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ELIZABETHAN AND SEVENTEENTH

CENTURY LYRICS

LYRIC poetry differs fundamentally from epic or narrative poetry in that it is concerned not with telling a story but with expressing the poet's personal feelings or his thoughts emotionally presented. The lyric is generally short, well unified, and direct; it should also have the quality of emotional intensity, whether it is a spontaneous outburst of a singer who holds nothing back, or the restrained but none the less genuine expression of a reflective poet whose emotion is "recollected in tranquillity."

The Age of Elizabeth was a time of enthusiasm and of dramatic achievement. The Revival of Learning and the Reformation had combined to give men new zest for life, and the drama and lyric poetry were natural outlets. Many of the early lyrics of the period are free, spontaneous utterances, full of the enthusiasm that requires expression in song. At the same time, much of the poetry was written by those associated with the court and its elaborate etiquette, who were strongly under the influence of conventions. The sonnet and the pastoral, for example, were written in imitation of foreign models and appropriated many highly conventionalized images. It is consequently difficult to be sure at times whether the poet is expressing his own feelings or writing according to the fashion. This uncertainty makes it impossible to assert positively that Shakespeare's sonnets have autobiographical value, but in any case they are beautiful in imagery, deep in thought, and rich in music. In general, enthusiasm for poetic expression characterizes the lyrics of the time, and there is no similar body of English poety that contains so much of the song quality.

As the century advanced, the reflective and philosophical element became stronger, as is evidenced by the poetry of John Donne and the religious lyrists whom he influenced. There is subtle thinking and less of the bright joyousness of the earlier period. In Ben Jonson and his followers, Herrick, Carew, Lovelace, and Suckling we find the qualities of finish, symmetry, and polish that resulted from the desire to say a thing as well as it could be said, the manner of what is called Classicism. The best sonnets of Milton show clearly the effectiveness of this highly developed sense of form, combined with dignity of theme and glowing emotion.

SIR THOMAS WYATT (1503?-1542) For hitherto though I have lost my time, Me list no longer rotten boughs to climb.

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And in me claim no more authority. With idle youth go use thy property,

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And thereon spend thy many brittle In temperate heat, where he is felt and

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In presence prest of people, mad or wise;
Set me in high, or yet in low degree;
In longest night, or in the longest day;
In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest
be;

In lusty youth, or when my hairs are gray;

Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell;

In hill, or dale, or in the foaming flood; Thrall, or at large, alive whereso I dwell;

Sick or in health, in evil fame or good; Hers will I be, and only with this thought

Content myself, although my chance be

naught.

GEORGE GASCOIGNE (1525?-1577)

A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER

Amid my bale1 I bathe in bliss,
I swim in heaven, I sink in hell;
I find amends for every miss,

And yet my moan no tongue can tell.
I live and love, what would you more?
As never lover lived before.

I laugh sometimes with little lust,2
So jest I oft and feel no joy;
Mine ease is builded all on trust,
And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy.
I live and lack, I lack and have;
I have and miss the thing I crave.

Then like the lark that passed the night
In heavy sleep with cares opprest;
Yet when she spies the pleasant light,
She sends sweet notes from out her
breast:

So sing I now because I think
How joys approach, when sorrows shrink.

And as fair Philomene again
Can watch and sing when others sleep,
And taketh pleasure in her pain,
To wray the woe that makes her weep:
So sing I now for to bewray: 4
The loathsome life I lead alway.

To which to thee, dear wench, I write, That know'st my mirth, but not my

moan:

I pray God grant thee deep delight,
To live in joys when I am gone.
I cannot live; it will not be:
I die to think to part. from thee.

JOHN LYLY (1554?-1606)

APELLES' SONG

Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses,-Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of spar-

rows:

Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose

These things seem strange, yet are they Growing on's cheek (but none knows

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SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) .Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest

SONNETS

XXXI

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!

How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that even in heavenly place

That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted

eyes

bed,

A chamber deaf of noise and blind of

light,

A rosy garland and a weary head:

And if these things, as being thine in right,

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image

see.

XLI

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's Having this day my horse, my hand, my

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lance

Guided so well that I obtained the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy,

France;

Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance;

Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies

His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise;

Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in

this,

Think Nature me a man-at-arms did make.

How far they shot awry! The true cause is,

Stella looked on; and from her heavenly face

Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

LEAVE ME, O LOVE, WHICH REACHEST BUT TO DUST

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,

And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;

Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Whatever fades but fading pleasure Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
brings.
His bed amidst my tender breast;

Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy My kisses are his daily feast,

might

To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,

Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light

That doth both shine and give us sight to

see.

And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,
The livelong night.

Oh, take fast hold! let that light be thy Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;

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ΙΟ

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And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offence.

I'll shut my eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,
I'll count your power not worth a pin:
Alas! what hereby shall I win

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee.
O Cupid! so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee.

ROBERT GREENE (1560 ?-1592)

SOME SAY LOVE

Some say Love,

Foolish Love,

30

Doth rule and, govern all the gods:

1 hush

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