« ПредишнаНапред »
"Hether” (quoth he) "me Archimago sent, And layd her stole aside. Her angels face, He that the stubborne Sprites can wisely tame, As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright,
He bids thee to him send for his intent 386 And made a sunshine in the shady place; 35 A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace.
It fortuned, out of the thickest wood
A ramping Lyon rushed suddeinly,
That moves more deare compassion of mind, Soone as the royall virgin he did spy,
But to the pray when as he drew more ny,
And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse. Which I do owe unto all womankynd,
Feele my hart perst with so great agony, When such I see, that all for pitty I could dy.
In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet,
And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong,
As he her wronged innocence did weet.? And now it is empassioned so deepe,
0, how can beautie maister the most strong, For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing,
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! That my frayle eies these lines with teares do Whose yielded pryde and proud submission, steepe,
Still dreading death, when she had marked To thinke how she through guyleful handeling,
long, Though true as touch, though daughter of a Her hart gan melt in great compassion; 53 king,
And drizling teares did shed for pure affection. Though faire as ever living wight was fayre, Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting,
Is from her knight divorced in despayre, And her dew loves deryv'd to that vile witches “The Lyon, Lord of everie beast in field," shayre.
Quoth she, “his princely puissance doth abate,
Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late
Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate: Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd,
But he, my Lyon, and my noble Lord, Far from all peoples preace,' as in exile,
How does he find in cruell hart to hate In wildernesse and wastfull deserts strayd,
Her that him lov'd and ever most adord To seeke her knight; who, subtily betrayd As the God of my life? why hath he me abhord ?” Through that late vision which th' Enchanter
wrought, Had her abandond. She, of nought affrayd, Through woods and wastnes wide him daily Redounding teares did choke th' end of her sought;
plaint, Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her brought. Which softly ecchoed from the neighbor wood;
And, sad to see her sorrowfull constraint,
With pittie calmd downe fell his angry mood. One day, nigh wearie of the yrksome way,
At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, From her unhastie beast she did alight;
Arose the virgin, borne of heavenly brood, And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay, And to her snowy Palfrey got agayne, In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight: To seeke her strayed Champion if she mi From her fayre head her fillet she undight,
attayne. *press, throng
The Lyon would not leave her desolate,
But with her went along, as a strong gard
ward; And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent, With humble service to her will prepard: 79
From her fayre eyes he tooke commandement, And ever by her lookes conceived her intent.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586)
ASTROPHEL AND STELLA
You that do search for every purling spring
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of
my pain, Pleasure might cause her read, reading might
make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace ob
tain, I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe; Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would
flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun
burn'd brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Inven
Your words, my friend, right healthful caustics,
blame My young mind marred, whom Love doth wind
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's
blows; And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my
way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in
my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite; “Fool," said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart,
That mine own writings, like bad servants, show
When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the
Morpheus, the lively son of deadly Sleep,
hold; But from thy heart, while my sire charmeth thee, Sweet Stella's image I do steal to me.”
“Well, in absence this will die;
Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
“What if we new beauties see? Will not they stir new affection?" I will think they pictures be, (Image-like, of saints' perfection) Poorly counterfeiting thee.
“But your reason's purest light
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
"But the wrongs Love bears will make
“Peace, I think that some give ear! Come no more, lest I get anger!”
From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzie, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us !
Bliss, I will my bliss forbear;
SONG. THE NIGHTINGALE
The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making, And mournfully bewailing,
5 Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of painful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
LOVE IS DEAD
Faint Amorist, what! dost thou think
15 Then she goes to bid thee come; Is she sick? why then be sure She invites thee to the cure; Doth she cross thy suit with No? Tush, she loves to hear thee woo; Doth she call the faith of man In question ? nay, 'uds-foot, she loves thee than; And if ere she makes a blot, She's lost if that thou hit'st her not. He that after ten denials
25 Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.
Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread;
For Love is dead:
5 And Faith fair scorn doth gain.
From so ungrateful fancy,
Good Lord, deliver us!
That Love is dead?
15 His sole exec'tor, blame.
From so ungrateful fancy,
Good Lord, deliver us!
For Love is dead;
25 “Her eyes were once his dart.”
HYMN TO APOLLO
Apollo great, whose beams the greater world do
light, And in our little world do clear our inward
Which ever shine, though hid from earth by earthly
shade, Whose lights do ever live, but in our darkness
fade; Thou god whose youth was decked with spoil of Python's skin
5 (So humble knowledge can throw down the snakish
sin); Latona's son, whose birth in pain and travail long Doth teach, to learn the good what travails do
belong; In travail of our life (a short but tedious space), While brickle hour-glass runs, guide thou our
panting pace: Give us foresightful minds; give us minds to
obey What foresight tells; our thoughts upon thy
knowledge stay. Let so our fruits grow up that Nature be main
tained, But so our hearts keep down, with vice they be
not stained. Let this assured hold our judgments overtake, That nothing wins the heaven but what doth earth forsake.
JOHN LYLY (1554?-1606)
Cupid and my Campaspe played
OMNES. Pinch him, pinch him black and blue;
Saucy mortals must not view
Nor pry into our fairy wooing. 1 FAIRY. Pinch him blue
5 2 Fairy. And pinch him black 3 FAIRY. Let him not lack
Sharp nails to pinch him blue and red,
Till sleep has rocked his addlehead. 4 FAIRY. For the trespass he hath done,
Spots o'er all his flesh shall run.
GEORGE PEELE (15582-15972)