Responsio ad Convitia Martini Lutheri, 1523.
Quod pro Fide Mors fugienda non est, written in the Tower 1534.
Precationes ex Psalmis.
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HENRY HOWARD, Earl of SURRY
Was son of Thomas, duke of Norfolk, and Elizabeth, daughter of Edward, duke of Buckingham. The father of our author held the highest places under King Henry VIII, and had so faithfully and bravely served him, that the nobility grew jealous of his influence, and by their united efforts produced his ruin. After many excellent services in France, he was constituted Lord Treasurer, and made General of the King's whole army design'd to march against the Scots: At the battle of Flodden, in which the Scots were routed and their Sovereign slain, the earl of Surry remarkably distinguished himself; he commanded under his father, and as soon as the jealousy of the Peers had fastened upon the one, they took care that the other should not escape. He was the first nobleman (says Camden) that illustrated his high birth with the beauty of learning; he was acknowledged by all, to be the gallantest man, the politest lover, and the most compleat gentleman of his time. He received his education at Windsor with a natural son of Henry VIII, and became first eminent for his devotion to the beautiful Geraldine, Maid of Honour to Queen Catherine; the first inspired him with poetry, and that poetry has conferred immortality on her: So transported was he with his passion, that he made a tour to the most elegant courts in Europe, to maintain her peerless beauty against all opposers, and every where made good his challenge with honour. In his way to Florence, he touched at the emperor's court, where he became acquainted with the learned Cornelius Agrippa, so famous for magic, who shewed him the image of his Geraldine in a glass, sick, weeping on her bed, and melting into devotion for the absence of her lord; upon sight of this he wrote the following passionate sonnet, which for the smoothness of the verse, the tenderness of expression, and the heartfelt sentiments might do honour to the politest, easiest, most passionate poet in our own times.
All soul, no earthly flesh, why dost thou fade?
All gold; no earthly dross, why look'st thou
pale?
Sickness how darest thou one so fair invade?
Too base infirmity to work her bale.
Heaven be distempered since she grieved
pines,
Never be dry, these my sad plaintive lines.
Pearch thou my spirit on her silver breasts,
And with their pains redoubled musick beatings,
Let them toss thee to world where all toil rests,
Where bliss is subject to no fears defeatings,
Her praise I tune, whose tongue doth tune
the spheres,
And gets new muses in her hearers ears.
Stars fall to fetch fresh light from the rich eyes,
Her bright brow drives the fun to clouds beneath.
Her hair reflex with red strakes paints the skyes,
Sweet morn and evening dew flows from her
breath:
Phoebe rules tides, she my tears tides forth
draws.
In her sick bed love fits, and maketh laws.
Her dainty lips tinsel her silk-soft sheets,
Her rose-crown'd cheeks eclipse my dazled sight.
O glass with too much joy, my thoughts thou
greets,
And yet thou shewest me day but by twilight.
I'll kiss thee for the kindness I have felt.
Her lips one kiss would into nectar melt.