poetry

I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson In Memoriam A.H.H. N:o 5 Victorian Period

'Experience, though noon auctoritee Were in this world, were right y-nough to me To speke of wo that is in mariage; For, lordinges, sith I twelf yeer was of age, Thonked be God that is eterne on lyve, Housbondes at chirche-dore I have had fyve; For I so ofte have y-wedded be; And alle were worthy men in hir degree. But me was told certeyn, nat longe agon is, That sith that Crist ne wente never but onis To wedding in the Cane of Galilee, That by the same ensample taughte he me That I ne sholde wedded be but ones. Herke eek, lo! which a sharp word for the nones Besyde a welle Iesus, God and man, Spak in repreve of the Samaritan: "Thou hast y-had fyve housbondes," quod he, "And thilke man, the which that hath now thee, Is noght thyn housbond;" thus seyde he certeyn; What that he mente ther-by, I can nat seyn; But that I axe, why that the fifthe man Was noon housbond to the Samaritan? How manye mighte she have in mariage? Yet herde I never tellen in myn age Upon this nombre diffinicioun; Men may devyne and glosen up and doun. But wel I woot expres, with-oute lye, God bad us for to wexe and multiplye; That gentil text can I wel understonde. Eek wel I woot he seyde, myn housbonde Sholde lete fader and moder, and take me; But of no nombre mencioun made he, Of bigamye or of octogamye; Why sholde men speke of it vileinye? Lo, here the wyse king, dan Salomon; I trowe he hadde wyves mo than oon; As, wolde God, it leveful were to me To be refresshed half so ofte as he! Which yifte of God hadde he for alle his wyvis! No man hath swich, that in this world alyve is. God woot, this noble king, as to my wit, The firste night had many a mery fit With ech of hem, so wel was him on lyve! Blessed be God that I have wedded fyve! Welcome the sixte, whan that ever he shal. For sothe, I wol nat kepe me chast in al; Whan myn housbond is fro the world y-gon, Som Cristen man shal wedde me anon; For thanne thapostle seith, that I am free To wedde, a Goddes half, wher it lyketh me. He seith that to be wedded is no sinne; Bet is to be wedded than to brinne.

Geoffrey Chaucer (ca 1343-1400) The Canterbury Tales Old and Middle English Period From The Prologe of the Wyves Tale of Bathe Original

"Experience, though no authority Ruled in this world, would be enough for me To speak of woe that married life affords; For since I was twelve years of age, my lords, Thanks be to God eternally alive, Of husbands at the church door I've had five (If I have wed that often legally), And all were worthy men in their degree. But I was told not very long ago That as but once did Jesus ever go To a wedding (in Cana, Galilee), By that example he was teaching me That only once in life should I be wed. And listen what a sharp word, too, was said Beside a well by Jesus, God and man, In a reproof of the Samaritan: 'Now you have had five husbands,' Jesus said, 'But he who has you now, I say instead, Is not your husband.' That he said, no doubt, But what he meant I haven't figured out; For I must ask, why is it the fifth man Wasn't husband to the Samaritan? How many men was she allowed to wed? In all my years I've never heard it said Exactly how this number is defined; Men may surmise and gloss how it's divined, But I expressly know it's not a lie God bade us to increase and multiply-- That noble text I well appreciate. I also know the Lord said that my mate Should leave for me his father and his mother, But mentioned not one number or another, Not bigamy nor yet octogamy. Why should men speak, then, disapprovingly? "Look, here's the wise king, lordly Solomon: I do believe his wives were more than one. Would that the Lord permitted me to be Refreshed as half as often as was he. A gift from God he had for all his wives, No man will ever have such in our lives. God knows, this noble king, if I am right, Had many a merry bout on that first night With each of them, he was so much alive. And God be blest that I have married five, Of which I have picked out the very best, A Both for their hanging purse and for their chest. As many different schools make perfect clerks, So practice that's diverse in sundry works Will make a perfect workman certainly; Five-husband schooling's done the same for me. The sixth is welcome when he comes along; I won't be keeping myself chaste for long, For when one husband from this world is gone Some Christian man will wed me early on-- For as the Apostle says, then I am free To wed in God's name when it pleases me. It's no sin to be married, he has said, For if you're burning, better to be wed.

Geoffrey Chaucer (ca 1343-1400) The Canterbury Tales Old and Middle English Period From The Prologue of the Wife of Bath's Tale Modern

I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharans and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down Jo me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

James Joyce Ulysses (1922), from Chapter 18 Twentieth Century

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy; Until I labour, I in labour lie. The foe oft-times having the foe in sight, Is tir'd with standing though he never fight. Off with that girdle, like heaven's Zone glistering, But a far fairer world encompassing. Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear, That th'eyes of busy fools may be stopped there. Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime, Tells me from you, that now it is bed time. Off with that happy busk, which I envy, That still can be, and still can stand so nigh. Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals, As when from flowery meads th'hill's shadow steals. Off with that wiry Coronet and show The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow: Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed. In such white robes, heaven's Angels used to be Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee A heaven like Mahomet's Paradise; and though Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know, By this these Angels from an evil sprite, Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright. Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below. O my America! my new-found-land, My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann'd, My Mine of precious stones, My Empery, How blest am I in this discovering thee! To enter in these bonds, is to be free; Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be. Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee; As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth'd must be, To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use Are like Atlanta's balls, cast in men's views; That when a fool's eye lighteth on a Gem, His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them. Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made For lay-men, are all women thus array'd; Themselves are mystic books, which only we (Whom their imputed grace will dignify) Must see reveal'd. Then since that I may know; As liberally, as to a Midwife, show Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence; There is no penance due to innocence; To teach thee, I am naked first; why then What needst thou have more covering than a man?

John Donne Going to Bed the Renaissance

All my past life is mine no more, The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone. The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phyllis, is only thine. Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; If I, by miracle, can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows.

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-80) Love and Life Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear! II Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine aëry surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822) Ode to the West Wind Romantic Period

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said 'Frà Pandolf' by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, 'Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much,' or 'Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:' such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart .. how shall I say? ... too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace -- all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men, -- good! but thanked Somehow -- I know not how -- as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech -- (which I have not) -- to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, 'Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark' -- and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, -- E'en then would be some stooping; and I chuse Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet The company below then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.

ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889) My Last Duchess Victorian Period

September 2 1666 Some of our maids sitting up late last night to get things ready against our feast to-day, Jane called us up about three in the morning, to tell us of a great fire they saw in the City. So I rose and slipped on my nightgowne, and went to her window, and thought it to be on the backside of Marke-lane at the farthest; but, being unused to such fires as followed, I thought it far enough off; and so went to bed again and to sleep /---/ By and by Jane comes and tells me that she hears that above 300 houses have been burned down to-night by the fire we saw, and that it is now burning down all Fish-street, by London Bridge. So I made myself ready presently, and walked to the Tower, and there got up upon one of the high places, Sir J. Robinson's little son going up with me; and there I did see the houses at that end of the bridge all on fire, and an infinite great fire on this and the other side the end of the bridge /.../ So down [I went], with my heart full of trouble, to the Lieutenant of the Tower, who tells me that it begun this morning in the King's baker'shouse in Pudding-lane, and that it hath burned St. Magnus's Church and most part of Fish-street already. So I down to the water-side /.../ and there saw a lamentable fire. /---/ Everybody endeavouring to remove their goods, and flinging into the river or bringing them into lighters that layoff; poor people staying in their houses as long as till the very fire touched them, and then running into boats, or clambering from one pair of stairs by the water-side to another. And among other things, the poor pigeons, I perceive, were loth to leave their houses, but hovered about the windows and balconys till they were, some of them burned, their wings, and fell down. Having stayed, and in an hour's time seen the fire: rage every way, and nobody, to my sight, endeavouring to quench it, but to remove their goods, and leave all to the fire /.../ I [went next] to White Hall (with a gentleman with me who desired to go off from the Tower, to see the fire, in my boat); to White Hall, and there up to the Kings closett in the Chapel, where people come about me, and did give them an account [that] dismayed them all, and word was carried in to the King. So I was called for, and did tell the King and Duke of Yorkewhat I saw, and that unless his Majesty did command houses to be pulled down nothing could stop the fire. They seemed much troubled, and the King commanded me to go to my Lord Mayor from him, and command him to spare no houses . . . [I hurried] to [St.] Paul's, and there walked along Watling Street, as well as I could, every creature coming away laden with goods to save, and here and there sick people carried away in beds. Extraordinary good goods carried in carts and on backs. At last [I] met my Lord Mayor in Cannon Street, like a man spent, with a [handkerchief] about his neck. To the King's message he cried, like a fainting woman, "Lord! what can I do? I am spent: people will not obey me. I have been pulling down houses; but the fire overtakes us faster than we can do it." /---/ So he left me, and I him, and walked home, seeing people all almost distracted, and no manner of means used to quench the fire. The houses, too, so very thick thereabouts, and full of matter for burning, as pitch and tar, in Thames Street; and warehouses of oil, and wines, and brandy, and other things. A Midsummer Night's Dream To the King's Theatre, where we saw"Midsummer's Night's Dream," which I had never seen before, nor shall ever again, for it is the most insipid ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life. I saw, I confess, some good dancing and some handsome women, which was all my pleasure. (Diary, 29 Sept. 1662) Macbeth again (previously seen on 28 December, 1666) ...thence to the Duke's house and saw Macbeth; which, though I saw it lately, yet appears a most excellent play in all respects, but especially in divertisement, though it be a deep tragedy; which is a strange perfection in a tragedy, it being most proper here, and suitable. (Diary, 7 January, 1667)

Samuel Pepys (1633-1703) from The Diary (1660-69) Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero, Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening. Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains. Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys. Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-- (They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!") My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-- They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!" Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all-- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all-- Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? ..... Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. ..... And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet — and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"-- If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: "That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all." And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-- And this, and so much more?-- It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: "That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all." ..... No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-- Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T.S ELIOT (1888-1965) The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock Twentieth Century

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, alas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore, Since in a net I seek to hold the wind. Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt, As well as I may spend his time in vain. And graven with diamonds in letters plain There is written, her fair neck round about, Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

Thomas Wyatt Whoso List to Hunt the Renaissance

About suffering they were never wrong, The old Masters: how well they understood Its human position: how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

W.H. AUDEN (1907-1973) Musee des Beaux Arts Twentieth Century

Sing, cuccu, nu! Sing, cuccu! Sing, cuccu! Sing, cuccu, nu! Summer is icumen in; Lhude sing, cuccu! Groweth sed, and bloweth med, And springth the wude nu. Sing, cuccu! Awe bleteth after lomb, Lhouth after calve cu; Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth; Murie sing, cuccu! Cuccu! cuccu! Wel singes thu, cuccu; Ne swik thu naver nu.

13th century Lyrical Poem Old and Middle English Period

I syng of mayden That is makeles; Kyng of alle kynges To here Sone sche ches. He cam also stylle There his moder was As dew in Aprylle That fallyt on the gras; He cam also stylle To his moderes bowr As dew in Aprille That fallyt on the flour He cam also stylle There his moder lay As dew in Aprille That fallyt on the spray; Moder and maydyn Was never non but sche; Wel may swych a lady Godes moder be.

15th century Lyrical Poem Old and Middle English Period

Western wind, when will thou blow? The small rain down can rain. Christ, if my love were in my arms, And I in my bed again!

16th century Lyrical Poem Old and Middle English Period

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast; In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little, or too much: Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd; Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd: The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

Alexander Pope (1688-1744) An Essay on Man in Four Epistles: Epistle 2 (Extract) Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson Crossing the Bar Victorian Period

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson In Memoriam A.H.H. N:o 106 Victorian Period

I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson In Memoriam A.H.H. N:o 27 Victorian Period

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Someone had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson The Charge of the Light Brigade Victorian Period

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down from Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom She made three paces thro' the room She saw the water-flower bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; 'The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson The Lady of Shalott Victorian Period

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. But at my back I always hear Time's winged 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. 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-chapp'd 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.

Andrew Marvell (1621-1678) To his Coy Mistress Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

Listen: You have heard of the Danish Kings in the old days and how they were great warriors. Shield, the son of Sheaf, took many an enemy's chair, terrified many a warrior, after he was found an orphan. He prospered under the sky until people everywhere listened when he spoke. He was a good king! Shield had a son, child for his yard, sent by God to comfort the people, to keep them from fear-- Grain was his name; he was famous throughout the North. Young princes should do as he did-- give out treasures while they're still young so that when they're old people will support them in time of war. A man prospers by good deeds in any nation. Came then from the moor under the misty hills Grendel stalking under the weight of God's anger. That wicked ravager planned to ensnare many of the race of men in the high hall. He strode under the clouds, seeking eagerly, till he came to the wine-hall, the treasure-hall of men decorated in gold. Nor was it the first time he had sought Hrothgar's home. But never in his life before --or since-- did he find worse luck! Came then to the building that creature bereft of joys. When he touched it with his hands the door gave way at once though its bands were forged in fire. Intending evil, enraged, he swung the door wide, stood at the building's mouth. Quickly the foe moved across the well-made floor, in an angry mood--a horrible light, like fire, in his eyes. He saw the many warriors in the building, that band of kinsmen asleep together, and his spirit laughed: that monster expected to rip life from the body of each one before morning came. He expected a plentiful meal. of the race of men

Beowulf (American English) Old and Middle English Period

Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon. Oft Scyld Scefing sceaþena þreatum, monegum mægþum, meodosetla ofteah, egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð feasceaft funden, he þæs frofre gebad, weox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum þah, oðþæt him æghwylc þara ymbsittendra ofer hronrade hyran scolde, gomban gyldan. þæt wæs god cyning. ðæm eafera wæs æfter cenned, geong in geardum, þone god sende folce to frofre; fyrenðearfe ongeat þe hie ær drugon aldorlease lange hwile. Him þæs liffrea, wuldres wealdend, woroldare forgeaf; Beowulf wæs breme blæd wide sprang, Scyldes eafera Scedelandum in. Swa sceal geong guma gode gewyrcean, fromum feohgiftum on fæder bearme, þæt hine on ylde eft gewunigen wilgesiþas, þonne wig cume, leode gelæsten; lofdædum sceal in mægþa gehwære man geþeon. ða com of more under misthleoþum Grendel gongan, godes yrre bær; mynte se manscaða manna cynnes sumne besyrwan in sele þam hean. Wod under wolcnum to þæs þe he winreced, goldsele gumena, gearwost wisse, fættum fahne. Ne wæs þæt forma sið þæt he Hroþgares ham gesohte; næfre he on aldordagum ær ne siþðan heardran hæle, healðegnas fand. Com þa to recede rinc siðian, dreamum bedæled. Duru sona onarn, fyrbendum fæst, syþðan he hire folmum æthran; onbræd þa bealohydig, ða he gebolgen wæs, recedes muþan. Raþe æfter þon on fagne flor feond treddode, eode yrremod; him of eagum stod ligge gelicost leoht unfæger. Geseah he in recede rinca manige, swefan sibbegedriht samod ætgædere, magorinca heap. þa his mod ahlog; mynte þæt he gedælde, ærþon dæg cwome, atol aglæca, anra gehwylces lif wið lice, þa him alumpen wæs wistfylle wen.

Beowulf (Original) Old and Middle English Period

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped, we have heard, and what honor the athelings won! Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes, from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore, awing the earls. Since erst he lay friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him: for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve, till before him the folk, both far and near, who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate, gave him gifts: a good king he! To him an heir was afterward born, a son in his halls, whom heaven sent to favor the folk, feeling their woe that erst they had lacked an earl for leader so long a while; the Lord endowed him, the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown. Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him, son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands. So becomes it a youth to quit him well with his father's friends, by fee and gift, that to aid him, aged, in after days, come warriors willing, should war draw nigh, liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds shall an earl have honor in every clan. THEN from the moorland, by misty crags, with God's wrath laden, Grendel came. The monster was minded of mankind now sundry to seize in the stately house. Under welkin he walked, till the wine-palace there, gold-hall of men, he gladly discerned, flashing with fretwork. Not first time, this, that he the home of Hrothgar sought, -- yet ne'er in his life-day, late or early, such hardy heroes, such hall-thanes, found! To the house the warrior walked apace, parted from peace; the portal opended, though with forged bolts fast, when his fists had struck it, and baleful he burst in his blatant rage, the house's mouth. All hastily, then, o'er fair-paved floor the fiend trod on, ireful he strode; there streamed from his eyes fearful flashes, like flame to see. He spied in hall the hero-band, kin and clansmen clustered asleep, hardy liegemen. Then laughed his heart; for the monster was minded, ere morn should dawn, savage, to sever the soul of each, life from body, since lusty banquet waited his will!

Beowulf (modern English) Old and Middle English Period

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI (1830-1894) Uphill Victorian Period

Mephistopheles: This, or what else my Faustus shall desire Shall be perform'd in twinkling of an eye. (enter Helen of Troy) Faustus: Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies! Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips And all is dross that is not Helena. (The clock strikes eleven) Faustus: Ah, Faustus, Now hast thou but one bare hour to live And then thou must be damned perpetually! Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease, and midnight never come; Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make Perpetual day; or let this hour be but A year, a month, a week, a natural day, That Faustus may repent and save his soul! O lente lente currite, noctis equi. The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned. O, I'll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down? See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament! - One drop would save my soul - half a drop! ah, my Christ! Yet will I call on him - O spare me, Lucifer! /.../ (The clock strikes twelve) It strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! (Thunder and lightning) O soul, be changed to little water drops And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found. (Enter devils) My God, my God, look not so fierce on me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile! Ugly hell, gape not - come not, Lucifer! - I'll burn my books - ah, Mephistophilis! (exeunt devils with Faustus)

Christopher Marlowe from Dr. Faustus (1594/1604/1616) the Early History of Drama

r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r who a)s w(e loo)k upnowgath PPEGORHRASS eringint(o- aThe):l eA !p: S a (r rIvInG .gRrEaPsPhOs) to rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly ,grasshopper;

E.E. Cummings Twentieth Century

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, --I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1806-1861) Sonnets from the Portuguese 43 Victorian Period

A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine, Y cladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine, The cruell markes of many a bloudy fielde; Yet armes till that time did he never wield: His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, As much disdayning to the curbe to yield: Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt. But on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead as living ever him ador'd: Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had: Right faithfull true he was in deede and word, But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad; Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. Upon a great adventure he was bond, That greatest Gloriana to him gaue, That greatest Glorious Queene of Faerie lond, To winne him worship, and her grace to have, Which of all earthly things he most did crave; And ever as he rode, his hart did earne To prove his puissance in battell brave Upon his foe, and his new force to learne; Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. A lovely Ladie rode him faire beside, Upon a lowly Asse more white then snow, Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide Under a vele, that wimpled was full low, And over all a blacke stole she did throw, As one that inly mournd: so was she sad, And heavie sat upon her palfrey slow; Seemed in heart some hidden care she had, And by her in a line a milke white lambe she lad.

Edmund Spenser from The Faerie Queene the Renaissance

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. "Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay, A mortal thing so to immortalize; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise." "Not so," (quod I) "let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name: Where whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew."

Edmund Spenser (1552-1599) from Amoretti the Renaissance

When in April the sweet showers fall And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all The veins are bathed in liquor of such power As brings about the engendering of the flower; When also Zephyrus with his sweet breath, Exhales an air in every grove and heath, Upon the tender shoots, and the young sun His half-course in the sign of the Ram has run, And the small fowl are making melody That sleep away the night with open eye (So nature pricks them and their heart engages) Then people long to go on pilgrimages, And palmers long to seek the stranger strands Of far-off saints, hallowed in sundry lands, And specially, from every shire's end Of England, down to Canterbury they went, The holy blessed martyr there to seek Who helped them when they lay so ill and weak /------/ There was a housewife come from Bath, or near, Who- sad to say- was deaf in either ear. At making cloth she had so great a bent She bettered those of Ypres and even of Ghent. In all the parish there was no goodwife Should offering make before her, on my life; And if one did, indeed, so wroth was she It put her out of all her charity. Her kerchiefs were of finest weave and ground; I dare swear that they weighed a full ten pound Which, of a Sunday, she wore on her head. Her hose were of the choicest scarlet red, Close gartered, and her shoes were soft and new. Bold was her face, and fair, and red of hue. She'd been respectable throughout her life, With five churched husbands bringing joy and strife, Not counting other company in youth; But thereof there's no need to speak, in truth. Three times she'd journeyed to Jerusalem; And many a foreign stream she'd had to stem; At Rome she'd been, and she'd been in Boulogne, In Spain at Santiago, and at Cologne. She could tell much of wandering by the way: Gap-toothed was she, it is no lie to say. Upon an ambler easily she sat, Well wimpled, aye, and over all a hat As broad as is a buckler or a targe; A rug was tucked around her buttocks large, And on her feet a pair of sharpened spurs. In company well could she laugh her slurs. The remedies of love she knew, perchance, For of that art she'd learned the old, old dance.

Geoffrey Chaucer (ca 1343-1400) The Canterbury Tales Old and Middle English Period Prologue (extract) Modern

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of march hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne, And smale foweles maken melodye, That slepen al the nyght with open eye- (so priketh hem nature in hir corages); Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; And specially from every shires ende Of engelond to caunterbury they wende, The hooly blisful martir for to seke, That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. /------/ A good wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe, But she was som-del deef, and that was scathe. Of clooth-making she hadde swich an haunt, She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. In al the parisshe wyf ne was ther noon That to the offringe bifore hir sholde goon; And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she, That she was out of alle charitee. Hir coverchiefs ful fyne weren of ground; I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed. Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moiste and newe. Bold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe. She was a worthy womman al hir lyve: Housbondes at chirche-dore she hadde fyve, Withouten other companye in youthe; But therof nedeth nat to speke as nouthe. And thryes hadde she been at Irusalem; She hadde passed many a straunge streem; At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne, In Galice at seint Iame, and at Coloigne. She coude muche of wandringe by the weye. Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye. Up-on an amblere esily she sat, Y-wimpled wel, and on hir heed an hat As brood as is a bokeler or a targe; A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large, And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe. In felawschip wel coude she laughe and carpe. Of remedyes of love she knew per-chaunce, For she coude of that art the olde daunce.

Geoffrey Chaucer (ca 1343-1400) The Canterbury Tales Old and Middle English Period Prologue (extract) Original

Glory be to God for dappled things - For skies of couple-colour as a brindled cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings; Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough; And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him.

Gerard Manley Hopkins Pied Beauty Victorian Period

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, Before high-pilèd books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain; When I behold, upon the night's starred face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) Romantic Period

Valiant-For-Truth: Why, they told me that it was a dangerous way; yea, the most dangerous way in the World, said they, is that which the Pilgrims go. Great-heart: Did they shew wherein this way is so dangerous? Valiant-For-Truth: Yes, and that in many particulars. Great-heart: Name some of them. Valiant-For-Truth: They told me of the Slough of Dispond, where Christian was well nigh smothered. They told me that there were Archers standing ready in Beelzebub-castle to shoot them that should knock at the Wicket-gate for entrance. They told me also of the Wood and dark Mountains, of the Hill Difficulty, of the Lions, and also of the three Giants, Bloody-man, Maul and Slay-good. They said moreover that there was a foul Fiend haunted the Valley of Humiliation, and that Christian was by him almost bereft of Life. Besides, say they, you must go over the Valley of the Shadow of Death, where the Hobgoblins are, where the Light is Darkness, where the way is full of Snares, Pits, Traps, and Gins. They told me also of Giant Despair, of Doubting Castle and of the ruin that the Pilgrims met with there. Further, they said I must go over the Inchanted Ground, which was dangerous. And that after all this, I should find a River, over which I should find no Bridge, and that that River did lie betwixt me and the Coelestial Country.

John Bunyan (1628-88) from The Pilgrim's Progress Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

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. But we by a love so much refin'd, 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 fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if the other do. And though it in the centre 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.

John Donne (1572-1631) A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

Marke but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deny'st me is; Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee; Confesse it, this cannot be said A sinne, or shame, or loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it wooe, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than wee would doe. /-----/

John Donne (1572-1631) The Flea Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

Methinks already from this chymic flame, I see a city of more precious mould: Rich as the town which gives the Indies name, With silver paved, and all divine with gold. Already, labouring with a mighty fate, She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, And seems to have renewed her charter's date, Which Heaven will to the death of time allow. More great than human now, and more August, Now deified she from her fires does rise: Her widening streets on new foundations trust, And opening into larger parts she flies. ------ The silver Thames, her own domestic flood, Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train; And often wind (as of his mistress proud) With longing eyes to meet her face again.

John Dryden (1631-1700) from Annus Mirablis (1666) Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

Air. - Green Sleeves Since laws were made for every degree, To curb vice in others, as well as in me, I wonder we ha'n't better company Upon Tyburn tree! But gold from law can take out the sting, And if rich men like us were to swing, 'Twould thin the land such numbers to string Upon Tyburn tree! Air. - An old woman clothed in grey Trough all the employments of life, Each neighbour abuses his brother, Wh*re and rogue they call husband and wife; All professions berogue one another: The priest calls the lawyer a cheat The Lawyer beknaves the divine, And the statesman, because he's so great, Thinks his trade as honest as mine. Air. - March in Rinaldo, with drums and trumpets Let us take the road. Hark! I hear the sound of coaches, The hour of attack approaches, To your arms, brave boys, and load! See the ball I hold! Let the chemists toil like donkeys, Our fire their fire surpasses, And turns all our lead to gold. Air. - Would you have a young virgin, etc. If the heart of a man is depressed with cares, The mist is dispelled, when a woman appears; Like the notes of a fiddle she sweetly, sweetly Raises the spirits and charms our ears. Roses and lilies her cheeks disclose, But her ripe lips are more sweet than those; Press her, Caress her; With blisses Her kisses Dissolve us in pleasure and soft repose.

John Gay (1685-1732) from The Beggar's Opera (1728) Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide, "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."

John Milton (1608-1674) Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

It is a melancholy object to those who walk through this great town or travel in the country, when they see the street, the roads, and cabin doors, crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in rags and importuning every passenger for an alms. These mothers, instead of being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their time in strolling to beg sustenance for their helpless infants: who as they grow up either turn thieves for want of work, or leave their dear native country to fight for the Pretended in Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) A Modest proposal For preventing the children of poor people in Ireland from being a burden to their parents or country, and for making them beneficial to the public Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in: Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me.

LEIGH HUNT (1784-1859) Rondeau Victorian Period

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

Lewis Carroll JABBERWOCKY (from Through the Looking-Glass) Victorian Period

The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888) Dover Beach Victorian Period

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes; Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.

Michael Drayton Since There's No Help the Renaissance

Fellowship: Sir, I say as I will do in deed. Everyman: Then be you a good friend at need; I have found you true here before. Fellowship: And so ye shall evermore; For, in faith, and thou go to Hell I will not forsake thee by the way! Everyman: Ye speak like a good friend; I believe you well; I shall deserve it, and I may. ------ I shall show you how it is; Commanded I am to go on a journey, A long way, hard and dangerous, And give a strait count without delay Before the high judge Adonai. Wherefore I pray you bear me company, As ye have promised, in this journey. ------ Fellowship: So I said, certainly, But such pleasures be set aside, thee sooth to say: And also, if we took such a journey, When should we again come? Everyman: Nay, never again till the day of doom. Fellowship: In faith, then will not I come there!

Morality Plays from Everyman (1485-1500?) lines 227-62 the Early History of Drama

Daw: Give me leave him to kiss, and lift up the clout What the devil is this? He has a long snout. Coll: He is marked amiss. We wot ill about. Gib: Ill-spun weft, ywiss, ay comes foul out. Aye so! He is like to our sheep. Daw: How, Gib, may I peep? Coll: I trow kind will creep ( = I think kinship will creep where it cannot walk = I think only a parent can love this ugly child) Where it may not go ------ Daw: Will you see how they swaddle His four feet in the middle? Saw I never in cradle A horn'd lad ere now.

Mystery Plays from the Second Shepherds' Play (ca 1425) lines 584-610 the Early History of Drama

They eff you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were effed up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself.

PHILIP LARKIN (1922-1985) This Be The Verse Twentieth Century

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!

RUDYARD KIPLING (1865-1936) If Victorian Period

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, And feels about his spine small eft-things course, Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: /--/ And talks to his own self, howe'er he please, Touching that other, whom his dam called God. Because to talk about Him, vexes—ha, Could He but know! and time to vex is now, When talk is safer than in winter-time. Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep... Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord. 'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs That march now from the mountain to the sea; 'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first, Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. /---/ As it likes me each time, I do: so He. /---/

Robert Browning Caliban upon Setebos Or Natural Theology in the Island Victorian Period

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.

Robert Herrick (1591-1674) To Virgins to Make Much of Time the Renaissance

If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) 1914 V. The Soldier Twentieth Century

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge "Kubla Khan" Romantic period

Who will in fairest book of nature know How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be, Let him but learn of love to read in thee, Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show. There shall he find all vices' overthrow, Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly; That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so. And, not content to be perfection's heir Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move, Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair. So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love, As fast thy virtue bends that love to good: But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!"

Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586) from Astrophel and Stella (1591) the Renaissance

THEN stood the realm in great jeopardy long while, for every lord that was mighty of men made him strong, and many weened to have been king. Then Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and counselled him for to send for all the lords of the realm, and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to London come by Christmas, upon pain of cursing; and for this cause, that Jesus, that was born on that night, that he would of his great mercy show some miracle, as he was come to be king of mankind, for to show some miracle who should be rightwise king of this realm. So the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, sent for all the lords and gentlemen of arms that they should come by Christmas even unto London. And many of them made them clean of their life, that their prayer might be the more acceptable unto God. So in the greatest church of London, whether it were Paul's or not the French book maketh no mention, all the estates were long or day in the church for to pray. And when matins and the first mass was done, there was seen in the churchyard, against the high altar, a great stone four square, like unto a marble stone; and in midst thereof was like an anvil of steel a foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword naked by the point, and letters there were written in gold about the sword that said thus:—Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all England. Then the people marvelled, and told it to the Archbishop. I command, said the Archbishop, that ye keep you within your church and pray unto God still, that no man touch the sword till the high mass be all done. So when all masses were done all the lords went to behold the stone and the sword. And when they saw the scripture some assayed, such as would have been king. But none might stir the sword nor move it. He is not here, said the Archbishop, that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not God will make him known. But this is my counsel, said the Archbishop, that we let purvey ten knights, men of good fame, and they to keep this sword. So it was ordained, and then there was made a cry, that every man should assay that would, for to win the sword. And upon New Year's Day the barons let make a jousts and a tournament, that all knights that would joust or tourney there might play, and all this was ordained for to keep the lords together and the commons, for the Archbishop trusted that God would make him known that should win the sword.

Sir Thomas Malory (c. 1405-1471) Morte Darthur Old and Middle English Period

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? "You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; "They called me the hyacinth girl." —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed' und leer das Meer.

T.S. Eliot The Waste Land (1922), from section I, "The Burial of the Dead" Twentieth Century

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. /------/ Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. /------/ THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771) Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

They flee from me that sometime did me seek With naked foot, stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek, That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range, Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; Therewithall sweetly did me kiss And softly said, "Dear heart, how like you this?" It was no dream: I lay broad waking. But all is turned through my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness, And she also, to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindly am served I would fain know what she hath deserved.

Thomas Wyatt They flee from me the Renaissance

I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice: in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) London Romantic Period

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850) Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 Romantic Period

MILLA. /--/ Ah, I'll never marry, unless I am first made sure of my will and pleasure. MIRA. Would you have 'em both before marriage? Or will you be contented with the first now, and stay for the other till after grace? MILLA. Ah, don't be impertinent. My dear liberty, shall I leave thee? My faithful solitude, my darling contemplation, must I bid you then adieu? /---/ I can't do't, 'tis more than impossible--positively, Mirabell, I'll lie a-bed in a morning as long as I please. MI RA. Then I'll get up in a morning as early as I please. MILLA. Ah! Idle creature, get up when you will. And d'ye hear, I won't be called names after I'm married; positively I won't be called names. MIRA. Names? MILLA. Ay, as wife, spouse, my dear, joy, jewel, love, sweet-heart, and the rest of that nauseous cant, in which men and their wives are so fulsomely familiar--I shall never bear that. Good Mirabell, don't let us be familiar or fond, nor kiss before folks, like my Lady Fadler and Sir Francis; nor go to Hyde Park together the first Sunday in a new chariot, to provoke eyes and whispers, and then never be seen there together again, as if we were proud of one another the first week, and ashamed of one another ever after. Let us never visit together, nor go to a play together, but let us be very strange and well-bred. Let us be as strange as if we had been married a great while, and as well-bred as if we were not married at all.

William Congreve (1670-1729) from The way of the World (1700) Commonwealth & Restoration, 18th Century

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world; This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

William Shakespeare from Richard II (1595) (Act II, Scene i) the Early History of Drama

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

William Shakespeare from The Tempest (1611) (Act IV, Scene i) the Early History of Drama

O Mistress mine! Where are you roaming: O stay and hear; your true love's coming. That can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure; In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) the Renaissance

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound. I grant I never saw a goddess go: My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616) from Sonnets (1609) the Renaissance