Chapter 6
But what! methinks I deserve to be pounded {94} for straying from poetry to oratory: but both have such an affinity in the wordish considerations, that I think this digression will make my meaning receive the fuller understanding: which is not to take upon me to teach poets how they should do, but only finding myself sick among the rest, to allow some one or two spots of the common infection grown among the most part of writers; that, acknowledging ourselves somewhat awry, we may bend to the right use both of matter and manner: whereto our language giveth us great occasion, being, indeed, capable of any excellent exercising of it. {95} I know some will say, it is a mingled language: and why not so much the better, taking the best of both the other? Another will say, it wanteth grammar. Nay, truly, it hath that praise, that it wants not grammar; for grammar it might have, but needs it not; being so easy in itself, and so void of those cumbersome differences of cases, genders, moods, and tenses; which, I think, was a piece of the tower of Babylon’s curse, that a man should be put to school to learn his mother tongue. But for the uttering sweetly and properly the conceit of the mind, which is the end of speech, that hath it equally with any other tongue in the world, and is particularly happy in compositions of two or three words together, near the Greek, far beyond the Latin; which is one of the greatest beauties can be in a language.
Now, {96} of versifying there are two sorts, the one ancient, the other modern; the ancient marked the quantity of each syllable, and according to that framed his verse; the modern, observing only number, with some regard of the accent, the chief life of it standeth in that like sounding of the words, which we call rhyme. Whether of these be the more excellent, would bear many speeches; the ancient, no doubt more fit for music, both words and time observing quantity; and more fit lively to express divers passions, by the low or lofty sound of the well-weighed syllable. The latter, likewise, with his rhyme striketh a certain music to the ear; and, in fine, since it doth delight, though by another way, it obtaineth the same purpose; there being in either, sweetness, and wanting in neither, majesty. Truly the English, before any vulgar language I know, is fit for both sorts; for, for the ancient, the Italian is so full of vowels, that it must ever be cumbered with elisions. The Dutch so, of the other side, with consonants, that they cannot yield the sweet sliding fit for a verse. The French, in his whole language, hath not one word that hath his accent in the last syllable, saving two, called antepenultima; and little more, hath the Spanish, and therefore very gracelessly may they use dactiles. The English is subject to none of these defects.
Now for rhyme, though we do not observe quantity, we observe the accent very precisely, which other languages either cannot do, or will not do so absolutely. That “cæsura,” or breathing-place, in the midst of the verse, neither Italian nor Spanish have, the French and we never almost fail of. Lastly, even the very rhyme itself the Italian cannot put in the last syllable, by the French named the masculine rhyme, but still in the next to the last, which the French call the female; or the next before that, which the Italian calls “sdrucciola:” the example of the former is, “buono,” “suono;” of the sdrucciola is, “femina,” “semina.” The French, of the other side, hath both the male, as “bon,” “son,” and the female, as “plaise,” “taise;” but the “sdrucciola” he hath not; where the English hath all three, as “due,” “true,” “father,” “rather,” “motion,” “potion;” with much more which might be said, but that already I find the trifling of this discourse is much too much enlarged.
So {97} that since the ever praiseworthy poesy is full of virtue, breeding delightfulness, and void of no gift that ought to be in the noble name of learning; since the blames laid against it are either false or feeble; since the cause why it is not esteemed in England is the fault of poet-apes, not poets; since, lastly, our tongue is most fit to honour poesy, and to be honoured by poesy; I conjure you all that have had the evil luck to read this ink-wasting toy of mine, even in the name of the Nine Muses, no more to scorn the sacred mysteries of poesy; no more to laugh at the name of poets, as though they were next inheritors to fools; no more to jest at the reverend title of “a rhymer;” but to believe, with Aristotle, that they were the ancient treasurers of the Grecian’s divinity; to believe, with Bembus, that they were the first bringers in of all civility; to believe, with Scaliger, that no philosopher’s precepts can sooner make you an honest man, than the reading of Virgil; to believe, with Clauserus, the translator of Cornutus, that it pleased the heavenly deity by Hesiod and Homer, under the veil of fables, to give us all knowledge, logic, rhetoric, philosophy natural and moral, and “quid non?” to believe, with me, that there are many mysteries contained in poetry, which of purpose were written darkly, lest by profane wits it should be abused; to believe, with Landin, that they are so beloved of the gods that whatsoever they write proceeds of a divine fury. Lastly, to believe themselves, when they tell you they will make you immortal by their verses.
Thus doing, your names shall flourish in the printers’ shops: thus doing, you shall be of kin to many a poetical preface: thus doing, you shall be most fair, most rich, most wise, most all: you shall dwell upon superlatives: thus doing, though you be “Libertino patre natus,” you shall suddenly grow “Herculea proles,”
“Si quid mea Carmina possunt:”
thus doing, your soul shall be placed with Dante’s Beatrix, or Virgil’s Anchisis.
But if (fie of such a but!) you be born so near the dull-making cataract of Nilus, that you cannot hear the planet-like music of poetry; if you have so earth-creeping a mind, that it cannot lift itself up to look to the sky of poetry, or rather, by a certain rustical disdain, will become such a Mome, as to be a Momus of poetry; then, though I will not wish unto you the ass’s ears of Midas, nor to be driven by a poet’s verses, as Bubonax was, to hang himself; nor to be rhymed to death, as is said to be done in Ireland; yet thus much curse I must send you in the behalf of all poets; that while you live, you live in love, and never get favour, for lacking skill of a sonnet; and when you die, your memory die from the earth for want of an epitaph.
POEMS.
TWO PASTORALS,
_Made by Sir Philip Sidney_, _upon his meeting with his two worthy friends and fellow poets_, _Sir Edward Dyer and M. Fulke Greville_.
JOIN mates in mirth to me, Grant pleasure to our meeting; Let Pan, our good god, see How grateful is our greeting. Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.
Ye hymns and singing skill Of god Apollo’s giving, Be pressed our reeds to fill With sound of music living. Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.
Sweet Orpheus’ harp, whose sound The stedfast mountains moved, Let there thy skill abound, To join sweet friends beloved. Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.
My two and I be met, A happy blessed trinity, As three more jointly set In firmest band of unity. Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.
Welcome my two to me, The number best beloved, Within my heart you be In friendship unremoved. Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.
Give leave your flocks to range, Let us the while be playing; Within the elmy grange, Your flocks will not be straying. Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.
Cause all the mirth you can, Since I am now come hither, Who never joy, but when I am with you together. Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.
Like lovers do their love, So joy I in you seeing: Let nothing me remove From always with you being. Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.
And as the turtle dove To mate with whom he liveth, Such comfort fervent love Of you to my heart giveth. Join hearts and hands, so let it be, Make but one mind in bodies three.
Now joinéd be our hands, Let them be ne’er asunder, But link’d in binding bands By metamorphosed wonder. So should our severed bodies three As one for ever joinéd be.
DISPRAISE OF A COURTLY LIFE.
WALKING in bright Phœbus’ blaze, Where with heat oppressed I was, I got to a shady wood, Where green leaves did newly bud; And of grass was plenty dwelling, Decked with pied flowers sweetly smelling.
In this wood a man I met, On lamenting wholly set; Ruing change of wonted state, Whence he was transforméd late, Once to shepherds’ God retaining, Now in servile court remaining.
There he wand’ring malecontent, Up and down perpléxed went, Daring not to tell to me, Spake unto a senseless tree, One among the rest electing, These same words, or this affecting:
“My old mates I grieve to see Void of me in field to be, Where we once our lovely sheep Lovingly like friends did keep; Oft each other’s friendship proving, Never striving, but in loving.
“But may love abiding be In poor shepherds’ base degree? It belongs to such alone To whom art of love is known: Seely shepherds are not witting What in art of love is fitting.
“Nay, what need the art to those To whom we our love disclose? It is to be uséd then, When we do but flatter men: Friendship true, in heart assured, Is by Nature’s gifts procured.
“Therefore shepherds, wanting skill, Can Love’s duties best fulfil; Since they know not how to feign, Nor with love to cloak disdain, Like the wiser sort, whose learning Hides their inward will of harming.
“Well was I, while under shade Oaten reeds me music made, Striving with my mates in song; Mixing mirth our songs among. Greater was the shepherd’s treasure Than this false, fine, courtly pleasure.
“Where how many creatures be, So many puffed in mind I see; Like to Juno’s birds of pride, Scarce each other can abide: Friends like to black swans appearing, Sooner these than those in hearing.
“Therefore, Pan, if thou may’st be Made to listen unto me, Grant, I say, if seely man May make treaty to god Pan, That I, without thy denying, May be still to thee relying.
“Only for my two loves’ sake, In whose love I pleasure take; Only two do me delight With their ever-pleasing sight; Of all men to thee retaining, Grant me with those two remaining.
“So shall I to thee always With my reeds sound mighty praise: And first lamb that shall befall, Yearly deck thine altar shall, If it please thee to be reflected, And I from thee not rejected.”
So I left him in that place, Taking pity on his case; Learning this among the rest, That the mean estate is best; Better filléd with contenting, Void of wishing and repenting.
DIRGE.
RING out your bells, let mourning shows be spread, For Love is dead: All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain: Worth, as nought worth, rejected, And faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy; From such a female frenzy; From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us.
Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not hear it said That Love is dead: His death-bed, peacock’s folly: His winding-sheet is shame; His will, false-seeming holy, His sole executor, blame. From so ungrateful fancy; From such a female frenzy; From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us.
Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read, For Love is dead: Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress’ marble heart; Which epitaph containeth, “Her eyes were once his dart.” From so ungrateful fancy; From such a female frenzy; From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us.
Alas! I lie: rage hath this error bred; Love is not dead, Love is not dead, but sleepeth In her unmatchéd mind: Where she his counsel keepeth Till due deserts she find. Therefore from so vile fancy, To call such wit a frenzy: Who Love can temper thus, Good Lord, deliver us.
STANZAS TO LOVE.
AH, poor Love, why dost thou live, Thus to see thy service lost; If she will no comfort give, Make an end, yield up the ghost!
That she may, at length, approve That she hardly long believed, That the heart will die for love That is not in time relieved.
Oh, that ever I was born Service so to be refused; Faithful love to be forborn! Never love was so abused.
But, sweet Love, be still awhile; She that hurt thee, Love, may heal thee; Sweet! I see within her smile More than reason can reveal thee.
For, though she be rich and fair, Yet she is both wise and kind, And, therefore, do thou not despair But thy faith may fancy find.
Yet, although she be a queen That may such a snake despise, Yet, with silence all unseen, Run, and hide thee in her eyes:
Where if she will let thee die, Yet at latest gasp of breath, Say that in a lady’s eye Love both took his life and death.
A REMEDY FOR LOVE.
PHILOCLEA and Pamela sweet, By chance, in one great house did meet; And meeting, did so join in heart, That th’ one from th’ other could not part: And who indeed (not made of stones) Would separate such lovely ones? The one is beautiful, and fair As orient pearls and rubies are; And sweet as, after gentle showers, The breath is of some thousand flowers: For due proportion, such an air Circles the other, and so fair, That it her brownness beautifies, And doth enchant the wisest eyes.
Have you not seen, on some great day, Two goodly horses, white and bay, Which were so beauteous in their pride, You knew not which to choose or ride? Such are these two; you scarce can tell, Which is the daintier bonny belle; And they are such, as, by my troth, I had been sick with love of both, And might have sadly said, ‘Good-night Discretion and good fortune quite;’ But that young Cupid, my old master, Presented me a sovereign plaster: Mopsa! ev’n Mopsa! (precious pet) Whose lips of marble, teeth of jet, Are spells and charms of strong defence, To conjure down concupiscence.
How oft have I been reft of sense, By gazing on their excellence, But meeting Mopsa in my way, And looking on her face of clay, Been healed, and cured, and made as sound, As though I ne’er had had a wound? And when in tables of my heart, Love wrought such things as bred my smart, Mopsa would come, with face of clout, And in an instant wipe them out. And when their faces made me sick, Mopsa would come, with face of brick, A little heated in the fire, And break the neck of my desire. Now from their face I turn mine eyes, But (cruel panthers!) they surprise Me with their breath, that incense sweet, Which only for the gods is meet, And jointly from them doth respire, Like both the Indies set on fire:
Which so o’ercomes man’s ravished sense, That souls, to follow it, fly hence. No such-like smell you if you range To th’ Stocks, or Cornhill’s square Exchange; There stood I still as any stock, Till Mopsa, with her puddle dock, Her compound or electuary, Made of old ling and young canary, Bloat-herring, cheese, and voided physic, Being somewhat troubled with a phthisic, Did cough, and fetch a sigh so deep, As did her very bottom sweep: Whereby to all she did impart, How love lay rankling at her heart: Which, when I smelt, desire was slain, And they breathed forth perfumes in vain. Their angel voice surprised me now; But Mopsa, her Too-whit, Too-whoo, Descending through her oboe nose, Did that distemper soon compose.
And, therefore, O thou precious owl, The wise Minerva’s only fowl; What, at thy shrine, shall I devise To offer up a sacrifice? Hang Æsculapius, and Apollo, And Ovid, with his precious shallow. Mopsa is love’s best medicine, True water to a lover’s wine. Nay, she’s the yellow antidote, Both bred and born to cut Love’s throat: Be but my second, and stand by, Mopsa, and I’ll them both defy; And all else of those gallant races, Who wear infection in their faces; For thy face (that Medusa’s shield!) Will bring me safe out of the field.
VERSES.
_To the tune of the Spanish song_, “_Si tu señora no ducles de mi_.”
O FAIR! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Heart and soul do sing in me. This you hear is not my tongue, Which once said what I conceived; For it was of use bereaved, With a cruel answer stung. No! though tongue to roof be cleaved, Fearing lest he chastised be, Heart and soul do sing in me.
O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Just accord all music makes; In thee just accord excelleth, Where each part in such peace dwelleth, One of other beauty takes. Since then truth to all minds telleth, That in thee lives harmony, Heart and soul do sing in me.
O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, They that heaven have known do say, That whoso that grace obtaineth, To see what fair sight there reigneth, Forcéd are to sing alway: So then since that heaven remaineth In thy face, I plainly see, Heart and soul do sing in me.
O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Sweet, think not I am at ease, For because my chief part singeth; This song from death’s sorrow springeth: As to swan in last disease: For no dumbness, nor death, bringeth Stay to true love’s melody: Heart and soul do sing in me.
TRANSLATION.
_From Horace_, _Book II. Ode X._, _beginning_ “_Rectius vives_, _Licini_,” _&c._
YOU better sure shall live, not evermore Trying high seas; nor, while sea’s rage you flee, Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.
The golden mean who loves, lives safely free From filth of foreworn house, and quiet lives, Released from court, where envy needs must be.
The wind most oft the hugest pine tree grieves: The stately towers come down with greater fall: The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves.
Evil haps do fill with hope, good haps appall With fear of change, the courage well prepared: Foul winters, as they come, away they shall.
Though present times, and past, with evils be snared, They shall not last: with cithern silent Muse, Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime spared.
In hard estate, with stout shows, valour use, The same man still, in whom wisdom prevails; In too full wind draw in thy swelling sails.
A SONNET BY SIR EDWARD DYER.
PROMETHEUS, when first from heaven high He brought down fire, till then on earth not seen; Fond of delight, a satyr, standing by, Gave it a kiss, as it like sweet had been.
Feeling forthwith the other burning power, Wood with the smart, with shouts and shrieking shrill, He sought his ease in river, field, and bower; But, for the time, his grief went with him still.
So silly I, with that unwonted sight, In human shape an angel from above, Feeding mine eyes, th’ impression there did light; That since I run and rest as pleaseth love: The difference is, the satyr’s lips, my heart, He for a while, I evermore, have smart.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY’S SONNET IN REPLY.
A SATYR once did run away for dread, With sound of horn which he himself did blow: Fearing and feared, thus from himself he fled, Deeming strange evil in that he did not know.
Such causeless fears when coward minds do take, It makes them fly that which they fain would have; As this poor beast, who did his rest forsake, Thinking not why, but how, himself to save.
Ev’n thus might I, for doubts which I conceive Of mine own words, my own good hap betray; And thus might I, for fear of may be, leave The sweet pursuit of my desiréd prey. Better like I thy satyr, dearest Dyer, Who burnt his lips to kiss fair shining fire.
MUST LOVE LAMENT?
MY mistress lowers, and saith I do not love: I do protest, and seek with service due, In humble mind, a constant faith to prove; But for all this, I cannot her remove From deep vain thought that I may not be true.
If oaths might serve, ev’n by the Stygian lake, Which poets say the gods themselves do fear, I never did my vowéd word forsake: For why should I, whom free choice slave doth make, Else-what in face, than in my fancy bear?
My Muse, therefore, for only thou canst tell, Tell me the cause of this my causeless woe? Tell, how ill thought disgraced my doing well? Tell, how my joys and hopes thus foully fell To so low ebb that wonted were to flow?
O this it is, the knotted straw is found; In tender hearts, small things engender hate: A horse’s worth laid waste the Trojan ground; A three-foot stool in Greece made trumpets sound; An ass’s shade e’er now hath bred debate.
If Greeks themselves were moved with so small cause, To twist those broils, which hardly would untwine: Should ladies fair be tied to such hard laws, As in their moods to take a ling’ring pause? I would it not, their metal is too fine.
My hand doth not bear witness with my heart, She saith, because I make no woeful lays, To paint my living death and endless smart: And so, for one that felt god Cupid’s dart, She thinks I lead and live too merry days.
Are poets then the only lovers true, Whose hearts are set on measuring a verse? Who think themselves well blest, if they renew Some good old dump that Chaucer’s mistress knew; And use but you for matters to rehearse.
Then, good Apollo, do away thy bow: Take harp and sing in this our versing time, And in my brain some sacred humour flow, That all the earth my woes, sighs, tears may know; And see you not that I fall low to rhyme.
As for my mirth, how could I but be glad, Whilst that methought I justly made my boast That only I the only mistress had? But now, if e’er my face with joy be clad, Think Hannibal did laugh when Carthage lost.
Sweet lady, as for those whose sullen cheer, Compared to me, made me in lightness sound; Who, stoic-like, in cloudy hue appear; Who silence force to make their words more dear; Whose eyes seem chaste, because they look on ground:
Believe them not, for physic true doth find, Choler adust is joyed in woman-kind.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO SHEPHERDS.
_Uttered in a Pastoral Show at Wilton_.
_Will_. Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice Show that we do not grudge at all when others do rejoice.