To the Courteous Reader.
How hard an enterprise it is, in this skilful and curious Age, to commit our private labours to the public view, mine own disability and others' hard success do too well assure me: and were it not for that love [which] I bear to the true lovers of music, I had concealed these my first fruits; which how they will thrive with your taste I know not, howsoever the greater part of them might have been ripe enough by their age. The Courtly judgement, I hope will not be severe against them, being itself a party; and those sweet Springs of Humanity, I mean our two famous Universities, will entertain them for his sake whom they have already graced, and, as it were, enfranchised in the ingenuous profession of Music: which, from my childhood I have ever aimed at, sundry times leaving my native country, the better to attain so excellent a science.
About sixteen years past [i.e., in 1580], I travelled the chiefest parts of France, a nation furnished with great variety of Music; but lately, being of a more confirmed judgement, I bent my course towards the famous provinces of Germany, where I found both excellent Masters, and most honourable patrons of music, namely, those two miracles of this Age for virtue and magnificence, Henry Julio, Duke of Brunswick, and the learned Maurice, Landgrave of Hesse; of whose princely virtues and favours towards me, I can never speak sufficiently. Neither can I forget the kindness of Alexandro Horologio, a right learned master of music, servant to the royal Prince, the Landgrave of Hesse, and Gregorio Howet, Lutenist to the magnificent Duke of Brunswick; both [of] whom I name, as well for their love to me as also for their excellency in their faculties.
Thus having spent some months in Germany, to my great admiration of that worthy country; I passed over the Alps into Italy, where I found the Cities furnished with all good arts, but especially music. What favour and estimation I had in Venice, Padua, Genoa, Ferrara, Florence, and divers other places, I willingly suppress; lest I should, [in] any way, seem partial in mine own endeavours. Yet I cannot dissemble the great content I found in the proffered amity of the most famous Luca Marenzio, whose sundry letters I received from Rome; and one of them, because it is but short, I have thought good to set down, not thinking it any disgrace to be proud of the judgement of so excellent a man.
Molto magnifico Signior mio osservandissimo.
Per una lettera del Signior Alberigo Malvezi ho inteso quanto con cortese affeto si mostri desideroso di essermi congionto d'amicitia, dove infinitamente la ringratio di questo suo buon'animo, offerendomegli all'incontro se in alcuna cosa la posso servire, poi che gli meriti delle sue infinite virtù, e qualità meritano che ogni uno e me l'ammirino e osservino, e per fine di questo le bascio le mani. Di Roma, a' 13. di Luglio. 1595.
D.V.S. Affettionatissimo servitore,
LUCA MARENZIO.
Not to stand too long upon my travels: I will only name that worthy Master, Giovanni Crochio, Vice-master of the Chapel of Saint Mark's in Venice; with whom I had familiar conference.
And thus what experience I could gather abroad; I am now ready to practice at home, if I may but find encouragement in my first assays.
There have been divers Lute Lessons of mine lately printed without my knowledge, false and imperfect: but I purpose shortly myself to set forth the choicest of all my Lessons in print, and also an Introduction for Fingering; with other Books of Songs, whereof this is the first. And as this finds favour with you, so shall I be affected to labour in the rest. Farewell!
John Dowland.
Thomæ Campiani.
Epigramma. De instituto authoris.
Famam, posteritas quam dedit Orpheo.
Dolandi melius Musica dat sibi,
Fugaces reprimens archetypis sonos;
Quas et delitias præbuit auribus,
Ipsis conspicuas luminibus facit.
Lyrics, Elegies, &c. from Madrigals, Canzonets, &c.
John Dowland.
The First Book of Songs or Airs
Vnquiet thoughts! your civil slaughter stint!
And wrap your wrongs within a pensive heart!
And you, my tongue! that makes my mouth a mint,
And stamps my thoughts, to coin them words by art,
Be still! For if you ever do the like,
I'll cut the string, that makes the hammer strike!
But what can stay my thoughts, they may not start?
Or put my tongue in durance for to die?
When as these eyes, the keys of mouth and heart
Open the lock, where all my love doth lie.
I'll seal them up within their lids for ever!
So thoughts and words and looks shall die together.
How shall I then gaze on my mistress' eyes?
My thoughts must have some vent, else heart will break.
My tongue would rust, as in my mouth it lies;
If eyes and thoughts were free, and that not speak.
Speak then! and tell the passions of Desire!
Which turns mine eyes to floods, my thoughts to fire.
Whoever thinks, or hopes of love for love?
Or who beloved, in Cupid's laws doth glory?
Who joys in vows, or vows not to remove:
Who, by this light god, hath not been made sorry?
Let him see me! eclipsed from my sun;
With dark clouds of an earth, quite overrun.
Who thinks that sorrows felt, desires hidden,
Or humble faith in constant honour armed,
Can keep love from the fruit that is forbidden?
Who thinks that change is by entreaty charmed?
Looking on me; let him know Love's delights
Are treasures hid in caves, but kept by sprites!
My Thoughts are winged with Hopes, my Hopes with Love.
Mount Love unto the moon in clearest night!
And say, "As she doth in the heavens move,
In earth so wanes and waxeth my delight."
And whisper this, but softly, in her ears!
"Hope oft doth hang the head, and Trust shed tears."
And you, my Thoughts, that some mistrust do carry!
If for mistrust, my mistress do you blame,
Say, "Though you alter, yet you do not vary
As she doth change; and yet remain the same:
Distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect;
And love is sweetest, seasoned with suspect."
If she for this, with clouds do mask her eyes,
And make the heavens dark with her disdain;
With windy sighs disperse them in the skies!
Or with thy tears dissolve them into rain!
Thoughts, Hopes, and Love return to me no more,
Till Cynthia shine, as she hath done before!
If My complaints could passions move,
Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong;
My passions were enough to prove
That my despairs had governed me too long.
O Love, I live and die in thee!
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me!
Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks,
Yet thou dost hope when I despair!
My heart for thy unkindness breaks!
Thou say'st, "Thou can'st my harms repair."
And when I hope: thou mak'st me hope in vain!
Yet for redress, thou let'st me still complain!
Can Love be rich, and yet I want?
Is Love my judge, and yet am I condemned?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant!
Thou made a god, and yet thy power contemned!
That I do live, it is thy power!
That I desire, it is thy worth!
If love doth make men's lives too sour,
Let me not love, nor live henceforth!
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith,
That you, that of my fall may hearers be,
May hear Despair, which truly saith,
"I was more true to Love, than Love to me."
Can she excuse my wrongs with virtue's cloak?
Shall I call her good, when she proves unkind?
Are those clear fires, which vanish into smoke?
Must I praise the leaves, where no fruit I find?
No! No! Where shadows do for bodies stand,
Thou may'st be abused, if thy sight be dim.
Cold love is like to words written on sand;
Or to bubbles, which on the water swim.
Wilt thou be abused still,
Seeing that she will right thee never?
If thou can'st not o'ercome her will,
Thy love will be thus fruitless ever!
Was I so base, that I might not aspire,
Unto those high joys, which she holds from me?
As they are high, so high is my desire,
If she this deny, what can granted be?
If she will yield to that which reason is,
It is Reason's will, that Love should be just.
Dear! make me happy still, by granting this,
Or cut off delays, if that die I must!
Better a thousand times to die,
Than for to live thus still tormented:
Dear! but remember it was I,
Who, for thy sake, did die contented.
Now, O now, I needs must part,
Parting, though I absent mourn;
Absence can no joy impart,
Joy once fled, cannot return.
While I live, I needs must love,
Love lives not, when hope is gone.
Now at last despair doth prove
Love divided, loveth none.
Sad despair doth drive me hence,
This despair, unkindness sends;
If that parting be offence,
It is she which then offends.
Dear! when I from thee am gone,
Gone are all my joys at once.
I loved thee, and thee alone!
In whose love I joyed once:
And although your sight I leave,
Sight wherein my joys do lie;
Till that death do sense bereave,
Never shall affection die!
Sad despair doth drive me hence, &c.
Dear! if I do not return,
Love and I shall die together.
For my absence never mourn!
Whom you might have joyed ever.
Part we must, though now I die,
Die I do, to part with you:
Him despair doth cause to lie
Who both lived and dieth true.
Sad despair doth drive me hence, &c.
Dear, if you change! I'll never choose again.
Sweet, if you shrink! I'll never think of love.
Fair, if you fail! I'll judge all beauty vain.
Wise, if too weak! more wits I'll never prove.
Dear! sweet! fair! wise! change, shrink, nor be not weak;
And, on my faith! my faith shall never break.
Earth with her flowers shall sooner heaven adorn;
Heaven her bright stars, through earth's dim globe shall move.
Fire, heat shall lose; and frosts, of flames be born;
Air made to shine, as black as hell shall prove:
Earth, heaven, fire, air, the world transformed shall view,
Ere I prove false to faith, or strange to you!
Burst forth my tears! Assist my forward grief!
And show what pain, imperious love provokes!
Kind tender lambs, lament love's scant relief,
And pine, since pensive care my freedom yokes.
O pine to see me pine, my tender flocks!
Sad pining Care, that never may have peace,
At Beauty's gate, in hope of pity knocks;
And Mercy sleeps while deep disdains increase;
And Beauty, hope in her fair bosom yokes,
O grieve to hear my grief, my tender flocks!
Like to the winds, my sighs have wingèd been,
Yet are my sighs and suits repaid with mocks;
I plead, yet she repineth at my teen.
O ruthless rigour! harder than the rocks!
That both the shepherd kills, and his poor flocks.
O Crystal tears! like to the morning showers.
And sweetly weep into thy lady's breast!
And as the dews revive the drooping flowers,
So let your drops of pity be addresst!
To quicken up the thoughts of my desert.
Which sleeps too sound; whilst I from her depart.
Haste hapless sighs! and let your burning breath
Dissolve the ice of her indurate heart!
Whose frozen rigour, like forgetful Death,
Feels never any touch of my desert.
Yet sighs and tears to her, I sacrifice:
Both, from a spotless heart, and patient eyes.
Think'st thou, then, by feigning
Sleep, with a grand disdaining;
Or, with thy crafty closing,
Thy cruel eyes reposing;
To drive me from thy sight!
When sleep yields more delight,
Such harmless beauty gracing:
And while sleep feignèd is
May not I steal a kiss
Thy quiet arms embracing?
O that thy sleep dissembled,
Were to a trance resembled!
Thy cruel eyes deceiving,
Of lively sense bereaving:
Then should my love requite
Thy love's unkind despite,
While fury triumphed boldly
In beauty's sweet disgrace;
And lived in deep embrace
Of her that loved so coldly,
Should then my love aspiring,
Forbidden joys desiring,
So far exceed the duty
That Virtue owes to Beauty?
No! Love seek not thy bliss
Beyond a simple kiss!
For such deceits are harmless
Yet kiss a thousand fold;
For kisses may be bold
When lovely sleep is armless.
Come away! come, sweet love!
The golden morning breaks;
All the earth, all the air,
Of love and pleasure speaks!
Teach thine arms then to embrace,
And sweet rosy lips to kiss,
And mix our souls in mutual bliss!
Eyes were made for beauty's grace
Viewing, ruing, love's long pains;
Procured by beauty's rude disdain.
Come away! come, sweet love!
Do not in vain adorn
Beauty's grace, that should rise
Like to the naked morn!
Lilies on the river's side,
And fair Cyprian flowers newly blown,
Desire no beauties but their own:
Ornament is Nurse of Pride.
Pleasure measure, love's delight,
Haste then, sweet love, our wishèd flight!
Rest awhile, you cruel cares!
Be not more severe than love!
Beauty kills and beauty spares,
And sweet smiles, sad sighs remove.
Laura, fair Queen of my delight!
Come grant me love, in love's despite!
And if I ever fail to honour thee,
Let this heavenly light I see,
Be as dark as hell to me!
If I speak! My words want weight.
Am I mute! My heart doth break.
If I sigh! She fears deceit.
Sorrow then for me, must speak!
Cruel! unkind! with favour view
The wound that first was made by you!
And if my torments feignèd be,
Let this heavenly light I see,
Be as dark as hell to me!
Never hour of pleasing rest,
Shall revive my dying ghost,
Till my soul hath repossesst
The sweet hope, which love hath lost:
Laura! redeem the soul that dies
By fury of thy murdering eyes!
And if it proves unkind to thee,
Let this heavenly light I see,
Be as dark as hell to me!
Sleep wayward thoughts, and rest you with my Love!
Let not my Love, be with my love diseased!
Touch not proud hands, lest you her anger move!
But pine you with my longings long displeased:
Thus while she sleeps, I sorrow for her sake,
So sleeps my Love; and yet my love doth wake.
But O, the fury of my restless fear!
The hidden anguish of my flesh desires!
The glories and the beauties that appear
Between her brows, near Cupid's closèd fires!
Thus while she sleeps, moves sighing for her sake,
So sleeps my Love; and yet my love doth wake.
My love doth rage, and yet my Love doth rest;
Fear in my love, and yet my Love secure;
Peace in my Love, and yet my love opprest;
Impatient, yet of perfect temperature.
Sleep dainty Love, while I sigh for thy sake!
So sleeps my Love; and yet my love doth wake.
All ye, whom love or fortune hath betrayed!
All ye that dream of bliss, but live in grief!
All ye whose hopes are evermore delayed!
All ye whose sighs or sickness want relief!
Lend ears and tears to me, most hapless man!
That sings my sorrows like the dying swan!
Care that consumes the heart with inward pain,
Pain that presents sad care in outward view;
Both, tyrant-like, enforce me to complain,
But still in vain, for none my plaints will rue:
Tears, sighs, and ceaseless cries alone I spend.
My woe wants comfort, and my sorrow, end.
Wilt thou, Unkind! thus 'reave me
Of my heart, and so leave me?
Farewell!
But yet, or ere I part, O Cruel!
Kiss me Sweet, my Jewel!
Farewell!
Hope by disdain grows cheerless
Fear doth love, love doth fear
Beauty peerless.
Farewell!
If no delays can move thee!
Life shall die, death shall live
Still to love thee.
Farewell!
Yet be thou mindful ever!
Heat from fire, fire from heat,
None can sever.
Farewell!
True love cannot be changed,
Though delight from desert
Be estranged.
Farewell!
Would my conceit that first inforced my woe,
Or else mine eyes, which still the same increase,
Might be extinct, to end my sorrows so;
Which now are such, as nothing can release.
Whose life is death; whose sweet, each change of sour;
And eke whose hell reneweth every hour.
Each hour, amidst the deep of hell I fry,
Each hour, I waste and wither where I sit;
But that sweet hour, wherein I wish to die,
My hope, alas, may not enjoy it yet.
Whose hope is such bereaved of the bliss,
Which unto all, save me, allotted is.
To all, save me, is free to live or die;
To all, save me, remaineth hap or hope.
But all, perforce, I must abandon!
Since Fortune still directs my hap aslope;
Wherefore to neither hap nor hope I trust,
But to my thrals I yield: for so I must.
Come again! Sweet love doth now invite
Thy graces that refrain
To do me due delight;
To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss,
To die with thee again in sweetest sympathy!
Come again! that I may cease to mourn
Through thy unkind disdain!
For now, left and forlorn,
I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die
In deadly pain, and endless misery.
All the day, the sun that lends me shine
By frowns doth cause me pine,
And feeds me with delay.
Her smiles, my springs, that make my joys to grow:
Her frowns, the winters of my woe.
All the night, my sleeps are full of dreams,
My eyes are full of streams;
My heart takes no delight
To see the fruits and joys that some do find,
And mark the storms are me assigned.
Out, alas! my faith is ever true;
Yet she will never rue,
Nor yield me any grace.
Her eyes, of fire; her heart of flint is made:
Whom tears nor truth may once invade.
Gentle Love draw forth thy wounding dart!
Thou can'st not pierce her heart!
For I (that do approve
By sighs and tears, more hot than are thy shafts)
Did 'tempt, while she for triumph laughs.
(On the British Museum Copy, G9, there is the following pencil note to this Song. These words by [Robert Devereux] the Earl of Essex, and sung before Queen Elizabeth, in a Masque at Greenwich.)
His golden locks, Time hath to silver turned.
O Time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing!
His Youth, 'gainst Time and Age hath ever spurned,
But spurned in vain, Youth waneth by increasing.
Beauty, Strength, Youth are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, Faith, Love are roots, and ever green.
His helmet, now, shall make a hive for bees,
And lover's Sonnets turn to holy Psalms;
A man-at-arms must, now, serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age's alms:
But though from Court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits, in homely cell,
H'll teach his swains this Carol for a Song;
Blest be the hearts that wish my Sovereign well!
Curst be the soul that thinks her any wrong!
Goddess! Allow this aged man his right!
To be your Beadsman now; that was your Knight.
Awake, sweet love! Thou art returned!
My heart, which long in absence mourned,
Lives now in perfect joy.
Only herself hath seemèd fair;
She only could I love.
She only drave me to despair,
When she unkind did prove.
Let love which never, absent, dies;
Now live for ever in her eyes!
Whence came my first annoy:
Despair did make me wish to die
That I my joys might end,
She only, which did make me fly,
My state may now amend.
If she esteem thee now ought worth;
She will not grieve thy love henceforth!
Which so despair hath proved.
Despair hath proved now in me
That love will not unconstant be,
Though long in vain I loved.
If she, at last, reward thy love
And all thy harms repair!
Thy happiness will sweeter prove,
Raised up from deep despair.
And if that now thou welcome be,
When thou with her doth meet;
She all this while, but played with thee,
To make thy joys more sweet.
Come, heavy Sleep! the Image of true Death!
And close up these my weary weeping eyes!
Whose spring of tears doth stop my vital breath,
And tears my heart with sorrow's sigh-swollen cries.
Come, and possess my tired thoughts! worn soul!
That living dies, till thou on me bestoule!
Come, Shadow of my End; and Shape of Rest!
Allied to Death, Child to this black-fast Night!
Come thou, and charm these rebels in my breast!
Whose waking fancies doth my mind affright.
O come, sweet Sleep! Come, or I die for ever!
Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never!
Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads!
Away poor souls that sigh and weep,
In love of them that lie and sleep!
For Cupid is a meadow god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.
God Cupid's shaft, like Destiny,
Doth either good or ill decree;
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his feet doth go.
What fools are they, that have not known
That Love likes no laws, but his own!
My songs, they be Cynthia's praise:
I wear her rings on holidays.
On every tree, I write her name,
And every day I read the same:
Where Honour, Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.
If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I'll blot her name out of the tree!
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then "Well fare nothing!" once a year:
For many run, but one must win.
Fools only, hedge the cuckoo in!
The worth that worthiness should move
Is love; which is the bow of Love:
And love as well the For'ster can,
As can the mighty Nobleman.
Sweet saint, 'tis true, you worthy be!
Yet, without love, nought worth to me!
R[?ichard]. Y[?oung].
The state of a Christian lively set forth, by an allegory of a Ship under Sail.
[This Writer was evidently a forerunner of John Bunyan.]
Prov. xxxi. 14. Job ix. 26. Isaiah xxiii. 1. Rev. viii. 9.
[Original broadside, inserted in a
distinct work of the Author, called
The Victory of Patience. 1636.]
My body is the Hull, the Keel my back, my neck the Stem; the Sides are my ribs, the Beams my bones, my flesh the Planks; gristles and ligaments are the Pintels and Knee-timbers; arteries, veins, and sinews, the several Seams of the ship; my blood is the Ballast, my heart the Principal Hold, my stomach the Cook-room, my liver the Cistern, my bowels the Sink; my lungs the Bellows, my teeth the Chopping-knives; except you divide them, and then they are the 32 Points of the Compass, both agreeing in number. Concoction is the Cauldron, and hunger the Salt or Sauce. My belly is the Lower Deck, my kidneys Close Cabins or receptacles, my thighs are Long Galleries for the grace of the ship; my arms and hands the Canhooks, my midriff is a large partition or Bulkhead. Within the circumference of my head is placed the Steeridge Room and Chief Cabins, with the Round-house [now called the Captain's Cabin] where the Master lieth: and these for the more safety and decency are enclosed in a double fence; the one Dura mater, something hard and thick [the skull], the other Pia mater, very thin and soft [the hair], which serveth instead of hangings. The ears are two doors or Scuttles fitly placed for entertainment; the two eyes are Casements to let in light; under them, is my mouth, the Stowage or Steward's Room. My lips are Hatches for receipt of goods, my two nostrils serve as Gratings to let in air. At the one end stands my chin, which is the Beakhead. My forehead is the Upper Deck; all which being trimmed with my fat instead of Pitch, and hair instead of Oakum, are coloured with my skin.
The Fore Deck is humility, the Stern, charity. Active obedience, the Sails; which being hoisted up with the several Yards, Halliards, and Bowlines of holy precepts and good purposes; are let down again by fickleness, faintings and inconstancy. Reason is my Rudder, experience the Helm, hope of salvation my Anchor, passive obedience the Capstan, holy revenge the Cat and Fish to haul the Sheet Anchor or last hope. Fear of offending is the Buoy, virtues are the Cables, holy desires and sudden ejaculations the Shrouds. The zeal of GOD's glory is my Mainmast, premeditation the Foremast, desire of my own salvation the Mizenmast, saving knowledge the Bowsprit, circumspection a Sounding line.
My Light is illumination; justice is the Card [Map]; GOD's Word, the Compass; the meditation of life's brevity, a Four-Hour Glass [i.e., the length of a ship's watch]; contemplation of the creatures, the Cross-staff or Jacob's-staff; the creed, a Sea-Grammar; the life of Christ, my Load-Star. The saint's falls are Sea-marks; good examples, Land-marks. Repentance pumps out the sink of my sins, a good conscience keeps me clean. Imputative righteousness is my Flag, having this motto, Being cast down, we perish not! the Flag-staff is sincerity.
The ship is victualled afresh by reading, hearing, receiving. Books are Long-boats, letters are little Skiffs to carry and recarry my spiritual merchandise. Perseverance is my Speed, and patience my Name. My Fire is lust, which will not be clean extinguished: full feeding and strong drink are the Fuel to maintain it; whose Flame, if it be not suppressed, is jealousy; whose Sparks are evil words, whose Ashes are envy; whose Smoke is infamy. Lascivious talk is a Flint and Steel, concupiscence as Tinder, opportunity the Match to light it, sloth and idleness are the Servants to prepare it.
The Law of GOD is my Pilot, Faith my Captain, Fortitude the Master, Chastity the Master's Mate, my Will the Coxswain, Conscience the Preacher [or, as we now say, Chaplain], Application of Christ's death the Surgeon, Mortification the Cook, Vivification the Caulker, Self-denial an Apprentice of his, Temperance the Steward, Contentation his Mate, Truth the Purser, Thankfulness the Purser's Mate, Reformation the Boatswain, the Four Humours, Sanguine, Choler, &c., are the Quarter-masters; Christian Vigilancy undertakes to supply the office of the Starboard and Larboard Watches, Memory is the Clerk of the Cheque, Assurance the Corporal, the Armour Innocency, the Mariners, Angels.
Schismatics are Searchers sent abroad. My Understanding, as Master Gunner, culls out from those two Budge-casks of the Old and New Testaments certain threats and promises which are my only Powder and Shot; and with the assistance of the Gunner's Mate, Holy Anger against Sin, chargeth my tongue, which, like to a piece of ordnance, shoots them to the shame and overthrow of my spiritual Adversaries.
My noble passengers are Joy in the Holy Ghost and Peace of Conscience, whose retinue are Divine Graces. My ignoble or rather mutinous passengers are Worldly Cogitations and Vain Delights which are more than a good many; besides some that are arrant thieves and traitors, namely, Pride, Envy, Prejudice: but all these I will bid farewell to, when I come to my journey's end; though I would, but cannot, before.
Heaven is my Country, where I am Registered in the Book of Life, my King is JEHOVAH. My Tribute alms-deeds: they which gather it are the poor. Love is my country's Badge, my Language is holy conference, my Fellow Companions are the saints.
I am poor in performances, yet rich in GOD's acceptation. The Foundation of all my good is GOD's free election. I became Bound into the Corporation of the Church to serve Him, in my baptism. I was Enrolled at the time when He first called me. My Freedom is justification. It was Purchased with the blood of Christ. My Evidence is the earnest of His spirit. My Privileges are His sanctifying graces. My Crown, reserved for me on high, is glorification.
My Maker and Owner is GOD; who built me by His Word, which is Christ; of earth, which was the Material; He freighted it with the essence of my Soul, which is the Treasure; and hath set me to sail in the Sea of this world, till I attain to the Port of death: which letteth the terrestrial part into the Harbour of the grave, and the celestial part into the Kingdom of Heaven. In which voyage, conveniency of estate [comfortable circumstances] is as sea room; good affections serve as a tide; and prayer as a prosperous gale, a wind to help forward.
But innumerable are the impediments and perils. For here I meet with the profers of unlawful gain and sensual delights, as so many Sirens; the baits of prosperity, as High Banks, on the right hand or Weather Shore; and there with evil suggestions and crabbed adversity, as Rocks, on the left hand or Lee Shore, ready to split me. The fear of hell, like Quicksands, threatens to swallow me; original sin like Weeds clog me, and actual transgressions like so many Barnacles hang about me. Yea, every sin I commit springs a new Leak. My senses are as so many Storms of Rain, Hail, and Snow to sink me. Lewd affections are Roaring Billows and Waves. Self-confidence, or to rely upon anything but the Divine assistance, is to lose the Bowsprit. Restitution is heaving goods overboard to save the ship. Melancholy is want of Fresh Water. The scoffs of atheists, and contempt of religion in all places is a notable becalming; the lewd lives and evil examples of them most a contagious air. Idleness furrs it, and is a shrewd decay, both of the Hull and Tackling.
Moreover, sailing along, and keeping Watch (for they that be Christ's friends, you know! must look for all they meet to be their enemies), we no sooner look up, but presently we ken a Man of War, and then we must be for war too, and provide for a skirmish.
Now the Galleon that hath our Pinnace in chase, and always watcheth for advantages to surprise it, is the Piracy of Hell; the Synagogue of Satan. Her Freight is temptations and persecutions, with all the engines of mischief. In which the Devil is Master, Malice the Master's Mate, Cruelty the Captain, Murder the Cook, Flattery the Caulker, Profaneness a Quartermaster, Riot the Steward, Never Content his Mate, Pride the Coxswain, Superstition the Preacher, Hypocrisy the Boatswain, Covetousness the Purser, Lust the Swabber, Fury the Gunner, Presumption the Corporal, Sedition the Trumpeter, Drunkenness the Drummer.
Vices are the Sails, custom the Mainmast, example of the multitude the Foremast, lusts and passions the Cables, blindness of mind the Rudder, hardness of heart the Helm, the wisdom of the flesh the Card, the mystery of iniquity the Compass. The five senses, or if you will, scoffing Atheists, profane foul-mouthed drunkards, and all the rabble of hell are the Mariners. Lewd affections the Passengers, Little Conscience the Load star.
She hath two tire of great ordnance planted in her, Heresy and Irreligion; being either for a false god, or none. Oaths, blasphemy, and curses are the Powder and Shot: which they spit against all that worship the Lamb, or fight under the Ensign of Faith. Her Armour is carnal security. The Flag in her Top is infidelity: the motto, There is no god, but gain!
Her Ballast, which keeps her upright, is Ignorance. Most of her Tackling she has from Rome, or Amsterdam. Antichrist, as Pilot, steers her in such a course that she goes on swiftly, proudly, securely, scorning and scoffing (Sennacherib like) to hear that any Lord should deliver this poor Pinnace out of her hands.
Yet in the sequel, this silly Pink, having the Insurance of GOD's omnipresence, finds not only succour from the Stock of the Church's prayers, which, like another Merchantman, come in to the rescue: but, likewise that GOD's Almighty power and providence is near at hand, as a strong Castle of Defence to free her, whereby she escapes, even as a bird out of the snare of the hunter, to praise the LORD: who hath not given her as a prey unto their teeth, that would have swallowed up all quick; but delivered her from such swelling waters, floods of affliction and streams of persecution, as else had gone over her and even drowned her soul, as it is Psalm cxxiv. While this great Galleon (though it seems like that Invincible Armada) flies; and, having no Anchor, when the storms of GOD's wrath arise, down she sinks to desperation; and perisheth in the bottomless pit or burning lake of fire and brimstone: where we will leave her to receive a just recompense of reward.
R. Y.
London. Printed by Thomas Cotes for the Author; and are to be sold by Sarah Fairbeard, at the North Door of the Royal Exchange, 1636.
[? Thomas Occleve,
Clerk in the Office of the Privy Seal.]
The Letter of Cupid.
[Old forms like servin, serve; wollin, will; tellin, tell; doin, done; and the Imperatives bethe, be; telleth, tell; occur in this Poem.]
[Urry's edition of Chaucer's Works. ii. 534. Ed. 1721.]
Cupido, (unto whose commandèment
The gentle kindred of goddis on high
And people infernal be obedient;
And all mortal folk servin busily),
Of the goddess son, Cytherea only;
Unto all those that, to our deity
Be subjects, heartily greeting, send we!
In general, we wollin that ye know
That Ladies of honour and reverence,
And other Gentlewomen havin sow[n]
Such seed of complaint in our audience,
Of men that do them outrage and offence;
That it our earis grieveth for to hear,
So piteous is the effect of this matere.
Passing all landis, on the little isle
That clepèd is Albion, they most complain,
They say that there, is crop and root of guile:
So can those men dissimulin and feign,
With standing dropis in their eyin twain;
When that their heartis feeleth no distress,
To blindin women with their doubleness.
Their wordis, spoken be so sighingly,
With so piteous a cheer and countenance
That every wight that meaneth truly
Deemeth they in heart havin such grievance.
They say, "So importable is their penance,
That but their lady lust to shew them grace
They, right anon, must starvin in the place."
"Ah, Lady mine!" they say, "I you ensure
As doth me grace! and I shall ever be,
While that my life may lasting and endure
To you as humble and low in each degree
As possible is, and keep all things in secre[t]
Right as your selfin listeth that I do!
And ellis mine heartè must burst in two."
Full hard it is, to know a manis heart
For outward may no man the truthè deem.
When word out of the mouth, may none astert
But it, by reason seemed a wight to queme,
So it is said of heart, as it would seem.
O faithful woman! full of innocence!
Thou art deceivèd by false appearance!
By process moveth oft woman's pity.
Weening all things were as these men ysay,
They grant them grace, of their benignity,
For that men shouldin not, for their sake die,
And with good heart, settin them in the way
Of blissful love: keepin it, if they con!
And thus, otherwhile, women bethe ywon.
And when this man, the pan hath by the steel
And fully is in his possession;
With that woman keepeth he no more to deal
After, if he may findin in the town
Any woman, his blind affection
Unto bestow. But evil mote he preve!
A man, for all his oaths, is hard to believe!
And for that every false Man hath a Make,
(As unto every wight is light to know)
When this traitor, this woman hath forsake,
He fast speedeth him unto his fellow.
Till he be there, his heart is on a low;
His false deceit ne may him not suffice,
But of his treason telleth all the wise.
Is this a fair avaunt? Is this honour?
A man himself accuse thus and defame!
Is it good to confess himself a traitor?
And bring a woman into slanderous name
And tell how he her body hath do shame?
No worship may he thus, to him conquer,
But great dislander unto him and her!
To her! Nay! Yet ywas it no reprefe;
For all for virtue was, that she ywrought!
But he that brewèd hath all this mischief,
That spake so fair, and falsely inward thought;
His, be the slander! as it by reason ought
And unto Her be thank perpetual
That, in such a need, helpin can so well.
Although through manis sleight and subtilty,
A silly simple and innocent woman
Betrayed is: no wonder! since the city
Of Troyè, as the story tellin can,
Betrayèd was, through the deceit of man,
And set on fire, and all down overthrown;
And finally destroyèd, as men knowèn.
Betrayin not men, cities great and kings?
What wight is it that can shape remedy
Against these falsely proposèd things?
When can the craft, such crafts to espy
But man? whose wit is e'er ready to apply
To thing that sowning is into falshede?
Woman! bethe 'ware of false men! I thee rede!
And, furthermore, have these men in usage
That where they not likely been to sped
Such as they been, with a double visage,
They procurin, for to pursue their need
He prayeth him, in his cause to proceed.
And largely guerdoneth she his travail.
Little wot women, how men them assail!
Another wretch, unto his fellow saith,
"Thou fishest fair! She which that thee hath fired
Is false, inconstant, and she hath no faith.
She for the road, of folk is so desired;
And, as an horse, from day to day she is hired!
That when thou twinnest from her company,
Cometh another; and bleared is thine eye!
Now prick on fast! and ridin thy journey
While thou art there! For she, behind thy back,
So liberal is, she will nothing withsay,
But smartly of another take a smack.
And thus farin these women all the pack
Whoso them trusteth, hanged mote he be!
Ever they desire change and novelty."
Wherefore proceedeth this, but of envy?
For that he himself, her ne winnin may,
He speaketh her reprefe and villainy;
As manis blabbing tongue is wont alway.
Thus divers men full often make assay,
For to disturbin folk in sundry wise,
For they may not eschuin their emprise.
Many one eke would speakin for no good,
That hath in love his timè spent and used.
Men wist, his Lady his asking withstood;
Ere that he were of her, plainly refused.
Or waste and vain all that he had ymused:
Wherefore he can none other remedy,
But on his Lady, shapeth him to lie.
"Every woman," he saith, "is light to get,
Can none say, 'Nay!' if she be well ysought;
Whoso may leisure have with her to treat
Of his purpose, ne shall be failin ought
But he on madness be so deep ybrought
That he shende all with open homeliness
That loven women. They doting! as I guess."
To slaunder women thus, what may profit
To gentleness? namely, that them arm should
In defence of women, and them delight
As that the Order of Gentleness would?
If that a man list gentle to be held
He must all eschew that thereto is contrary.
A slanderous tongue is his great enemy!
A foul vice it is, of tongue to be light.
For whoso mochil clappeth, gabbeth oft.
The Tongue of Man so swift is, and so wight
That when it is yraisèd up on loft,
Reason is shewed so slowly and soft,
That it him never overtakin may.
Lord! so these men been trusty in assay!
Albeit that men find one woman nice,
Inconstant, recheless, and variable,
Deignous and proud, full fillèd of malice,
Without faith or love, and deceivable,
Sly, quaint, false, in all untrust culpable,
Wicked or fierce, or full of cruelty:
Yet followeth not that such, all women be!
When the high GOD, angellis formèd had:
Amongis them all formed, were there none
That foundin were malicious and bad?
Yet all men wotin, there were many one
That for their pride fell from heaven anon.
Should we, forthy, give all angels proud name?
Nay, he that that sustaineth, is to blame!
Of twelve Apostles, one a traitor was;
The remenant yet good werin and true.
So if it happen men findin, percase,
A woman false; such, good is to eschew:
And deem not all that they therefore be untrue.
I see well, that menis own falseness
Them causeth, woman for to trust the less.
O, every man ought have a heart tender
To a woman, and deem her honourable;
Whether her shape be thick, or else slender,
Or she be good or bad! It is no fable.
Every wight wot, that wit hath reasonable,
That of a woman, he descendèd is:
Then is it shame of her to speak amiss!
A wicked tree, good fruit may none forth bring;
For such the fruit, is aye as is the tree.
Take heed of whom thou take thy beginning!
Let thy mother be mirror unto thee!
Honour her, if thou wilt honoured be!
Despiseth her then not, in no manere!
Lest that thereby thy wickedness appear.
An old proverb there said is, in English,
That bird or fowl, soothly, is dishonest
What that he be, and holdin full churlish
That useth to defoulin his own nest.
Men to say well of women, it is the best:
And naught to despisin them, ne deprave;
If that they will their honour keep or save.
The Ladies ever complain them on Clerks
That they have made bookis of their defame;
In which they despise women and their works,
And speakin of them great reproof and shame:
And causèless give them a wicked name.
Thus they despisèd be, on every side,
Dislanderèd and blown upon full wide.
Those sorry books make mention
How women betrayed in especial
Adam, David, Sampson, and Solomon,
And many one more; who may rehearse them all,
The treasons that they havin done, and shall?
The world their malice may not comprehend
(As Clerkis feign), for it ne hath none end.
Ovid, in his book callèd Remedy
Of Love, great reproof of woman ywriteth,
Wherein, I know that he did great folly;
And every wight who, in such case, him delighteth.
A Clerkis custom is, when he enditeth
Of women (be it prose, or rhyme, or verse)
Say, "They be wicked!" all know he the reverse.
And the book Scholars learned in their childhead
For they of women beware should in age,
And to lovin them, ever be in dread.
Sith to deceive, is all their courage,
They say, of peril, men should cast the advantage,
Namely, of such as men havin bewrapped:
For many a man, by woman hath mishapped.
No charge is what so these Clerkis ysain
Of all their writing, I ne do ne cure
All their labour and travail is in vain
For between me and my Lady Nature
Shall not be suffred, while the world may 'dure.
Thus these Clerkis, by their cruel tyranny,
On silly women, kithin their mastery.
Whilom, for many of them were in my chain
Ytied; and now, for unwieldy age
And unlust, they may not to love attain:
And sain, now, that "Love is but very dotage!"
Thus, for they themselfin lackin courage,
They folk excitin by their wicked saws
For to rebell against Me, and my laws!
But, maugre them that blamin women most,
Such is the force of mine impression
That, suddenly, I can fell all their boast,
And all their wrong imagination.
It shall not be in their election,
The foulest slut in all the town to refuse;
If that me lust, for all that they can muse:
But her in heart, as brenningly desire
As though she were a Duchess, or a Queen;
So can I folkis heartis set on fire
And, as me list, sendin them joy or teen.
They that to women ben ywhet so keen,
My sharpè piercing strokis! how they smite!
Shall feel and knowin, how they kerve and bite!
Pardie! this Clerk, this subtle sly Ovid,
And many another deceivèd have be
Of women, as it is knowin full wide.
What! no men more! and that is great dainty
So excellent a Clerk as was he!
And other more, that couldin full well preach
Betrapped were, for aught that they could teach!
And trusteth well, that it is no marvail!
For women knowin plainly their intent.
They wist how softily they could assail
Them; and what falsehood they, in heartè meant:
And thus they Clerkis, in their danger hent,
With one venom, another is destroyed!
And thus these Clerkis often were annoyed.
These Ladies, ne these gentles ne'ertheless,
Where none of those that wroughtin in this wise;
But such women as werin vertueless
They quiltin thus, these old Clerkis wise.
To Clerkis muchil less ought to suffice
Than to dispravin women generally;
For worship shallin they none get thereby.
If that these men, that lovers them pretend,
To women werin faithful, good, and true,
And dread them to deceive, or to offend;
Women, to love them wouldin not eschew.
But, every day, hath man an heart new!
It, upon one abidin can, no while.
What force is it, such a wight to beguile?
Men bearing, eke, the women upon hand
That lightly, and withoutin any pain
They women be; they can no wight withstand
That his disease list to them to complain!
They be so frail, they may them not refrain!
But whoso liketh them, may lightly have;
So be their heartis easy in to grave.
To Master Jean de Meun, as I suppose,
Then, it was a lewd occupation,
In making of the Romance of the Rose,
So many a sly imagination,
And perils for to rollin up and down,
The long process, so many a slight cautel
For to deceive a silly damosel!
Nought can I say, ne my wit comprehend,
That art, and pain, and subtilty should fail
For to conquer, and soon to make an end;
When men, a feeble place shullin assail:
And soon, also, to vanquish a battle
Of which no wight may makin resistance;
Ne heart hath none, to make any defence.
Then mote it follow, of necessity,
Sith art asketh so great engine and pain
A woman to deceive, what so she be?
Of constancy be they not so barren
As that some of these silly Clerkis feign;
But they be, as women oughtin to be,
Sad, constant, and full fillèd of pity.
How friendly was Medea to Jason
In his Conquering of the Fleece of Gold!
How falsely quit he, her true affection,
By whom victory he gate as he would!
How may this man, for shame, be so bold
To falsin her, that, from his death and shame
Him kept, and gate him so great a prize and name?
Of Troy also, the traitor Æneas,
The faithless wretch! how he himself forswore
To Dido, which that Queen of Carthage was
That him relievèd of his smartis sore!
What gentleness might she have doin more
Than she, with heart unfeigned, to him kidde?
And what mischief to her thereof betid!
In my Legend of Natures may men find
(Whoso yliketh therein for to read)
That oathis ne behest may man not bind
Of reprovable shame have they no dread
In manis heart truth ne hath no stead.
The soil is naught; there may no troth ygrow.
To women, namely, it is not unknow[n].
Clerkis feign also there is no malice
Like unto woman's wicked crabbedness.
O Woman! how shalt thou thyself chevice;
Sith men of thee, so mochil harm witness?
Beth ware! O Woman! of their fickleness.
Kepeth thine ownè! what men clap or crake!
And some of them shall smart, I undertake!
Malice of women! What is it to dread?
They slay no man, destroyin no cities,
Ne oppress people, ne them overlaid,
Betray Empires, Realms, or Duchies,
Nor bereaven men their landis, ne their mees,
Empoison folk, ne houses set on fire,
Ne false contractis makin for no hire.
Trust, Perfect Love, and Entire Charity,
Fervent Will, and Entalented Courage,
All thewis good, as sitteth well to be,
Have women, ere, of custom and usage.
And well they canin manis ire asuage,
With soft wordis, discreet and benign.
What they be inward, they show outward by sign!
Womanis heart unto no cruelty
Inclined is; but they be Charitable,
Piteous, Devout, Full of Humility,
Shamefast, Debonaire, and Amiable,
Dread full, and of wordis measurable:
What women, these have not, peradventure;
Followeth not the way of their nature.
Men sayin that our First Mother na'theless
Made all mankind lesin his liberty,
And nakid it of joyè, doubtless,
For GOD is hest disobeyèd she,
When she presumed to taste of the tree,
That GOD forbade, that she eat thereof should.
And ne had the Devil be, no more she would!
The envious swelling, that the Fiend our foe
Had unto man in heart, for his wealth,
Sent a serpent, and made her for to go
To deceive Eve; and thus was manis wealth
Bereft him by the Fiend, in a stealth,
The woman not knowing of the deceipt,
God wot! Full far was it from her conceipt!
Wherefore I say, that this good woman Eve
Our father Adam, ne deceived nought.
There may no man for a deceipt it prove
Properly, but that she, in heart and thought,
Had it compassed[1] first, ere she it wrought.
And for such was not her Impression,
Men may it call no Deceipt, by reason.
Ne no wight disceiveth, but he purpose!
The Fiend this deceipt cast, and nothing She.
Then it is wrong to deemin or suppose
That of his harm She should the causè be.
Wytith the Fiend, and his be the maugre!
And all excusèd have her innocence,
Save only, that she brake obedience!
And touching this, full fewè men there be,
Unnethis any, dare I safely say!
From day to day, as men may all day see,
But that the hest of GOD they disobey.
Have this in mindè, siris! I you pray.
If that ye be discreet and reasonable;
Ye will her hold the more excusable!
And where men say, "In man is stedfastness;
And woman is of her courage unstable."
Who may of Adam bear such a witness?
Tellith me this! Was he not changeable?
They both werin in one case semblable.
Save that willing, the Fiend deceived Eve;
And so did she not Adam, by your leave!
Yet was this sinnè happy to mankind,
The Fiend disceived was, for all his sleight;
For aught he could him in his sleightis wind.
For his trespass, came from heaven on height
GOD, to discharge man of his heavy weight
He, flesh and blood ytook of a Virgine,
And suffered death, him to deliver of pine.
And GOD, to whom there may nothing hid be,
If he, in woman knowen had such malice,
As men record of them in generalty;
Of our Lady, of Life Reparatrice
He n'old have be born: but that she of vice
Was void, and full of virtue, well He wist,
Endowid! of her, to be born Him list.
Her heapèd virtue hath such excellence
That all too lean is manis faculty
To declare it; and therefore in suspense
Her due praising put, needis must ybe.
But this I sayin, Verily, that she
Next GOD, best friend is, that to Man 'longeth.
The Key of Mercy by her girdle hangeth!
And of mercy, hath every man such need,
That razing that, farewel the joy of man!
And of her power, now takith right good heed!
She, mercy may well, and purchasin can.
Depleasith her not! Honoureth that woman!
And other women, honour for her sake!
And but ye do, your sorrow shall awake!
In any book also, where can ye find
That of the workis of death or of life,
Of Jesu spelleth or maketh any mind
That women, Him forsoke, for woe or strife?
Where was there any wight so ententife
Aboutin Him as woman? Provid none!
The Apostles him forsokin everichone.
Woman forsoke Him not! For all the faith
Of holy church in woman left only!
These are no lies, for thus Holy Writ saith,
Look! and ye shall so find it hardily!
And therefore I may well provin thereby
That in woman reigneth stable constancy;
And in men is change of variancy.
Thou Precious Gem! Of martyrs, Magarite!
That of thy blood, dreadest none effusion!
Thou Lover true! Thou Maiden mansuete!
Thou, constant Woman! in thy passion
Overcame the Fiendis temptation!
And many a wight, convertid thy doctrine,
Unto the faith of holy GOD, thou Virgin!
But, understandeth this! I commend her nought,
By encheson of her virginity.
Trusteth, it came never into thought!
For ever were I against Chastity.
And ever shall. But, lo, this moveth me!
Her loving heart; and, constant to her lay,
Drive out of my remembrance I ne may.
Now holdith this for firm, and for no lie!
That this true and just commendation
Of women, tell I for no flattery;
Nor because of pride or elation:
But only, too, for this intention
To give them courage of perseverance
In virtue; and their honour to advance.
The more the virtue, the less is the pride.
Virtue so digne is, and so noble in kind,
That Vice and he will not in fere abide.
He putteth vices clean out of his mind,
He flyeth from them, he leaveth them behind.
O, Woman! that of Virtue, art hostess;
Great is thy honour, and thy worthiness!
Then will I thus concludin and define.
We, you command! our ministers each one
That ready ye be, our hests to incline!
That of these falsè men, our rebell foen
Ye doin punishment! and that, anon!
Void them our Court! and banish them for ever!
So that therein more comin, may they never!
Fulfilled be it! Ceasing all delay,
Look that there be none excusation!
Written in the lusty month of May,
In our Palace, where many a million
Of lovers true, have habitation;
In the year of grace, joyful and jocond,
A thousand, four hundred and second.
Thus endeth
The letter of Cupid.
