BEOWULF THE ORIGINAL IN OLD ENGLISH A LITERAL TRANSLATION IN MODERN ENGLISH A MODERN ADAPTATION BY SEAMUS HEANEY

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1 BEOWULF THE ORIGINAL IN OLD ENGLISH A LITERAL TRANSLATION IN MODERN ENGLISH A MODERN ADAPTATION BY SEAMUS HEANEY Ɖā wæs swīgra secg, sunu Ecglāfes, Then was more silent man, Ecglaf s son, on gylp-sprǣce gūð-geweorca, in boasting of war-deeds, siƥðan æƥelingas eorles cræfte after noblemen warrior s skill ofer hēanne hrōf hand scēawedon, above lofty roof hand displayed fēondes fingras. fiend s fingers. There was less tampering and big talk then From Unferth the boaster, less of his blather As the hall-thanes eyed the awful proof Of the hero s prowess, the splayed hand Up under the eaves. Ɖā cōm of mōre under mist-hleoƥum Then came from moor under misty slopes Grendel gongan Godes yrre baer ; Grendel advancing God s ire bearing ; mynte se mān-scaða manna cynnes thought the wicked foe one of mankind sumne besyrwan in sele ƥām hēan. By treachery to take in the high hall. In off the moors, down through the mist bands God-cursed Grendel came greedily loping. The bane of the race of men roamed forth, Hunting for a prey in the high hall.

2 Beowulf (modern version by Seamus Heaney) * + They went to sleep. And one paid dearly For his night s ease, as had happened to them often, Ever since Grendel occupied the gold-hall, Committing evil until the end came, Death after his crimes. Then it became clear, Obvious to everyone once the fight was over, That an avenger lurked and was still alive, Grimly biding time. Grendel s mother, Monstrous hell-bride, brooded on her wrongs. She had been forced down into fearful waters, The cold depths, after Cain had killed His father s son, felled his own Brother with a sword. Branded an outlaw, Marked by having murdered, he moved into the wilds, Shunned company and joy. And from Cain there sprang Misbegotten spirits, among them Grendel, The banished and accursed, due to come to grips With that watcher in Heorot waiting to do battle. The monster wrenched and wrestled with him But Beowulf was mindful of his mighty strength, The wondrous gifts God had showered on him: He relied for help on the Lord of All, On His care and favour. So he overcame the foe, Brought down the hell-brute. Broken and bowed, Outcast from all sweetness, the enemy of mankind Made for his death-den. But now his mother Had sallied forth on a savage journey, Grief-racked and ravenous, desperate for revenge. She came to Heorot. There, inside the hall, Danes lay asleep, earls who would soon endure A great reversal, once Grendel s mother Attacked and entered. Her onslaught was less Only by as much as an amazon warrior s Strength is less than an armed man s When the hefted sword, its hammered edge And gleaming blade slathered in blood, Razes the sturdy boar-ridge off a helmet. Then in the hall, hard-honed swords Were grabbed from the bench, many a broad shiled Lifted and braced; there was little thought of helmets Or woven mail when they woke in terror. The hell-dam was in panic, desperate to get out, In mortal terror the moment she was found. She had pounced and taken one of the retainers In a tight hold, then headed for the fen. To Hrothgar, this man was the most beloved Of the friends he trusted between the two seas. She had done away with a great warrior, Ambushed him at rest. * + * + The Geat people built a pyre for Beowulf, Stacked and decked it until it stood four-square, Hung with helmets, heavy war-shields And shining armour, just as he had ordered. Then his warriors laid him in the middle of it, Mourning a lord far-famed and beloved. On a height they kindled the hugest of all Funeral fires; fumes of woodsmoke Billowed darkly up, the blaze roared And drowned out the weeping, wind died down And flames wrought havoc in the hot bone-house, Burning it to the core. They were disconsolate And wailed aloud for their lord s decease. A Geat woman too sang out in grief; With hair bound up, she unburdened herself Of her worst fears, a wild litany Of nightmare and lament: her nation invaded, Enemies on the rampage, bodies in piles, Slavery and abasement. Heaven swallowed the smoke. Then the Geat people began to construct A mound on a headland, high and imposing, A marker that sailors could see from far away, And in ten days they had done the work. It was their hero s memorial; what remained from the fire They housed inside it, behind a wall As worthy of him as their workmanship could make it. And they buried torques in the barrow, and jewels And a trove of such things as trespassing men Had once dared to drag from the hoard. They let the ground keep that ancestral treasure, Gold under gravel, gone to earth, As useless to men now as it ever was. Then twelve warriors rode around the tomb, Chieftain s sons, champions in battle, All of them distraught, chanting in dirges, Mourning his loss as a man and a king. They extolled his heroic nature and exploits And gave thanks for his greatness; which was the proper thing, For a man should praise a prince whom he holds dear And cherish his memory when that moment comes When he has to be convoyed form his bodily home. So the Geat people, his hearth companions, Sorrowed for the lord who had been laid low. They said that of all the kings upon the earth He was the man most gracious and fair-minded, Kindest to his people and keenest to win fame. THE END

3 CHAUCER. TROILUS AND CRISEYDE The double sorwe of Troilus to tellen, That was the king Priamus sone of Troye, In lovinge, how his aventures fellen Fro wo to wele, and after out of Ioye, My purpos is, er that I parte fro ye. Thesiphone, thou help me for tendyte Thise woful vers, that wepen as I wryte! To thee clepe I, thou goddesse of torment, Thou cruel Furie, sorwing ever in peyne; Help me, that am the sorwful instrument That helpeth lovers, as I can, to pleyne! For wel sit it, the sothe for to seyne, A woful wight to han a drery fere, And, to a sorwful tale, a sory chere. For I, that god of Loves servaunts serve, Ne dar to Love, for myn unlyklinesse, Preyen for speed, al sholde I therfor sterve, So fer am I fro his help in derknesse; But nathelees, if this may doon gladnesse To any lover, and his cause avayle, Have he my thank, and myn be this travayle! But ye loveres, that bathen in gladnesse, If any drope of pitee in yow be, Remembreth yow on passed hevinesse That ye han felt, and on the adversitee Of othere folk, and thenketh how that ye Han felt that Love dorste yow displese; Or ye han wonne hym with to greet an ese. And preyeth for hem that ben in the cas Of Troilus, as ye may after here, That love hem bringe in hevene to solas, And eek for me preyeth to god so dere, That I have might to shewe, in som manere, Swich peyne and wo as Loves folk endure, In Troilus unsely aventure. And biddeth eek for hem that been despeyred In love, that never nil recovered be, And eek for hem that falsly been apeyred Thorugh wikked tonges, be it he or she; Thus biddeth god, for his benignitee, So graunte hem sone out of this world to pace, That been despeyred out of Loves grace. And biddeth eek for hem that been at ese, That god hem graunte ay good perseveraunce, And sende hem might hir ladies so to plese, That it to Love be worship and plesaunce. For so hope I my soule best avaunce, To preye for hem that Loves servaunts be, And wryte hir wo, and live in charitee. And for to have of hem compassioun As though I were hir owene brother dere. Now herkeneth with a gode entencioun, For now wol I gon streight to my matere, In whiche ye may the double sorwes here Of Troilus, in loving of Criseyde, And how that she forsook him er she deyde. * + * + O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up groweth with your age, Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee, And of your herte up-casteth the visage To thilke god that after his image Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre. And loveth him, the which that right for love Upon a cros, our soules for to beye, First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove; For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye, That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye. And sin he best to love is, and most meke, What nedeth feyned loves for to seke? Lo here, of Payens corsed olde rytes, Lo here, what alle hir goddes may availle; Lo here, these wrecched worldes appetytes; Lo here, the fyn and guerdon for travaille Of Iove, Appollo, of Mars, of swich rascaille! Lo here, the forme of olde clerkes speche In poetrye, if ye hir bokes seche. -- O moral Gower, this book I directe To thee, and to the philosophical Strode, To vouchen sauf, ther nede is, to corecte, Of your benignitees and zeles gode. And to that sothfast Crist, that starf on rode, With al myn herte of mercy ever I preye; And to the lord right thus I speke and seye: Thou oon, and two, and three, eterne on-lyve, That regnest ay in three and two and oon, Uncircumscript, and al mayst circumscryve, Us from visible and invisible foon Defende; and to thy mercy, everichoon, So make us, Iesus, for thy grace digne, For love of mayde and moder thyn benigne! Amen THE END

4 THE CANTERBURY TALES THE MILLER S TALE Whillom ther was dwellynge at Oxenford A riche gnof, that gestes heeld to bord, And of his craft he was a carpenter. With hym ther was dwellynged a pour scoler * + This clerk was cleped hende Nicholas. Of deerne love he koude and of solas; And therto he was sleigh and ful privee, And lyk a mayden meke for to see. * + This carpenter hadde wedded newe a wyf, Which that he lovede moore than his lyf Of eighteteene yeer she was of age. Jalous he was, and heeld hire narwe in cage, For she was wylde and yong, and he was old And demed himself been lik a cokewold. * + Now, sire, and eft, sire, so bifel the cas That on a day this hende Nicholas Fil with this yonge wyf to rage and pleye, Whil that his housbonde was at Oseneye, As clerkes ben ful subtile and ful queynte; And prively he caught hire by the queynte, And seyde, Ywis, but if ich have my wille, For deerne love of thee, lemman, I spille. * + Now was ther of that chirche a parish clerk, The which that was ycleped Absolon. Crul was his heer, and as the gold it shoon, And strouted as a fanne large and brode; * + This Absolon, that jolif was and gay, Gooth with a sencer on the haliday, Sensynge the wyves of the parisshe faste; And many a lovely look on hem he caste, And namely on this carpenteris wyf. To looke on hire hym thought a myrie lyf, She was so proper and sweet and likerous. I dar wel seyn, if she hadde ben a mous, And he a cat, he wold hire hente anon. * + Ful softe out at the dore he gan to steele, And wente unto the carpenteris wal. He coghest first, and knokketh therwithal Upon the wyndowe, right as he did er. This Alison answerde Who is ther That knokketh so? I warante it a theef. Why, nay, quod he, God woot, my sweete leef, I am thyn Absolon, my deerelyng. Of Gold, quod he, I have thee broght a ryng. My mooder yaf it me, so God me save; Ful fyn it is, and therto wel ygrave. This wol I yeve thee, if thou me kisse. This Nicholas was risen for to pisse, And thoughte he wolde amenden al the jape; He sholde kisse his ers er that he scape. And up the wyndowe dide he hastily, And out his ers he putteth pryvely Over the buttok, to the haunche-bon; And therwith spak this clerk, this Absolon, Spek, sweete bryd, I noot nat where thou art. This Nicholas anon leet fle a fart, As greet as it had been a thonder-dent, That with the strook he was almoost yblent; And Nicholas amydded the ers he smoot, Of gooth the skyn an hande-brede aboute, The hoote kultour brende so his toute, And for the smert he wende for to dye. As he were were woode, for wo he gan to crye, Help! Water! Water! Help, for Goddes herte! This carpenter out of his slomber sterte, And herde oon crien water as he were wood, And thoughte, Allas, now comth Nowellis flood! He sit hym up withouten wordes mo, And with his ax he smoot the corde atwo, And doun gooth all; he foond neither to selle, Ne breed ne ale, til he cam to the celle Upon the floor, and there aswoven he lay. Up stirte hire Alison and Nicholay, And criden Out and Harrow in the street. The neighbores, bothe smale and grete, In ronnen for to gauren on this man, That yet aswowne lay, bothe pale and wan, For with the fal he brosten hadded his arm. But stonde he moste unto his owene harm; For whan he spak, he was anon bore doun With hende Nicholas and Alisoun. They tolden every man that he was wood; He was agast of Nowelis flood Thurgh fantasie that of his vanytee He hadde yboght hym knedyng tubes thre, And hadde hem hanged in the roof above; And that he preyed hem, for Goddes love, To sitten in the roof, par compaignye. The folk gan laughen at his fantasye; Into the roof they kiken and they cape, And turned al his harm unto a jape. For what so that this carpenter answered, It was for noght; no man his reson herde. With othes grete he was so sworn adoun That he was holde wood in al the toun; For every clerk anonright heeld with oother. They seyde, The man is wood, my leeve brother ; And every wight gan laughen at this stryf. Thus swyved was this carpenteris wyf, For al his kepying and his jalousye, And Absolon hath kist hir nether ye, And Nicholas is scalded in the towte. This tale is doon, and God save al the rowte!

5 Thomas WYATT What means this when I lie alone? I toss, I turn, I sigh, I groan. My bed me seems as hard as stone. What means this? I sigh, I plain continually. The clothes that on my bed do lie Always methink they lie awry. What means this? In slumbers oft for fear I quake. For heat and cold I burn and shake. For lack of sleep my head doth ache. What means this? A mornings then when I do rise I turn unto my wonted guise, All day after muse and devise. What means this? And if perchance by me there pass She unto whom I sue for grace, The cold blood forsaketh my face. What means this? But if I sit near her by With loud voice my heart doth cry And yet my mouth is dumb and dry. What means this? To ask for help no heart I have. My tongue doth fail what I should crave. Yet inwardly I rage and rave. What means this? Thus have I passed many year And many a day, though naught appear But most of that that most I fear. What means this? My lute awake, perform the last Labour, that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun : And when this song is sung and past, My lute! be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none ; As lead to grave in marble stone ; My song may pierce her heart as soon. Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan? No, no, my lute! for I have done. The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection : So that I am past remedy ; Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot, By whom, unkind, thou hast them won : Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, That makest but game on earnest pain ; Think not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lovers plain ; Although my lute and I have done. May chance thee lie withered and old The winter nights, that are so cold, Plaining in vain unto the moon ; Thy wishes then dare not be told : Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon : Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute! this is the last Labour, that thou and I shall waste ; And ended is that we begun : Now is this song both sung and past ; My lute! be still, for I have done

6 I find no peace, and all my war is done, I fear and hope, I burn and freeze like ice. I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise, And naught I have, and all the world I seize on. That looseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison, And holdeth me not, yet can I 'scape nowise; Nor letteth me live nor die at my device, And yet of death it giveth me occasion. Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain; I desire to perish, and yet I ask health; I love another, and thus I hate myself; I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain. Likewise displeaseth me both death and life, And my delight is causer of this strife. Henry Howard, Earl of SURREY Love, that doth reign and live within my thought, And built his seat within my captive breast, Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought, Oft in my face he doth his banner rest. But she that taught me love and suffer pain, My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire With shamefast look to shadow and refrain, Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire. And coward Love then to the heart apace Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and plain, His purpose lost, and dare not show his face. For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pain, Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove: Sweet is the death that taketh end by love Alas! so all things now do hold their peace, Heaven and earth disturbèd in no thing. The beast, the air, the birds their song do cease; The nightès chare the stars about doth bring; Calm is the sea, the waves work less and less. So am not I, whom love, alas, doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing, In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease: For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring, But by and by the cause of my disease Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting, When that I think what grief it is, again, To live, and lack the thing should rid my pain Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest : Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain ; And virtue sank the deeper in his breast : Such profit he by envy could obtain. A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame ; Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain, As on a stithe,where that some work of fame Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain. A visage stern, and mild ; where both did grow Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice : Amid great storms, whom grace assured so, To live upright, and smile at fortune's choice. A hand, that taught what might be said in rhyme ; That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit. A mark, the which (unperfected for time) Some may approach, but never none shall hit. A tongue that serv'd in foreign realms his king ; Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame Each noble heart ; a worthy guide to bring Our English youth by travail unto fame. An eye, whose judgment none effect could blind, Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile ; Whose piercing look did represent a mind With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile. A heart, where dread was never so imprest To hide the thought that might the truth advance ; In neither fortune loft, nor yet represt, To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance. A valiant corpse, where force and beauty met : Happy, alas! too happy, but for foes, Lived, and ran the race that nature set ; Of manhood's shape, where she the mould did lose. But to the heavens that simple soul is fled, Which left, with such as covet Christ to know, Witness of faith, that never shall be dead ; Sent for our health, but not received so. Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost ; The earth his bones, the heaven possess his ghost

7 Sir Philip SIDNEY. Astrophel and Stella Sonnet 1 Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That the dear She might take some pleasure of my pain: Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain, I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain: Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burned brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay, Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows, And others' feet still seemed but strangers in my way. Thus great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite, 'Fool' said my Muse to me, 'look in thy heart and write.' Sonnet 19 On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent, That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same? When most I glory, then I feel most shame: I willing run, yet while I run, repent. My best wits still their own disgrace invent: My very ink turns straight to Stella's name; And yet my words, as them my pen doth frame, Avise themselves that they are vainly spent. For though she pass all things, yet what is all That unto me, who fare like him that both Looks to the skies and in a ditch doth fall? Oh let me prop my mind, yet in his growth, And not in Nature, for best fruits unfit: "Scholar," saith Love, "bend hitherward your wit." Sonnet 20 Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound; fly! See there that boy, that murthering boy I say, Who like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie, Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey. So tyrant he no fitter place could spy, Nor so fair level in so secret stay, As that sweet black which veils the heav'nly eye: There himself with his shot he close doth lay. Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did, And stayed pleas'd with the prospect of the place, While that black hue from me the bad guest hid: But straight I saw motions of lightning grace, And then descried the glist'ring of his dart: But ere I could fly hence, it pierc'd my heart. Sonnet 31 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 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace To me that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there, ungratefulness? Sonnet 54 Because I breathe not love to every one, Nor do not use set colours for to wear, Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair, Nor give each speech a full point of a groan, The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan Of them who in their lips Love's standard bear, "What, he!" say they of me, "now I dare swear He cannot love. No, no, let him alone." And think so still, so Stella know my mind! Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art; But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find, That his right badge is worn but in the heart. Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove: They love indeed who quake to say they love

8 Edmund SPENSER Amoretti Sonnet 29 See! how the stubborn damsel doth deprave my simple meaning with disdainful scorn: and by the bay which I unto her gave, accompts my self her captive quite forlorn. The bay (quoth she) is of the victors borne, yielded them by the vanquished as their meeds, and they therewith do poets' heads adorn, to sing the glory of their famous deeds. But sith she will the conquest challenge needs let her accept me as her faithfull thrall, that her great triumph which my skill exceeds, I may in trump of fame blaze over all. Then would I deck her head with glorious bays, and fill the world with her victorious praise. Sonnet 30 My love is like to ice, and I to fire: how comes it then that this her cold so great is not dissolv'd through my so hot desire, but harder grows, the more I her entreat? Or how comes it that my exceeding heat is not delayed by her heart frozen cold, but that I burn much more in boiling sweat, and feel my flames augmented manifold? What more miraculous thing may be told that fire, which all thing melts, should harden ice: and ice which is congealed with senseless cold, should kindle fire by wonderful device? Such is the pow'r of love in gentle mind that it can alter all the course of kind. Sonnet 67 Like as a huntsman after weary chase, Seeing the game from him escaped away, sits down to rest him in some shady place, with panting hounds, beguiled of their prey: So, after long pursuit and vain assay, when I all weary had the chase forsook, the gentle deer returned the self-same way, thinking to quench her thirst at the next brooke. There she, beholding me with milder look, sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide, till I in hand her yet half trembling took, and with her own good will her firmly tied. Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wild, so goodly won, with her own will beguiled. The Shepherd s Calendar. January A Shepherd's Boy (no better do him call) When Winters wasteful Spight was almost spent, All in a Sunshine-day, as did befall, Led forth his Flock, that had been long ypent. So faint they wox, and feeble in the Fold, That now uneathes their Feet could them uphold. All as the Sheep, such was the Shepherd's Look, For pale and wan he was, (alas the while!) May seem he lov'd, or else some care he took: Well couth he tune his Pipe, and frame his Stile. Tho to a Hill his fainting Flock he led, And thus he plain'd, the while his Sheep there fed. Ye Gods of Love, that pity Lovers Pain, (If any Gods the Pain of Lovers pity) Look from above, where you in Joys remain, And bow your Ears unto my doleful Ditty. And Pan thou Shepherd's God, that once did love, Pity the Pains, that thou thy self didst prove. Thou barren Ground, whom Winter's Wrath hath wasted, Art made a Mirror, to behold my Plight; Whylom thy fresh Spring flower'd, and after hasted Thy Summer proud, with Daffadillies dight: And now is come thy Winter's stormy State, Thy Mantle marr'd, wherein thou maskedst late. Such Rage as Winter, reigneth in my Heart, My Life-blood freezing, with unkindly Cold: Such stormy Stours do breed my baleful Smart, As if my Years were waste, and woxen old. And yet, alas, but now my Spring begun, And yet, alas, it is already done. You naked Trees, whose shady Leaves are lost, Wherein the Birds were wont to build their Bower, And now are cloth'd with Moss and hoary Frost, Instead of Blosms, wherewith your Buds did flower; I see Your Tears, that from your Boughs do rain, Whose Drops in dreary Icicles remain. Also my lustful Leaf is dry and sear, My timely Buds with wailing all are wasted; The Blossom, which my Branch of Youth did bear, With breathed Sighs is blown away, and blasted: And from mine Eyes the drizzling Tears descend, As on your Boughs the Icicles depend. * +

9 William Shakespeare Sonnet 1 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Sonnet 30 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end. Sonnet 26 Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written embassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit: Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it: Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tottered loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect: Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me Sonnet 32 If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover, Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, And though they be outstripped by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought: 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'. Sonnet 29 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings Sonnet 57 Being your slave what should I do but tend Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world without end hour, Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, When you have bid your servant once adieu; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought Save, where you are, how happy you make those. So true a fool is love, that in your will, Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

10 Sonnet 73 That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. Sonnet 98 From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odor and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell. Or from their proud lap pluck them while they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; These were but sweet, but figures of delight; Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play. Sonnet 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red, than her lips red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go, My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare, As any she belied with false compare Sonnet 151 Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. For, thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body's treason; My soul doth tell my body that he may Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason, But rising at thy name doth point out thee As his triumphant prize; proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call Her love for whose dear love I rise and fall Sonnet 116 Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixèd mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth s unknown, although his height be taken. Love s not Time s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved Sonnet 154 The little Love-god lying once asleep Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand The fairest votary took up that fire Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd; And so the Generall of hot desire Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall Came there for cure, and this by that I prove, Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

11 Holy Sonnet 1 John DONNE A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say, "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No." So let us melt, and make no noise, No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 'Twere profanation of our joys To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears; Men reckon what it did, and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers' love Whose soul is sense cannot admit Of absence, 'cause it doth remove The thing which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assurèd of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss. Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to aery thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do. And though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just And makes me end where I begun. Thou hast made me, and shall Thy work decay? Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste; I run to death, and Death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday. I dare not move my dim eyes any way; Despair behind, and Death before doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh. Only Thou art above, and when towards Thee By Thy leave I can look, I rise again; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one hour myself I can sustain. Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart. Holy Sonnet 3 O! might those sighs and tears return again Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent, That I might in this holy discontent Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourn'd in vain. In mine Idolatry what showers of rain Mine eyes did waste? what griefs my heart did rent? That sufferance was my sin, I now repent; 'Cause I did suffer, I must suffer pain. Th' hydroptic drunkard, and night-scouting thief, The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud Have the remembrance of past joys, for relief Of coming ills. To poor me is allow'd No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been Th' effect and cause, the punishment and sin. Holy Sonnet 4 O, my black soul, now thou art summoned By sickness, Death's herald and champion; Thou'rt like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turn to whence he's fled; Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read, Wisheth himself deliver'd from prison, But damn'd and haled to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned. Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; But who shall give thee that grace to begin? O, make thyself with holy mourning black, And red with blushing, as thou art with sin; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might, That being red, it dyes red souls to white.

12 John DONNE, To his mistress going to bed Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy, Until I labour, I in labour lie. The foe oft-times, having the foe in sight, Is tired with standing, though they never fight. Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering But a far fairer world encompassing. Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear That th'eyes of busy fools may be stopped there: Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime Tells me from you that now 'tis your bed time. Off with that happy busk, whom I envy That still can be, and still can stand so nigh. Your gown's going off such beauteous state reveals As when from flowery meads th'hills shadow steals. Off with your wiry coronet and show The hairy diadem which on you doth grow. Off with those shoes: and then safely tread In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed. In such white robes heaven's angels used to be Received by men; thou Angel bring'st with thee A heaven like Mahomet's Paradise; and though Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know By this these Angels from an evil sprite: They set out hairs, but these the flesh upright. License my roving hands, and let them go Behind before, above, between, below. Oh my America, my new found land, My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned, My mine of precious stones, my Empery, How blessed am I in this discovering thee. To enter in these bonds is to be free, Then where my hand is set my seal shall be. Full nakedness, all joys are due to thee. As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use Are as Atlanta's balls, cast in men's views, That when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem His earthly soul may covet theirs not them. Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made For laymen, are all women thus arrayed; Themselves are mystic books, which only we Whom their imputed grace will dignify Must see revealed. Then since I may know, As liberally as to a midwife show Thyself; cast all, yea this white linen hence. Here is no penance, much less innocence. To teach thee, I am naked first: why then What need'st thou have more covering than a man. Andrew MARVELL, To his Coy Mistress Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

13 Andrew MARVELL. Thoughts in a Garden How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays ; And their uncessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid ; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men : Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow ; Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green ; Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed, How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheresoe'er your barks I wound No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat : The gods who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race. Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow, And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head ; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach ; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness : The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas ; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide : There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings ; And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate : After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there : Two paradises 'twere in one To live in Paradise alone. How well the skillful gard'ner drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new ; Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run ; And, as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers! The Coronet When for the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviour's head have crowned, I seek with garlands to redress that wrong, Through every garden, every mead, I gather flowers (my fruits are only flowers), Dismantling all the fragrant towers That once adorned my shepherdess's head: And now, when I have summed up all my store, Thinking (so I my self deceive) So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of Glory wore, Alas! I find the Serpent old, That, twining in his speckled breast, About the flowers disguised, does fold With wreaths of fame and interest. Ah, foolish man, that wouldst debase with them, And mortal glory, Heaven's diadem! But thou who only couldst the Serpent tame, Either his slippery knots at once untie, And disentangle all his winding snare, Or shatter too with him my curious frame, And let these wither so that he may die Though set with skill, and chosen out with care; That they, while thou on both their spoils dost tread, May crown Thy feet, that could not crown Thy head.

14 The Retreat (Henry Vaughan) Happy those early days, when I Shin'd in my Angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white celestial thought: When yet I had not walk'd above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back at that short space Could see a glimpse of His bright face: When on some gilded cloud, or flow'r, My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity: Before I taught my tongue to wound My Conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to ev'ry sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train; From whence th' enlightned spirit sees That shady City of Palm-trees. But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way! Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. George HERBERT. Prayer Prayer, the Church's banquet, Angels' age, God's breath in man returning to his birth, The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage, The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth; Engine against th' Almighty, sinner's tower, Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear, The six-days'-world transposing in an hour, A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear; Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss, Exalted manna, gladness of the best, Heaven in ordinary, man well dressed, The milky way, the bird of Paradise, Church bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood, The land of spices, something understood. Easter Wings Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poor: With thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me. My tender age in sorrow did begin: And still with sicknesses and shame Thou didst so punish sin, That I became Most thin. With thee Let me combine And feel this day thy victory For, if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me. The Altar A broken Altar, Lord, thy servant rears, Made of a heart, and cemented with tears: Whose parts are as thy hand did frame; No workman's tool hath touched the same. A Heart alone Is such a stone, As nothing but Thy pow'r doth cut. Wherefore each part Of my hard heart Meets in this frame, To praise thy name: That if I chance to hold my peace, These stones to praise thee may not cease. O let thy blessed Sacrifice be mine, And sanctify this Altar to be thine.

15 Richard LOVELACE Robert HERRICK To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old time is still a-flying; And the same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And, while ye may, go marry; For, having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. To Althea, from Prison I. When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates; And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye, The birds, that wanton in the air, Know no such liberty. II. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes, that tipple in the deep, Know no such liberty. III. Robert HERRICK, To Blossoms Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night? 'Twas pity Nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave. When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my King. When I shall voice aloud, how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. IV. Stone walls doe not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty.

16 John MILTON LYCIDAS In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drown'd in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, And by occasion fortels the ruine of our corrupted Clergy then in their height. Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due: For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not flote upon his watry bear Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of som melodious tear. Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, So may som gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'oaten Flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song. But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Shall now no more be seen, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. As killing as the Canker to the Rose, Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, When first the White thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: Ay me, I fondly dream! Had ye bin there for what could that have don? What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, The Muse her self, for her inchanting son Whom Universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His goary visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. Alas! What boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, Were it not better don as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Næra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of Noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, Phœbus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed. * +