Voices in the Cave of Being

Whanne mine eyhnen misten

Whanne mine eyhnen misten
And mine eren sissen,
And my nose koldet
And my tunge foldet
And my rude slaket
And mine lippes blaken
And mine mouth grennet,
And my spotel rennet
And mine her riset
And mine herte griset
And my honden bivien,
And mine fet stivien—
All too late, all too late,
Whanne the bere is at the gate.

Anonymous, 13th century

Of all wemen that ever were borne

Of all wemen that ever were borne,
That bere childer, abide and see
How my sone lyeth me beforne,
Upon my skirte, taken from the Tree.
Your childer ye daunce upon youre knee,
With laghing, kissing and mery chere:
Beholde my childe, beholde wele me,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

O! woman, woman, wele is thee:
Thy childe capps thou castest upon.
Thou pikest his here, beholdest his ble,
Thou wottest not wele when thou haste don.
But ever, alas, I make my mon,
To see my sonis hedd as it is here:
I prike out thornes by oon and oon,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

O! woman, a chaplet chosen thou has:
Thy childe to were it dose thee liking.
Thou pinnest it on—grete joye thou mas.
And I sitt with my sone sore weping.
His chaplet is thornes sore pricking.
His mouth I kisse with a careful chere.
I sit weping and thou singing,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

O! wemen, loketh to me ageine,
That playe and kisse youre childer pappis.
To see my sone I have grete peine,
In his breste so grete a gappe is,
And on his body so many swappis,
With blody lippis I kisse him here.
Alas! Full harde me thinkis my happis,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

O! woman, thou takest thy childe by the hand,
And seyste, ‘Dere sone, gif me a stroke.’
My sonis handes are so bledand
To loke on them me liste not to layke.
His handes he sufferd for thy sake
Thus to be bored with nailes sere.
When thou makes mirth gret sorrows I make,
For now lyeth dedd my dere sone, dere.

Beholde! Wemen, when that ye play,
And have your childer on kne daunsand,
Ye fele ther fete, so fete are they,
And to youre sight full well likand.
But the most fingers of mine hand
Thorow my sonis fete I may put here,
And pulle it out sore bledand,
For now lyeth dedd my dere son, dere.

Therfore, wemen, by town and strete,
Your childer handes when ye beholde,
Ther breste, ther body, and ther fete,
God were on my sone to thinke, and ye wolde,
How care hath made my herte full colde,
To see my sone with naile and spere,
With scourge and thornes manifolde,
Wounded and dedd my dere sone, dere.

Anonymous, ca.1450

Wele, well; pikest, tidy ; ble, face; mas, makest;
chere, face; swappis, blows; happis, lot; sere, diverse;
so fete, so comely; most, biggest; God, Good; and ye, if you

Ballade: Les Contradits de Franc Gontier

Gontier ne crains, il n’a nuls hommes
Et mieux que moi n’est herité.
Mais en ce débat-ci nous sommes,
Car il loue sa pauvreté,
Etre pauvre hiver et été,
Et à felicité repute
Ce que tiens à malheureté;
Lequel a tort? Or en discute:

Sur mol duvet assis, un gras chanoine,
Lez un brasier en chambre bien natée
A son côté gisand Dame Sidoine,
Blanche, tendre, polie et attintée,
Boire ypocras à jour et à nuitée
Rire, jouer, mignonner et baiser,
Et nu à nu pour mieux des corps s’aiser,
Les vis tous deux par un trou de mortaise;
Lors je connus que pour deuil apaiser
Il n’est trésor que de vivre à son aise.

Si Franc Gontier et sa compagne Hélène
Eussent cette douce vie hantée,
D’oignons, civots, qui causent forte haleine
N’acontassent une bise tostée.
Tout leur maton, ne toute leur potée,
Ne prise un ail, je le dis sans noiser.
S’ils se vantent coucher sous le rosier,
Lequel vaut mieux, lit cotoyé de chaise?
Qu’en dites-vous? Faut-il à ce muser?
Il n’est trésor que de vivre à son aise.

De gros pain bis vivent, d’orge, d’avoine,
Et boivent eau tout au long de l’année
Tous les oiseaux d’ici en Babiloine
A tel écot une seule journée
Ne me tendroient, non une matinée.
Or s’ébatte, de par Dieu, Franc Gontier,
Hélène o lui, sous le bel eglantier,
Si bien leur est, cause n’ai qu’il me pèse
Mais quoi que soit du laboureux métier,
Il n’est trésor que de vivre à son aise.

Prince, juge pour tôt nous accorder.
Quant est de moi, mais qu’à nul ne deplaise,
Petit enfant, j’ay oï recorder
Il n’est trésor que de vivre à son aise.

François Villon (c. 1431– c.1463)

The Reply to Franc Gontier

A plump canon lounging on an eiderdown
Near the fire in a thickly carpeted room
Lady Sidonia stretching out beside him
White, delectable, glistening, primped
Sipping mulled wine by day and by night
Laughing, toying, dallying, kissing
Both completely naked for their bodies’ delight
So I spied them through a mortise chink
Then I knew that for casting off grief
There’s no treasure like high living.

If only Franc Gontier and his friend Helen
Had got a little used to the easy life
They wouldn’t now be garnishing their black toast
With onions and leeks that foul the breath
All their yoghurt and vegetable soups
Aren’t worth one garlic, meaning no offense
Though they go on about sleeping under the rose tree
Can they beat a bed with a chair beside it?
What do you say? Don’t bother to think twice
There’s no treasure like living high

They live on coarse bread of barley and oats
And drink only water the year around
But all the birds from here to Babylon
Couldn’t make me stick it for one day
On such a diet, no not for a morning
So let him get on with it, by God, Franc Gontier
And his Helen under the pretty eglantine
If that’s what they like it’s fine with me
But whatever may be said for life at the plough
There’s no treasure like living high

Prince decide so we can quickly agree
But as for me, let no one take offense
When I was a child I used to hear them say
There’s no treasure like living high

François Villon (c. 1431– c.1463)
Tr. Galway Kinnell

Meditatioun in Wyntir

In to thir dirk and drublie dayis,
Quhone sabill all the hewin arrayis
With mystie vapouris, cluddis, and skyis
Nature all curage me denyis
Off sangis, ballattis, and of playis.

Quhone that the nycht dois lenth in houris
With wind, with haill, and havy schouris,
My dule spreit dois lurk for schoir,
My hairt for languor dois forloir,
For laik of Symmer with his flouris,

I walk, I turne, sleip may I nocht,
I vexit am with havie thocht;
This warld all ouir I cast about,
And ay the mair I am in dout,
The mair that I remeid have socht.

I am assayit on everie syde:
Despair sayis ay, “In tyme provyde
And get sum thing quhairon to leif,
Or with grit trouble and mischeif
Thow sall in to this court abyd.”

Then Patience sayis, “Be not agast:
Hald Hoip and Treuthe within the fast,
And lat Fortoun wirk furthe hir rage,
Quhone that no rasoun may assuage,
Quhill that hir glas be run and past.”

And Prudence in my eir sayis ay,
“Quhy wald thow hald that will away?
Or craif that thow may have no space,
Thow tending to ane uther place,
A journay going everie day?”

And than sayis Age, “My freind, cum neir,
And be not strange, I the requeir;
Cum, brodir, by the hand me tak,
Remember thow hes compt to mak
Off all thi tyme thow spendit heir.”

Syne Deid castis upe his yettis wyd,
Saying, “This oppin sall the abyd;
Albeid that thow wer neuer sa stout,
Undir this lyntall sall thow lowt,
There is nane uther way besyde.”

For feir of this all day I drowp,
No gold in kist, nor wyne in cowp,
No ladeis bewtie, not luiffis blys,
May lat me to remember this,
How glaid that ever I dyne or sowp.

Yit quhone the nycht begynnis to schort
It does my spreit some pairt confort,
Off thocht oppressit with the schowris;
Cum lustie Symmer with thi flowris,
That I may leif in sum disport.

William Dunbar (ca 1460–ca 1525)

drublie> gloomy / quhone>when / sabill>blackness / hewin>heaven / arrayis>clothes

dule>melancholy / lurk>cower / for schoir> from dread / forloir> grow forlorn

ouir>over

assayit>tried out / ay>always / leif>live

rasoun>reasoning / glas>hour-glass

strange>aloof / compt>account

Syne>Then / yettis>gates / oppin>open / albeid>all be it, although/ stout>brave / lowt>stoop

kist>chest / lat>allow / off thocht>although

On the Nativity of Christ

Rorate celi desuper!
Hevins distill your balmy schouris,
For now is rissin the bricht day ster
From the ros Mary, flour of flouris;
The clere sone quhome no clud devouris,
Surminting Phebus in the est,
Is cumin of his hevinly touris
Et nobis puer natus est.

Archangellis, angellis and dompnationis,
Tronis, potestatis and marteiris seir,
And all ye hevinly operationis,
Ster, planeit, firmament and speir,
Fyre, erd, air and watter cleir
To him give loving, most and lest,
That come in to so meik maneir,
Et nobis puer natus est.

Synnairs be glaid and pennance do
And thank your Makar hairtfully,
For he that ye mycht nocht cum to
To yow is cumin full humly,
Your saulis with his bluid to by
And lous yow of the feindis arrest,
And only of his awin mercy;
Pro nobis puer natus est.

All clergy do to him inclyne
And bow unto that barne benyng,
And do your observance devyne
To him that is of kingis King;
Ensence his alter, reid and sing
In haly kirk with mynd degest,
Him honouring attour all thing,
Qui nobis puer natus est.

Celestiall fowlis in the are
Sing with your nottis upoun hicht,
In firthis and in forrestis fair
Be myrthfull now, at all your mycht,
For passit is your dully nycht,
Aurora hes the cluddis perst.
The son is rissin with glaidsum lycht
Et nobis puer natus est.

Now spring up flouris fra the rute,
Revert yow upwart naturally
In honour of the blissit frute
That rais up from the rose Mary;
Lay out your levis lustily,
From deid tak lyfe now at the lest
In wirschip of that Prince wirthy,
Qui nobis puer natus est.

Sing hevin imperiall, most of hicht,
Regions of air mak armony;
And fishe in flud and foull of flicht
Be myrthfull, and mak melody:
All Gloria in excelsis cry,
Hevin, erd, se, man, bird and best,
He that is crownit abone the sky
Pro nobis puer natus est.

William Dunbar (ca 1460–ca 1525)

Rorate celi desuper>Send down dew from above / ster>star / clere>bright, beautiful /sone>son / surminting>surmounting, surpassing / is cumin of>is coming from / touris>towers / Et nobis… > And unto us a son is born.

Dompnationis>Dominions / Tronis>Thrones / marteirisseir>various martyrs / operationis>agencies / speir>sphere / come in to so meik>that came in such a modest/ that ye mycht nocht come to>to whom you may not come

arrest > grip, clutches

All clergy…>All you clergy, bend towards him barne>bairn, child / benyng> benign, gentle / Ensence>Perfume with incense / degest>solemn / attour>beyond

firthis>woods

Now spring up flouris>Now flowers, spring up / Revert yow upwart>Spring up afresh

Abone>above

It sings and swings along gloriously, celebrating a major event in an orderly world, like the birth of an heir to a great kingdom where the Classical and the Christian cohabit as naturally as they do in the great paintings of that time.

But to internalize it one has to voice it, giving the obviously phonetic spellings the sound values that they look as if they have without worrying about whether “yow” is yow, or yoh or yoo, or “incline” is inclyne or incleen, and with the recognition that “-is” can signify a plural ( “angellis”) or a possessive (“feindis”), and that words that the structure require to rhyme do in fact rhyme, giving us “Mary” as “Marie” and “wirthy” as “wirthee,” and that there are no mystical concepts behind unfamiliar words.

Reading it aloud with a confident forward movement helps one to see how mild, relatively, are the differences in spelling and syntax from later southern English when words are voiced—rissin (risen), ster (star), erd (earth), awin (own), reid (read), etc.

There are no mysteries here:
To yow [he] is cumin full humly,
Your saulis with his bluid to by
And lous youw of the feindis arrest
To yow (what else?) is comin’/coming very humbly, your souls with his blood (what else? to buy (what else?) and lous (loose, free) you from the fiend’s (what? hold? grip?).

As to metre, the lines would go:
To yów is cúmin fúll humlée
Your saúlis wíth his blúid to bee
And loús yow óf the féíndis arrést.

If one wants to go broader and deeper, there’s always the marvelous online Dictionary of the Scottish Language. http://www.dsl.ac.uk/

A Lamentation of Queen Elizabeth

See Note

O ye that put your trust and confidence
In worldly joy and frail prosperity,
That so live here as ye should never hence,
Remember death and look here upon me.
Ensample I think there may no better be.
Your self wot well that in this realm was I
Your queen but late, and lo now here I lie.

Was I not born of old worthy lineage?
Was not my mother queen, my father king?
Was I not a king’s fere in marriage?
Had I not plenty of every pleasant thing?
Merciful God, this is a strange reckoning:
Riches, honour, wealth and ancestry
Hath me forsaken, and lo now here I lie.

If worship might have kept me, I had not gone.
If wit might have me saved, I needed not fear.
If money might have help, I lackéd none.
But O good God what vaileth all this gear?
When death is come, thy mighty messenger,
Obey we must, there is no remedy,
Me hath he summoned, and lo here I lie.

Yet was I late promiséd otherwise,
This year to live in wealth and delice.
Lo whereto cometh thy blandishing promise
O false astrology and divinatrice,
Of God’s secrets, making thy self so wise!
How true is for this year thy prophecy!
The year yet lasteth and lo now here I lie.

O brittle wealth, aye full of bitterness,
Thy single pleasure doubled is with pain.
Account my sorrow first and my distress,
In sundry wise, and reckon there again
The joy that I have had, and I dare sayn,
For all my honour, enduréd yet have I
More woe than wealth, and lo now here I lie.

Where are our castles now, where are our towers?
Goodly Richmond, soon art thou gone from me;
At Westminster that costly work of yours,
Mine own dear lord, now shall I never see.
Almighty God vouchsafe to grant that ye
For you and your children well may edify.
My palace builded is, and lo now here I lie.

Adieu, mine own dear spouse, my worthy lord.
The faithful love that did us both combine
In marriage and peaceable concord
Into your hands here I clean resign
To be bestowed upon your children and mine.
Erst were you father, and now must ye supply
The mother’s part also, for lo now here I lie.

Farewell, my daughter lady Margaret.
God wot full oft it grievéd hath my mind
That ye should go where we should seldom meet.
Now am I gone, and have left you behind.
O mortal folk, that we be very blind;
That we least fear, full oft it is most nigh:
From you depart I first, and lo now here I lie.

Farewell, madame, my lord’s worthy mother,
Comfort your son, and be ye of good cheer.
Take all a worth, for it will be no nother.
Farewell, my daughter Katherine late the fere
To prince Arthur, mine own child so dear.
It booteth not for me to weep or cry;
Pray for my soul, for lo now here I lie.

Adieu, Lord Henry, my loving son, adieu.
Our Lord increase your honour and estate.
Adieu, my daughter Mary, bright of hue.
God make you virtuous, wise, and fortunate.
Adieu, sweet heart, my little daughter Kate;
Thou shalt, sweet babe, such is thy destiny,
Thy mother never know, for lo now here I lie.

Lady Cecily, Anne, and Katherine,
Farewell my well-beloved sisters three;
O Lady Bridget, other sister mine,
Lo here the end of worldly vanity.
Now well are ye that earthly folly flee,
And heavenly things love and magnify.
Farewell and pray for me, for lo now here I lie.

Adieu my lords, adieu my ladies all,
Adieu my faithful servants everychone.
Adieu my commons whom I never shall
See in this world, wherefrom to Thee alone,
Immortal God verily three and one,
I me commend Thy infinite mercy
Show to Thy servant, for lo now here I lie.

(1503)

Thomas More (1478–1535)

ensample> example; fere> companion, spouse; divinatrice> fortune-telling?;
erst> first; everychone> every one; nother> different

Lament of the Maister of Erskine

Departe, departe, departe,
Allace! I must departe
Frome hir that hes my hart,
With hairt ful soir,
Against my will in deid,
And can find no remeid,
I wait, the panis of deid
Can do no more.

Now must I go, allace!
Frome sicht of her sueit face,
The grund of all my grace
And soverane:
Quhat chanss that may fall me
Sall I nevir mirry be,
Unto the tyme I se
My sueit agane.

I go, and wait not quhair,
I wandir heir and thair,
I weip and sichis rycht sair,
With panis smart;
Now most I pass away,
In wild and wilsum way:
Allace! this wofull day
We suld depart.

My spreit dois quaik for dreid,
My thirlit hairt dois bleid,
My panis dois exceed;
Quhat suld I say?
I wofull wycht alone,
Makand ane petous mone,
Allace! my hairt is gone,
For evir and ay.

Throw langour of my sueit,
So thirlit is my spreit,
My dayis are most compleit,
Throe hir absence:
Chryst, sen scho know my smert,
Ingrawit is my hairt,
Becaus I must departe,
From hir presens.

Adew, my awin sueit thing,
My joy and comforting,
My mirth and sollessing,
Of erdly gloir;
Fair weill, my lady bricht,
And my remembrance rycht;
Fair weill, and haif gud nycht:
I say no moir.

Alexander Scott (1520–158?)

A New Ballade of the Marigolde

(On the Accession of Mary I, 1553)

See Note

The God above, for man’s delight,
Hath here ordaynèd everything—
Sonne, Moone, and Sterres, shinyng so bright,
With all kinde fruites that here doth spring,
And Flowrs that are so flourishyng.
Amonges all which that I beholde,
As to my minde best contentyng,
I doo commende the Marigolde.

In Veare first springeth the Violet;
The Primrose, then, also, doth spred;
The Couslip sweete abroade doth get;
The Daisye gaye sheweth forth her hed;
The Medowes greene, so garnishèd,
Most goodly (truly) to beholde,
For which God is to be praisèd:
Yet I commende the Marigolde.

The Rose that chearfully doth shewe
At Midsomer, her course hath shee;
The Lilye white after doth growe;
The Columbine then see may yee;
The Joliflowre in fresh degree,
With sundrie mo than can be tolde:
Though they never so pleasaunt bee,
Yet I commend the Marigolde.

Though those which here are mentionèd
Bee delectàble to the iye,
By whom sweete smelles are ministred,
The sense of man to satisfye,
Yet each as serveth his fantasye;
Wherefor to say I wyll be bolde,
And to avoide all flaterye,
I doo commende the Marigolde.

All these but for a time doth serve,
Soone come, soone gone, so doth they fare,
At fervent heates and stormes they sterve,
Fadying away, their staulkes left bare.
Of that I praise, thus say I dare,
Shee sheweth glad cheere in heate and colde,
Moche profitying to hertes in care,
Such is this floure, the Marigolde.

The Marigolde Floure, mark it well,
With Sonne doth open, and also shut;
Which (in a meaning) to us doth tell
To Christ, God’s Sonne, our willes to put,
And by his woorde to set our futte.
Stiffly to stande, as Champions bolde,
From the truthe to stagger nor stutte,
For which I praise the Marigolde.

To Marie, our Queene, that Floure so sweete,
This Marigolde I do apply,
For that the name doth serve so meete,
And properlee, in each partie,
For her enduryng paciently
The stormes of such, as list to scolde
At her dooynges, with cause why,
Loth to see spring this Marigolde.

She may be calde Marigolde well,
Of Marie (chiefe), Christes mother deere,
That as in heaven shee doth excel,
And Golde in earth, to have no peere:
So (certainly) shee shineth cleere,
In Grace and honour double folde,
The like was never earst seene here,
Such is this floure, the Marigolde.

Her education well is knowne,
From her first age how it hath wrought;
In singler Vertue shee hath growne,
And servyng God, as she well ought;
For which he had her in his thoughte,
And showed her Graces manifolde,
In her estate to see her broghte,
Though some did spite this Marigolde.

Yf shee (in faith) had erred a-misse,
Which God, most sure, doth understande,
Wolde he have doone, as provèd is,
Her Enmies so to bring to hande?
No, be ye sure, I make a bande,
For servyng him he needes so wolde
Make her to Reigne over Englande,
So loveth hee this Marigolde.

Her conversacion, note who list,
It is more heavenly than terraine,
For which God doth her Actes assiste;
All meekenesse doth in her remaine:
All is her care, how to ordayne,
To have God’s Glorie here extolde;
Of Poore and Riche, shee is most fayne.
Christ save, therefore, this Marigolde.

Sith so it is, God loveth her,
And shee, His Grace, as doth appeare;
Ye may be bolde as to referre
All doubtfulnesse as to her most cleare,
That, as her owne, in like maneare
She wilth your welthes, both yong and olde,
Obey her, then, as your Queene deare,
And say: Christ save this Marigolde.

Christ save her in her High Estate,
Therin (in rest) long to endure;
Christ so all wronges here mitigate,
That all may be to his pleasure:
The high, the lowe, in due mesure,
As membres true with her to holde,
So eache to be th’others treasure.
In cherishing the Marigolde.

Be thou (O God) so good as thus
Thy Perfect Fayth to see take place;
Thy peace thou plant here among us,
That Errour may go hide his face,
So to concorde us in eache case,
As in thy Courte, it is enrolde,
Wee all (as one) to love her Grace,
That is our Queene, this Marigolde.

God save the Queene

William Forrest, Priest.

Veare> Spring; sterve>die; stutte>stumble; earst>before;
singleer>singular; terraine>earthly, worldly; fayne>desirous;
wilth your welthes>wills (desires) your well-being;

Ces longues nuits d’hiver, où la Lune ocieuse

Ces longues nuits d’hiver, où la Lune ocieuse
Tourne si lentement son char tout à l’entour,
Ou le Coq si tardif nous annonce le jour,
Où la nuit semble un an à l’ame soucieuse:

Je fusse mort d’ennui sans ta forme douteuse,
Qui vient par une feinte alleger mon amour,
Et faisant toute nue entre mes bras sejour,
Me pipe doucement d’une joie meteuse.

Vraie tu es farouche, et fiere en cruauté:
De toi fausse on jouit en toute privauté
Pres ton mort je m’endors, pres de lui je repose:

Rien ne m’est refusé. Le bon sommeil ainsi
Abuse par le faux mon amoureux souci.
S’abuser en amour n’est pas mauvaise chose.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

In these long winter nights when the lazy Moon

In these long winter nights when the lazy Moon
Steers her chariot so slowly on its way,
When the cockerel so tardily calls the day,
When night to the troubled soul seems years through:

I would have died of misery if not for you,
In shadowy form, coming to ease my fate,
Utterly naked in my arms, to lie and wait,
Sweetly deceiving me with a specious view.

The real you is fierce, of pitiless cruelty:
The false you one enjoys, in true intimacy,
I sleep beside your ghost, rest by an illusion:

Nothing’s denied me. So kind sleep deceives
My loving sorrows with your false reality.
In love there is no harm in self-delusion.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)
Tr. A.S. Klein

Chanson

Douce Maistress touche,
Pour soulager mon mal,
Ma bouche de ta bouche
Plus rouge que Coral;
Que mon col soit pressé
De tes bras enlassé.

Puis face dessus face
Regarde moy les yeux,
Afin que ton trait passe
En mon coeur soucieux,
Coeur qui ne vit sinon
D’Amour et de ton nom.

Je l’ay veu fier et brave,
Avant que ta beauté
Pour estre ton esclave
Du sein me l’eust osté
Mais son mal luy plaist bien,
Pourveu qu’il meure tien.

Belle, par qui je donne
À mes yeux tant d’esmoy,
Baise moy ma mignonne,
Cent fois rebaise moy;
Et quoy? faut-il en vain
Languit dessus ton sein?

Maistresse je n’ay garde
De vouloir t’esveiller.
Heureux quand je regarde
Tex beaux yeux sommeiller:
Heureux quand je les voy
Endormis dessus moy.

Veux-tu que je les baise
Afin de les ouvrir?
Hà, tu fais la mauvaise
Pour me faire mourir:
Je meurs entre tes bras,
Et s’il ne t’en chaut pas.

Hà! ma chère ennemie,
Si tu veux m’appaiser,
Redonne moy la vie
Par l’esprit d’un baiser.
Hà! j’en sens la douceur
Couler jusques au coeur.

J’aime la douce rage
D’amour continuel,
Quad d’un mesme courage
Le soing est mutuel.
Heureux sera le jour
Que je mourray d’amour.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

Song

To relieve my pain,
Sweet mistress, touch
My mouth with yours,
Redder than coral,
With your arms tight
Around my neck.

Then, face close to mine,
Gaze into my eyes,
And let your dart pierce
My anxious heart,
A heart living only
For Love and you.

I’ve known it brave and proud
Before your beauty
Stole it from my breast
To make it your slave,
But it’s happy with the pain,
Provided it dies yours.

So lovely that my eyes
Are seething, seething,
Kiss me, my darling,
Kiss me a hundred times;
And then? Must I lie in vain
Upon your bosom … ?

Oh mistress mine, I can relax now.
No need to wake you.
I’m happy just watching
Your lovely eyes drowsing
Happy when I see them
Asleep underneath me.

But how about a kiss or two,
To reopen them…?
Oh, you’re being wicked,
You’re simply killing me
I’m dying in your arms
And it doesn’t bother you.

My dear sweet enemy,
If you want to be really nice.
Just bring me back to life
With a well-placed kiss …
Ah! I can feel the sweetness
Flowing up to my heart.

I love the sweet storm
Of continual passion
When we’ve the same desires
And can come together.
It will be bliss
When I really die of love.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)
Tr. JF

D’une Courtizanne à Venus

Si je puis ma jeunesse folle,
Hantant les bordeaux, garantir
De ne pouvoir jamais sentir
Ne poulains, chancre, ne verole,

O Venus! de Bacus compaigne,
À toi je promets, en mes voeus,
Mon éponge, et mes faus cheveus,
Mon fard, mon miroer, et mon paigne.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

From a Courtesan to Venus

If my wanton youth can be certain,
As it haunts the brothels,
That it will never have to know
Buboes, cankers, or pockmarks,

O Venus! companion of Bacchus,
I'll see that you inherit,
My little sponge and my hairpieces,
My rouge, my mirror, and my comb.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)
Tr. JF

“O long winter nights”

O long winter nights, bane of my existence,
Give me patience and allow me to sleep.
The very mention of you makes my whole body
Shudder and sweat, you treat me so cruelly.

Sleep, however briefly, never hovers over
My always-open eyes, and I can’t press
Eyelid upon eyelid, but only groan,
Suffering, like Ixion, unending pain.

Old dark of earth, the dark of hell,
You hold open my eyes with chains of iron,
And ravage my body with a thousand stabbing pains.

To stop them for ever, let death come to me.
O death, our common haven, our human comforter,
Put an end to my suffering, I beseech you with clasped hands.

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)
Tr. JF

Of all the birds that I do know

Of all the birds that I do know,
Philip my sparrow hath no peer;
For sit she high, or sit she low,
Be she far off, or be she near,
There is no bird so fair, so fine,
Nor yet so fresh as this of mine;
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

Come in a morning merrily
When Philip hath been lately fed;
Or in an evening soberly
When Philip list to go to bed;
It is a heaven to hear my Phipp,
How she can chirp with merry lip,
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

She never wanders far abroad,
But is at home when I do call.
If I command she lays on load
With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
That I believe she hath no peer.
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

And yet besides all the good sport
My Philip can both sing and dance,
With new found toys of sundry sort
My Philip can both prick and prance.
And if you say but: fend cut, Phipp!
Lord, how the peat will turn and skip!
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

And to tell truth he were to blame,
Having so fine a bird as she
To make him all this goodly game
Without suspect or jealousy;
He were a churl and knew no good,
Would see her faint for lack of food,
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: yet, yet, yet.

George Gascoigne (ca. 1528–1577)

The Night is Neir Gone

See Glossary/a>

Hay! now the day dawis,
The jolie Cok crawis,
Now shroudis the shawis
Throw Natur anone,
The thissell-cok cryis
On Lovers wha lyis,
Nou skaillis the skyis:
The nicht is neir gone.

The fields owerflowis
With gowans that growis
Quhair lilies lyk low is,
Als rid as the rone.
The turtill that trew is
With nots that renewis
Hir partie persewis:
The night is neir gone.

Nou hairtis with hyndis
Conforme to thair kindis,
Hie tursis thair tyndis
On grund whair they grone,
Nou hurchonis with hairis
Ay passis in pairis,
Quhilk deuly declairis
The night is neir gone.

The sesone excellis
Throgh sweetnes that smellis;
Nou Cupid compellis
Our hairtis echone
On Venus wha waikis
To muse on our maikis,
Syn sing for thair saikis,
The night is neir gone.

All curageous knichtis
Aganis the day dichtis
The breist plate that bright is
To fight with thair fone,
The stoned steed stampis
Throu curage and crampis
Syn on the land lampis:
The night is neir gone.

The freikis on feildis
That wight wapins weildis
With shyning bright sheildis
As Titan in trone;
Stiff speiris in reistis
Ower cursoris cristis
Ar brok in thair breistis:
The night is neir gone.

So hard att thair hittis
Some sweyis, some sittis
And some perforce flittis
On grund whill they grone;
Syn groomis that gay is
On blonkis that brayis
With swordis assayis:
The night is neir gone.

Alexander Montgomerie (b. ca 1543–1558; d. 1598)

The Secreit Prais of Love

See Glossary/a>

As everie object to the outward ee
Dissaivis the sight and semis as it is sene
Quhen not bot shap and cullour yit we se
For no thing els is subject to the ene,
As stains and trees appearing gray and grene,
Quhais quantities upon the sight depends,
Bot qualities the cunning comprehends.

Even sa wha sayis they sie me as I am,
I mene a man, suppose they sie me move,
Of ignorance they do tham selfis condam
By syllogisme this properly I prove.
Quha sees (by look) my loyaltie in love,
Quhat hurt in hairt, what hope or hap I haiv?
Quhilk ressone movis the senses to consaiv.

Imagination is the outward ee
To spy the richt anatomie of mynd
Quhilk (by some secreit sympathie) may see
The force of love quhilk can not be defynd,
Quharthrou the hairt according to his kynd
Compassionat, as it appeirs plane
Participats of plesur or of pane.

Of hevins or earth some simlitude or shape
By cunning craftismen to the ees appeir,
Bot who is he can counterfurt the ape
Or paint a passion papable, I speir,
Quhilk enters by the organ of the eir
And bot, when it is pithily exprest,
And yit I grant the gritest pairt is gest?

Suppose the hevins be huge for to behold,
Contening all within their compass wyde,
The starris be tyme (thogh tedious) may be told
Because within a certin bounds they byd.
The carde the earth from waters may devyde,
But who is he can limit Love, I wene,
Quhom nather carde nor compas can contene.

Quhat force is this subdeuing all and sum?
Quhat force is this that makes the tygris tame?
Quhat force is this that na man can ouircum?
Quhat force is this that rightlie nane can name?
Quhat force is this that careis sik a fame?
A vehemency that words can not reveill
Quhßilk I conclude to suffer and conceill.

Alexander Montgomerie (b. ca 1543–1558; d. 1598)

A Godly Prayer

See Glossary/a>

Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.
I am not worthy to be call’d thy chylde
Who stubburnely haif look’t so long astray,
Not lyke thy sone bot lyk the prodigue wyld.
My sillie saull with sin is so defyld
That Satan seeks to catch it as his pray.
God grant me grace that he may be begyld.
Peccavi Pater, Miserere mei.

I am abash’d hou I dar be sa bald
Befor thy godly presence to appeir
Or hazard anes the hevins to behald
Who am unworthy that the earth suld beir,
Yit damne me noght whom thou hes boght so deir
Sed salvum me fac dulcis fili Dei
For out of Luk this leson nou I leir.
Peccavi Pater, Miserere mei.

If thou O Lord with rigour wouldst revenge,
What flesh befor thee faultless suld be fund?
Or who is he whois conscience can him clenge?
But by his birth to Satan he is bund,
Yit of thy grace thou took away that grund
And sent thy Sone our penalty to pay
To saiv us from that hiddious hellish hund.
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

I hope for mercy thogh my sinnis be huge,
I grant my gylt and grone to thee for grace.
Thogh I suld flie whair sall I find refuge?
In hevin O Lord? thair is thy dwelling place,
The erth thy futstule, yea in hel is (alace)
Doun with the dead, bot all must thee obey.
Thairfor I cry whill I haif tyme and space
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

O gratious God my gyltines forgive
In sinners death since thou dost not delyte
But rather that they suld convert and live
As witnessis thy sacred holy wryte.
I pray thee then thy promise to perfyte
In me, and I sal with the Psalmist say
To get thy prais and wondrous works indyte.
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

Suppose I slyde, let me not sleep in sleuth,
In stinking sty with Satans sinful swyn
Bot mak my tongue the trompet of thy treuth
And lend my verse sik wings as ar divine.
Sin thou hes grantit me so good ingyn
To Loif thee, Lord, in gallant style and gay
Let me no moir so trim a talent tyne.
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

Thy Spirit my spirit to speik with speed inspire.
Help holy Ghost, and be Montgomeries muse.
Flie doun on me in forked tongues of fyre
As thou did on thy oune Apostills use
And with thy fyre me fervently infuse
To laud thee, Lord, and longer not delay.
My former foolish fictiouns I refuse.
Peccavi Pater, Miserere mei.

Stoup stubborne stomock that hes bene so stout,
Stoup filthie flesh and carioun of clay,
Stoup hardnit hairt befor thee Lord and lout,
Stoup, stoup in tyme, defer not day by day.
Thou knouis not weill wen thou man pass away.
The Tempter als is bissie to betrey.
Confes thy sinnis and shame not for to say
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

To gret Jehovah let all glore be gevin
Wha shupe my saull to his similitude
And to his sone whom he sent doun from hevin
When I wes lost to buy me with his blude
And to the holy Ghost my gyder gude
Who must confirme my faith to tak no fray.
In me cor mundum crea, I conclude.
Peccavi Pater, miserere mei.

Alexander Montgomerie (b. ca 1543–1558; d. 1598)

The text comes from Alexander Montgomerie, Poems, 2 vols., ed. David J. Parkinson (2000), with the following tweaks: v>w, u>w (as in dueling/dweling), the>thee, thought>thogh

To the Honour of the Ladyis, and the Fortification of their Fame.

See Glossary/a>

Just to declair the hie Magnificence,
And Bountie grit that in the Ladyis is,
The Wirdyness and Verteus Excelence,
The Laud, the Truth, the Bewtie, and the Bliss,
My Barbir Tung unworthy is I wiss;
But nicht the less my Pen I will apply,
To say the Suth, thoch Eloquence I miss,
Of Femenyne the Fame to fortifie.

Thocht Doctors auld Addresses their Delyt,
To dyt of Ladys Defamation,
Wae worth the Wicht sould set his Appityte,
To reid sic Rolls of Reprobation;
But tittat mak plain Proclamation,
To gather all sic Lybills bisselie,
And in the Fyre mak their Location,
Of Femenyne the Fame to fortifie.

For quho sae list the Richt trew to reherse,
To humane Glore they mak Habilitie;
Quehen Men ar sad at them solace they ferss,
As Habitickles of all Humanity,
They bring grit Weirs aft to Tranquilitie,
Malice of Men they meis and pacifie,
To Saul and Body baith Utilitie;
Therfore all Men their Fame sould fortifie.

Althoucht a Man had as much Gude to spend
As all the Empyres of this Globe around;
Wer Women wanting Weil-fare were at End,
Without their Comfort Care sould him confound;
Quhair they abyde thair Bliss does ay abound,
And quahair they flie Felicetie gaes by;
But thair Solace nae Sage may be eir found;
Thairfore all Men their Fame sould fortifie.

Sen GOD has grantit them sie Gudliness,
And formid them after sae fine fassoun,
Syne put sic bluming Bewtie in thair Face,
Quhy sould not Men hald them of grit Renown?
Sen God has given to them sae grit Guerdoun,
And with sie Meiknes does them magnifie,
Quhy sould Men mak to them Comparisone,
But owre all quhair their Fames to fortifie?

Or Mary myld, the Maid immaculate,
To fortifie of Femenyne the Fame,
CHRYST was incarnate and incorporate,
And nurist was nyn Months within hir Wame;
And aftir born, and bocht us frae the Blame
Of Bellial, that brint us bitterlie;
That heavenly Honour saves the Sex frae Shame,
And owre al quahair their Fame does fortifie.

John Stewart (ca. 1545–ca. 1605)

Down in the depth of mine iniquity

Down in the depth of mine iniquity,
That ugly center of infernal spirits,
Where each sin feels her own deformity,
In these peculiar torments she inherits,
Deprived of human graces, and divine,
Even there appears this saving God of mine.

And in this fatal mirror of transgression,
Shows man as fruit of his degeneration,
The error’s ugly infinite impression,
Which bears the faithless down to desperation;
Deprived of human graces and divine,
Even there appears this saving God of mine.

In power and truth, Almighty and eternal,
Which on the sin reflects strange desolation,
With glory scourging all the Sprites infernal,
And uncreated hell with unprivation;
Deprived of human graces, not divine,
Even there appears this saving God of mine.

For on this spiritual Cross condemned lying,
To pains infernal by eternal doom,
I see my Savious for the same sins dying,
And from that hell I feared, to free me come;
Deprived of human graces, not divine,
Thus hath his death raised up this soul of mine.

Fulke Greville (1554–1628)

Lady Anne Bothwell’s Lament

Balow my Boy, lye still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep;
If thou’lt be silent, I’ll be glad,
Thy Mourning makes my Heart full sad;
Balow my Boy, thy Mother’s Joy,
Thy Father bred me great Annoy.
Balow, my Boy, lye still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep.

Balow, my Darling, sleep a while,
And when thou wak’st, then sweetly smile,
But smile not as thy Father did,
To cozen Maids, nay God forbid;
But in thine Eye, his Look I see,
The tempting Look that ruin’d me.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

When he began to court my Love,
And with his sugar’d Words to move,
His tempting Face and flatt’ring Chear,
In time to me did not appear;
But now I see, that cruel he
Cares neither for his Babe nor me.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest Youth,
That ever kist a Woman’s Mouth;
Let never any after me
Submit unto thy Courtesy;
For if they do, O! cruel thou
Will her abuse, and care not how.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

I was too cred’lous at the first
To grant thee all a Maiden durst;
Thou swore for ever true to prove,
Thy Faith unchang’d, unchang’d thy Love;
But quick as Thought the Change is wrought,
Thy Love’s no more, thy Promise nought.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

I wish I were a Maid again,
From young men’s Flatt’ry I’d refrain,
For now unto my Grief I find,
They are all perjur’d and unkind.
Bewitching Charms bred all my Harms,
Witness my Babe lies in my Arms.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

I take my Fate from bad to worse,
That I must needs be now a Nurse,
And lull my young Son on my Lap,
From me, sweet Orphan, take the Pap.
Balow, my Child, thy Mother mild
Shall wail, as from all Bliss exil’d.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Balow my Boy, weep not for me,
Whose greatest Grief’s for wronging thee;
Nor pity her deserved Smart,
Who can blame none but her fond Heart:
For, too soon trusting latest finds,
With fairest Tongues are falsest Minds.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Balow my Boy, thy Father’s fled,
When he the thriftless Son has play’d;
Of Vows and Oaths, forgetful he
Prefer’d the Wars to thee and me:
But now, perhaps, thy Curse and mine,
Makes him eat Acorns with the Swine.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

But curse not him, perhaps now he
Stung with Remorse, is blessing thee:
Perhaps at Death; for who can tell.
Whether the Judge opf Heaven or Hell,
By some proud Foe has struck the Blow,
And laid the dear Deceiver low?
Balow, my Boy, &c.

I wish I were into that Bounds
Where he lies smother’d in his Wounds,
Repeating, as he pants for Air,
My Name, whom once he call’d his Fair.
No Woman’s yet so fiercely set,
But she’ll forgive, tho’ not forget.
Balow, my Boy, &c.

If Linnen lacks, for my Love’s sake,
Then quickly to him would I make
My Smock once for his Body meet,
And wrap him in that Winding-sheet.
Ah me! how happy had I been,
If he had ne’er been wrapt therein!
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Balow my Boy, I’ll weep for thee;
Too soon, alake, thou’lt weep for me:
Thy Griefs are growing to a Sum,
God grant thee Patience when they come,
Born to sustain thy Mother’s Shame,
A hapless Fate, a Bastard’s Name!
Balow, my Boy, &c.

Anonymous

Balow>a lullaby; “a word used in hushing a child to sleep”
(Dictionary of the Scots Language)

Text from Orpheus Caledonius; A Collection of Scots Songs
set to Music by William Thomson (1733 edition).

Bethsabe’s Song NEW

Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair;
Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe air, and ease me;
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me:
Shadow, my sweet nurse, keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty’s fire
Inflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.

George Peele (c.1557–1596)

Whenas the rye NEW

When as the rye reach to the chin,
And chopcherry, chopcherry ripe within,
Strawberries swimming in the cream,
And school-boys playing in the stream;
Then O, then O, then O my true love said,
Till that time come again,
She could not live a maid.

George Peele (c.1557–1596)

Fair maiden NEW

Fair maiden, white and red,
Comb me smooth, and stroke my head;
And thou shalt have some cockle bread.
Gently dip, but not too deep,
For fear thou make the golden beard to weep.
Fair maid, white and red,
Comb me smooth, and stroke my head;
And every hair a sheave shall be,
And every sheave a golden tree.

George Peele (c.1557–1596)

Hierusalem, my happy home
To the Tune of “Diana”

Hierusalem, my happie home,
when shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrowes have an end?
thy joyes when shall I see?

O happie harbour of the saintes,
O sweete and pleasant soyle,
In thee no sorrow may be founde,
no greefe, no care, no toyle.

In thee no sicknesse may be seene,
no hurt, no ache, no sore;
There is no death nor uglie devill,
there is life for evermore.

No dampishe mist is seen in thee,
no could nor darksome night;
There everie soule shines as the sunne,
there god himself gives light.

There lust and lukar cannot dwell,
there envie beares no sway;
There is no hunger, heate, nor coulde,
but pleasure everie way.

Hierusalem, Hierusalem,
god grant I once may see
They endless joyes, and of the same
partaker aye to be.

Thy walles are made of precious stones;
thy bulwarkes, diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right Orient pearle,
exceedinge riche and rare.

Thy terrettes and thy Pinacles
with Carbuncles do shine;
Thy verie streetes are paved with gould,—
surpassinge cleare and fine.

Thy houses are of Ivorie,
thy windoes Cristale cleare;
Thy tyles are made of beaten gould—
O god, that I were there!

Within thy gates nothing doeth come
that is not passinge cleane;
No spider’s web, no durt, no dust,
no filth may there be seene.

Ay my sweete home, Hierusalem,
would god I were in thee;
Would god my woes were at an end,
thy joyes that I might see!

Thy saintes are crown’d with glorie great,
they see god face to face;
They triumph still, they still rejoyce,
most happie is their case.

Wee that are here in banishment
gontinuallie doe mourne;
We sighe and sobbe, we weepe and weale,
perpetuallie we groane.

Our sweete is mixt with bitter gaule,
our pleasure is but paine,
Our joyes scarce last the lookeing on,
our sorrowes still remaine;

But there they live in such delight,
such pleasure, and such play,
As that to them a thousand yeares
doth seeme as yeaster-day.

Thy Viniards and thy Orchards are
most beautifull and faire,
Full furnishèd with trees and fruites,
most wonderfull and rare.

Thy gardens and thy gallant walkes
continually are greene;
There growes such sweete and pleasant flowers
as no where else are seene.

There is nector and Ambrosia made,
there is muske and Civette sweete;
There mainie a faire and daintie drugge
are trodden under feete.

There Cinemon, there sugar, growes;
there narde and balme abound.
What tounge can tell or hart conceive
the joyes that there are founde?

Thy happy Saints (Jerusalem)
do bathe in endless blisse;
None but those blessèd soules can tell
how great thy glory is.

Quyt through the streetes with silver sound
the flood of life doth flowe;
Upon whose bankes, on every syde,
the wood of life doth growe.

There trees for evermore beare fruite,
and evermore doe springe;
There evermore the Angels sit,
and evermore doe singe.

There David standes, with harpe in hand,
as maister of the Queere.
Ten thousand times that man were blest
that might this musique heare.

Our Ladie singes magnificat,
with tune surpassinge sweete,
And all the virginns beare their partes,
sitinge above her feete.

Te Deum doth saint Ambrose singe,
sainte Augustine dothe the like;
Ould Simeon and Zacharie
have not their songes to seeke.

There Magdalene hath left her mone,
and cheerfullie doth singe,
With blessèd saintes whose harmonie
in everie streete doth ringe.

Hierusalem, my happie home,
would god I were in thee;
Would god my woes were at an end,
thy joyes that I might see!

F.B.P.

lukar>luchre; Queere>Choir

From Vivian de Sola Pinto and Allan Rodway, The Common Muse, pp, 279–283

No, no, Nigella

No, no, Nigella!
Let who list prove thee,
I cannot love thee.
Have I deservèd
Thus to be servèd?
Well then, content thee,
If thou repent thee.

No, no, Nigella!
In sign I spite thee,
Lo, I requite thee.
Henceforth complaining
Thy love’s disdaining,
Sit, thy hands wringing,
Whilst I go singing.

Thomas Morley (ca. 1557–1602)

In midst of woods or pleasant grove

In midst of woods or pleasant grove
Where all sweet birds to sing,
Methought I heard so rare a sound,
Which made the heavens to ring.
The charm was good, the noise full sweet,
Each bird did play his part;
And I admired to hear the same;
Joy sprung into my heart.

The blackbird made the sweetest sound,
Whose tunes did far excel,
Full pleasantly and most profound
Was all things placèd well.
Thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird,
Done with so good a grace,
Extols thy name, prefers the same
Abroad in every place.

Thy music grave, bedeckèd well
With sundry points of skill,
Bewrays thy knowledge excellent,
Engrafted in thy will.
My tongue shall speak, my pen shall write,
In praise of thee to tell.
The sweetest bird that ever was,
In friendly sort, farewell.

John Munday (ca. 1560–1602)

Fine Knacks for Ladies

Fine knacks for ladies, cheap, choice, brave, and new,
Good pennyworths, but money cannot move;
I keep a fair but for the fair to view;
A beggar may be liberal in love;
Though all my wares be trash the heart is true,
The heart is true,
The heart is true.

Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;
My trifles come as treasures from my mind;
It is a precious jewel to be plain;
Sometimes in shell the orient’s pearl we find;
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain,
Of me a grain,
Of me a grain.

Within this pack pins, points, laces, and gloves,
And diverse toys fitting a country fair,
But in my heart where duty serves and loves,
Turtles and twins, court’s brood, a heavenly pair;
Happy the heart that thinks of no removes
Of no removes
Of no removes.

John Dowland (1563–1625)

If I Could Shut the Gate

If I could shut the gate against my thoughts,
And keep out sorrow from this room within,
Or memory could cancel all the notes
Of my misdeeds, and I unthink my sin.
How free, how clear, how clean my soul should lie,
Discharged of such a loathsome company.

Or were there other rooms without my heart,
That did not to my conscience join so near,
Where I might lodge the thoughts of sin apart,
That I might not their clamorous crying hear,
What peace, what joy, what ease should I possess,
Freed from their horrors that my soul oppress.

But, O my Saviour, who my refuge art,
Let thy dear mercies stand ’twixt them and me,
And be the wall to separate my heart
So that I may at length repose me free,
That peace and joy and rest may be within,
And I remain divided from my sin.

John Danyel (1564–1626)

Come, let us sound with melody the praises

Come, let us sound with melody the praises
Of the kings’ King, the Omnipotent Creator,
Author of number, that hath all the world in
Harmony framed.

Heaven is his throne, perpetually shining.
His divine power and glory thence he thunders,
One in all, and all still in one abiding,
Both Father and Son.

O sacred Sprite, invisible, eternal,
Everywhere, yet unlimited, that all things
Canst in one moment penetrate, revive me,
O holy Spirit.

Rescue, O rescue me from earthly darkness.
Banish hence all these elemental objects.
Guide my soul that fasts to the shining fountain
Of thy divineness.

Cleanse my soul, O God, thy bespotted image,
Altered with sin so that heavenly pureness
Cannot acknowledge me but in thy mercies,
O Father of grace.

But when once thy beams do remove my darkness,
O then I’ll shine forth as an angel of light,
And record with more than an earthly voice thy
Infinite honours.

Philip Rosseter (1567–1623)

I heard a noise and wishèd for a sight

I heard a noise and wishèd for a sight.
I looked aside and did a shadow see,
Whose substance was the sum of my delight;
It came unseen, and so it went from me.
But yet conceit persuaded my intent,
There was a substance where the shadow went.
I did not play Narcissus in conceit,
I did not see my shadow in a spring;
I knew my eyes were dimmed with no deceit,
I saw the shadow of some worthy thing;
For as I saw the shadow passing by,
I had a glance of something in my eye.
Shadow, or she, or both, or choose you whether,
Blest be the thing that brought the shadow hither.

Thomas Bateson (ca. 1570–1630)

The Spring of Joy is Dry

The spring of joy is dry
That ran into my heart;
And all my comforts fly.
My love and I must part.
Farewell, my love, I go,
If fate will have it so.
Yet to content us both
Return again, as doth
The shadow to the hour,
The bee unto the flower,
The fish unto the hook,
The cattle to the brook,
That we may sport our fill
And love continue still.

Martin Peerson (ca. 1571–1650)

Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight

Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight
With feathers like a lady bright,
Thou singest alone, sitting by night,
Te whit, te whoo, te whit, te whit.
Thy note, that forth so freely rolls,
With shrill command the mouse controls,
And sings a dirge for dying souls,
Te whit, te whoo, te whit, te whit.

Thomas Vautor (1579–1620)

How many new years have grown old

How many new years have grown old
Since first your servant old was new.
How many long hours have I told
Since first my love was vowed to you.
And yet, alas, she doth not know
Whether her servant love or no.

How many walls as white as snow,
And windows clear as any glass,
Have I conjured to tell you so,
Which faithfully performèd was.
And yet you’ll swear you do not know
Whether your servant love or no.

How often hath my pale lean face
With true characters of my love
Petitionèd to you for grace,
Whom neither sighs no tears can move.
O cruel, yet do you not know
Whether your servant love or no?

And wanting oft a better token,
I have been fain to send my heart,
Which now your cold disdain hath broken,
Nor can you heal’t by any art.
O look upon’t and you shall know
Whether your servant love or no.

Robert Jones (?–?)

Clear or cloudy, sweet as April showering

Clear or cloudy, sweet as April showering,
Smooth or frowning, so is her face to me.
Pleased or smiling, like mild May all flowering,
When skies blue silk, and meadows carpets be,
Her speeches, notes of that night bird that singeth,
Who thought all sweet, yet jarring notes out-ringeth.

Her grace like June, when earth and trees be trimmèd
In best attire of complete beauty’s heighth.
Her love again like summer’s days be-dimmèd
With little clouds of doubtful constant faith.
Her trust, her doubt, like rain and heat in skies
Gently thundering, she lightning to mine eyes,

Sweet summer-spring that breatheth life and growing
In weeds as into herbs and flowers,
And sees of service divers sorts in sowing,
Some haply seeming, and some being, yours;
Rain on your herbs and flowers that truly serve,
And let your weeds lack dew, and duly starve.

Anonymous

The Goodwife’s Ale

When shall we meet again, and have a taste
Of that transcendent Ale we drank of last?
What wild ingredients did the woman choose
To mad her drink with all ; it made me lose
My wits before I quenched my thirst: there came
Such whimsies in my head, and such a flame
Of fiery drunkenness had singed my nose,
My beard shrunk in for fear. There were of those
That took me for a comet; some a far
Distance remote thought me a blazing star.
The earth methought just as it was it went
Round in a wheeling course of merriment.
My head was ever drooping, and my nose
Offering to be a suitor to my toes.
My mouth did stand awry just as it were
Lab’ring to whisper something in mine ear.
My pockholed face, they say, appeared to some
Most like a dry and burning honeycomb.
My tongue did swim in ale, and joyed to boast
Himself a better seaman than the toast.
My guts were mines of sulphur, and my set
Of parchéd teeth struck fire as they met.
Nay, when I pissed, my urine was so hot
It burnt a hole quite through the chamber-pot.
Each brewer that I met I kissed and made
Suitor to be apprentice to the trade.
One did approve the motion when he saw
That mine own legs did the indenture draw.
Well, Sir, I grew stark mad, as you may see
By this adventure upon poetry.
You easily may guess, I am not quite
Grown sober yet, by these poor lines I write.
I only do’t for this, that you may see
That though you paid for th’ale, yet it paid me.

Ben Jonson (ca. 1572–1637)

It fell on a summer’s day

It fell on a summer’s day,
While sweet Bessie sleeping lay
In her bower on her bed,
Light with curtains shadowéd
Jamie came, she him spies,
Opening half her heavy eyes.

Jamie stole in through the door;
She lay slumbering as before.
Softly to her he drew near;
She heard him, yet would not hear;
Bessie vowed not to speak;
He resolved that dump to break.

First a soft kiss he doth take,
She lay still and would not wake.
Then his hands learned to woo;
She dreamt not what he would do,
But still slept, while he smiled
To see love by sleep beguiled.

Jamie then began to play;
Bessie as one buried lay,
Gladly still, through this sleight,
Deceived in her own deceit;
And, since this trance began,
She sleeps every afternoon.

Thomas Campion (1567–1620)

Jack and Joan they think no ill

Jack and Joan they think no ill,
But loving live, and merry still;
Do their week-days’ work, and pray
Devoutly on the holy day:
Slip and trip it on the green
And help to choose the Summer Queen;
Lash out, at a country feast
Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale,
And tell at large a winter tale;
Climb up to the apple loft,
And turn the crabs till they be soft.
Tib is all the father’s joy,
And little Tom the mother’s boy.
All their pleasure is Content;
And care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows,
And deck her windows with green boughs;
She can wreaths and tuttyes make,
And trim with plums a bridal cake.
Jack knows what brings gain or loss;
And his long flail can stoutly toss:
Make the hedge, which others break;
And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights
That study only strange delights;
Though you scorn the homespun gray,
And revel in your rich array;
Though your tongues dissemble deep,
And can your heads from danger keep;
Yet for all your pomp and train,
Securer lives the silly swain.

Thomas Campion (1567–1620)

A secret love or two, I must confess

A secret love or two, I must confess,
I kindly welcome for change in close playing:
Yet my dear husband I love nevertheless,
His desires, whole or half, quickly allaying,
At all times ready to offer redress.
His own he never wants, but hath it duly,
Yet twits me, I keep not touch with him truly.

The more a spring is drawn, the more it flows;
No Lamp less light retains by lighting others:
Is he a loser his loss that never knows?
Or is he wealthy that wast treasure smothers?
My churl vows no man shall sent his sweet Rose:
His own enough and more I give him duly,
Yet still he twits me, I keep not touch truly.

Wise Archers bear more then one shaft to field
The Venturer leads not with one ware his shipping:
Should Warrior learn but one weapon to wield?
Or thrive fair plants ear the worse for the slipping?
One dish cloys, many fresh appetite yield:
Mine own I’ll use, and his he shall have duly,
Judge then what debter can keep much more truly.

Thomas Campion (1567–1620)

wants>lacks; sent> smell; Venturer> merchant venturer;
slipping> “taking a slip from a plant for planting or grafting”
(Webster’s New World College Dictionary, 4th ed.)

To an Inconstant One

I loved thee once; I’ll love no more—
Thine be the grief as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain:
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away!

Nothing could have my love o’erthrown
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yes, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom didst recall
That it thou might elsewhere enthrall
And then how could I but disdain
A captive’s captive to remain?

When new desires had conquered thee
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so;
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice—
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoice
To see him gain what I have lost:
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging at a beggar’s door.

Robert Ayton (1570–1638)

The Exercise of Affection

There is no worldly pleasure here below
Which by experience doth not folly prove,
But among all the follies that I know,
The sweetest folly in the world is love.

But not that passion, which by fool’s consent,
Above the reason bears imperious sway,
Making their lifetime a perpetual Lent,
As if a man were born to fast and pray.

No! that is not the humour I approve,
As either yielding pleasure or promotion;
I like a mild and lukewarm zeal in love,
Altho’ I do not like it in devotion.

For it hath no coherence in my creed,
To think that lovers die as they pretend:
If all that say they die, had died indeed,
Sure long ere now the world had had an end.

Besides, we need not love but if we please,
No destiny can force man’s disposition,
And how can any die of that disease,
Whereof himself may be his own physician?

But some seem so distracted of their wits,
That I would think it but a venial sin,
To take some of these innocents that sit
In Bedlam out, and put some lovers in.

Yet some men, rather than incur the slander
Of true apostates, will false martyrs prove;
But I am neither Iphis nor Leander,
I’ll neither drown or hang myself for love.

Methinks a wise man’s actions should be such
As always yield to reason’s best advice,
Now for to love too little, or too much,
Are both extremes, and all extremes are vice.

Yet have I been a lover by report,
Yea, I have died for love as others do,
But praised be God, it was in such a sort,
That I revived within an hour or two.

Thus have I lived, thus have I loved till now,
And found no reason to repent me yet,
And whosoever otherwise will do,
His courage is as little as his wit.

Robert Ayton (1570–1638)

Condensed Confession/ Abrégé de Confession

Since the seven sins of the eyes
Bar the way that leads to Heaven,
Reverend Father, I promise you
To abominate them in every way,
Just so I don’t encounter any
Impatience and lasciviousness.

Those two come naturally to me:
Neither castigation, nor laws,
Nor noble words can hold me back
And when a simple-souled repentance
Would like to turn me away from them
My nature makes it impossible.

I’ve done my best to avoid them both
By saying over my Paternosters
And reading in the Holy Book
But in the midst of all my struggles
Comforters whisper in my ear
That actually they’re perfectly normal.

It isn’t God who’s listed them
Among the ranks of our enemies;
Some second Pandora has been at work
Who, wanting to torment mankind,
Has spread that calumny about Him
With her own mischief-making hands.

For I don’t know any Augustinian,
Or Carmelite, or Celestine,
However firm and full of zeal,
However perfect in devotion,
Who, when out in the real world,
Could honour so severe a law.

So please arrange it, as I’ve said,
That I can be given proper credit
So as to be pure of conscience
Like the blessed Saints of old,
And eliminate from that rigid list
Impatience and lasciviousness.

Mathurin Regnier (1573–1613)
Tr. JF

Tom o’ Bedlam’s Song

From the hagg and hungrie goblin
That into raggs would rend ye,
And the spirit that stands by the naked man
In the Book of Moones defend ye,
That of your five sounde sences
You never be forsaken,
Nor wander from your selves with Tom
Abroad to begg your bacon.

While I doe sing Any foode, any feeding,
Feedinge, drinke or clothing
Come dame or maid, be not afraid,
Poor Tom will injure nothing.

Of thirty bare years have I
Twice twenty bin enraged,
And of forty bin three tymes fifteene
In durance soundlie caged
On the lordlie loftes of Bedlam,
With stubble softe and dainty,
Brave bracelets strong, sweet whips ding dong,
With wholesome hunger plenty.
And now I sing, etc.

With a thought I tooke for Maudlin,
And a crust of cockle pottage,
With a thing thus tall, skie blesse you all,
I befell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest,
Till then I never waked,
Till the rogysh boy of love where I lay
Mee found and strip’t me naked.
And nowe I sing, etc.

When I short have shorne my sow’s face
And swigg’d my horny barrel,
In an oaken inne I pound my skin
As a suite of guilt apparel.
The moon’s my constant Mistresse,
And the lowlie owle my marrowe,
The flaming Drake and the Nightcrowe make
Mee musicke to my sorrowe.
While I doe sing, etc.

The palsie plagues my pulses
When I prigg your pigs or pullen,
Your culvers take, or matchless make
Your Chanticleare, or Sullen.
When I want provant, with Humfrie
I sup, and when benighted,
I repose in Powles with waking soules
Yet never am affrighted
But I doe sing, etc.

I know more than Apollo,
For oft, when he lys sleeping,
I see the starres att bloudie warres
In the wounded welkin weeping;
The moone embrace her shepheard,
And the queen of Love her warrior,
While the first doth horne the star of morne,
And the next the heavenly Farrier.
While I doe sing, etc.

The Gipsie Snap and Pedro
Are none of Tom’s comradoes,
The punk I skorne and the cut purse sworn
And the roaring boyes bravadoe.
The meeke, the white, the gentle,
Me handle touch and spare not
But those that crosse Tom Rynosseros
Doe what the panther dare not
Although I sing, etc.

With an host of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander,
With a burning speare, and a horse of aire,
To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghostes and shadowes
I summon’d am t tourney
Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end
Me thinke it is noe journey.
Yet will I sing etc.

Anonymous

Sir Walter Rauleigh his lamentation:
Who was beheaded in the old Pallace at West-
minster the 29. of October, 1618.

To the tune of Welladay.

See Note.

Courteous kind Gallants all,
pittie me, pittie me,
My time is now but small,
here to continue:
Thousands of people stay,
To see my dying day,
Sing I then welladay,
woefully mourning.

Once in a gallant sort
lived I, lived I,
Belov’d in Englands court
graced with honours:
Sir Walter Rauleighs name
Had then a noble fame:
Though turned now to shame
through my misdoing.

In youth I was too free
of my will, of my will,
Which now deceiveth me
of my best fortunes:
All that same gallant traine
Which I did then maintaine,
Holds me now in disdaine
For my vaine folly.

When as Queene Elizabeth
Ruld this land, ruld this land,
I trode the honord path
of a brave Courtier;
Offices I had store,
Heapt on me more and more,
And my selfe I in them bore
proud and commanding.

Gone are those golden dayes,
woe is me woe is me:
Offences many waies
brought unto triall,
Shewes that disloyaltie
Done to his Majestie,
Judgeth me thus to dye;
Lord for thy pitie.

But the good graces here
of my King, of my King,
Shewd to me many a years
makes my soule happie
In that his royall Grace
Gave me both time and space
Repentance to embrace:
now heaven be praised.

Thirteene yeare in the Tower
have I lien, have I lien,
Before this appointed houre
of my lifes ending:
Likewise such libertie
Had I unluckily,
To be sent gallantly
out on a voyage.

But that same voyage then
prov’d amiss, prov’d amiss,
Many good gentlemen
lost their good fortunes:
All that with me did goe
Had sudden overthrowe
My wicked wil to shew
gainst my deere Countrey.

When I returned backe,
hoping grace, hoping grace,
The Tower againe alack
was my abiding
Where for offences past,
My life againe was cast
Woe on woe followed fast
to my confusion.

It pleas’d my royall King
thus to doe, thus to doe,
That his peeres should me bring
to my lifes judgment.
The Lieutenant of the Tower
Kept me fast in his power
Till the appointed houre
of my removing.

The Second Part

To Westminster then was I
garded strong, garded strong
Where many a wandring eye
saw me convayed
Where I a Judgment had,
For my offences bad,
Which was to loose my head,
there the next morning.

So to the Gatehouse there,
was I sent, was I sent,
By knights and Gentlemen,
guarding me safely,
Where all that wofull night,
My heart tooke no delight:
Such is the heavie plight
of a poore prisoner.

Calling then to my mind,
all my joyes, all my joyes,
Whereto I was inclind,
living in pleasures:
All those dayes past and gone,
Brings me now care and mone,
Being thus overthrowne,
by mine owne folly.

When the sad morning came
I should die, I should die:
O what a fright of shame
filld up my bosome:
My heart did almost breake,
When I heard people speake,
I shold my ending make
as a vile traitor.

I thought my fortune hard,
when I saw, when I saw
In the faire palace yard
a scaffold prepared
My loathed life to end:
On which I did ascend,
Having at all no friend
there to grant mercy.

Kneeling downe on my knee,
willingly, willingly,
Pray’d for his Majestie
long to continue:
And for his Nobles all,
With subjects great and small,
Let this my wofull fall
be a fit warning.

And you that hither come
thus to see, thus to see
My most unhappy doome:
pittie my ending.
A Christian true I die:
Papestrie I defie,
Nor never Atheist I
as is reported.

You Lords & knights also
in this place, in this place
Some gentle love bestow,
pity my falling:
As I rose suddenly
Up to great dignities,
So I deservedly
die for my folly.

Farewell my loving wife,
woe is me, woe is me:
Mournefull will be thy life,
left a sad widow.
Farewell my children sweet,
We never more shall meet
Till we each other greet,
blessed in heaven.

With this my dying knell
willingly, willingly,
Bid I the world farewell
full of vaine shadowes
All her deluding showes
Brings my heart naught but woes
Who rightly feeles and knows
all her deceivings.

Thus with my dying breath
doe I kiss, doe I kiss
This axe that for my death
here is provided:
May I feele little paine,
When as it cuts in twaine
What my life must sustaine,
all her deceivings.

My head on block is laid,
and my last part is plaid:
Fortune hath me betraid,
sweet Jesus grant mercy.
Thou that my headsman art,
When thou list, when thou list,
Without feare doe thy part,
I am prepared:

Thus here my end I take
farewell world, farewell world,
And my last will I make,
climing to heaven:
For this my offence,
I die with true penitence,
Jesus receive me hence:
farewell sweet England.

Anonymous (1618)

A Psalm or Hymn to the Graces

Glory be to the Graces!
That do in public places
Drive thence whate’er encumbers
The listening to my numbers.

Honour be to the Graces!
Who do with sweet embraces,
Show they are well contented
With what I have invented.

Worship be to the Graces!
Who do from sour faces,
And lungs that would infect me,
For evermore protect me.

Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

The White Island; or Place of the Blest

In this world (the Isle of Dreames)
While we sit by sorrowes streames,
Teares and terrors are our theames
Reciting:

But when once from hence we flie,
More and more approaching nigh
Unto young Eternitie
Uniting:

In that whiter Island, where
Things are evermore sincere;
Candor here, and lustre there
Delighting:

There no monstrous fancies shall
Out of hell an horrour call,
To create (or cause at all)
Affrighting.

There in calm and cooling sleep
We our eyes shall never steep;
But eternal watch shall keep,
Attending

Pleasures, such as shall pursue
Me immortaliz’d, and you;
And fresh joyes, as never to
Have ending.

Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

Why dost thou shade thy lovely face

Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny
The sunshine of thy soul-enliv’ning eye?

Without thy light, what light remains in me?
Thou art my life, my way; my light; in thee;
I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

Thou art my life; if thou but turn away
My life’s a thousand deaths; thou art my way;
Without thee, Lord, I travel not but stray.

My light thou art; without thy glorious sight
My eyes are darken’d with eternal night;
My God, thou art my way, my life, my light.

Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly;
Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I;
Thou art my light, if thou withdraw I die.

Mine eyes are blind and dark, I cannot see;
To whom or whither should my darkness flee,
But to that light, and who’s that light but thee?

My path is lost, my wand’ring steps do stray;
I cannot safely go, nor safely stay;
Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?

Oh, I am dead; to whom shall I, poor I,
Repair? to whom shall my sad ashes fly,
But life? And where is life but in thine eye?

And yet thou turn’st thy face away and fly’st me;
And yet I sue for grace and thou deny’st me;
Speak, art thou angry, Lord, or only try’st me?

Unscreen those heavenly lamps, or tell me why
Thou shad’st thy face; perhaps thou think’st no eye
Can view their flames, and not drop down and die.

If that be all, shine forth and draw thee nigher,
Let me be bold and die, for my desire,
Is phoenix-like to perish in that fire.

Death-conquer’d Laz’rus was redeem’d by thee;
If I am dead, Lord, set death’s prisoner free;
Am I more spent, or stink I worse than he?

If my puff’d life be out, give leave to tine
My shameless snuff at that bright lamp of thine;
Oh! what’s thy light the less for lighting mine?

If I have lost my path, great Shepherd, say
Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
Lord, shall a lamb of Israel’s sheep-fold stray?

Thou art the pilgrim’s path, the blind man’s eye,
The dead man’s life; on thee my hopes rely;
If thou remove, I err, I grope, I die.

Dissolve thy sun beams; close thy wings, and stay;
See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray,
Oh thou, that art my life, my light, my way.

Then work thy will; if passion bid me flee,
My reason shall obey, my wings shall be
Stretched out no further than from me to thee

Francis Quarles (1592–1644)

An Old Souldier of the Queen

Of an old Souldier of the Queens,
With an old motley coat, and a Maumsie nose,
And an old Jerkin that’s out at the elbows,
And an old pair of boots, drawn on without hose
Stuft with rags instead of toes;
And an old Souldier of the Queens,
And the Queen’s old Souldier.

With an old rusty sword that’s hackt with blows,
And an old dagger to scare away the crows,
And an old horse that reels as he goes,
And an old saddle that no man knows,
And an old Souldier of the Queens,
And the Queens old Souldier.

With his old wound in Eighty-Eight,
Which he recover’d at Tilbury fight;
With an old Pasport that never was read,
That in his old travels stood him in great stead;
And an old Souldier of the Queens,
And the Queens old Souldier.

With his old Gun, and his Bandeliers,
And an old head-piece to keep warm his ears,
With an old shirt is grown to wrack,
With a hugr Louse, with a great list on his back,
Is able to carry a Pedlar and his Pack;
And an old Souldier of the Queens,
And the Queens old Souldier.

With an old Quean to lie by his side,
That in old time had been pockifi’d;
He’s now rid to Bohemia to fight with his foes,
And he swears by his Valour he’ll have better cloaths
Or else he’ll lose legs, arms, fingers, and toes,
And he’ll come again, when no man knows,
And an old Souldier of the Queens,
And the Queens old Souldier.

Maumsie> Malmsey

Anon.

A Prognostication on Will Laud, late Archbishop of Canterbury

My little lord, methinks ’tis strange,
That you should suffer such a change,
In such a little space.
You that so proudly t’other day,
Did rule the king, and country sway,
Must budge to ’nother place.

Remember now from whence you came,
And that your grandsires of your name,
Were dressers of old cloth.
Go, bid the dead men bring their shears,
And dress your coat to save your ears,
Or pawn your head for both.

The wind shakes cedars that are tall,
An haughty mind must have a fall,
You are but low I see;
And good it had been for you still,
If both your body, mind, and will,
In equal shape should be.

The king by heark’ning to your charms,
Hugg’d our destruction in his arms,
And gates to foes did ope;
Your staff would strike his cepter down,
Your mitre would o’ertop the crown,
If you should be a Pope.

But you that did so firmly stand,
To bring in Popery in this land,
Have miss’d your hellish aim;
Your saints fall down, your angels fly,
Your crosses on yourself do lie,
Your craft will be your shame.

We scorn that Popes with crozier staves,
Mitres or keys, should make us slaves,
And to their feet to bend:
The Pope and his malicious crew,
We hope to handle all, like you,
And bring them to an end.

The silenc’d clergy, void of fear,
In your damnation will bear share,
And speak their mind at large:
Your cheese-cake cap and magpie gown,
That make such strife in every town,
Must now defray your charge.

Within this six year six ears have
Been cropped off worthy men and grave,
For speaking what was true;
But if your subtle head and ears
Can satisfy those six of theirs,
Expect but what’s your due.

Poor people that have felt your rod,
Yield laud to the Devil, praise to God,
For freeing them from thrall;
Your little grace, for want of grace,
Must lose your patriarchal place,
And have no grace at all.

Your white lawn sleeves that were the wings
Whereon you soared to lofty things,
Must be your fins to swim;
Th’Archbishop’s see by Thames must go,
With him into the Tower below,
There to be rack’d like him.

Your oath cuts deep, your lies hurt sore,
You canons made Scot’s cannon roar,
But now I hope you’ll find,
That there are cannons in the Tower,
Will quickly batter down your power,
And sink your haughty mind.

The commonalty have made a vow,
No oath, no canons to allow,
No Bishop’s Common Prayer;
No lazy prelates that shall spend
Such great revenues to no end,
But virtue to impair.

Dumb dogs that wallow in such store,
That would suffice above a score
Pastors of upright will;
Now they’ll make all the bishops teach,
And you must in the pulpit preach,
That stands on Tower Hill.

When the young lads to you did come,
You knew their meaning by the drum,
You had better yielded then;
Your heart and body then might have
One death, one burial, and one grave,
By boys—but two by men.

But you that by your judgments clear
Will make five quarters in a year
And hang them on the gates,
That head shall stand upon the bridge,
When yours shall under Traitors trudge,
And smile on your miss’d pates.

The little Wren that soar’d so high
Thought on his wings away to fly,
Like Finch, I know not whither;
But now the subtle whirly-Wind-
Debanke hath left the bird behind,
You two must flock together.

A bishop’s head, a deputy’s breast,
A Finch’s tongue, a Wren from’s nest,
Will set the Devil on foot;
He’s like to have a dainty dish,
At once both flesh and fowl and fish,
And Duck and Lamb to boot.

But this I say, that your lewd life
Did fill both Church and State with strife,
And trample on the Crown;
Like a bless’d martyr you will die
For Church’s good; she rises high,
When such as you fall down.

Anon

A Prayer

Eternal reason, glorious majesty,
Compared to whom what can be said to be?
Whose attributes are thee, who art alone
Cause of all various things, and yet but one;
Whose essence can no more be searched by man,
Than Heaven thy throne be graspéd with a span.
Yet is this great creation was designed
To several ends fitted for ev’ry kind;
Sure man (the world’s epitome) must be
Formed to the best, that is, to study thee.
And as our dignity, ‘tis duty too,
Which is formed up in this, to know and do.
These comely rows of creatures spell thy name,
Whereby we grope to find from whence they came,
By thy own chain of causes brought to think
There must be one, then find that highest link.
Thus all created excellence we see
Is a resemblance faint and dark of thee.
Such shadows are produced by the moon-beams
Of trees or houses in the running streams.
Yet by impressions born with us we find
How good, great, just thou art, how unconfined.
Here we are swallowed up and gladly dwell,
Safely adoring what we cannot tell.
All we know is, thou art supremely good,
And dost delight to be so understood;
A spicy mountain on the universe,
On which thy richest odours do disperse.
But as the sea to fill a vessel heaves
More greedily than any cask receives,
Besieging round to find some gap in it,
Which will a new infusion admit:
So dost thou covet that thou may’st dispense
Upon the empty world thy influence;
Lov’st to disburse thy self in kindness: Thus
The king of kings waits to be gracious.
On this account, O God, enlarge my heart
To entertain what thou wouldst fain impart.
Nor let that soul, by several titles thine,
And most capacious formed for things divine,
(So nobly meant, that when it most doth miss,
‘Tis in mistaken pantings after bliss)
Degrade itself in sordid things delight,
Or by profaner mixtures lose its right.
Oh! that with first unbroken thoughts it may
Admire the light which does obscure the day.
And since ‘tis angels work it hath to do,
May its components be like angels too.
When shall these clogs of sense and fancy break,
That I may hear the God within me speak,
When with a silent and retired Art
Shall I with all this empty hurry part?
To the still voice above, my soul, advance;
My light and joy placed in his countenance.
By whose dispence my soul to such frame brought,
May tame each treach’rous, fix each scatt’ring thought;
With such distinctions all things here behold,
And so to separate each dross from gold,
That nothing my free soul may satisfy,
But t’imitate, enjoy, and study thee.

Katherine Philips (1631–1664)

To Mrs. Mary Awbrey

Soul of my soul, my joy, my crown, my friend,
A name which all the rest doth comprehend,
How happy are we now, whose souls are grown
By an incomparable mixture one:
Whose well-acquainted minds are now as near
As love, or vows, or friendship can endear?
I have no thought but what’s to thee revealed,
Nor thou desire that is from me concealed.
Thy heart locks up my secrets richly set,
And my breast is thy private cabinet.
Thou find’st no tear but what my moisture lent,
And if I sigh, it is thy breath is spent.
United thus, what horror can appear
Worthy our sorrow, anger, or our fear?
Let the dull world alone to talk and fight,
And with their vast ambitions Nature fright;
Let them despise so innocent a flame,
While envy, pride and faction play their game:
But we by love sublimed so high shall rise,
To pity kings, and conquerors despise,’
Since we that sacred union have engrssed
Which they and all the factious world have lost.

Katherine Philips (1631–1664)

Wiston Vault

And why this vault and tomb? alike we must
Put off distinction, and put on our dust.
Nor can the stateliest fabric help to save
From the corruption of a common grave;
Nor for the resurrection more prepare,
Than if the dust were scattered into air.
What then? Th’ambition’s just, say some, that we
May thus perpetuate our memory.
Ah false vain task of art! ah poor weak man!
Whose monument does more than’s merit can:
Why by his friends’ best care and love’s abused,
And in his very epitaph accused:
For did they not suspect his name would fall,
There would not need an epitaph at all.
But after death too I would be alive,
And shall, if my Lucasia do, survive.
I quit these pomps of death, and am content,
Having her heart to be my monument:
Though ne’er stone to me, ‘twill stone for me prove,
By the peculiar miracle of love.
There I’ll inscription have which no tomb gives,
Not, Here Orinda lies, but, Here she lives.

Katherine Philips (1631–1664)

Orinda to Lucasia

I

Observe the weary birds, e’er night be done,
How they would fain call up the tardy sun:
With feathers hung with dew
And trembling voices too,
They court their glorious planet to appear,
That they may find recruits of spirits there.
The drooping flowers hang their heads,
And languish down into their beds:
While brooks more bold and fierce than they,
Wanting those beams, from whence
All things drink influence,
Openly murmur, and demand the day.

II

Thou my Lucasia are for more to me,
Than he to all the under-world can be;
From thee I’ve heat and light,
Thy absence makes my night.
But ah! my friend, it now grows very long,
The sadness weighty, and the darkness strong:
My tears (its dew) dwell on my cheeks,
And still my heart thy dawning seeks,
And to thee mournfully it cries,
That if too long I wait,
E’en thou may’st come too late,
And not restore my life, but close my eyes.

Katherine Philips (1631–1664)

The Salutation

These little limbs,
These eyes and hand which here I find,
This panting heart wherewith my life begins,
Where have ye been? Behind
What curtain were ye from me hid so long?
Where was, in what abyss, my new-made tongue?

When silent I
So many thousand thousand years
Beneath the dust did in a chaos lie,
How could I, smiles or tears,
Or lips or hands or eyes or ears, perceive?
Welcome ye treasures which I now receive.

I that so long
Was nothing from eternity,
Did little think such joys as ear or tongue
To celebrate or see;
Such sounds to hear, such hands to feel, such feet,
Such eyes and objects, on the ground to meet.

New burnished joys
Which finest gold and pearl excel!
Such sacred treasures are the limbs of boys,
In which a soul doth dwell;
Their organizéd joints and azure veins
More wealth include than the dead world contains.

From dust I rise,
And out of nothing now awake;
These brighter regions which saluye mine eyes,
A gift from God I take.
The earth, the sea, the light, the lofty skies,
The sun and stars are mine; if these I prize.

A stranger here
Strange things doth meet, strange glory see;
Strange treasures lodged in this fair world appear,
Strange all and new to me;
But that they mine should be, who nothing was,
That strangest is of all, yet brought to pass.

Thomas Traherne (1637?–1674)

The Poor Client’s Complaint

Done out of BUCHANAN.

Colin, by Promise, being oblig’d to pay
Me such a Sum, betwixt and such a Day:
I ask’d it, he refus’d it. I addrest
Aulus the Lawyer: He reply’d, It’s best
To sue him at the Law, I’ll make him Debtor;
Your Cause is good, there cannot be a better.
Being thus advis’d, away to Pete I trudge,
Pray him, & pay him to bespeak the Judge.
Engag’d thus far, be’t better, be it worse,
I must proceed, and thus I do dispurse,
For writing Summons, signing, signeting
With a red Plaister and a Paper Ring;
For summoning the Principal, and then
For citing Witnesses to say, Amen;
For Execution (alias Indorsations)
For Tabling, Calling with Continuations;
Next for consulting Aulus and his Man,
(For he must be consulted now and then)
For Pleading in the Outter house and Inner
From Ten to Twelve, then Aulus goes to Dinner;
For writing Bills, for reading them, for Answers
More dubious than those of Necromancers;
For Interlocutors, for little Acts;
For large Decreet, and their as large Extracts,
For Hornings, for discussing of Suspensions,
Full stuff’d with Lies & frivolous Pretentions;
For Please your Lordships, & such like Petitions;
For raising and for serving Inhibitions;
And for Comprisings or Adjudications,
For their Allowances for Registration,
And many, many, many other Ations,
Which may be sum’d up in one Word Vexations.
Then unexpectedly, upon a small
Defect alleg’d, Colin reduces all.
We to’t again, and Aulus doth disjoint
The Process, and debates it Point by Point.
The Cause at length’s concluded, but not ended.
That made me wonder! Aulus he pretended,
Decreets must not be given out at Random,
But must abide a serious Avisandum,
Conform to Course of Roll; when that will be,
Indeed I cannot tell, nor yet can he.
Thus Aulus hath for Ten Years Space extended
Vast Sums, and further more I have expended
Vast Sum, to wit, for washing, Lodging, Diet,
Yet seldom did I sleep or eat in Queit.
For Coal, for Candle, Paper, Pen and Ink,
And such like Things, which truly one would think,
Were insignificant, but yet they’re come
In Ten Years Space unto a pretty Sum.
To Macers, Turn keys, Agents, Catchpoles, Petes,
Servants, Sub-servants, petty Foggers, Cheats;
For Morning-Drinks, Four-hours, half Gils at Noon,
To fit their Stomacks for the Fork and Spoon,
To which they go; but I poor Man, mean while,
Slip quietly to th’Earl of Murray’s Isle.
We meet again at Two, then to Digest
Their Bellyful, they’ll have a Gill at least,
Sometimes a double One; for Brandy-wine
Can only end the War cal’d Intestine,
For Mum, Sack, Claret, White-wine, Port, Bear, Ale,
(One he would have it new, another stale,
Both must be pleas’d) for Pipes, Tobacco, Snuff,
Twist, Coffee, Tea, and also greasie Stuff
Call’d Chocolate, Punch, Clarified Whey,
With other drinks, all which I duly pay:
For Rolls, for Nackets, Roundabouts, Sour-Cakes,
For Cheshire-Cheese, fresh Butter, Cookies, Bakes,
For Panches, Saucers, Sheepheads, Cheats, Plackpyes,
Lamb-legs, Lamb Kernels, and Lamb Privities,
Skate, Lobsters Oysters Mussels Wilks Neats Tongues.
One he for Leeks, Beer, and Red-herring longs,
This must be had, another doth prefer
Raw herrings, Onions, Oyl, Spice, Vinegar;
Rare Composition! And he’s truly sorry
It’s not in Culpeper’s Dispensatory:
For Apples, Pears, Plumbs, Turneeps, Radishes,
With fourty other Things I have forgot,
And I’m a Villain if I pay’d them not.
Moreover my Affairs at Home sustain
Both the emergent Loss, and cessant Gain;
Aulus himself terms this a double Loss,
And I call him and it a triple Cross.
By all these means, my Expence do surmount
Near ten times, ten times Colin’s first Account,
And now ere that I wholly be bereft
Of th’little Time and Money to me left,
I’m at the length resolved thus to do,
I’ll shun my Debitor and Lawyer too.
And after this I never will give Credit
Unto one Word, if either of them said it.
You’ll ask, Which of the two I’d rather shun?
Aulus; ’tis he, ’tis he hath me undone.
I’ve Words from both, yet sad Experience tells
That Colin gives, but Aulus dearly sells.

Th’unweary Reader thinks, perhaps that I
Have pen’d a Satyre ’gainst the Faculty:
’Gainst those who by their accurate Debates
Maintain our Rights, and settle our Estates;
Who do their very Lungs with Pleading spend,
Us ’gainst Oppressors stiffly to defend.
A gross Mistake! For I’ll be sworn, I do
Admire their Parts and their Profession too
I wish that Law and Lawyers both may thrive,
And at the Height of Grandeur so arrive,
That in all good Men’s [eyes] they may appear,
Like burnisht Gold, both beautiful and clear.
That this may be, (and ’tis for this I pray)
Rust must be scour’d off, Cobwebs swept away.

Anonymous?

The Blythsome Wedding

See Glossary/a> and Note

Fy let us a’ to the bridal,
For there will be lilting there;
For Jocky’s to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi’ the gowden hair;
And there will be lang-kail and pottage,
And bannocks of barley-meal,
And there will be good sawt-herring,
To relish a cog of good ale.
Fy let us a’ to the bridal, &c

And there will be Sawney the sutor,
And Will wi’ the meikle mou’,
And there will be Tom the blutter,
And Andrew the tinkler I trow,
And there will be bow-legg’d Robbie,
And thumbless Katy’s goodman,
And there will be blue-cheeked Dowbie,
And Lawrie the laird of the land.
Fy let us, &c

And there will be sow-libber Patie,
And plucky-fac’d Wat i’ the mill,
Capper-nos’d Francie, and Gibbie
That wins in the how of the hill,
And there will be Alaster Sibbie
Wha in with black Bessie did mool,
And sniveling Lilly and Tibby,
The lass that stands aft on the stool.
Fy let us, &c

And Madge that was buckled to Steenie,
And cost him grey breeks to his arse,
And after was hangit for stealing,
Great mercy it happen’d na warse;
And there will be gleed Geodie Janners,
And Kirsh wi’ the lilly-white leg,
Wha gade to the south for manners,
And bang’d up her wamb in Mons-Meg.
Fy let us, &c

And there will be Judan Maclawrie,
And blinkin daft Barbara and Macleg,
Wi’ flae-lugged sharney-fac’d Lawrie,
And shangy-mou’d haluket Meg.
And there will be happer-ars’d Nansy,
And fairy-fac’d Flowrie by name,
Muck Madie, and fat-hippit Grisy,
The lass wi’ the gowden wame.
Fy let us, &c

And there will be Girn-again Gibbie,
And his glaikit wife Jenny Bell,
And misle-shinn’d Mungo Macapie,
The lad that was skipper himsell.
There lads and lassies in pearlings,
Will feast in the heart of the ha,
On sybows, and rifarts, and carlings,
That are baith sodden and raw.
Fy let us, &c

There will be fadges and brachan,
With fowth of good gabbocks of skate,
Powsowdy, and drammock, and crowdy,
And cauler nowt-feet in a plate;
And there will be partans and buckies,
And whitens and speldings anew,
With sing’d sheep-heads, and a haggis,
And scadlips to sup till ye spew.
Fy let us, &c

And there will be lapper’d-milk kebbocks,
And sowens, and farls, and baps,
And swats, and well-scraped paunches,
And brandy in stoups and in caps;
And there will be meal-kail and castocks,
With skink to sup till ye rive,
And roasts to roast on a brander,
Of flowks that were taken alive.
Fy let us, &c

Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dulse and tangle,
And a mill of good snishing to prie;
When weary with eating and drinking,
We’ll rise up and dance till we die.
Then fy let us all to the bridal,
For there will be lilting there;
For Jocky’s to be married to Maggie,
The lass with the gowden hair.

Francis Sempill (1616?–1686)

On the Death of Mr. William Harvey

It was a dismal, and a fearful night,
Scarce could the Morn drive on th’unwilling Light,
When Sleep, Death’s image, left my troubled breast
By something liker Death possest.
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
And on my soul hung the dull weight
Of some intolerable fate.
What bell was that? Ah me too much I know!

My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,
Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end for ever, and my life to moan?
O thou hast left me all alone!
Thy soul and body, when death’s agony
Besieged around thy noble heart,
Did not with more reluctance part
Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee.

My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee!
Life and this world henceforth will tedious be:
Nor shall I know hereafter what to do
If once my griefs prove tedious too.
Silent and sad I walk about all day,
As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by
Where their hid treasures lie;
Alas! my treasure’s gone; why do I stay?

Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
How oft unwearied have we spent the nights,
Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love,
Wonder’d at us from above!
We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;
But search of deep Philosophy,
Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry—
Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
Have ye not seen us walking every day?
Was there a tree about which did not know
The love betwixt us two?
Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade;
Or your sad branches thicker join,
And into darkness shades combine,
Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid!

Large was his soul; as large a soul as e’er
Submitted to inform a body here;
High as the place ‘twas shortly in Heaven to have,
But low and humble as his grave;
So high that all the virtues there did come,
As to their chiefest seat
Conspicuous and great;
So low, that for me too it made a room.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
As if for him Knowledge had rather sought;
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
In such a short mortality.
Whene’er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,
Still did the notions throng
About his eloquent tongue,
Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Yet never did his God or friends forget;
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
Retired, and gave to them their due.
For the rich help of books he always took,
Though his own searching mind before
Was so with notions written o’er,
As if wise Nature had made that her book.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
He always lived, as other saints do die.
Still with his soul severe account he kept,
Weeping all debts out e’er he slept.
Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
Like the sun’s laborious light,
Which still in water sets at night,
Unsullid with his journey of the day.

But happy Thou, ta’en from this frantic age,
Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage!
A fitter time for Heaven no soul e’er chose—
The place now only free from those.
There ’mong the blest thou dost for ever shine;
And wheresoe’er thou casts thy view
Upon that white and radiant crew,
See’st not a soul clothed with more light than thine.

Abraham Cowley (1618–1667)

La Bella Bona-Roba

I cannot tell who loves the skeleton
Of a poor marmoset, naught but bone, bone;
Give me a nakedness with her clothes on.

Such whose white-satin upper coat of skin
Cut upon velvet rich incardadine,
Has yet a body (and of flesh) within.

Sure it is meant good husbandry in men,
Who do incorporate with airy lean,
T’repair their sides and get their rib again.

Hard hap unto that huntsman that decrees
Fat joys for all his sweat, whenas he sees
After his ‘say, naught but his keeper’s fees.

Then, Love, I beg, when next thou tak’st thy bow,
Thy angry shafts, and does heart-hunting go,
Pass rascal deer, strike me the largest doe.

Richard Lovelace (1618–1658)

A Satyre entitled the Witch—Note

Supposed to be made against the Lady Francis Countess of Somerset

Shee with whom troopes of Bustuary slaves
(Like Legion) sojourned still amongst the Graves;
And there laid plots which made the silver Moone
To fall in Labour many times too soone:
Canidia now drawes on.

Shee that in every vice did so excell
That Shee could read new principles to Hell;
And shew the Fiends recorded in her looks,
Such deeds, as were not in their blackest books:
Canidia now drawes on.

Shee that by spells could make a frozen stone
Melt and dissolve with soft affection;
And in an instant strike the Factours dead
That should pay duties to the Marriage Bed:
Canidia now drawes on.

Shee that consisted all of borrowd grace,
Could paint her heart as smoothly as her face,
And when her breath give wings to silken words,
Poisons in thoughts conceive and murthering swords:
Canidia now drawes on.

Shee that could reeke within the sheets of lust,
And there be searcht, yet passe without mistrust;
Shee that could surfle upp the waies of sinne,
And make streight Posternes where wide gates had bin:
Canidia now drawes on.

Shee that could cheate the matrimoniall bed,
With a false-stampt adulterate maidenhead
And make the Husband think those kisses chast,
Which were stale Panders to his Spouses wast:
Canidia now drawes on.

Whose brest was that Aceldama of blood.
Whose virtue still became the Cankers food;
Whose closet might a Golgotha bee stil’d,
Or else a charnell where dead bones are pil’d:
Canidia now drawes on.

Whose waxen pictures made by Incantation,
Whose philters, potions for Loves propagation;
Count Circe but a novice in the trade,
And scorn all druggs that Colchos ever made:
Canidia now drawes on.

Oh let no Bells bee ever heard to ring,
Let not a Chime the nightly houres sing;
Let not the Lyrique Larke salute the day
Nor Philomele tune the sad dark away:
Canidia still drawes on.

Let croaking Ravens, and death-boding Owles,
Let groning Mandrakes, and the ghastly howles
Of men unburied, be the fatall knell:
To ring Canidia downe from Earth to Hell:
Canidia still drawes on.

Let Wolves and Tygers howle, let Serpents cry,
Let Basilisks bedew their poisoning eie;
Let Plutos dogg stretch high his barking note,
And chant her dirges with his triple throate:
Canidia still drawes on.

Under his burthen let great Atlas quake,
Let the fixt Earth’s unmovèd center shake;
And the faire Heavens wrapp’t as it were with wonder
That Devills dye, speake out their loudest thunder;
Canidia still drawes on.

No longer shall the pretty Marigolds
Ly sepulchred at night in their owne folds;
The Rose should flourish, and throughout the years
No leafe nor plant once blasted would appeare:
Were once Canidia gone

The Starres would seeme as glorious as the Moone,
And Shee like Phoebus in his brightest noone;
Mists, cloud and vapours, all would passe away,
And the whole yeare bee as Halcyon’s day:
Oh were Canidia gone.

ca. 1622?

Upon the Theme of Love

O Love, how thou art tired out with Rhyme!
Thou art a tree, whereon all poets climb,
And from thy tender branches every one
Doth take some fruit, which Fancy feeds upon:
But now thy tree is left so bare and poor,
That they can hardly gather one plum more.

Margaret Cavendish (ca. 1623–1673)

Meditation Twenty

Philippians II: 9: Wherefore God also hath highly exalted him.

View, all ye eyes above, this sight which flings
Seraphick Phancies in Chill Raptures high:
A Turffe of Clay, and yet bright Glories King:
From dust to Glory Angell-like to fly.
A Mortall Clod immortaliz’d behold,
Flyes through the skies swifter than Angells could.

Upon the Wings he of the Winde rode in
His Bright Sedan, through all the Silver Skies,
And made the Azure Cloud, his Charriot, bring
Him to the Mountain of Celestiall joyes.
The Prince o’ th’ Aire durst not an Arrow spend,
While through his Realm his Charriot did ascend.

He did not in a Fiery Charriot’s shine,
And Whirlewinde, like Elias upward goe.
But th’golden Ladders Jasper rounds did climbe
Unto the Heavens high from Earth below.
Each step had on a Golden Stepping Stone
Of Deity unto his very Throne.

Methinks I see Heavens sparklingl Courtiers fly,
In flakes of Glory down him to attend;
And heare Heart Cramping notes of Melody
Surround his Charriot as it did ascend:
Mixing their Musick, making e’vry strong
More to inravish, as they this tune sing.

God is Gone up with a triumphant shout:
The Lord with sounding Trumpets melodies:
Sing Praise, sing Praise, sing Praise, sing Praises out,
Unto our King sing praise seraphick-wise!
Lift up your Heads, ye lasting Doore, they sing,
And let the King of Glory Enter in.

Art thou ascended up on high, my Lord,
And must I be without thee here below?
Art thou the sweetest joy the Heavens afford?
Oh! that I with thee was! What shall I do?
Should I pluck Feathers from an Angells Wing,
They could not waft me up to thee my King.

Lend mee thy Wings, my Lord, I’st fly apace,
My Soules Arms stud with thy strong Quills, true Faith;
My Quills then Feather with thy Saving Grace,
My Wings will take the Winde thy Word displai’th.
Then I shall fly up to thy glorious Throne
With my strong Wings whose Feathers are thine own.

Edward Taylor (1642–1679)

Meditation Sixty-Two

Second Series

Canticle 1: 12: While the king sitteth at his table,
my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof.

Oh! thou, my Lord, thou king of Saints, here mak’st
A royall Banquet, thine to entertain
With rich and royall fare, Celestial Cates,
And sittest at the Table rich of fame.
Am I bid to this Feast? Sure Angells stare,
Such Rugged looks, and Ragged robes I ware.

I’le surely com; Lord, fit mee for this feast:
Purge me with Palma Christi from my sin.
With Plastrum Gratiae Dei, or at least
Unguent Apostolorum healing bring.
Give me thy Sage and Savory: me dub
With Golden Rod, and with Saint Johns Wort good.

Root up my Henbain, Fawnbain, Divells bit,
My Dragons, Chokewort, Crosswort, Ragwort, vice:
And set my knot with Honeysuckles, stick
Rich Herb-a-Grace, and Grains of Paradise,
Angelica, yes, Sharons Rose the best,
And Herba Trinitatis in my breast.

Then let thy Sweetspike sweat its liquid Dew
Into my Crystall Viall, and there swim.
And, as thou at thy Table in Rich Shew
With royal Dainties, sweet discourse as King
Dost Welcome thine, My Spiknard with its smell
Shall vapour out perfumed Spirits Well./p>

Whether I at thy Table Guest do sit,
And feed my tast, or Wait, and fat mine Eye
And Eare with Sights and Sounds, Heart Raptures fit:
My Spicknard breaths its sweet perfumes with joy.
My heart thy Viall with this spicknard fill,
Perfumed praise to thee then breath it will.

Edward Taylor (1642–1679)

The Platonic Lady

I could love thee till I die,
Wouldst thou love me modestly,
And never press me whilst I live,
For more than willingly I’d give;
Which should sufficient be to prove
I’d understand the Art of Love.

I hate the thing is called enjoyment,
Besides, it is a dull employment.
It cuts off all that’s life and fire
From that which may be termed desire;
Just like the bee, whose sting being gone
Converts the owner to a drone.

I love a youth will give me leave
His body in my arms to wreathe,
To press him gently and to kiss,
To sigh and look with eyes that wish
For what if I could once obtain,
I would neglect with flat disdain.

I’d give him liberty to toy,
And play with me and count it joy.
Our freedoms should be full complete,
And nothing wanting but the feat.
Let’s practice then and we shall prove
These are the only sweets of Love.

John Wilmot (1647–1680)

Song: Love a Woman

Love a woman! You’re an ass!
‘Tis a most insipid passion
To choose out for your happiness
The silliest part of God’s creation.

Let the porter and the groom,
Things designed for dirty slaves,
Drudge in fair Aurelia’s womb,
To get supplies for age and graves.

Farewell woman, I intend
Henceforth every night to sit,
With my lewd well-natured friend,
Drinking to engender wit.

Then give me health, wealth, mirth, and wine,
And if busy love intrenches,
There’s a sweet soft page, of mine,
Can do the trick worth forty wenches.

John Wilmot (1647–1680)

A History of Insipids

See Glossary/a> and Note

I

Chaste, pious, prudent Charles the Second,
The miracle of thy restoration,
May like to that of quails be reckon’d,
Rain’d on the Israelitish nation:
The wish’d for blessing which Heaven sent,
Became their curse and punishment.

II

The virtues in thee, Charles, inherent
(Although thy countenance be an odd piece)
Proves thee as true a God’s viceregent
As e’er was Harry with the cod-piece:
For chastity and pious deeds,
His grandsire Harry Charles exceeds.

III

Our Romish bondage-breaker Harry,
Espousèd half a dozen wives;
Charles only one resolves to marry,
And other men’s he never swives;
Yet hath he sons and daughters more
Than e’er had Harry by threescore.

IV

Never was such a Faith’s Defender;
He, like a politic prince and pious,
Gives liberty to conscience tender
And does to no religion tie us:
Jews, Christians, Turks, Papists, he’ll please us,
With Moses, Mahomet, Pope, and Jesus.

V

In all affairs of Church and State,
He very zealous is, and able,
Devout at prayer, and sits up late,
At the Cabal and council-table;
His very dogs at council board
Sit grave and wise like any Lord.

VI

Let Charles’s policy no man flout—
The wisest kings have all some folly—
Nor let his piety any doubt;
Charles, like a sovereign wise and holy,
Makes young men judges of the bench,
And bishops those that love a wench.

VII

His father’s foes he doth reward,
Preserving those that cut off’s head:
Old cavaliers, the Crown’s best guard,
He leaves to starve for want of bread.
Never was any king endu’d
With so much grace and gratitude.

VIII

Blood that wears treason on his face,
Villain complete, in parson’s gown,
How much is he at court in grace,
For stealing Ormonde, and the crown?
Since loyalty doth no man good,
Let’s steal the King and outdo Blood.

IX

A Parliament of knaves and sots,
(Members by name we must not mention)
He keeps in pay, and buys their votes,
Here with a place, there with a pension.
When to give money he can’t collogue them
He does with scorn prorogue, prorogue them.

X

But they long since, by too much giving,
Undid, betray’d, and sold the nation,
Making their membership a living
Better than e’er was sequestration
God give thee, Charles, a resolution
To damn the knaves by dissolution.

XI

Fame is not founded on success:
Though victories were Caesar’s glory,
Lost battles made not Pompey less,
But left him stylèd great in story.
Malicious Fate doth oft devise
To beat the brave and fool the wise.

XII

Charles in the first Dutch War stood fair,
To have been master of the deep,
When Opdam blew up in the air,
Had not his Highness gone to sleep.
Our fleet slack’d sails, fearing his waking;
The Dutch had else been in sad taking.

XIII

The Bergen business was well laid,
Though we paid dear for that design:
Had we not three days parling stay’d,
The Dutch fleet there, Charles had been thine:
Though the false Dane agreed to sell ’um,
He cheated us, and savèd Skellum.

XIV

Had not Charles sweetly chous’d the States,
By Bergen baffle grown more wise,
And made them shit as small as rats,
By their rich Smyrna fleet’s surprise;
Had haughty Holmes but call’d in Spragge,
Hans had been put into a bag.

XV

Mists, storms, short victuals, adverse winds,
And once, the navy’s wise division,
Defeated Charles’s best designs,
Till he became the foe’s derision.
But he had swing’d the Dutch at Chatham,
Had he had ships but to come at ’em.

XVI

Our Blackheath host without dispute,
(Rais’d, put on board, why, no man knows)
Must Charles have render’d absolute,
Over his subjects or his foes;
Had not the French king made us fools,
By taking Maastricht with our tools.

XVII

But, Charles, what could thy policy be,
To run so many sad disasters?
To join thy Fleet with false D’Estrées?
To make the French of Holland masters?
Was’t Carwell, brother James, or Teague,
That made thee break the Triple League?

XVIII

Could Robin Viner have foreseen
The glorious triumphs of his master,
The Woolchurch statue gold had been,
Which now is only alabaster:
But wise men think, had it been wood,
T’were for a bankrupt King too good.

XIX

Those that the fabric well consider,
Do of it diversely discourse;
Some pass their censure on the rider,
Others their judgments on the horse;
Most say the steed’s a goodly thing:
But all agree ’tis a lewd king.

XX

By the Lord Mayor and his wise coxcombs,
Freeman of London Charles is made;
Then to Whitehall a rich gold box comes,
Which is bestow’d on the French jade:
But wonder not it should be so, sirs,
When monarchs rank themselves with grocers!

XXI

Cringe, scrape no more, ye City fops,
Leave off your feasting and fine speeches,
Beat up your drums, shut up your shops,
The courtiers then may kiss your breeches.
Arm, tell that Romish Duke that rules,
You’re free-born subjects, no French mules.

XXII

New upstarts, bastards, pimps and whores,
That locust-like devour the land,
By shutting up th’Exchequer doors
When there our money was trepann’d,
Have render’d, Charles, thy restoration,
A curse and plague unto the nation.

XXIII

Then, Charles, beware thy brother York
Who to thy government gives law;
If once we fall to the old work,
You must again both go to Breda:
Where, spite of all that would restore you,
Turn’d commonwealth, we will abhor you.

XXIV

If of all Christian blood the guilt
Cry loud for vengeance unto Heaven;
That sea by Charles and Louis spilt,
Can never be by God forgiven:
Worse scourges to their subjects, Lord,
Than pestilence, famine, fire, and sword.

XXV

The wolf of France and British goat,
One Europe’s scorn, t’other her curse
(This fool, that knave, by public vote,
Yet hard to say which is the worse),
To think such kings, Lord, reign by thee
Were most prodigious blasphemy.

XXVI

They know no law but their own lust:
Their subjects’ substance and their blood
They count a tribute due and just,
Still spent and spilt for public good.
If such kings be by God appointed
The Devil is then the Lord’s anointed.

XXVII

Of kings curs’d be the power and name,
Let all the earth henceforth abhor ’em:
Monsters which knaves sacred proclaim,
And then like slaves fall down before ’em.
What can there be in kings divine?
The most are wolves, goats, sheep, or swine.

XXVIII

Then farewell, sacred Majesty,
Let’s pull all brutish tyrants down!
Where men are born and still live free,
There ev’ry head doth wear a crown.
Mankind, like miserable frogs,
Is wretched, king’d by storks or logs.

1674

Anonymous

The Green-Gowne

See Note

Pan leave Piping, the Gods have done feasting,
There’s never a Goddess a Hunting to Day:
Mortals marvel at Coridon’s Jesting,
That gives the assistance to entertain May.
The Lads and the Lasses, with Scarfs on their Faces,
So lively as passes, trip over the Downs:
Much Mirth and Sport they make, running at Barley-break;
Lord what haste they make for a Green-gown!

John with Gillian, Harry with Frances,
Meg and Mary, with Robin and Will,
George and Margery lead all the Dances,
For they were reported to have the best Skill:
But Cicily and Nancy, the fairest of many,
That came last of any, from out of the Towns,
Quickly got in among the midst of all the Throng,
They so much did long for their Green-gowns.

Wanton Deborah whispered with Dorothy,
That she would wink upon Richard and Sym,
Mincing Maudlin shew’d her Authority,
And in the Quarrel would venture a Limb.
But Sibel was sickly, and could not come quickly,
And therefore was likely to fall in a Swoon,
Tib would not tarry for Tom, nor for Harry,
Lest Christian should carry away the Green-gown.

Blanch and Bettrice, both of a Family,
Came very lazy lagging behind;
Annie and Aimable noting their Policy,
Cupid is coming, although he be blind:
But Winny the Witty, that came from the City,
With Parnel the Pretty, and Besse the Brown;
Clem, Joan, and Isobel, Sue, Alice and bonny Nell,
Travell’d exceedingly for a Green-gown.

Now the Youngsters had reach’d the green Meadow,
Where they intended to gather their May,
Some in the Sun-shine, some in the Shadow,
Singled in couples did fall to their Play;
But constant Penelope, Faith, Hope and Charity,
Look’d very modestly, yet they lay down;
And Prudence prevented what Rachel repented,
And Kate was contented to take a Green-gown.

Then they desirèd to know of a truth,
If all their Fellows were in the like Case,
Nem call’d for Edie, and Edie for Ruth,
Ruth for Marcy, and Marcy for Grace;
But there was no speaking, they answer’d with squeaking,
The pretty Lass breaking the head of the Clown;
But some were wooing, while others were doing,
Yet all their going was for a Green-gown.

Bright Apollo was all this while peeping,
To see if his Daphne had been in the Throng,
But missing her hastily downwards was creeping,
For Thetis imagin’d he tarried too long:
Then all the Troop mourned and homeward returned,
For Cynthia scorned to smile, or to frown;
Thus they did gather May, all the long Summer-day,
And at night went away with a Green-gown.

Thomas d’Urfey? (1653–1723)

A Song on the South Sea

Ombre and basset laid aside,
New games employ the fair;
And brokers all those hours divide
Which lovers used to share.

The court, the park, the foreign song
And harlequin’s grimace
Forlorn; amidst the city throng
Behold each blooming face.

With Jews and Gentiles undismayed
Young tender virgins mix;
Of whiskers nor of beards afraid,
Nor all the cozening tricks.

Bright jewels, polished once to deck
The fair one’s rising breast,
Or sparkle round her ivory neck,
Lie pawned in iron chest.

The gayer passions of the mind
How avarice controls!
Even love does now no longer find
A place in female souls.

Anne Finch (1666–1720)

On the South Sea Bubble of 1720, see, for example,
www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/England-History/SouthSeaBubble.htm

Stella’s Birthday, 1725

As, when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say, she’s past her dancing days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose;
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place for want of better;
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delaney at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.
Beauty and wit, too sad a truth,
Have always been confined to youth;
The god of wit and beauty’s queen,
He twenty-one and she fifteen;
No poet ever sweetly sung,
Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime.
At fifty-six, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you?
Or, at the age of forty-three,
Are you a subject fit for me?
Adieu, bright wit, and radiant eyes,
You must be grave and I be wise.
Our fate in vain we would oppose,
But I’ll be still your friend in prose.
Esteem and friendship to express
Will not require poetic dress;
And if the Muse deny her aid
To have them sung, they may be said.
But, Stella, say, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young;
That Time sits with his scythe to mow
Where erst sat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turned to grey?
I’ll ne’er believe a word they say.
‘Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown;
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my sight,
And wrinkles undistinguished pass,
For I’m ashamed to use a glass;
And till I see them with these eyes,
Whoever says you have them, lies.
No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, sense and wit;
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than see.
O ne’er may Fortune show her spite,
To make me deaf, and mend my sight.

Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

To Stella, March 13, 1723-4

(Written on the Day of her Birth, but not on the Subject,
when I was sick in bed..)

Tormented with incessant pains,
Can I devise poetic strains?
Time was, when I could yearly pay
My verse on Stella’s native day;
But now, unable grown to write,
I grieve she ever saw the light.
Ungrateful; since to her I owe
That I these pains can undergo.
She tends me like an humble slave;
And, when indecently I rave,
When out my brutish passions break,
With gall in ev’ry word I speak,
She with soft speech my anguish cheers,
Or melts my passion down with tears;
Although ’tis easy to descry
She wants assistance more than I;
Yet seems to feel my pains alone,
And is a stoic in her own.
When, among scholars, can we find
So soft and yet so firm a mind?
All accidents of life conspire
To raise up Stella’s virtue higher;
Or else to introduce the rest
Which had been latent in her breast.
Her firmness who could e’er have known,
Had she not evils of her own?
Her kindness who could ever guess,
Had not her friends been in distress?
Whatever base returns you find
From me, dear Stella, still be kind.
In your own heart you’ll reap the fruit,
Though I continue still a brute.
But, when I once am out of pain,
I promise to be good again.
Meantime, your other juster friends
Shall for my follies make amends;
So may we long continue thus,
Admiring you, you pitying us.

Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

The Progress of Marriage

Aetatis suae fifty-two,
A rich Divine began to woo
A handsome young imperious girl,
Nearly related to an Earl.
Her parents and her friends consent,
The couple to the temple went.
They first invite the Cyprian Queen,
’Twas answered, she would not be seen;
The Graces next, and all the Muses
Were bid in form, but sent excuses.
Juno attended at the porch,
With farthing candle for a torch,
While Mistress Iris held her train,
The faded bow distilling rain.
Then Hebe came and took her place,
But showed no more than half her face.

What’er these dire forebodings meant,
In mirth the wedding-day was spent;
The wedding-day, you take me right,
I promise nothing for the night.
The bridegroom, dressed to make a figure,
Assumes an artificial vigour,
A flourished night-cap on to grace
His ruddy, wrinkled, smirking face,
Like the faint red upon a pippin,
Half withered by a winter’s keeping.

And thus set out, this happy pair,
The Swain is rich, the Nymph is fair;
But, which I gladly would forget,
The Swain is old, the Nymph coquette;
Both from the goal together start,
Scarce run a step before they part;
No common ligament that binds
The various textures of their minds,
Their thoughts and actions, hopes and fears,
Less corresponding than their years.
Her spouse desires his coffee soon,
She rises to her tea at noon.
While he goes out to cheapen books,
She at the glass consults her looks
While Betty’s buzzing in her ear,
Lord, what a dress these Parsons wear!
So odd a choice how could she make?
Wished him a Colonel for her sake.
Then, on her fingers ends, she counts
Exact to what his age amounts;
The Dean, she heard her Uncle say,
Is fifty, if he be a day;
His ruddy cheeks are no disguise;
You see the crows-feet round his eyes.

At one she rambles to the shops,
To cheapen tea, and talk with fops;
Or calls a council of her maids
And tradesmen, to compare brocades.
Her weighty morning business o’er,
Sits down to dinner just at four;
Minds nothing that is done or said,
Her evening work so fills her head.
The Dean, who used to dine at one,
Is mawkish, and his stomach gone;
In thread-bare gown, would scarce a louse hold,
Looks like the chaplain of the household,
Beholds her from the chaplain’s place
In French brocades and Flanders lace;
He wonders what employs her brain;
But never asks, or asks in vain;
His mind is full of other cares,
And in the sneaking parson’s airs
Computes, that half a parish dues
Will hardly find his wife in shoes.
Can’st thou imagine, dull Divine,
’Twill gain her love to make her fine?
Hath she no other wants beside?
You raise desire as well as pride,
Enticing coxcombs to adore,
And teach her to despise thee more.

If in her coach she’ll condescend
To place him at the hinder end,
Her hoop is hoist above his nose,
His odious gown would soil her clothes,
And drops him at the church, to pray,
While she drives on to see the play.
He like an orderly Divine
Comes home a quarter after nine,
And meets her hasting to the Ball:
Her chairmen push him from the wall;
He enters in, and walks up stairs,
And calls the family to prayers,
Then goes alone to take his rest
In bed, where he can spare her best.
At five the footmen make a din,
Her Ladyship is just come in;
The Masquerade began at two,
She stole away with much ado,
And shall be chid this afternoon
For leaving company so soon;
She’ll say, and she may truly say’t,
She can’t abide to stay out late.

But now, though scarce a twelvemonth married
His Lady has twelve times miscarried;
The cause, alas, is quickly guessed,
The Town has whispered round the jest;
Think on some remedy in time,
You find His Reverence past his prime,
Already dwindled to a lath;
No other way but try the Bath.
For Venus rising from the ocean,
Infused a strong prolific potion,
That mixed with Achelaus’ spring,
The hornéd flood, as poets sing,
Who, with an English Beauty smitten,
Ran underground from Greece to Britain,
The genial Virtue with him brought,
And gave the Nymph a plenteous draught;
Then fled, and left his Horn behind
For husbands past their youth to find;
The Nymph who still with passion burned
Was to a boiling fountain turned,
Where childless wives crowd every morn
To drink in Achelaus’ Horn;
And here the father often gains
That title by another’s pains.

Hither, though much against his grain,
The Dean has carried Lady Jane;
He for a while would not consent,
But vowed his money all was spent;
His money spent! a clownish reason!
And must My Lady slip her Season?
The Doctor with a double fee,
Was bribed to make the Dean agree.

Here all diversions of the place
Are proper in my Lady’s case
With which she patiently complies,
Merely because her friends advise;
His money and her time employs
In music, raffling-rooms, and toys,
Or in the Cross Bath seeks an heir,
Since others oft have found one there;
Where if the Dean by chance appears,
It shames his cassock and his years;
He keeps his distance in the gallery
’Till banished by some coxcomb’s raillery,
For ’twould his character expose
To bathe among the belles and beaux.

So have I seen within a pen,
Young ducklings fostered by a hen;
But when let out, they run and muddle,
As instinct leads them, in a puddle;
The sober hen, not born to swim,
With mournful note clucks round the brim.

The Dean, with all his best endeavour,
Gets not an heir, but gets a fever;
A victim to the last essays
Of vigor in declining days,
He dies, and leaves his mourning mate
(What could he less?) his whole estate.

The widow goes through all her forms;
New lovers now will come in swarms.
Oh, may I see her soon dispensing
Her favours to some broken Ensign!
Him let her marry for his face,
And only coat of tarnished lace;
To turn her naked out of doors,
And spend her jointure on his whores:
But for a parting present leave her
A rooted pox to last for ever.

Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

miscarried> had her period.

Cross Bath>A thermal bath whose use, according to the Web, goes back at least two thousand years. James II’s wife gave birth to a son nine months after bathing in it.

Lady Acheson Weary of the Dean

The Dean would visit Market-hill;
Our invitation was but slight;
I said—why—Let him if he will,
And so I bid Sir Arthur write.

His manners would not let him wait,
Lest we should think ourselves neglected,
And so we saw him at our gate
Three days before he was expected.

After a week, a month, a quarter,
And day succeeding after day,
Says not a word of his departure
Though not a soul would have him stay.

I’ve said enough to make him blush
Methinks, or else the Devil’s in’t,
But he cares not for it a rush,
Nor for my life will take the hint.

But you, My Life, must let him know,
In civil language, if he stays
How deep and foul the roads may grow,
And that he may command the chaise.

Or you may say—my wife intends,
Though I should be exceeding proud,
This winter to invite some friends,
And Sir, I know you hate a crowd.

Or, Mr. Dean—I should with joy
Beg you would here continue still,
But we must go to Aghnaclay,
Or Mr. Moor will take it ill.

The house accounts are daily rising
So much his stay does swell the bills;
My dearest Life, it is surprising
How much he eats, how much he swills.

His brace of puppies how they stuff,
And they must have three meals a day,
Yet never think they get enough;
His horses too eat all our hay.

Oh! if I could, how I would maul
His tallow face and wainscot paws,
His beetle-brows and eyes of wall,
And make him soon give up the cause.

May I be every moment chid
With Skinny, Honey, Snip, and Lean,
Oh! that I could but once be rid
Of that insulting tyrant Dean.

Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

Market-hill>Markethill, a village near Sir Arthur Acheson’s estate, Gosford Demesne, where Swift had spent eight months in 1728 during the first of three annual visits, and where he got a good deal of writing done.

beetle-brows> “beetle-browed” is defined online as “1. having bushy or overhanging eyebrows; 2.sullen in appearance; scowling.”

Skinny, etc>His nicknames for her.

My Lady’s Lamentation and Complaint against the Dean

July 28, 1728

Sure never did man see
A wretch like poor Nancy,
So teaz’d day and night
By a Dean and a Knight;
To punish my sins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a swipe
With Skinny and Snipe;
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean.
The Dean never stops,
When he opens his chops;
I’m quite over-run
With rebus and pun.

Before he came here
To sponge for good cheer,
I sat with delight,
From morning till night,
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my own gums,
Or scratching my nose,
And jogging my toes;
But at present, forsooth,
I must not rub a tooth:
When my elbows he sees
Held up by my knees,
My arms like two props,
Supporting my chops,
And just as I handle ’em
Moving all like a pendulum;
He trips up my props,
And down my chin drops,
From my head to my heels,
Like a clock without wheels;
I sink in the spleen,
As useless machine.

If he had his will,
I should never sit still:
He comes with his whims,
I must move my limbs;
I cannot be sweet
Without using my feet;
To lengthen my breath
He tires me to death.
By the worst of all Squires,
Thro’ bogs and thro’ briers,
Where a cow would be startled,
I’m in spite of my heart led:
And, say what I will,
Haul’d up every hill;
‘’Till, daggled and tatter’d,
My spirit’s quite shatter’d,
I return home at night,
And fast out of spite:
For I’d rather be dead,
Than it e’er should be said
I was better for him,
In stomach or limb.

But, now to my diet,
No eating in quiet,
He’s still finding fault,
Too sour or too salt:
The wing of a chick
I hardly can pick,
But trash without measure
I swallow with pleasure.

Next, for his diversion,
He rails at my person:
What court-breeding this is?
He takes me to pieces.
From shoulder to flank
I’m lean and am lank;
My nose, long and thin,
Grows down to my chin;
My chin will not stay,
But meets it half way;
My fingers, prolix,
Are ten crooked sticks:
He swears my el—bows
Are two iron crows,
Or sharp pointed rocks,
And wear out my smocks:
To ’scape them, Sir Arthur
Is forc’d to lie farther,
Or his sides they would gore
Like the tusk of a boar.

Now, changing the scene,
But still to the Dean:
He loves to be bitter at
A lady illiterate;
If he sees her but once,
He’ll swear she’s a dunce;
Can tell by her looks
A hater of books:
Thro’ each line of her face
Her folly can trace;
Which spoils ev’ry feature
Bestow’d her by nature,
But sense give a grace
To the homeliest face:
Wise books and reflection
Will mend the complexon.
(A civil Divine!
I suppose meaning mine.)
No Lady who wants them
Can ever be handsome.

I guess well enough
What he means by this stuff:
He haws and he hums,
At last out it comes.

What, Madam? No walking,
No reading, nor talking?
You’re now in your prime,
Make use of your time.
Consider, before
You come to threescore,
How the hussies will fleer
Where’er you appear:
That silly old puss
Would fain be like us,
What a figure she made
In her tarnish’d brocade?

And then he grows mild;
Come, be a good child:
If you are inclin’d
To polish your mind,
Be ador’d by the men
’Till threescore and ten,
And kill with the spleen
The jades of sixteen,
I’ll shew you the way:
Read six hours a-day.
The wits will frequent ye,
And think you but twenty.

Thus was I drawn in,
Forgive me my sin.
At breakfast he’ll ask
An account of my task.
Put a word out of joint,
Or miss but a point,
He rages and frets,
His manners forgets;
And, as I am serious,
Is very imperious.
No book for delight
Must come in my sight;
But, instead of new plays,
Dull Bacon’s Essays,
And pore ev’re day on
That nasty Pantheon.
If I be not a drudge,
Let all the world judge.
’Twere better be blind,
Than thus be confin’d.

But, while in an ill tone,
I murder poor Milton,
The Dean, you will swear,
Is at study or pray’r.
He’s all the day saunt’ring,
With labourers bant’ring,
Among his colleagues,
A parcel of Teagues,
(Whom he brings in among us
And bribes with mundungus.)
Hail fellow, well met,
All dirty and wet:
Find out, if you can,
Who’s master, who’s man;
Who makes the best figure,
The Dean or the digger;
And which is the best
At cracking a jest.
How proudly he talks
Of zigzacks and walks,
And all the day raves
Of cradles and caves;
And boasts of his feats,
His grottos and seats;
Shows all his gew-gaws,
And gapes for applause?
A fine occupation
For one of his station!
A hole where a rabbit
Would scorn to inhabit,
Dug out in an hour,
He calls it a bow’r.

But, Oh, how we laugh,
To see a wild calf
Come, driven by heat,
And foul the green seat;
Or run helter-skelter
To his arbor for shelter,
Where all goes to ruin
The Dean has been doing.
The girls of the village
Come flocking for pillage,
Pull down the fine briers,
And thorns to make fires;
But yet are so kind
To leave something behind:
No more need be said on’t,
I smell when I tread on’t.

Dear friend, Doctor Jenny,
If I could but win ye,
Or Walmsley or Whaley,
To come hither daily,
Since Fortune my foe,
Will needs have it so
That I’m, by her frowns
Condemn’d to black gowns;
No ’Squire to be found
The neighbourhood round,
(For, under the rose,
I would rather chuse those:)
If your wives will permit ye,
Come here out of pity,
To ease a poor Lady,
And beg her a play-day.
So may you be seen
No more in the spleen:
May Walmsley give wine
Like a hearty divine;
May Whaley disgrace
Dull Daniel’s whey-face;
And may your three spouses
Let you lie at friends houses.

Jonathan Swift (1667–1745)

rebus> “a kind of word puzzle that uses pictures to represent words or parts of words. For example, H + picture of ear = Hear, or Here” (Wikipedia).

Pantheon>Panthayon, all the gods. Classical mythology?

Teagues> “Taig (also Teague, Teig and Tag)is a derogatory term for a Catholic” (Wikipedia)

mundungus> “a dark smelly tobacco”

gew-gaw> “something showy but useless and of little value…”

Doctor Jenny> a clergyman in the neighbourhood.

under the rose> sub rosa; confidentially

whey-face>pallid face

The Extravagant Drunkard’s Wish

Had I my wish, I would distend my guts
As wide as from the north to southern skies,
And have at once as many mouths and throats
As old Briareus arms, or Argus eyes.
The raging sea’s unpalatable brine,
That drowns so many thousands in a year,
I’d turn into an ocean of good wine,
And for my cup would choose the hemisphere;
Would then perform the wager Xanthus laid,
In spite of all the river’s flowing streams,
Swill till I pissed a deluge, then to bed,
And please my thirsty soul with small-beer dreams.
Thus drink and sleep, and, waking, swill again,
Till I had drunk the sea-gods’ cellar dry,
Then rob the niggard Neptune, and his train
Of Tritons, of that wealth they now enjoy;
Kiss the whole Nerides and make the jades
Sing all their charming songs to please my ear,
And whether flesh or fish, thornback or maids,
I’d make the gypsies kind through love or fear.
And when thus wicked and thus wealthy grown,
For nothing good, I’d turn rebellious Whig,
Pull ev’ry monarch headlong from his throne,
And with the Prince of Darkness make a league,
That he and I, and all the Whigs beside,
Might rend down churches, crowns in pieces tear,
Exert our malice, gratify our pride,
And settle Satan’s kingdom ev’rywhere.

Anonymous (1713)

An Epistle from a Half-Pay Officer in the Country to his Friend in London, upon Reading the Address of the Two Houses, to thank her Majesty for the Safe, Honourable and Advantageous Peace

Curse on the star, dear Harry, that betrayed
My choice from law, divinity or trade,
To turn a rambling brother o’ the blade!
Of all professions sure the worst is war.
How whimsical our fortune! how bizarre!
This week we shine in scarlet and in gold:
The next, the cloak is pawned—the watch is sold.
Today we’re company for any lord:
Tomorrow not a soul will take our word.
Like meteors raised in a tempestuous sky,
A while we glitter, then obscurely die.
Must heroes suffer such disgrace as this?
O cursed effects of Honourable Peace.

I, who not long ago indulged my hours
In witty commerce or in soft amours,
And in rich Mulso, Volney or Champagne
Adored each night the beauties then in reign
(Till, arms submitting to the awful gown,
Our troops were forced to abdicate the town),
Must now retire, and languish out my days
Far from the roads of pleasure or of praise:
Quit sweet Hyde Park for dull provincial air,
And change the playhouse for a country fair;
With sneaking parsons beastly bumpers quaff,
At low conceits and vile conundrums laugh;
Toast to the Church and talk of Right Divine,
And herd with squires—more noisy than their swine.
Must heroes suffer such disgrage as this?
O cursed effects of Honourable Peace.

There was a time—oh yes! there was a time—
(Ere poverty made luxury a crime)
When marigolds in porridge were a jest,
And soups were used to introduce the feast.
Then French ragouts were orthodox and good,
And truffles held no heresy in food.
Nor to eat mackerel was judged high treason,
Though gooseberries as yet were not in season.
But under H[ar]ley’s frugal dispensation
These vanities require a reformation.
Scourged by his wand and humbled by his sway,
I’ve learned to suit my diet to my pay;
And now can sanctify with solemn face
A heavy dumpling with a formal grace.
In awkward plenty, slovenly I dine,
And nappy ale supplies the want of wine.
No nice desserts my learned palate please:
To fill up chinks—a slce of Suffolk cheese.
And must then heroes nibble Suffolk cheese?
O cursed effects of Honourable Peace!

But ah! the hardest part is still behind—
The fair too, gentle Harry, prove unkind.
Think then how wretchedly my life must pass!
For what’s this world, my friend, without a lass?
Poor be my lot, inglorious be my state,
Give me but woman, I’ll absolve my fate.
But ’tis in vain—
Th’ ungrateful sex, as senseless as unjust,
To feed their pride will even starve their lust:
And fooled by equipage and empty show,
Quit the tough soldier for the lathy beau.
I who so oft their forward zeal have showed,
And in their service spent my warmest blood,
Am now reduced (hard fate!) for want of pelf
To fight the Jesuit’s battle by myself.
Must heroes suffer such disgrace as this?
O cursed effects of Honourable Peace.

1719
Richardson Pack (1682–1728)

The Forsaken Wife

Methinks, ’tis strange you can’t afford
One pitying look, one parting word;
Humanity claims this as due,
But what’s humanity to you?

Cruel man! I am not blind,
Your infidelity I find;
Your want of love my ruin shows,
My broken heart, your broken vows.
Yet maugre all your rigid hate,
I will be true in spite of fate;
And one preeminence I’ll claim,
To be for ever still the same.

Show me a man that dare be true,
That dares to suffer what I do;
That can for ever sigh unheard,
And ever love without regard:
I then will own your prior claim
To love, to honour, and to fame;
But till that time, my dear, adieu,
I yet superior am to you.

Elizabeth Thomas (1675–1731)

The True Effigies of a Certain Squire: Inscribed to Clemena.

Some generous painter now assist my pen,
And help to draw the most despised of men:
Or else, oh Muse! do thou that charge supply,
Thou that art injured too as well as I;
Revenge thyself, with satire arm thy quill,
Display the man, yet own a justice still.

First, paint a large, two-handed, surly clown,
In silver waistcoat, stockings sliding down,
Shoes (let me see) a foot and half in length,
And stoutly armed with sparables for strength.
Ascend! and let a silver string appear,
Which seems to cry “A golden watch is here.”
O’er all a doily stuff, to which belongs
One pocket charged with citron peel and tongs;
T’other contains, more necessary far,
A snuffbox. comb, a glass, and handkercher,
Three parts of which hangs dangling by his side,
The fourth is wisely to a button tied:
Just as it was in former days a rule
To tie young children’s muckenders at school.
Forget not, Muse, gold buttons at the wrist,
Nor Mechlin lace to shade the clumsy fist;
Two diamond rings thy pencil next must show,
Always in sight like Prim’s, the formal beau;
But if rude company their notice spare,
Then draw that hand elated to his ear,
And at one view let diamond ring and golden bob appear.
A steenkirk next, of paltry needle stuff,
Which cost eleven guineas (cheap enough).
Next draw the giant-wig of shape profuse,
Larger than Foppington’s or Overdo’s.
The greasy front pressed down with essence lies,
The spreading elf-locks cover half his eyes;
But when he coughs or bows, what clouds of powder rise!

Enough, O Muse! thou hast described him right,
Th’emetic’s strong, I sicken at the sight:
A fop is nauseating, howe’er he’s dressed,
But this too fulsome is to be expressed.
Such hideous medley would thy work debase,
Where rake and clown, where ape and knave, appear with open face.

Yet stay, proceed and paint his awkward bow,
And if thou hast forgot, I’ll tell thee how:
Set one leg forward, draw his other back,
Nor let the lump a booby wallow lack;
His head bend downward, with obsequious quake,
Then quickly raise it with a spaniel shake.
His honours thus performed, a speech begin
May show th’obliging principles within:
Thy memory to his sense I now confine,
His be the substance, but th’expression thine.

“Madam,” he cries, “Lord, how my soul is moved
To see such silly toys by you approved!
A closet stuffed with books: pray, what’s your crime,
To superannuate before your time,
And make yourself look old and ugly in your prime?
Our modern pedants contradict the schools,
For learned ladies are but learned fools.
With every blockhead’s whim ye load your brains,
And for a shadow take a world of pains.
What is’t to you what numbers Caesar slew?
Or who at Marathon beat the de’il knows who?
Defend me, Fortune! from the wife I hate,
And let not bookish woman be my fate.
For when with rural sports fatigued I come,
And think to rest my wearied limbs at home,
No sooner shall I be retired to bed,
Than she, for one poor word, shall break poor Priscian’s head.
Perhaps you’ll say in books you virtue learn,
And, by right reason, good from ill discern:
Ha, ha! believe me, virtue’s but pretence
To cloak hypocrisy and insolence;
Let woman mind her economic care,
And let the man what he thinks fit prepare
(What he thinks fit, I say, or please to spend,
For those are fools that on their wives depend).
Nor need they musty books to pass their time.
There’s twenty recreations more sublime.
When tired with work, then let them to the play;
If fair, go visit; if a rainy day,
In cards and chat drive lazy time away.
No, hang me if I speak not as I mean:
If on my nuptial day there is not seen
Of all my spouse’s books a stately pyre,
Which she herself obediently shall fire;
And oh! might Europe’s learning in that blaze expire.
Now Madam, pray, the mighty difference show:
I eat, I drink, I sleep as well as you;
I know by custom two and two is four;
My man is honest, then what need I more?
And truly speak it to my joy and praise,
I never read six books in all my days.
Nor should my son; for could my wish prevail,
Blest ignorance I’d on my race entail.
Unthinking and unlearned, in plenteous ease,
My happy heir each appetite should please;
And when chance strikes the last unlucky blow,
Glutted with life, I’d have him boldly go
To try that somewhat or that naught below.”

How is’t, my friend? Can you your spleen contain
At this ignoble wretch, this less than man?
Trust me, I’m weary, can repeat no more,
And own this folly worse than when ‘twas acted o’er.

Elizabeth Thomas (1675–1731)

My Little Bird

My little Bird, how canst thou sit
And sing amidst so many Thorns?
Let me but hold upon thee get,
My Love with Honour thee adorn.

Thou art at present little worth;
Five farthings none will give for thee;
But prithee little Bird come forth,
Thou of more value art to me.

’Tis true it is Sun-shine today,
Tomorrow Birds will have a Storm;
My pretty one, come thou away,
My Bosom then shall keep thee warm.

Thou subject are to cold o’ nights,
When darkness is thy covering;
At days thy danger’s great by Kites,
How canst thou then sit there and sing?

Thy food is scarce and scanty too,
’Tis Worms and Trash which thou dost eat;
Thy present state I pity do,
Come, I’ll provide thee better meat.

I’ll feed thee with white Bread and Milk
And Sugar-plums, if them thou crave;
I’ll cover thee with finest silk,
That from the cold I may thee save.

My Father’s Palace shall be thine,
Yea, in it thou shall sit and sing;
My little Bird, if thou’lt be mine,
The whole year round shall be thy Spring.

I’ll teach thee all the notes at Court;
Unthought of Musick thou shalt play;
And all that thither do resort,
Shall praise thee for it ev’ry day.

I’ll keep thee safe from Cat and Cur,
No manner o’ harm shall come to thee;
Yea, I will be thy Succourer,
My Bosom shall thy Cabbin be.

But lo, behold, the Bird is gone;
These Charmings would not make her yield;
The Child’s left at the Bush alone,
The Bird flies yonder o’er the Field.

John Bunyan (1628–1688)

Miss Betty’s Singing Bird

A pretty song, this coming spring,
A little chanting bird will sing;
The bird you’ve heard old women say
Comes often down the chimney-way,
Then flies or hops the house around,
Where tricks and pranks are to be found;
The same which does all stories tell,
When little girls do ill or well;
When they’re obstrep’rous or loquacious,
With what is given ’em discontent,
Or say things of their own invent;
Fling off their caps and cloaks i’ the street,
Beat little children that they meet,
Call Aunt a sow or ugly witch,
Cic’ly a hussy, slut or b—h,
Scratch, bite and pinch, or pull her quoif,
And lead her a most dreadful life;
Saunter an hour or two to school;
And when they come there play the fool,
The ramping hoyden or Miss Bumkin,
The girls they sit by ever thumping;
Call masters bastards or such name,
And ev’ry little miss defame;
When Aunt can scarce on them prevail
To wear a gown not rattle-tail,
Yet never want a daggled tail;
When they have got a knack of crying,
Their stays a-lacing or hair tying;
Go oft to bed with weeping eyes,
Yet sigh and slobber when they rise;
When raisins, sugar plums nor figs
Will bribe them not to pull off wigs;
For which, their bawling and their yelping,
They surely get full many a skelping,
Are locked in vault, or hole o’ th’ stairs,
To sigh, and fret, and melt in tears,
To bawl and roar, and not let out
Till many a tear is dropped about,
And after to their mistress sent
For further flogging punishment;
Which chastisements, if proving vain,
They never more must go again
To Lecoudre or Delamain,
But carried be, from city far,
To Jerrico or Mullingar.
These, and perhaps a bolder thing,
This little prating bird will sing
Of naughty girls this coming spring.
But if they’re modest, mild and witty,
And do things innocent and pretty;
Observing always what they’re bid,
Never deserving to be chid,
Discreet and good, they will be then
By ladies loved, admired by men;
Indulged in ev’ry harmless way,
And suffered now and then to play;
Have all the finest, nicest clothes
Rich ribbons, laces, stockings, shoes,
Gold snuffbox, watch and diamond pendant,
And cross with jewels at the end on’t;
Oft coach abroad, to take the air
At park and strand, when weather’s fair;
Go now and then on holidays
To concerts, puppet-shows and plays,
Be always fine, most nicely dressed,
In what’s most curious, rich and best.
All these this pretty bird will sing;
All these and more will surely bring
To girls, if good, this coming spring.

(1742)
John Winstanley (1678?–1750)

To a Young Lady with Some Lampreys

With lovers ’twas of old the fashion
By presents to convey their passion:
No matter what the gift they sent,
The lady saw that love was meant.
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,
Took the boar’s head her hero gave her,
’Twas a fit present from a hunter.
When squires send woodcocks to the dame,
It serves to show their absent flame:
Some by a snip of woven hair
In posied lockets bribe the fair;
How many mercenary matches
Have sprung from di’mond-rings and watches!
But hold—a ring, a watch, a locket,
Would drain at once a poet’s pocket,
He should send songs that cost him nought,
Nor ev’n be prodigal of thought.
Why then send lampreys? Fie. For shame!
’Twill set a virgin’s blood on flame.
This to fifteen a proper gift!
It might lend sixty-five a lift.
I know your maiden aunt will scold,
And think my present somewhat bold.
I see her lift her hands and eyes:
“What, eat it, niece? Eat Spanish flies!
Lamprey’s a most immodest diet:
You’ll neither wake nor sleep in quiet.
Should I tonight eat sago-cream,
’Twould make me blush to tell my dream;
If I eat lobster, ’tis so warming
That ev’r man I see looks charming;
Wherefore had not the filthy fellow
Laid Rochester upon your pillow?
I vow and swear, I think the present
Had been as modest and as decent.
Who has her virtue in her power?
Each day has its unguarded hour,
Always in danger of undoing,
A pawn, a shrimp may prove our ruin!
The shepherdess, who lives on salad,
To cool her youth controls her palate;
Should Dian’s maids turn liqu’rish livers,
And of huge lampreys rob the rivers,
Then all beside each glade and visto,
You’d see nymphs lying like Calisto
The man who meant to heat your blood,
Needs not himself such vicious food—”
In this, I own, your aunt is clear.
I sent you what I well might spare:
For when I see you (without joking),
Your eyes, lips, breasts are so provoking,
They set my heart more cock-a-hoop
Than could whole seas of craw-fish soup.

(1720)

John Gay (1685–1732)

Lucky Spence’s Last Advice

See Glossary/a> and Note

Three times the carline grain’d and rifted,
Then frae the Cod her Pow she lifted,
In bawdy Policy well gifted,
When she now faun
That Death na longer wad be shifted,
She thus began:

My loving lasses, I maun leave ye;
But dinna wi’ ye’r Greeting grieve me,
Nor wi’ your Draunts and Droning deave me,
But bring’s a Gill;
For Faith, my Bairns, ye may believe me,
‘Tis gainst my Will.

O black Ey’d Bess, and mim Mou’d Meg,
O’er good to work, or yet to beg,
Lay Sunkots up for a sair Leg;
For when ye fail,
Ye’r Face will not be worth a Feg,
Nor yet ye’r Tail.

Whan’er ye meet a Fool that’s fow,
That ye’re a Maiden gar him trow,
Seem nice, but stick to him like Glew
And when set down,
Drive at the Jango till he spew,
Syne he’ll sleep soun.

When he’s asleep, then dive and catch
His ready Cash, his Rings, or Watch;
And gin he likes to light his Match
At your Spunk-box,
Ne’er stand to let the fumbling wretch
E’en take the Pox.

Cleek a’ ye can by Hook or Crook,
Ryp ilky Poutch frae Nook to Nook;
Be sure to truff his Pocket-book—
Saxty Pounds Scots
Is nae deaf Nits: in little Bouk
Lie great Bank-Notes.

To get a Mends of whinging Fools
That’s frighted for Repenting-Stools,
Wha often whan their Metal cools
Turn sweer to pay;
Gar the Kirk-Boxie hale the dools
Anither day.

But dawt Red-Coats, and let them scoup
Free for the Fou of cutty Stoup;
To gee them up, ye needna hope
E’er to do weel:
They’ll rive ye’r Brats, and kick your Doup,
And play the Deel.

There’s ae sair Cross attends the Craft,
That curst Correction-house, where aft
Vild Hangy’s Taz ye’er Riggings saft
Makes black and blae,
Enough to pit a body daft;
But what’ll ye say.

Nane gathers Gear withoutten Care,
Ilk Pleasure has of Pain a Skare;
Suppose then they should tirle ye bare,
And gar ye sike,
E’en learn to thole; ’tis very fair,
Ye’re Nibour like.

Forby, my Looves, count upo’ Losses,
Ye’r Milk-white Teeth, and Cheeks like Roses,
Whan Jet-black Hair and Brigs of Noses
Faw down wi’ Dads,
To keep your Hearts up ’neath sic Crosses,
Set up for Bawds.

Wi’ well crish’d Loofs I hae been canty.
Whan e’er the Lads would fain ha’e faun t’ye
To try the auld Game Taunty-Raunty,
Like Coofers keen,
They took Advice of me, your Aunty,
If you were clean.

Then up I took my Siller Ca’,
And whistl’d benn, whiles ane, whiles twa;
Roun’d in his Lug, That there was a
Poor Country Kate,
As halesome as the Well of Spaw,
But unka blate.

Sae when e’er Company came in,
And were upon a merry Pin,
I slade awa’ wi’ little Din,
And muckle Mense,
Lest Conscience judge, it was a’ ane
To Lucky Spence.

My Bennison come on good Doers,
Wha spend their cash on bawds and whores;
May they ne’er want the Wale of Cures
For a sair Snout:
Foul fa’ the Quacks wha that Fire smoors,
And puts nae out.

My Malison light ilka Day
On them that drink and dinna pay,
But tak a Snack and rin away;
May’t be their Hap
Never to want a Gonorrhea
Or rotten clap.

Lass, gi’e us in anither Gill.
A Mutchken, Jo, let’s tak our Fill;
Let Death syne registrate his Bill
Whan I want Sense,
I’ll slip away with better Will.
Quo’ Lucky Spence.

Allan Ramsay (1686–1758)

Elegy on Maggy Johnston
Who died Anno 1711

Auld Reeky mourn in Sable Hue,
Let Fouth of Tears dreep like May Dew,
To braw Tippony bid Adieu,
Which we with greed
Bended as fast as she cou’d brew,
But ah! she’s dead.

To tell the truth now Maggy dang,
Of Customers she had a Bang;
For Lairds and Souters a’ did gang
To drink bedeen,
The Barn and Yard was aft sae thrang,
We took the Green.

And there by Dizens we lay down,
Syne sweetly ca’d the Healths arown,
To bonny Lasses black or brown,
As we loo’d best;
In Bumpers we dull Cares did drown,
And took our Rest.

When in our Poutch we fand some Clinks,
And took a Turn o’er Bruntsfield-Links,
Aften in Maggy’s at Hy-jinks,
We guzl’d Scuds,
Till we cou’d scarce wi’ hale-out Drinks
Cast off our Duds.

We drank and drew, and fill’d again,
O wow but we were blithe and fain!
When ony had their Count mistain,
O it was nice,
To hear us a’ cry, Pike ye’r Bain,
And spell ye’r Dice.

Fou closs we us’d to drink and rant
Until we did baith glowre and gaunt,
And pish and spew, and yesk and maunt,
Right swash I true;
Then of auld Stories we did cant
When we were fou.

When we were weary’d at the Gowff,
Then Maggy Johnston’s was our Howff;
Now a’ our Gamesters may sit dowff,
Wi’ Hearts like Lead,
Death wi’ his Rung rax’d her a Yowff,
And sae she died.

Maun we be forc’d thy Skill to tine?
For which we will right sair repine;
Or hast thou left to Bairns of thine
The pauky Knack
Of brewing Ale amaist like Wine
That gar’d us crack.

Sae brawly did a Pease-scon Toast
Biz i’ the Queff, and flie the Frost;
There we gat fou wi’ little Cost,
And muckle Speed,
Now wae worth Death, our Sport’s a’ lost,
Since Maggy’s dead.

Ae Simmer Night I was sae fou,
Amang the Riggs I geed to spew;
Syne down on a green Bawk, I trow
I took a Nap,
And soucht a Night Balillilow,
As sound’s a Tap.

And when the Dawn begoud to glow,
I hirsl’d up my dizzy Pow,
Frae ’mang the Corn like Wirricow,
Wi’ Bains sae sair,
And ken’d not mair than if a Ew
How I came there.

Some said it was the Pith of Broom
That she stow’d in her Masking-loom,
Which in our Heads rais’d sic a Foom,
Or some wild Seed,
Which aft the Chaping Stoup did toom,
But fill’d our Head.

But now since ’tis sae that we must
Not in the best Ale put our Trust,
But whan we’re auld return to Dust
Without Remead,
Why shou’d we tak it in Disgust
That Maggy’s dead.

Of wardly Comforts she was rife,
And liv’d a lang and hearty Life,
Right free of Care, or Toil, or Strife,
Till she was stale,
And ken’d to be a kanny Wife
At brewing Ale.

Then farewell Maggy douce and fell,
Of Brewers a’ thou boor the Bell;
Let a’ thy Gossies yelp and yell,
And without Feed,
Guess whether ye’re in Heaven or Hell,
They’re sure ye’re dead.

EPITAPH
O Rare MAGGY JOHNSTON.

Allan Ramsay (1686–1758)

The Bonny Earl of Murray

Ye Highlands, and ye Lawlands,
Oh! where have you been?
They have slain the Earl of Murray,
And they laid him on the green!
They have, &c

Now wae be to thee, Huntly,
And wherefore did you sae?
I bade you bring him wi’ you,
But forbade you him to slay.
I bade, &c.

He was a braw gallant,
And he rid at the ring;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh! he might have been a king.
And the &c.

He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the ba’:
And the bonny Earl of Murray
Was the flower among them a’.
And the, &c.

He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the glove:
And the bonny Earl of Murray
Oh! he was the queen’s love.
And the, &c.

Oh! lang will his lady
Look o’er the castle Down,
Ere she see the Earl of Murray
Come sounding through the town.
Ere she, &c.

Anonymous (from Ramsay’s Tea-Table Miscellany)

O Waly, Waly

O waly, waly, up yon bank,
And waly, waly down yon brae;
And waly by yon river’s side,
Where my love and I was wont to gae.

Waly, waly, gin love be bonny,
A little while when it is new;
But when it’s auld, it waxes cauld
And wears away, like morning dew.

I leant my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow’d, and sine it brake,
And sae did my fause love to me.

When cockle-shells turn siller bells,
And muscles grow on ev’ry tree;
When frost and snaw shall warm us a’,
Then shall my love prove true to me.

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne’er by fyl’d by me;
Saint Anton’s Well shall be my drink,
Since my true love has forsaken me.

O Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come?
And take a life that wearies me.

‘Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemency;
‘Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my love’s heart grown cauld to me.

When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
And I my sell in cramaisie.

But had I wist, before I kiss’d,
The love had been sae ill to win,
I’d locked my heart in a case of gold,
And pin’d it with a silver pin.

Oh, oh, if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse’s knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane!
For a maid again I’ll never be.

Anonymous

Waly> exclamation of sorrow; syne>then; aik>oak; busk>adorn;
Arthur-seat> hill in Edinburgh; fyl’d> defiled, soiled;
Saint Anton’s Well>below Arthur’s Seat; Martinmas>November; cramasie>crimson

Johnny Faa, the Gypsie Laddie

The gypsies came to our good lord’s gate,
And vow but they sang sweetly;
They sang sae sweet, and sae very compleat,
That down came the fair lady.

And she came tripping down the stair,
And a’ her maids before her;
As soon as they saw her well-far’d face,
They coost the glamer o’er her.

Gae tak frae me this gay mantile,
And bring to me a plaidie;
For if kith and kin and a’ had sworn,
I’ll follow the gypsie laddie.

Yestreen I lay in a well-made bed,
And my good lord beside me;
This night I’ll ly in a tenant’s barn,
Whatever shall betide me.

Come to your bed, says Johnny Faa,
Oh come to your bed, my deary;
For I vow and swear, by the hilt of my sword,
That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.

I’ll go to bed my Johnny Faa,
I’ll go to bed my deary;
For I vow and swear by what past yestreen,
That my lord shall nae mair come near me.

I’ll mak a hap to my Johnny Faa,
And I’ll mak a hap to my deary,
And he’s get a’ the coat goes round,
And my lord shall nae mair come near me.

And when my lord came hame at een,
And speir’d for his fair lady,
The tane she cry’d, and the other reply’d,
She’s away with the gypsie laddie.

Gae saddle to me the black black steed,
Gae saddle and make him ready;
Before that I either eat or sleep,
I’ll gae seek my fair lady.

And we were fifteen well-made men,
Altho’ we were nae bonny;
And we were a’ put down for ane,
A fair young wanton lady.

Anonymous

Church Monuments

While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I entomb my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust,
To which the blast of death’s incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust

My body to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and find his birth
Written in dusty heraldry and lines;
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jet and marble, put for signs,

To sever the good fellowship of dust
And spoil the meeting: what shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps which now they have in trust?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent, that, when thou shalt grow fat,

And wanton in thy cravings, thou may’st know
That flesh is but the glass which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark here below
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,—
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.

George Herbert (1591–1674)

The Life and Death of the Piper of Kilbarchan

See Glossary and Note

Or,
The Epitaph of Habbie Simson,
Who on his Dron bore bonny Flags;
He made his Cheeks as red as crimson,
And babbed when he blew his Bags.

Kilbarchan now may say, alas!
For she hath lost her Game and Grace,
Both Trixie and the Maiden Trace:
But what Remeed?
For no man can supply his Place,
Hab Simson’s dead.

Now who shall play The Day it daws?
Or Hunts up, when the Cock he craws?
Or who can for our Kirk-towns Cause,
Stand us instead?
On Bag-pipes now no body blaws,
Sen Habbie’s dead.

Or who shall cause our Shearers shear?
Who will bend up the Brags of Weir,
Bring in the Bells, or good play Meir,
In Time of Need?
Hab Simson could, what need you speir?
But now he’s dead.

So kindly to his Neighbours neist,
At Beltan and Saint Barchan’s Feast,
He blew and then held up his Breist,
As he were weid,
But now we need not him arreist;
For Habbie’s dead.

At Fairs he play’d before the Spear-Men,
All gayly graithed in their Gear-men.
Steel Bonnets, Jacks, and Swords so clear then
Like any Bead,
Now who shall play before such Weir-Men,
Sen Habbie’s dead?

At Clark-Plays when he wont to come;
His Pipe play’d trimly to the Drum,
Like Bikes of Bees he gart it bum,
And tun’d his Reed:
Now all our Pipers may sing dumb,
Sen Habbie’s dead.

And at Horse-Races many a Day,
Before the Black, the Brown, the Gray,
He gart his Pipe when he did play,
Baith skirl and skried:
Now all such Pastim’s quite away,
Sen Habbie’s dead.

He counted was a wail’d wight Man,
And fiercely at Foot-baill he ran;
At every Game the Gree he wan,
For Pith and Speed;
The like of Habbie was not than,
But now he’s dead.

And than beside his valiant Acts,
At Brydels he wan many Placks,
He babbed ay behind Folks Backs,
And shook his Head.
Now we want many merry Cracks,
Sen Habbie’s dead.

He was convoyer of the Bride;
With Kittock hanging at his side,
About the Kirk he thought a Pride,
The Ring to lead.
But now she may go but a Guide;
For Habbie’s dead.

So well’s he keeped his Decorum,
And all the Steps of Whip meg morum,
He slew a Man, and wae’s me for him,
And bare the Fead!
But yet the man wan Hame before him,
And was not dead!

Ay when he play’d the Lasses leugh,
To see him toothless, old and teuch.
He wan his Pipes beside Barheugh,
Withoutten dread:
Which after wan him Gear enough,
But now he’s dead.

[Ay whan he play’d, the Gaitlings gedder’d,
And whan he spake, the Carl bledder’d:
On Sabbath Days his Cap was fedder’d,
A seemly Weid.
In the Kirk-yeard his Mare stood tedder’d,
Where he was dead.]

Alas! for him my Heart is sare,
For of his Springs I got a Share,
At every play, Race, Feast and Fair,
But Guile or Greed.
We need not look for Piping mair,
Sen Habbie’s dead.

Robert Sempill (1595?–1660?)

A Receipt to Cure the Vapours

Why will Delia thus retire
And idly languish life away?
While the sighing crowds admire,
’Tis too soon for hartshorn tea.

All those dismal looks and fretting
Cannot Damon’s life restore;
Long ago the worms have ate him,
You can never see him more.

Once again consult your toilet,
In the glass your face review;
So much weeping soon will spoil it,
And no spring your charms renew.

I like you was born a woman—
Well I know what vapours mean;
The disease alas! is common;
Single, we have all the spleen.

All the morals that they tell us
Never cured sorrow yet;
Choose among the pretty fellows
One of humour, youth, and wit.

Prithee hear him every morning
For at least an hour or two,
Once again at night returning—
I believe the dose will do.

Mary Montagu (1689–1762)

Receipt> Recipe.

Hartshorn > “ammonium carbonate, used in smelling salts; sal volatile; so called because formerly obtained from deers’ antlers.” Webster’s New World College Dictionary, 4th ed,

vapours> “ (a) exhalations from the stomach believed to be harmful to one’s health; (b) hypochondria or depressed spirits (often with ‘the’).” ibid

The Reasons That Induced Dr Swift to Write a Poem Called “The Lady’s Dressing Room”

The Doctor in a clean, starched band,
His Golden Snuff box in his hand,
With care his Diamond Ring displays
And Artful shows its various Rays,
While Grave he stalks down — — Street
His dearest Betty — to meet.

Long had he waited for this Hour,
Nor gained admittance to the Bower,
Had joked and punned, and swore and writ,
Tried all his Gallantry and Wit,
Had told her oft what part he bore
In Oxford’s Schemes in days of yore,
But Bawdy, Politicks, nor Satyr
Could move this dull, hard-hearted Creature.
Jenny, her Maid, could taste a Rhyme,
And grieved to see him lose his Time,
Had kindly whispered in his Ear,
For twice two pounds you enter here.
My Lady vows, without that Sum
It is in vain you write or come.

The Destined Offering now he brought
And in a paradise of thought,
With a low bow approached the Dame
Who smiling heard him preach his Flame.
His Gold she takes (such proofs as these
Convince most unbelieving shees),
And in her trunk rose up to lock it
(Too wise to trust it to her pocket),
And then returned with Blushing Grace,
Expects the Doctor’s warm Embrace.

But now this is the proper place
Where morals Stare me in the Face
And for the sake of fine Expression
I’m forced to make a small digression.
Alas for wretched Humankind,
With Learning Mad, with wisdom blind!
The Ox thinks he’s for Saddle fit
(As long ago Friend Horace writ)
And Men their Talents still mistaking,
The stutterer fancies his is speaking.
With Admiration oft we see
Hard Features heightened by Toupée,
The Beau affects the Politician,
Wit is the citizen’s Ambition,
Poor Pope Philosophy displays on
With so much Rhyme and little reason,
And tho’ he argues ne’er so long
That all is right, his Head is wrong.

None strive to know their proper merit
But strain for Wisdom, Beauty, Spirit,
And lose the Praise that is their due
While they’ve th’impossible in view.
So have I seen the Injudicious Heir
To add one Window the whole House impair.

Instinct the Hound does better teach
Who never undertook to preach,
The frighted Hare from Dogs does run
But not attempts to bear a Gun.
How many Noble thoughts occur
But I prolixity abhor,
And will pursue th’instructive Tale
To show the Wise in some things fail.

The Reverend Lover with surprise
Peeps in her Bubbies, and her Eyes,
And kisses both, and tries—and tries.
The Evening in this Hellish Play,
Beside his Guineas thrown away,
Provoked the Priest to that degree
He swore, the Fault is not in me.
Your damned Close stool so near my Nose.
Your Dirty Smock, and Stinking Toes
Would make a Hercules as tame
As any Beau that you can name.

The nymph grown Furious roared by God
The blame lies all in Sixty odd
And scornful pointing to the door
Cried Fumbler see my Face no more.
With all my Heart I’ll go away
But nothing done, I’ll nothing pay.
Give back the Money—How, cried she,
Would you palm such a cheat on me!
For poor four pound to roar and bellow,
Why sure you want some new Prunella?
I’ll be revenged you saucy Quean
(Replies the disappointed Dean)
I’ll so describe your dressing room
The very Irish shall not come.
She answered short, I’m glad you’ll write,
You’ll furnish paper when I shite.

Mary Montagu (1689–1762)

Oxford>Robert Harley, 1st Earl of Oxford , with whom and his fellow Tory Henry St. John, 1st Viscount Bolinbroke, Swift had been intimate for a while.

Saturday: The Small-Pox.

The wretched Flavia on her couch reclined,
Thus breathed the anguish of a wounded mind;
A glass reversed in her right hand she bore,
For now she shunned the face she sought before:

“How am I changed! alas! how am I grown
A frightful spectre, to myself unknown!
Where’s my complexion? Where my radiant bloom,
That promised happiness for years to come?
Then with what pleasure I this face surveyed!
To look once more, my visits oft delayed!
Charmed with the view, a fresher red would rise,
And a new life shot sparkling from my eyes!

Ah! faithless glass, my wanted bloom restore,
Alas! I rave, that bloom is now no more!
The greatest good the Gods on men bestow,
Even youth itself, to me is useless now:
There was a time (oh! that I could forget!)
When opera-tickets poured before my feet;
And at the ring, where brightest beauties shine,
The earliest cherries of the spring were mine.
Witness, O Lily, and thou, Motteaux, tell
How much Japan these eyes have made ye sell,
With what contempt ye saw me oft despise
The humble offer of the raffled prize;
For at each raffle still the prize I bore,
With scorn rejected, or with triumph wore!
Now beauty’s fled, and presents are no more.

For me the Patriot has the House forsook,
And left debates to catch a passing look:
For me the Soldier has soft verses writ;
For me the Beau has aimed to be a Wit.
For me the Wit to nonsense was betrayed;
The Gamester has for me his dun delayed,
And overseen the card I would have paid.
The bold and haughty by success made vain,
Awed by my eyes have trembled to complain:
The bashful ’squire touchd with a wish unknown,
Has dared to speak with spirit not his own;
Fired by one wish, all did alike adore;
Now beauty’s fled, and lovers are no more!

As round the room I turn my weeping eyes,
New unaffected scenes of sorrow rise!
Far from my sight that killing picture bear,
The face disfigure, and the canvas tear!
That picture which with pride I used to show,
The lost resemblance but upbraids me now.
And thou, my toilette! where I oft have sat,
While hours unheeded passed in deep debate,
How curls should fall, or where a patch to place:
If blue or scarlet best became my face;
Now on some happier nymph your aid bestow;
On fairer heads, ye useless jewels glow!
No borrowed luster can my charms restore;
Beauty is fled, and dress is now no more!

Ye meaner beauties, I permit ye shine;
Go, triumph in the hearts that once were mine;
But midst your triumphs with confusion know,
’Tis to my ruin all your charms ye owe.
Would pitying Heaven restore my wonted mien,
Ye still might move unthought-of and unseen.
But oh! how vain, how wretched is the boast
Of beauty faded, and of empire lost!
What now is left but weeping, to deplore
My beauty fled, and empire now no more?

Ye cruel Chymists, what withheld your aid?
Could no pomatums save a trembling maid?
How false and trifling is that art ye boast,
No art can give me back my beauty lost.
In tears, surrounded by my friends I lay,
Mask’d o’er and trembling at the sight of day;
MERMILLO came my fortune to deplore,
(A golden headed cane well carv’d he bore)
Cordial, he cried, my spirits must restore:
Beauty is fled, and spirit is no more.

GALEN, the grave, officious SQUIRT, was there,
With fruitless grief and unavailing care:
MACHAON too, the great MACHAON, known
By his red cloak and his superior frown;
And why, he cried, this grief and this despair?
You shall again be well, again be fair;
Believe my oath, my beauty is no more!

Cease, hapless maid, no more thy tale pursue,
Forsake mankind, and bid the world adieu!
Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway;
All strive to serve, and glory to obey:
Alike unpitied when deposed they grow;
Men mock the idol of their former vow.

Adieu! ye parks!—in some obscure recess,
Where gentle streams will weep at my distress,
Where no false friend will in my grief take part,
And mourn my ruin with a joyful heart;
There let me live in some deserted place,
There hide in shades this lost inglorious face.
Ye, operas, circles, I no more must view!
My toilette, patches, all the world adieu!”

Mary Montagu (1689–1762)

Ignotum per Ignotius,
or a Furious Hodge-Podge of Nonsense.
A Pindaric

Or yield or die’s the word, what could he mean,
That tempted the corroborated scene?
Though frying-pans do bite their nails,
Let fritters pass in ancient heraldry,
And pudding boast its pedigree:
When toads do fight with bankrupt quails,
Green cheese in embryo and lockram shirts
Do poll for Knights o’ the Shire,
All buttoned down the skirts,
And quibble votes for the intoxicated year.

The semicircular excursions ran
Forth to monopolise the three-legged can;
When Justice Lickspit kembed his head,
Triumphant hieroglyphic thrummed the law,
And spouting cataracts foresaw
That magazines on bulks lay dead.
The scouring eggshells all besmeared with blood,
Inveloped in damned dry blows,
Detached the sudorific mud,
And brewed a pair of still mustachios.

It galled the winching brush to hear them say
That rigid southern hog-troughs danced the hay;
Though porringers themselves do beat,
And flyblown crow, on vane of weathercock,
Does threshing floors from hinges knock,
And squeamish bellows loathe their meat
Yet grinning oaks still show their butter-teeth,
And fiery hogos from their sties
Do limping legacies bequeath,
And jest upon their blind forefathers’ eyes.

Anonymous (1705)

Ane little Interlude of the Droichs

See Glossary/a> and Note

Droichs>dwarf’s

I

Hirry, hary, hobbilschow,
Se ye not quha is cum now,
But yit wate I nevir how,
Brocht with the Quihirl-wind;
A Sergeand out of Soudoun Land,
A Gyane strang in Limbs to stand,
That with the Strength of my awin Hand
May Bairs and Bugles bind.

II

Quaha is then cum heir, but I
A bauld and bowsteous Bellomy,
Among you all to cry a Cry
With a maist michty Soun?
I generit am of Gyans kynd,
Fra hardy Hercules be Strynd,
Of all the Occident and Ynd,
My Elders woir the Croun.

III

My fore Grandsyre heicht Fynmackoull,
Quha dang the Deil, and gart him youl,
The Skyes raind Fludes quhen he wald skoul,
He troublit all the Air.
He gat my Gudsyre Gog Magog,
He, when he daunst, the Warld wald schog,
Then Thousand Ells yied in his Frog
Of Highland Plaids, and mair.

IV

Sic was he quhen of tendir Youth,
But aftir he grew mair at Fouth,
Elevin Myle wyde mett was his Mouth,
His Teith was ten Myles squair;
He wald upon his Tais upstand,
And tak the Starns doun with his Hand,
And set them in a Gold Garland,
Abuve his Wyfes Hair.

V

His Wyfe scho mekle was of Clift,
Her Heid wan heicher than the Lift,
The Hevin reirdit quhen she did rift,
The Lass was naithing sklender:
Scho spat Loch-lowmond with hir Lips,
Thunder and Fyre flew from hir Hips,
Quhen scho was crabbit, the Sun thold Clips;
The Feynd durst nocht offend hir.

VI

For Cauld scho tuke the Fevir Cartane,
For all the Claith in France and Bartane
Wald not be to hir Leg a Gartane,
Thocht scho was yung and tendir:
Upon a Nicht heir in the North,
Scho tuke the Gravel, and staild Craig-gorth,
And pischt the grit Watter of Forth,
Sic Tyd ran afterhind hir.

VII

Ane Thing written of hir I find,
In Yrland quhen scho blew behind,
On Norway Coist she raist the Wind,
And grit Schips drownit their:
The scho fischt all the Spainyie Seis,
With her Sark Lap betwix her Theyis,
And thre Days sailing tween her Kneis
It was esteemd and mair.

VIII

The hingan Braes on Adir Syde
Scho powtert with hir Lymms sae wyde;
Lasses micht lair at hir to stryde,
Wald gae to Luvairs lair.
Scho market to the Land with Mirth,
Scho quihirrd five Quhails into the Firth
Had croppin on hir Geig for Girth,
Walterand amang the Wair.

IX

My Fader mekle Gow Macmorne,
Out of his Moders Wame was schorne,
For Littlenes scho was forlorn,
Sican a Kemp to beir;
Or he of Age was Yeirs thre,
He wald stap owre the Ocean Se,
The Mone sprang neir abune his Knie,
The Heavens had of him Feir.

X

Ane thousand Yiers ar past frae Mynd,
Sen I was generit of his Kynd,
Far furth in Desart of the Ynd,
Amang Lyon and Beir:
Worthy King Arthur and Gawane,
And mony a bauld Bairn of Bartane
Ar deid, and in the Wars are slain,
Sen I could weild a Speir.

XI

The Sophie and the Sowdoun strang,
With Battles that haif lastit lang,
Out of their Bounds has maid me gang,
And turn to Turkie tyte.
The King of Francis grit Armie
Has brocht a Derth in Lombardie,
That in the Countrie I and he
Can nocht dwell baith perfyte.

XII

Swadrick, Danmark, and Noraway,
Nor in the Steids I dar not gae,
For ther is nocht but burn and flae,
Cut Thropples and mak quyte.
Yrland for ay I haif refusit,
All wyse Men will hald me excusit;
For neit in Land wher Earse is usit,
To dwell had I delyt.

XIII

I haif bene foremost ay in Feild,
And now sae lang haif born the Scheild,
That I am crynit in for Eild
This little, as ye may se:
I haif bene banist under the Lynd
This lang Tyme, that nane could me fynd,
Quhyle now with this laist Eistin Wynd,
I am cum her perdie.

XIV

My name is Welth, therefore be blyth,
I am cum Comfort you to kyth,
Suppose ilk Wretch suld wail and wryth,
All Derth I sall gar die:
For certainly the Truth to tell,
I cum amang ye now to dwell,
Far frae the Sound of Curphour Bell,
To live I neir sall drie.

XV

Now sen I am sic Quantitie
Of Gyans cum, as ye may se,
Quhair will be gotten a Wyfe for me,
Of siclyk Breid and Hicht?
In all this Bour is not a Bryde
Ane Hour I wate dar me abyde,
Yet trow ye ony Heir beside
Micht suffer me all Nicht.
But I will not lang byde ye frae.

XVI

Adew a quhyle, for now I gae,
But I will not lang byde ye frae
I wisch ye be conserft from Wae,
Bait Maiden, Wyfe and Man:
God bless them and the haly Rude,
Gif me a Drink, se it be gude,
And quha trows best that I do lude,
Skink first to me the Kan.

From Allan Ramsay, ed., The Ever Green; a Collection of Scots Poems (1724–1727)

A Brash of Wooing

See Glossary/a> and Note

In secret Place this hinder Nicht
I heard a Bairn say till a Bricht,
My Hinny, my Howp, my Heart, my Heil,
I haif been lang your Luiver leil,
And can of you get Comfort nane,
How long will ye with Danger deil?
Ye brek my Heart, my bony ane.

His Bony Baird was kemd and cropit,
But all with Kail it was bedropit,
Comich he was, fulish and goukit,
He clapit fast, he kist, he chukit,
As with the Glaicks he were oergane,
Yet by his Feirs he wald have ——
Ye brek my Heart, my bony ane.

Quod he, my Heart, seit as the Hinny,
Sen that I born was of my Minny,
I never wouit an uther but you,
My Wame is of your Love sae fou,
That as a Ghaist I glowr and grane,
I trymil sae ye wadna trow,
Ye brek my Heart, my bony ane.

Tehei, quod scho, and gae a Gawf,
Be still my Cowsyne, and my Cawf,
My new spaind Howphyn frae the Souk,
And all the Blythness of my Bouk,
My swanky sweet, saif thee alane,
Nae Leid haif I luivd all this Owk,
Fow leis me on that gracless gane.

Quod he, my Claver, my Curiedody,
My Hinnysopps, my sweit Possody,
Be not owre bowstrous to your Billy,
Be warm hertit, not illywilly;
Your Hals as whyt as Quhalis Bane,
Gars rise on Loft my Quilly-lillie,
Ye brek my Heart my bony ane.

Quod scho, my Clip, my unspaynd Lam,
With Mithers Milk yet in your Gam,
My Belly Hudrom, my Hurle Bawly,
My Honneyguks, my Siller Tawsy,
Your Pleins wud pers a Heart of Stane;
Tak Comfort, my great headed Gawsy,
Fou lies me on your gracles gane.

Quod he, my Kid, my Capercalyeane,
My bony Bab with the ruch Brilyeane,
My tender Girdil, my Wally Gowdy,
My Tirly Mirly, my Sowdy Mowdy,
Quhen that our Mouths do meit in ane,
My Stang does cork in with your Towdy,
Ye brek my Heart, my bony ane.

Quod scho then tak me be the Hand,
Welcom my Golk of Maryland,
My Chirry and my maikless Mynyeon,
My Sucker sweit as ony Unyeon,
My Strummil Stirk yet new to spane,
I am applyd to your Opinyion,
Fou leis me on that gracless gane.

He gaif til hir ane Aple-ruby,
Gramerce, quod scho, my kind Cowhubby,
Syne they twa till a Play began,
Quilk that they call the Dirrydan.
Quhile baith thair Fancies met in ane,
O vow! Quoth she, quahir will he Man,
Leil lies me on that gracles gane.

Quod. CLERK

To Mrs. Frances-Arabella Kelly

Today as at my glass I stood,
To set my head-clothes and my hood,
I saw my grizzled locks with dread,
And called to mind the Gorgon’s head.

Thought I, whate’er the poets say,
Medusa’s hair was only grey:
Though Ovid, who the story told,
Was too well-bred to call her old;
But, what amounted to the same,
He made her an immortal dame.
Yet now, whene’er a matron sage
Hath felt the rugged hand of age,
You hear our witty coxcombs cry,
‘Rot that old witch—she’ll never die’;
Though, had they but a little reading,
Ovid would teach them better breeding.

I fancy now I hear you say,
‘Grant heaven my locks may ne’er be grey!
Why am I told this frightful story,
To beauty a memento mori?’

And, as along the room you pass,
Casting your eye upon the glass,
‘Surely,’ say you, ‘this lovely face
Will never suffer such disgrace:
The bloom, that on my cheek appears,
Will never be impaired by years.
Her envy, now I plainly see,
Makes her inscribe those lines to me.
These beldames, who were born before me,
Are grieved to see the men adore me::
Their snaky locks freeze up the blood;
My tresses fire the purple flood.

‘Unnumbered slaves around me wait,
And from my eyes expect their fate.
I own of conquest I am vain,
Though I despise the slaves I gain.
Heaven gave me charms, and destined me
To universal tyranny.’

Mary Barber (1690–1757)

Song

Foolish eyes, thy streams give over,
Wine, not water, binds the lover:
At the table then be shining,
Gay coquette, and all designing.
To th’addressing foplings bowing,
And thy smile or hand allowing,
Whine no more thy sacred passion,
Out of nature, out of fashion.

Let him, disappointed, find thee
False as he, nor dream to bind thee,
While he breaks all tender measures,
Murdering love and all its pleasures.
Shall a look or word deceive thee,
Which he once an age will give thee?
Oh! No more, no more excuse him,
Like a dull deserter use him.

Martha Sansom (1690–1736)

The Humble Wish

I ask not wit, nor beauty do I crave,
Nor wealth, nor pompous titles wish to have;
But since ‘tis doomed, in all degrees of life
(Whether a daughter, sister, or a wife),
That females shall the stronger males obey,
And yield perforce to their tyrannic sway;
Since this, I say is every woman’s fate,
Give me a mind to suit my slavish state.

Arabella Moreton (after 1690–before 1741)

On a Death’s Head

On this resemblance, where we find
A portrait drawn for all mankind,
Fond lover! Gaze awhile, to see
What beauty’s idol charms shall be.
Where are the balls that once could dart
Quick lightning through the wounded heart?
The skin, whose tint could once unite
The glowing red and polished white?
The lip in brighter ruby dressed?
The cheek with dimpled smiles impressed?
The rising front, where Beauty sate
Throned in her residence of state;
Which half-disclosed and half-concealed,
The hair in flowing ringlets veiled?
‘Tis vanished all! Remains alone
The eyeless scalp of naked bone,
The vacant orbits sunk within,
The jaw that offers at a grin.
Is this the object then that claims
The tribute of our youthful flames?
Must amorous hopes and fancied bliss,
Too dear delusions, end in this?
How high does Melancholy swell!
Which sighs can more than language tell;
Till love can only grieve or fear:
Reflect awhile, then drop a tear
For all that’s beautiful and dear.

(1724)

Elizabeth Tollet (1694–1754)

Written to a Near Neighbour in a Tempestuous Night, 1748

You bid my muse not cease to sing,
You bid my ink not cease to flow;
Then say it ever shall be spring,
And boisterous winds shall never blow:
When you such miracles can prove,
I’ll sing of friendship, or of love.

But now, alone, by storms oppressed,
Which harshly in my ears resound;
No cheerful voice with witty jest,
No jocund pipe, to still the sound;
Untrained beside in verse-like art,
How shall my pen express my heart?

In vain I call th’harmonious Nine,
In vain implore Apollo’s aid;
Obdurate, they refuse a line,
While spleen and care my rest invade.
Say, shall we Morpheus next implore,
And try if dreams befriend us more?

Wisely at least he’ll stop my pen,
And with his poppies crown my brow:
Better by far in lonesome den
To sleep unheard-of—than to glow
With treacherous wildfire of the brain,
Th’intoxicated poet’s bane.

Henrietta Knight (1699-1756)

An Epistle to Lady Bowyer

How much of paper’s soiled! What floods of ink!
And yet how few, how very few can think!
The knack of writing is an easy trade;
But to think well requires—at least a head.
Once in an age, one genius may arise,
With wit well-cultured, and with learning wise
Like some tall oak, behold his branches shoot!
No tender scions sprouting at the root.
Whilst lofty Pope erects his laurelled head,
No lays like mine can live beneath his shade
Nothing but weeds, and moss, and shrubs are found.
Cut, cut them down, why cumber they the ground?

And yet you’d have me write!—For what? For whom?
To curl a favourite in a dressing-room?
To mend a candle when the snuff’s too short?
Or save rappee for chamber-maids at court?
Glorious ambition! noble thirst of fame!—
No, but you’d have me write—to get a name.
Alas! I’d live unknown, unenvied too,
‘Tis more than Pope with all his wit can do;
‘Tis more than you with wit and beauty joined,
A pleasing form, and a discerning mind.
The world and I are no such cordial friends;
I have my purpose, they their various ends.
I say my prayers, and lead a sober life,
Nor laugh at Cornus, or at Cornus’ wife.
What’s fame to me, who pray, and pay my rent?
If my friends know me honest, I’m content.

Well, but the joy to see my works in print!
Myself too pictured in a mezzotint!
The preface done, the dedication framed,
With lies enough to make a lord ashamed!
Thus I step forth, an Auth’ress in some sort;
My patron’s name? ‘O choose some lord at court.
One that has money which he does not use,
One you may flatter much, that is, abuse.
For if you’re nice, and cannot change your note,
Regardless of the trimmed, or untrimmed coat,
Believe me, friend, you’ll ne’er be worth a groat.

Well then, to cut this mighty matter short,
I’ve neither friend nor interest at Court.
Quite from St. James’s to thy stairs, Whitehall,
I barely know a creature, great or small,
Except one Maid of Honour, worth them all.
I have no business there—Let those attend
The courtly levee, or the courtly friend,
Who more than fate allows them dare to spend;
Or those whose avarice, with much, craves more,
The pensioned beggar, or the titled poor.
These are the thriving breed, the tiny great!
Slaves! wretched slaves! the journeymen of state.
Philosophers! who calmly bear disgrace,
Patriots who sell their country for a place.
Shall I for these disturb my brains with rhyme?
For these, like Bavius creep, or Glencus climb?
Shall I go late to rest, and early rise,
To be the very creature I despise?
With face unmoved, my poems in my hand,
Cringe to the porter, with the footman stand?
Perhaps my lady’s maid, if not too proud,
Will creep, you’ll say, to wink me from the crowd.
Will entertain me, till his lordship’s dressed,
With what my lady eats, and how she rests:
How much she gave for such a Birthday-gown,
And how she tramped to every shop in town.

Sick at the news, impatient for my lord,
I’m forced to hear, nay smile at every word.
Tom raps at last—‘His lordship begs to know
Your name? Your business?—‘Sir, I’m not a foe:
I come to charm his lordship’s listening ears
With verses, soft as music of the spheres.’
‘Verses!—Alas! his lordship seldom reads;
Pedants indeed with learning stuff their heads;
But my good lord, as all the world can tell,
Reads not ev’n tradesmen’s bills, and scorns to spell.
But trust your lays with me—some things I’ve read,
Was born a poet, though no poet bred:
And if I find they’ll bear my nicer view,
I’ll recommend your poetry—and you.’

Shocked at his civil impudence, I start,
Pocket my poem, asnd in hast depart;
Resolved no more to offer up my wit,
Where footmen in the seat of critics sit.

Is there a Lord whose great unspotted soul,
Not places, persons, ribbons can control;
Unlaced, unpowdered, almost unobserved,
Eats not on silver while his train are starved;
Who, though to nobles or to kings allied,
Dares walk on foot, while slaves in coaches ride;
With merit humble, and with greatness free,
Has bowed to Freeman, and has dined with me;
Who, bred in foreign courts, and early known,
Has yet to learn the cunning of his own;
To titles born, yet heir to no estate,
And harder still, too honest to be great;
If such an one there be, well-bred, polite,
To him I’ll dedicate, for him I’ll write.

Peace to the rest—I can be no man’s slave;
I ask for nothing, though I nothing have.
By fortune humbled, yet not sunk so low
To shame a friend, or fear to meet a foe.
Meanness, in ribbons or in rags, I hate;
And have not learned to flatter ev’n the great.
Few friends I ask, and those who love me well;
What more remains, these artless lines shall tell.

Of honest parents, not of great, I came;
Not known to fortune, quite unknown to fame.
Frugal and plain, at no man’s cost I eat,
Nor knew a baker’s or a butcher’s debt.
O be their precepts ever in my eye!
For one has learned to live, and one to die.
Long may her widowed age by heaven be lent
Among my blessings! and I’m well content.
I ask no more, but in some calm retreat
To sleep in quiet and in quiet eat.
No noisy slaves attending round my room;
My viands wholesome, and my waiters dumb.
No orphans cheated, and no widow’s curse,
No household lord, for better or for worse.
No monstrous sums to tempt my soul to sin,
But just enough to keep me plain and clean.
And if sometimes, to smooth the rugged way,
Charlot should smile, or you approve my lay,
Enough for me—I cannot put my trust
In lords, smile lies, eat toads, or lick the dust.
Fortune her favours much too dear may hold:
An honest heart is worth its weight in gold.

Mary Jones (d. 1778)

A New Prologue Spoken at the Representation of Comus

Ye patriot crowds, who burn for England’s fame,
Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton’s name,
Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes,
Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times;
Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise!
Let wit, condemned the feeble war to wage
With close malevolence, or public rage;
Let study, worn with virtue’s fruitless lore,
Behold this theatre, and grieve no more.
This night, distinguished by your smile, shall tell,
That never Briton can in vain excel;
The slighted arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.
At length our mighty bard’s victorious lays
Fill the loud voice of universal praise,
And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
Yields to renown the centuries to come.
With ardent haste, each candidate of fame
Ambitious catches at his towering name:
He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow
Those pageant honours which he scorned below:
While crowds aloft the laureate bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold,
Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And want hung threatening o’er her slow decay.
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No favouring Muse her morning dreams inspire;
Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age:
Hers the mild merits of domestic life,
The patient sufferer and the faithful wife.
Thus graced with humble virtue’s native charms
Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia’s arms,
Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell,
While tutelary nations guard her cell.
Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave!
‘Tis yours to crown desert—beyond the grave!

Samuel Johnson (1709–1784)

Bartleme Fair

While gentlefolks strut in their silver and satins,
We poor folks that tramp it in straw hats and pattens,
As merrily old English ballads can sing-o,
As they in their opperores’ outlandish lingo;
Calling out, bravo, encoro, and caro,
Though I will sing nothing but Bartleme Fair-o.

Here first of all, crowds against other crowds driving,
Like wind and tide meeting, each contrary striving;
Here’s fiddling and fluting, and shouting and shrieking,
Fifes, trumpets, drums, bag-pipes, and barrow-girls squeaking;
My ware round and sound, here’s a chance of fine ware-o,
Though all is not sound bought at Bartleme Fair-o.

Here are drolls, hornpipe dancing, and showing of postures;
Plum-porridge, black puddings, and op’ning of oysters;
The tap-house guests swearing, and gall’ry folks squalling,
With salt-boxes, solos, and mouth-pieces bawling;
Pimps, pick-pockets, strollers, fat landladies, sailors,
Bawds, bullies, jilts, jockies, thieves, tumblers, and tailors.

Here’s Punch’s whole play of the gunpowder-plot, Sir,
Wild beasts all alive, and pease-porridge hot, Sir;
Fine sausages fried, and the Black on the wire;
The whole court of France, and nice pig at the fire,
The ups-and-downs, who’ll take a seat in the chair-p?
There are more ups-and-downs than at Bartleme Fair-o.

Here’s Whittington’s cat, and tall dromedary,
The chaise without horses, and Queen of Hungary;
The merry-go-rounds, come who rides? come who rides?
Wine, beer, ale, and cakes, fire-eating besides;
The famed learned dog that can tell all his letters,
And some men, as scholars, art not much his betters.

This world’s a wide fair, where we ramble ’mong gay things;
Our passions, like children, are tempted by play-things;
By sound and by show, by trash and by trumpery,
The fal-lals of fashion, and Frenchified frumpery.
Life is but a droll, rather wretched than rare-o,
And thus ends the ballad of Bartleme Fair-o.

(1762)

George Alexander Stevens (1710–1784)

Bartleme> pronounced Bartle-me, a contraction of Bartholomew; opperores> operas

On Lord Holland’s Seat Near Margate, Kent

Old and abandoned by each venal friend,
Here Holland took the pious resolution
To smuggle some few years and strive to mend
A broken character and constitution.

On this congenial spot he fixed his choice,
Earl Godwin trembled for his neighbouring sand;
Here seagulls scream and cormorants rejoice,
And mariners though shipwrecked dread to land.

Here reign the blustering north and blighting east,
No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing,
Yet nature cannot furnish out the feast,
Art he invokes new horrors still to bring.

Now mouldering fanes and battlements arise,
Arches and turrets nodding to their fall,
Unpeopled palaces delude his eyes,
And mimic desolation covers all.

Ah, said the sighing peer, had Bute been true
Nor Shelburn’s, Rigby’s, Calcraft’s friendship vain,
Far other scenes than these had blessed our view,
And realized the ruins that we feign.

Purged by the sword and beautified by fire,
Then had we seen proud London’s hated walls,
Owls might have hooted in St. Peter’s choir,
And foxes stunk and littered in St. Paul’s.

Thomas Gray (1716–1771)

A Lament for Flodden

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before dawn o’ day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning:
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At bughts in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Lassies are lonely and dowie and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing:
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray:
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits earie, lamenting her dearie—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

(1769)

Jean Elliot (1727–1805)

ane > one;   bandsters > binders;   bogle > bogy, hide-and-seek;   bughts > sheep-folds;  
daffing > joking;   dool > grief;   dowie > sad;   eerie > dreary;  
fleeching > coaxing;   hairst > harvest;   ilk > each;   ilka > each;  
leglin > milk-pail;   loaning > lane, field track;   lyart > gray-haired;  
runkled > wrinkled;   swankies > lusty lads;   wae > wretched;   wede > weeded.

Hob upon a Holiday

Hob yawned three times and rubbed his eyes,
Dreaming ’twas near his time to rise;
By instinct knew that day was broke,
And up he got, and then he woke;
Bethought him well ’twas holiday,
And reached him down his best array.

His frock from the same piece was ta’en
That is the tilt upon his wain;
His doublet underneath must be,
So we’ll suppose what we can’t see,
A leathern thong each knee did grace,
Two more were shoe-strings by their place;
The shoes themselves those shoe-strings tie
With Dobbin’s might, or Whitworth’s, vie;
Of iron they wore an equal load,
Not Grecian chiefs were better shod.
Happy ’t had been for Thetis’ son,
Had in those days Hob’s shoes been known.
Lank locks of black, at t’ other end,
Beneath a beaver white depend:
The ribbon on’t, true blue, some say
Had bound Doll’s hose her wedding-day.
Kind Nature, and the sun as kind,
To fit him well with gloves had joined.
He worse no band of point, indeed,
But a stiff collar was instead.
His belt was buff; the same of old
At the Nemean fair were sold;
Hob won him at the wake hard by,
Owned chief in feats of chivalry.

His person did his garb so fit,
It seemed to have been made for it;
His legs were massy and well freight,
And the ground witnessed to the weight:
His head walked foremost as the best,
But they soon followed with the rest.
Brown as his bread a face he wore,
Summers long ceased to bake it more.
Smut was his joke, loud laugh his smile,
And box the teeth he showed the while.
Fat, though most days to god of heat
He sacrificed a pound of sweat;
Hence sav’ry fumes disperse in air,
Hence Towzer scents his lord so far.
Such Hob, and, without help of glass,
He scoured his fist upon his face,
New-combed him, and then scratched his head
To know which way his luck would lead.
A crab-tree in his hand he took,
And issued out in his best look.

Beware, ye lassies every one,
Bridget and Nancy, Nell and Joan!
The god of love’s abroad this day,
And ev’ry girl he finds is prey:
Trust not your hearts, your ears, your eyes,
He means to take you by surprise,
For Hob is Cupid in disguise.

Anonymous (1776)

Charles Churchill, “The Dedication to the Sermons”

HEALTH to great Gloster—from a man unknown,
Who holds thy health as dearly as his own,
Accept this greeting—nor let modest fear
Call up one maiden blush—I mean not here
To wound with flattery—‘tis a villain’s art,
And suits not with the frankness of my heart.
Truth best becomes an Orthodox Divine
And, spite of hell, that Character is mine;
To speak e’en bitter truths I cannot fear;
But truth, my Lord, is panegyric here.

Health to great Gloster—nor, through love of ease,
Which all Priests love, let this address displease
I ask no favor, nor one note I crave,
And, when this busy brain rests in the grave,
(For till that time it never can have rest)
I will not trouble you with one bequest.
Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done,
More near in blood, a Nephew or a Son,
In that dread hour Executor I’ll leave;
For I, alas, have many to receive,
To give but little—To great Gloster Health;
Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth
Here take a false alarm—in purse though poor,
In spirit I’m right proud, nor can endure
The mentionof a bribe—thy pocket’s free,
I, though a Dedicator, scorn a fee.
Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share;
I would not Allen rob nor Allen’S heir.

Think not a Thought unworthy thy great soul,
Which pomps of this world never could control,
Which never offered up at Power’s vain shrine,
Think not that Pomp and Power can work on mine.
‘Tis not thy Name, though that indeed is great,
‘Tis not thy tinsel trumpery of state,
‘Tis not thy Title, Doctor though thou art,
’Tis not thy Mitre, which hath won my heart.
State is a farce, Names are but empty Things,
Degrees are bought, and by mistaken kings,
Titles are oft misplaced; Mitres, which shine
So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine,
Unless set off by Virtue; who deceives
Under the sacred sanction of Lawn-Sleeves,
Enhances guilt, commits a double sin,
So fair without, and yet so foul within.
‘Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien,
Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene,
Thy open front, thy Love-commanding eye,
Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,
Which can from sixty to sixteen impart
The force of Love, and point his blunted dart;
‘Tis not thy Face, though that by Nature’s made
An Index to thy soul, though there displayed;
We see thy mind at large, and through thy skin
Peeps out that Courtesy which dwells within;
‘Tis not thy Birth—for that is low as mine,
Around our heads no lineal glories shine—
But what is Birth, when, to delight mankind,
Heralds can make those arms they cannot find;
When Thou art to Thyself, thy Sire unknown,
A whole Welsh genealogy alone?
No, ’tis thy inward Man, thy proper Worth,
Thy right just Estimation here n earth,
Thy Life and Doctrine uniformly joined,
And flowing from that wholesome source thy mind,
Thy known contempt for Persecution’s rod,
Thy Charity for Man, thy Love of God,
Thy faith in Christ, so well approved ’mongst men,
Which now gives life and utterance to my pen’
Thy Virtue, not thy Rank, demands my lays;
‘Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint I praise
Raised by that Theme, I soar on wings more strong,
And burst forth into praise withheld too long.

Much did I wish, e’en while I kept those sheep
Which, for my curse, I was ordained to keep;
Ordained, alas! To keep through need, not choice,
Those sheep which never heard their shepherd’s voice,
Which did not know, yet would not learn their way,
Which strayed themselves, yet grieved that I should stray,
Those sheep, which my good father (on his bier
Let filial duty drop the pious tear)
Kept well, yet starved himself, e’en at that time
Whilst I was pure, and innocent of rime,
Whilst, sacred Dullness ever in my view,
Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,
Which did I wish, though little could I hope,
A Friend in him, who was the Friend of Pope.

His hand, said I, my youthful steps shall guide,
And lead me safe where thousands fall beside;
His Temper, his Experience shall control,
And hush to peace the tempest of my soul;
His judgment teach me, from the Critic school,
How not to err, and how to err by rule;
Instruct me, mingling profit with delight,
Where Pope was wrong, where Shakespeare was not right;
Where they are justly praised, and where through whim,
How little’s due to them, how much to him
Raised ’bove the slavery of common rules,
Of Commonsense, of modern, ancient schools,
Those feelings banished, which mislead us all,
Fools as we are, and which we Nature call,
He, by his grand example, might impart
A better something, and baptize it Art;
He all the feelings of my youth forgot,
Might show me what is Taste, by what is not;
By him supported, with a proper pride,
I might hold all mankind as fools beside;
He (should a World, perverse and peevish grown,
Explode his maxime, and assert their own)
Might teach me, like himself, to be content,
And let their folly be their punishment;
Might, like himself, teach his adopted Son,
‘Gainst all the World, to quote a Warburton.
Fool that I was, could I so much deceive
My soul with lying hopes; could I believe
That he, the servant of his Maker sworn,
The servant of his Saviour, would be torn
From their embrace, and leave that dear employ,
The cure of souls, his duty and his joy,
For toys like mine, and waste his precious time,
On which so much depended, for a rime?
Should he forsake the task he undertook,
Desert his flock, and break his pastoral crook?
Should he (forbid it Heaven) so high in place,
So rich in knowledge, quit the world of Grace,
And, idly wandering o’er the Muses’ hill,
Let the salvation of mankind stand still?

Far, far be that from Thee—yes, far from Thee
Be such revolt from Grace, and far from me
The skill to think it—Guilt is in the Thought—
Not so, Not so, hath Warburton been taught,
Not so learned Christ—recall that day, well-known,
When (to maintain God’s honor—and his own)
He called Blasphemers forth—Methinks I now
See stern Rebuke enthroned on his brow,
And armed with tenfold terrors—from his tongue,
Where fiery zeal, and Christian fury hung,
Methinks I hear the deep-toned thunders roll,
And chill with horror every sinner’s soul—
In vain They strive to fly—flight cannot save,
And Potter trembles even in his grave—
With all the conscious pride of innocence,
Methinks I hear him, in his own defense,
Bear witness to himself, whilst all Men knew,
By Gospel-rules, his witness to be true.

O Glorious Man, thy zeal I must commend,
Though it deprived me of my dearest friend,
The real motives of thy anger known,
Wilkes must the justice of that anger own;
And, could thy bosom have been bared to view,
Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you.

Bred to the law, You wisely took the gown,
Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down,
Hence double strength our Holy Mother drew;
Me she got rid of, and made prize of you.
I, like an idle Truant, fond of play,
Doting on toys, and throwing gems away,
Grasping at shadows, let the substance slip;
But you, my Lord, renounced Attorneyship
With brutal purpose, and more noble aim,
And wisely played a more substantial game
Nor did Law mourn, blessed in her younger son,
For Mansfield does what Gloster would have done.

Doctor, Dean, Bishop, Gloster, and My Lord,
If haply these high Titles may accord
With thy meek Spirit, if the barren sound
Of pride delights Thee, to the topmost round
Of Fortune’s ladder got, despise not One,
For want of smooth hypocrisy undone,
Who, far below, turns up his wandering eye,
And, without envy, sees The placed so high,
Let not thy Brain (as Brains less potent might,
Dizzy, confounded, giddy with the height,
Turn round and lose distinction, lose her skill
And wonted powers of knowing good from ill,
Of sifting Truth from falsehood, friends from foes,
Let Gloster well remember, how he rose,
Nor turn his back on men who made him great;
Let him not, gorged with power and drunk with state,
Forget what once he was, though now so high,
How low, how mean, and fall as poor as I.

Cetera desunt [The rest is missing.]

Charles Churchill (1731–1784)

Sweet Meat has Sour Sauce; or, The Slave-Trader in the Dumps.

A trader I am to the African shore,
But since that my trading is like to be o’er,
I’ll sing you a song that you ne’er heard before,
Which nobody can deny, deny,
Which nobody can deny.

When I first heard the news it gave me a shock,
Much like what they call an electrical knock,
And now I am going to sell off my stock,
Which nobody can deny.

’Tis a curious assortment of dainty regales,
To tickle the Negroes with when the ship sails—
Fine chains for the neck, and a cat with nine tails,
Which nobody can deny.

Here’s supple-jack plenty, and store of rattan
That will wind itself round the sides of a man
As close as a hoop round a bucket or can,
Which nobody can deny.

Here’s padlocks and bolts, and screws for the thumbs
That squeeze them so lovingly till the blood comes;
They sweeten the temper like comfits or plums,
Which nobody can deny.

When a Negro his head from his victuals withdraws
And clenches his teeth and thrusts out his paws,
Here’s a notable engine to open his jawa,
Which nobody can deny.

Thus going to market, we kindly prepare
A pretty black cargo of African ware,
For what they must meet with when they get there,
Which nobody can deny.

’Twould do your heart good to see ’em below
Lie flat on their backs all the way as we go
Like sprats on a gridiron, scores in a row,
Which nobody can deny.

But ah! if in vain I have studied an art
So gainful to me, all boasting apart,
I think it will break my compassionate heart,
Which nobody can deny.

For oh, how it enters my soul like an awl;
This pity, which some people self-pity call,
I’m sure the most heart-piercing pity of all,
Which nobody can deny.

So this is my song, as I told you before;
Come buy off my stock, for I must no more
Carry Caesars and Pompeys to sugar-cane shore,
Which nobody can deny, deny,
Which nobody can deny.

William Cowper (1731–1800)

Epitaph on Dr. Samuel Johnson

Here Johnson lies—a sage by all allow’d
Whom to have bred may well make England proud.
Whose Prose was eloquence by Wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;
Whose Verse may claim, grave, masculine, and strong
Superior praise to the mere Poet’s song;
Who many a noble gift from Heav’n possessed,
And Faith at last—Alone, worth all the rest.
Oh Man immortal by a double prize,
On Earth by Fame, by Favor in the skies!

William Cowper (1731–1800)

To My Dearest Cousin on her Removal of us from Silver End to Weston

Who gave me grassy lawns for miry ways,
These silent shades for dull and noisy streets,
For rustics who can only gape and gaze,
Good neighbourhood with all its social sweets?

Who took me from my dwelling old and drear
As prisons or inclosures of the dead,
By vermin haunted, sinking every year,
And threatening downfall on its tenant’s head?

Placed me, when least I hoped so fair a change,
In this neat mansion furnished by her care,
And gave me, for yon marshy flats, to range
These pleasant heights, and breathe this purer air?

No patron praised ’till his relenting hands
Forgot their gripe, no poem-pampered peer,
But liberal as the showers on thirsty lands
And true as day-spring, Harriet has been here.

She stooped from yon great city, from the sight
Of proud Hyde-Park was happy to descend
Winged with benevolence, into the night
Of infant-thronged, thief harbouring, Silver End.

She took me thence, and my departure shaped
From scenes of filth, to Weston’s verdant scene;
So by an angel’s conduct Lot escaped
From Sodom’s fires to Zoar fresh and green.

Sweet Cousin! With whom so oft at early day,
While many a homely lass lay slumbering still,
Chearful and happy I was wont to stray
Through ducal Bedford’s fields to Primrose-Hill.

I little thought that pleasures dead so long
Should yet revive, that I should hear again
The once familiar music of that tongue
So oft employed to mitigate my pain.

And would’st thou now that after many a year
With sadness of the deepest gloom o’ercast,
The evening of my life should open clear,
And Mary taste, and I, some ease at last?

Come then—frequent what thou hast made so fair,
Thy converse add to all thy gifts beside,
Else thou shalt leave the want we least can bear,
Still, after all thy kindness, unsupplied.

William Cowper (1731–1800)

An Old Cat’s Dying Soliloquy

Years saw me still Acasto’s mansion grace,
The gentlest, fondest of the tabby race;
Before him frisking through the garden glade,
Or at his feet in quiet slumber laid;
Praised for my glossy back of zebra streak,
And wreaths of jet encircling round my neck;
Soft paws that ne’er extend the clawing nail,
The snowy whisker and the sinuous tail,
Now feeble age each glazing eyeball dims,
And pain has stiffened these once supple limbs;
Fate of eight lives the forfeit gasp obtains,
And e’en the ninth creeps languid through my veins.

Much sure of good the future has in store,
When on my master’s hearth I bask no more,
In those best climes, where fishes oft forsake
The winding river and the glassy lake;
There, as our silent-footed race behold
The crimson spots and fins of lucid gold,
Venturing without the shielding waves to play,
They gasp on shelving banks, our easy prey:
While birds unwinged hop careless o’er the ground,
And the plump mouse incessant trots around,
Near wells of cream that mortals never skim,
Warm marum creeping round their shallow brim;
Where green valerian tufts, luxuriant spread,
Cleanse the sleek hide and form the fragrant bed.

Yet, stern dispenser of the final blow,
Before thou lay’st an aged grimalkin low,
Bend to her last request a gracious ear,
Some days, some few short days to linger here;
So to the guardian of his tabby’s weal
Shall softest purrs these tender truths reveal.

“Ne’er shall thy now expiring puss forget
To thy kind care her long-enduring debt,
Nor shall the joys that painless realms decree
Efface the comforts once bestowed by thee;
To countless mice thy chicken-bones preferred,
Thy toast to golden fish and wingless bird;
O’er marum borders and valerian bed
Thy Selima shall bend her moping head,
Sigh that no more she climbs, with grateful glee,
The downy sofa and thy cradling knee;
Nay, e’en at founts of cream shall sullen swear,
Since thou, her more loved master, art not there.”

Anna Seward (1742–1809)

The Lady’s Diary

Lectured by Pa and Ma o’er night,
Monday at ten quite vexed and jealous,
Resolved in future to be right,
And never listen to the fellows:
Stitched half a wristband, read the text,
Received a note from Mrs Racket:
I hate that woman, she sat next
All church-time to sweet Captain Clackit.

Tuesday got scolded, did not care,
The toast was cold, ’twas past eleven;
I dreamed the Captain through the air
On Cupid’s wings bore me to heaven:
Pouted and dined, dressed, looked divine,
Made an excuse, got Ma to back it;
Went to the play, what joy was mine!
Talked loud and laughed with Captain Clackit.

Wednesday came down no lark so gay,
“The girl’s quite altered,” said my mother;
Cried Dad, “I recollect the day
When, dearee, thou wert such another!”
Danced, drew a landscape, skimmed a play,
In the paper read that widow Flackit
To Gretna Green had run away,
The forward minx, with Captain Clackit.

Thursday fell sick: “poor soul she’ll die”;
Five doctors came with lengthened faces;
Each felt my pulse; “ah me!” cried I,
“Are these my promised loves and graces?”
Friday grew worse; cried Ma, in pain,
“Our day was fair, heaven do not black it;
Where’s your complaint, love?”—In my brain.”
“What shall I give you?”—“Captain Clackit.

Early next morn a nostrum came
Worth all their cordials, balms and spices;
A letter, I had been to blame;
The Captain’s truth brought on a crisis.
Sunday, for fear of more delays,
Of a few clothes I made a packet,
And Monday morn stepped in a chaise
And ran away with Captain Clackit.

Charles Dibdin (1745–1814)

A Town and Country Life Contrasted

In London I never know what I’d be at,
Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that;
I’m wild with the sweets of variety’s plan,
And life seems a blessing too happy for man.

But the country, God help me! sets all matters right,
So calm and composing from morning to night;
Oh! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen
But an ass on a common, a goose on a green.

In town if it rains, why it damps not our hope,
The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope;
What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days?
It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways.

In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields,
To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields;
Or go crawling from window to window, to see
A pig on a dunghill or crow on a tree.

In London how easy we visit and meet.
Gay pleasure’s the theme, and sweet smiles are our treat;
Our morning’s a round of good-humored delight,
And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night.

In the country, how sprightly! our visits we make
Through ten miles of mud, for formality’s sake;
With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a fog,
And no thought in your head but a ditch or a bog.

In London, if folks ill together are put,
A bore may be dropped, and a quiz may be cut:
We change without end; and if lazy or ill,
All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will.

In the country you’re nailed, like a pale in the park,
To some stick of a neighbour that’s crammed in the ark;
And ’tis odds, if you’re hurt, or in fits tumble down,
You reach death ere the doctor can reach you from town.

I have heard, though, that love in a cottage is sweet,
When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet:
That’s to come—for as yet I, alas! am a swain
Who requires, I own it, more links to my chain.

Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among trees,
And chatter their transports in groves, if they please;
But a house is much more to my taste than a tree,
And for groves, oh! a good grove of chimneys for me.

In town let me live then, in town let me die,
For in truth I can’t relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!

(1795?)

Charles Morris (1745–1838)

Erotica Romana (sel.)

I

Here’s where I’ve planted my garden and here I shall care for love’s blossoms—
As I am taught by my muse, carefully sort them in plots:
Fertile branches, whose product is golden fruit of my lifetime,
Set here in happier years, tended with pleasure today.
You, stand here at my side, good Priapus—albeit from thieves I’ve
Nothing to fear. Freely pluck, whosoever would eat.
—Hypocrites, those are the ones! If weakened with shame and bad conscience
One of those criminals comes, squinting out over my garden,
Bridling at nature’s pure fruit, punish the knave in his hindparts,
Using the stake which so red rises there at your loins.

II

Tell me ye stones and give me O glorious palaces answer.
Speak O ye streets but one word. Genius, art thou alive?
Yes, here within thy sanctified walls there’s a soul in each object,
ROMA eternal. For me, only, are all things yet mute.
Who will then tell me in whispers and where must I find just the window
Where one day she’ll be glimpsed: creature who’ll scorch me with love?
Can’t I divine yet the paths through which over and over
To her and from her I’ll go, squandering valuable time?
Visiting churches and palaces, all of the ruins and the pillars,
I, a responsible man, profit from making this trip.
With my business accomplished ah then shall only one temple,
AMOR’s temple alone, take the initiate in.
Rome, thou art a whole world, it is true, and yet without love this
World would not be the world, Rome would cease to be Rome.

III

More than ever I dreamed, I have found it: my happy good fortune!
Cupid sagaciously led past those palazzos so fine.
He of course knows very well (and I have also discovered)
What, beneath tapestries rich, gilded boudoirs conceal.
One may if one wishes call him a blind, wanton boy—but I know you,
Clever Cupid, too well! O, incorruptible god!
We were by no means inveigled to enter façades so majestic;
Somber cortile\é we passed, balcony high and gallant,
Hastening onward until an humble but exquisite portal
Offered a refuge to both, ardent seeker and guide.
Here he provides me with ev’rything, sees that I get what I call for;
Each day that passes he spreads freshly plucked roses for me.
—Isn’t that heaven on earth? Say, beautiful Lady Borghese,
What would you give to me more?—You, Nipotina, what yours?
Banquets and game tables, operas, balls, promenades down the Corso?
These but deprive my sweet boy of his most opportune times.
Finery, haughtiness do not entice me. Does one not one lift a
Gown of the finest brocade just as one lifts common wool?
If she’s to press in comfort a lover against that soft bosom,
Doesn’t he want her to be free from all brooches and chains?
Must not the jewelry, and then the lace and the bustles and whalebone
All of it come off entire, if he’s to learn how she feels?
I encounter no troubles like those. Simple dress of rough homespun,
At but a lover’s mere touch, tumbles in folds to the floor.
Quickly he carries the girl as she’s clad in chemise of coarse linen—
Just as a nursemaid might, playfully up to her bed.
Drapings of satin are absent; the mattress is quite unembroidered.
Large is this room where the bed offers its comfort for two.
Jupiter’s welcome to more than his Juno if he can get it;
Let any mortal find rest, softer, wherever he can.
We are content with Cupid’s delights, authentic and naked—
And with the exquisite creak/crack of the bed as it rocks.

V

Do not, beloved, regret that you yielded to me so quickly:
I entertain no base, insolent thoughts about you.
Arrows of Cupid work divers effects. Some do but scratch us:
Slow and insidious these poison our hearts over years.
Yet with a head freshly honed and cunningly fledged, certain others
Pierce to the marrow, inflame rapidly there our blood.
When gods and goddesses in days of heroes made love, then
Lust followed look and desire, with no delay, was indulged.
Surely you don’t think the goddess of love lost a moment reflecting
When, in Idean grove, Anchises caught her eye.
Nor did Luna delay about kissing that beautiful dreamer—
Jealous Aurora had else hastily wakened the lad.
At the loud banquet Hero regarded Leander—then promptly
Into dark waters he plunged, ardently swam toward his love.
When Rhea Silvia, princess and virgin, came down to the Tiber
Just to fetch water, a god seized her and that is the way
Mars begat himself sons, a pair of twins whom a she wolf
Suckled. Today a proud Rome claims to be queen of the world

VII

Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration.
Voices from present and past speak here evocatively.
Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients
With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure’s renewed.
Throughout the night, in a different way, I’m kept busy by Cupid—
If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way.
Do then I not become wise where I trace with my eye her sweet bosom’s
Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire,
As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble,
See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees.
While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight,
She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full.
And we do more than just kiss, we prosecute reasoned discussions
(Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts).
In her embrace—it’s by no means unusual—I’ve composed poems
And the hexameter’s beat gently tapped out on her back,
Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber.
Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns.
Cupid while stirring the flame in out lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when
For the triumvirs he similar service performed.

XVIII

I cannot think I’d have gone with Julius Caesar to Britain:
To the Popina right here, Florus would tug me with ease.
Fogs of the dreary north remain a more baleful remembrance
Than in the kitchens of Rome tribes of assiduous fleas.
After today, I’ll remember you even more kindly, tavernas,
You osterias, as you are called, aptly by those here in Rome.
That was the place I encountered my mistress today with the uncle
Whom she so often deceives, so that she can have me.
Here’s where I sat at a table surrounded by good-natured Germans;
Over on that side the girl, finding a seat for herself
Next to her mother where, frequently shifting her bench, she arranged
Nicely for me to perceive profile and curve of her neck;
Speaks just a little more loudly than women in Rome are accustomed;
Significant glance as she pours—misses the glass with the wine
So that it spills on the table, and she with a delicate finger
Over its surface can draw circles in damp arabesque:
Her name entwining in mine, while my eyes most eagerly follow
All that her fingertip writes. She is of course well aware
That I am watching, so finally makes the V of the Roman
Five, with a virgule before. Quickly, as soon as I’ve seen,
She interlaces the circles, reducing them all to ornatest
Patterns—but still the sweet IV stood as engraved in my eye.
I sat there mutely and biting my passionate lips almost bloody
Half from delight at the ruse, partly from stifled desire:
Such a long time until dark, then another four hours of waiting.
—Sun, who tarries on high, contemplating Rome:
Greater never you’ve seen nor shall you in future see greater
Than Rome, O sun, as your priest, Horace, enraptured foretold.
Tarry no longer today. Go seek other realms beneath heaven.
Sooner depart and leave Rome’s seven famed hills to me.
Please do the poet a favor and shorten the glorious hours
Which the painter devours, eagerly filling his eyes.
Cast now but one ardent glance, while descending, on noble façades and
Cupolas, pillars, and —last—up at the obelisks. Then
Hastily plunge to the ocean. Come view all the sooner tomorrow
That which, for centuries now, gods have let you enjoy:
Italy’s shoreline so long overgrown with moist reeds, elevations
Somberly rising to shades cast by the bushes and trees.
First were but few simplr dwellings here, suddenly sunlight discovered
Nations enlivening hills teeming with fortunate thieves.
Onto this spot they assembled such plunder, in your eye so splendid,
All earth’s remaining orb scarcely was worthy of note.
You watched a world being born here, watched the same world sink to ruin,
And from those ruins yet arise world again greater, perhaps.
O may I long by your light now behold this Rome. May the Parcae
Spin the fine thread of my life slowly, taking great care.
O but come rushing the moment my love designated so sweetly.
Wonderful! Sound already the chimes?—No, but I heard at least three.
Thus, my dear muses, again you’ve beguiled the monotony for me
Of this long interval while I was apart from my love.
All of you now, farewell! I’ll be going now—don’t be offended.
For though you’re proud, you’ll concede: Cupid in my heart comes first.

XXIV

I in the back of the garden, the last of the gods, in a corner,
Ineptly formed, must I stand. Evil the inroads of time.
Cucumber vines grow entwining about this primeval lingam,
Cracking it almost in two under the weight of the fruit.
Faggots are heaped all about me against the cold of the winter,
Which I so hate for the crows settling then down on my head,
Which they befoul very shamefully. Summer’s no better: the servants
Empty their bowels and show insolent, naked behinds.
Filth above and below! I was clearly in danger of turning
Into filth myself, toadstool, rotten wood!
Now by your efforts, O noblest of artists, I shall recover
With fellow gods my just place. And it’s no more than my due.
Jupiter’s throne, so dishonestly won, it was I who secured it:
Color and ivory, marble and bronze, not to mention the poems.
Now all intelligent men look upon me in kindness. They like to
Form their own image of me, just as the poet has done.
Nor do the girls take offense when they see me—by no means the matrons.
None finds me ugly today, though I am monstrously strong.
Half a foot long, as reward, your glorious rod (dear poet)
Proudly shall strut from your loins, when but your dearest commands,
Nor shall your member grow weary until you’ve enjoyed the full dozen
Artful positions the great poet Philainis describes.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)
Tr. J.W. Worthy. For all twenty-four poems, see
lettersfromthedustbowl.com/elegies.html

To the Principal and Professors of the University of St Andrews,
on their Superb Treat to Dr Samuel Johnson

See Glossary/a>

St Andrews town may look right gawsy,
Nae grass will grow upon her cawsey,
Nor wa’-fowers of a yellow dye,
Glour dowy o’er her ruins high,
Sin Sammy’s head weel pang’d si’ lear,
Has seen the Alma Mater there:
Regents, my winsome billy boys!
’Bout him you’ve made an unco noise;
Nae doubt for him your bells wad clink
To find him upon Eden’s brink,
An’ a’ things nicely set in order,
Wad kep him on the Fifan border:
I’se warrant now frae France an’ Spain,
Baith cooks and scullions mony ane
Wad gar the pats an’ kettles tingle
Around the college kitchen ingle,
To fleg frae a’ your craigs the roup,
Wi’ reeking het and crieshy soup;
And snails and puddocks mony hunder
Wad beeking lie the hearth-stane under,
Wi’ roast and boild, an’ a’ kin kind,
To heat the body, cool the mind.
But hear me lads! gin I’d been there,
How I wad trimm’d the bill o’ fare!
For ne’er sic surly wight as he
Had met wi’ sic respect frae me.
Mind ye what Sam, the lying loun!
Has in his Dictionar laid down?
That aits in England are a feast
To cow an’ horse, an’ sican beast,
While in Scots ground this growth was common
To gust the gab o’ man and woman.
Tak tent, ye Regents! Then, an’ hear
My list o’gudely hamel gear,
Sic as ha’e often rax’d the wyme
O’ blyther fallows mony time;
Mair hardy, souple, steive an’ swank,
That ever stood on Samy’s shank.
Imprimis, then, a haggis fat,
Weel tottled in a scything pat,
Wi’ spice and ingans weel ca’d thro’,
Had help’d to gust the sirrah’s mow,
And plac’d itsel in truncher clean
Before the gilpy’s glowrin een.
Secundo, then a gude sheep’s head
Whase hide was singit, never flead,
And four black trotters cled wi’ girsle,
Bedown his throat had learn’d to hirsle.
What think ye neist, o’ gude fat brose
To clag his ribs? a dainty dose!
And white and bloody pudding routh,
To gar the Doctor skirl, O Drouth!
Whan he cou’d never houp to merit
A cordial o’ reaming claret,
But thraw his nose, and brize and pegh
O’er the contents o’ sma’ ale quegh:
Then let his wisdom girn and snarl
O’er a weel-tostit girdle farl,
An’ learn, that maugre o’ his wame,
Ill bairns are ay best heard at hame.
Drummond, lang syne, o’ Hawthornden,
The wyliest an’ best o’ men,
Has gi’en you dishes ane or mae,
That wad ha’ gard his grinders play,
Not to roast beef, old England’s life,
But to the auld east nook of Fife,
Whare Creilian crafts cou’d weel ha’e gi’en
Skate-rumples to ha’e clear’d his een;
Than neist what Samy’s heart was faintin,
He’d lang’d for scate to mak him wanton.
Ah! willawins, for Scotland now,
Whan she maun stap ilk birky’s mow
Wi’ eistacks, grown as ’tward in pet
In foreign land, or green-house het,
When cog o’ brose an’ cutty spoon
Is a’ our cottar childer’s boon,
Wha thro’ the week, till Sunday’s speal,
Toil for pease-clods an’ gude lang kail.
Devall then, Sirs, and never send
For daintiths to regale a friend,
Or, like a torch at baits ends burning,
Your house ’ll soon grow mirk and mourning.
What’s this I hear some cynic say?
Robin, ye loun! it’s nae fair play;
Is there nae ither subject rife
To clap your thumb upon but Fife?
Gi’e o’er, young man, you’ll meet your corning,
Than caption war, or charge o’ horning;
Some canker’d surly sour-mow’d carline
Bred near the abbey o’ Dumfarline,
Your shoulders yet may gi’e a lounder,
And be of verse the mal-cofounder.
Come on, ye blades! But ’ere ye tulzle,
Or hack our flesh wi’ sword or gulzie,
Ne’er shaw your teeth, nor look like stink,
Nor o’er an empty bicker blink:
What weets the wizen an’ the wyme,
Will mend your prose and heal my rhyme.

Robert Fergusson (1750–1774)