep. If a star were confin'd into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that lock'd her up, gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee! Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass, Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass.

AUTHOR: Henry Vaughan TITLE: They are All Gone into the World of Light, stanza 7,8,9,10 PUBLISHED: 1655

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world's whole sap is sunk; The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be At the next world, that is, at the next spring; For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day, stanza 1,2, PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades. winter solstice, darkest part of the darkest day, world is at its darkest. - The speaker feels more grief and darkness than the darkest part of the darkest day, theme of nothingness Lucy's Day' by John Donne is one of the poet's best poems about love and loss. It depicts the speaker's grief after the death of someone he loved. Second stanza, maybe more hopeful-- next spring, rebirth and new life.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long; If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Sun Rising stanza 2 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades.

All others, from all things, draw all that's good, Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; I, by Love's limbec, am the grave Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood Have we two wept, and so Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow To be two chaoses, when we did show Care to aught else; and often absences Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) Of the first nothing the elixir grown; Were I a man, that I were one I needs must know; I should prefer, If I were any beast, Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, And love; all, all some properties invest; If I an ordinary nothing were, As shadow, a light and body must be here.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day, stanza 3,4 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades. The speaker's lover has died Lover is the world of the beloved -- similar reasonings of lovers being the whole world in the sun rises poem He is drowning the whole world with his tears-- dual here: (1) hyperbolic but also (2) "the world" is the lovers love and union, so drowning the whole world could also mean drowning their love Does not know if he is a man he feels totally numb and apathetic.

But I am none; nor will my sun renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun At this time to the Goat is run To fetch new lust, and give it you, Enjoy your summer all; Since she enjoys her long night's festival, Let me prepare towards her, and let me call This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day, stanza 5 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades. Unlike the solstice, his sun (his lover) will not renew, the narrators love with not rise like the world's own will-- but his sun (his love) is greater -- the sun in the sky is lesser than the sun of his love which will never renew.

But we by a love so much refined, That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning, 5,6,7,8,9 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades. - speculated that this poem is addressed to Donne's wife on the occasion of his trip to the Continent in 1611, but there is no proof of that - about: what happens when two lovers have to part, and explains the spiritual unification that makes this particular parting essentially unimportant. Even though one love is separating the absence does not really matter for their love because their love is transcendent of time and place. Just as the virtuous man passes silently away, let us melt, we can be away with no tears because our souls are connected. compass used to draw a circle, point in center, fitted pencil fixed to the pointed compass defining image of compass- John Donne.

As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say The breath goes now, and some say, No: So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, Men reckon what it did, and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning, first four stanzas PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades. - speculated that this poem is addressed to Donne's wife on the occasion of his trip to the Continent in 1611, but there is no proof of that - about: what happens when two lovers have to part, and explains the spiritual unification that makes this particular parting essentially unimportant. stanza 1: virtuous man is dying, mildly, whispering for his soul to go. The sad friends surrounding him seeing him dying so mildly that it is impossible to know which is his last breath.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poision, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke, why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: Sonnet 10 PUBLISHED: Published in 1635, Donne wrote a variety of religious poetry called "Divine Poems" including a group of nineteen "Holy Sonnets" that reflect his interest in Jesuit and Protestant meditative procedures. He began writing these around 1609, a decade or so after leaving the Catholic church. 1 Corinthians 15:26, "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death."

Batter my heart, three-personed God, for You as yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurped town, to another due, Labor to admit you, but O, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captivated, and proves weak and untrue. Yet dearly I love you and would be loved fain, But am betrothed unto your enemy, Divorce me, untie me, or break that knot again; Take me to you, imprision me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: Sonnet 14 PUBLISHED: Published in 1635, Donne wrote a variety of religious poetry called "Divine Poems" including a group of nineteen "Holy Sonnets" that reflect his interest in Jesuit and Protestant meditative procedures. He began writing these around 1609, a decade or so after leaving the Catholic church.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love; Call her one, me another fly, We're tapers too, and at our own cost die, And we in us find the eagle and the dove. The phoenix riddle hath more wit By us; we two being one, are it. So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit. We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love. We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no piece of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms; As well a well-wrought urn becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs, And by these hymns, all shall approve Us canonized for Love.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Canonization stanza 3 and 4 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades.

And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love Made one another's hermitage; You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage; Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove Into the glasses of your eyes (So made such mirrors, and such spies, That they did all to you epitomize) Countries, towns, courts: beg from above A pattern of your love!"

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Canonization stanza 5 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades.

Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know'st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Flea stanza 1 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades. Seduction poem, the speaker is using a flea to seduce a woman into sleeping with him. The flea has bitten them both so within it is their mixed blood-- this is the speakers seduction attempt. He is trying to tell her they should just sleep together because that is less intimate than their blood being mixed together. There cannot be shame

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Flea stanza 2 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades. In between the first stanza and the second, the woman has taken the flea it seems. He begins to use religious imagery to persuade her to have sex with him-- blasphemous. The flea has married their blood together. Also invokes the Trinity. he says that their love and this flea are a temple, so it would be sacrilegious to kill the flea.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou Find'st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; 'Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me, Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Flea stanza 3 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades. In between this stanza and the second, the woman has killed the flea. Voice: direct, comes off very strong, self righteous with his religious knowledge and uses religion to seduce lady. shifts in situation between stanzas, establishes a situation in each stanza and then changes it between.

When my grave is broke up again Some second guest to entertain, (For graves have learn'd that woman head, To be to more than one a bed) And he that digs it, spies A bracelet of bright hair about the bone, Will he not let'us alone, And think that there a loving couple lies, Who thought that this device might be some way To make their souls, at the last busy day, Meet at this grave, and make a little stay? If this fall in a time, or land, Where mis-devotion doth command, Then he, that digs us up, will bring Us to the bishop, and the king, To make us relics; then Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I A something else thereby; All women shall adore us, and some men; And since at such time miracles are sought, I would have that age by this paper taught What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Relic stanza 1.,2 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades. - tension between spiritual and physical love pushes the boundary of love situation: someone digging up his body to place a new body there with a bracelet of the hair of his lover

First, we lov'd well and faithfully, Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why; Difference of sex no more we knew Than our guardian angels do; Coming and going, we Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals; Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free; These miracles we did, but now alas, All measure, and all language, I should pass, Should I tell what a miracle she was.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Relic stanza 3 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades.

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school boys and sour prentices, Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

AUTHOR: John Donne TITLE: The Sun Rising stanza 1 PUBLISHED: first edition 1633, second edition 1635, started writing these poems in 1595 and the ones in this publication, Songs and Sonnets, were written over the span of two decades.

Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed."