LAS FÓRMULAS DEL SONETO (V)

LAS FÓRMULAS DEL SONETO EN INGLATERRA

DESDE WYATT HASTA SHAKESPEARE

Los primeros sonetos conocidos en inglés fueron escritos por Sir Thomas Wyatt y Henry Howard, Conde de Surrey, —quienes usaban la forma italiana de Petrarca— y publicados en 1557 en una popular colección llamada “Tottel’s Miscellany”.

Los sonetos de Wyatt se atenían principalmente a la fórmula ABBA—ABBA para los cuartetos mientras que para el sexteto final optaba entre CDD—CEE, CDC—DEE o similares.

Con respecto al pareado final o couplet, se cree que se basó en la Rima Real (Rhyme Royal), estrofa creada por Geoffrey Chaucer, poeta por el que sentía gran admiración.

Si consideramos el formato estructural veríamos que fue Wyatt quien cambió el patrón italiano 4—4—3—3 por el tipo 4—4—4—2 aun cuando el patrón sintáctico no coincidiera.

Sin embargo, las dificultades para construir rimas en inglés llevaron al Conde de Surrey a modificar las cuartetas colocando en ellas rimas diferentes.

Al respecto, Wang Baotong explica que hay muchos más sonidos de vocales en inglés que en italiano y, por lo tanto, hay menos palabras para cada sonido, por lo que es más difícil encontrar palabras que rimen en inglés que en italiano.

Esta reformulación hizo del soneto una composición más asequible para los ingleses, tanto que sobresalió en manos de su más emblemático cultivador: William Shakespeare.

SIR THOMAS WYATT 

(1503—1542)

Tottel's Miscellany_1557

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If waker care; if sudden pale colour;

If many sighs, with little speech to plain:

Now joy, now woe, if they my chere distain;

For hope of small, if much to fear therfore;

To haste, or slack, my pace to less, or more:

Be sign of love, then do I love again.

If thou ask whom: sure, since I did refrain

Brunet, that set my wealth in such a roar,

Th' unfeigned cheer of Phyllis hath the place                    

That Brunet had; she hath, and ever shall.

She from my self now hath me in her grace;

She hath in hand my wit, my will, and all.

My heart alone well worthy she doth stay,

Without whose help scant do I live a day.

Yet was I never of your love aggrieved,

Nor never shall while my life doth last:

But of hating myself, that date is past;

And tears continual sore have me wearied.

I will not yet in my grave be buried;

Nor on my tomb your name have fixed fast,

As cruel cause, that did the spirit soon haste

From th' unhappy bones, by great sighs stirred.

Then if a heart of amorous faith and will

Content your mind withouten doing grief;

Please it you so to this to do relief:

If otherwise you seek for to fulfil

Your wrath, you err, and shall not as you ween;

And you yourself the cause thereof have been.

The flaming sighs that boil within my breast,

Sometime break forth, and they can well declare

The heart's unrest, and how that it doth fare,

The pain thereof, the grief, and all the rest.

The water'd eyen from whence the tears do fall,

Do feel some force, or else they would be dry;

The wasted flesh of colour dead can try,

And sometime tell what sweetness is in gall:

And he that lust to see, and to discern

How care can force within a wearied mind,

Come he to me, I am that place assign'd:

But for all this, no force, it doth no harm;

The wound, alas, hap in some other place,

From whence no tool away the scar can raze.

HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY 

(1517—1547)

Tottel's Miscellany_1557

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The fancy, which that I have served long;

That hath alway been enemy to mine ease;

Seemed of late to rue upon my wrong,

And bade me fly the cause of my misease.

And I forthwith did press out of the throng,

That thought by flight my painful heart to please

Some other way, till I saw faith more strong;

And to myself I said, 'Alas! Those days

In vain were spent, to run the race so long.'

And with that thought I met my guide, that plain,

Out of the way wherein I wander'd wrong,

Brought me amidst the hills in base Bullayne:

Where I am now, as restless to remain

Against my will, full pleased with my pain.

Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought,

That 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.

She, that taught me to love, and suffer pain;

My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desire

With shamefaced cloak to shadow and restrain,

Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.

And coward Love then to the heart apace

Taketh his flight; whereas he lurks, and plains

His purpose lost, and dare not shew his face.

For my Lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains.

Yet from my Lord shall not my foot remove:

Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love.

ANNE VAUGHAN LOCKE O LOK

(C. 1533—1590)

A Meditation of a Penitent Sinner_1560

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But render me my wonted ioyes againe,

Which sinne hath reft, and planted in theyr place

Doubt of thy mercy ground of all my paine.

The tast, that thy loue whilome did embrace

My chearfull soule, the signes that dyd assure

My felyng ghost of fauor in thy sight,

Are fled from me, and wretched I endure

Senslesse of grace the absence of thy sprite.

Restore my ioyes, and make me fele againe

The swete retorne of grace that I haue lost,

That I may hope I pray not all in vayne.

With thy free sprite confirme my feble ghost,

To hold my faith from ruine and decay

With fast affiance and assured stay.

Haue mercie, Lord, haue mercie: for I know

How muche I nede thy mercie in this case.

The horror of my gilt doth dayly growe,

And growing weares my feble hope of grace.

I fele and suffer in my thralled brest

Secret remorse and gnawing of my hart.

I fele my sinne, my sinne that hath opprest

My soule with sorrow and surmounting smart.

Drawe me to mercie: for so oft as I

Presume to mercy to direct my sight,

My Chaos and my heape of sinne doth lie,

Betwene me and thy mercies shining light.

What euer way I gaze about for grace,

My filth and fault are euer in my face.

So foule is sinne and lothesome in thy sighte,

So foule with sinne I see my selfe to be,

That till from sinne I may be washed white,

So foule I dare not, Lord, approche to thee.

Ofte hath thy mercie washed me before,

Thou madest me cleane: but I am foule againe.

Yet washe me Lord againe, and washe me more.

Washe me, O Lord, and do away the staine

Of vggly sinnes that in my soule appere.

Let flow thy ple[n]tuous streames of clensing grace.

Washe me againe, yea washe me euery where,

Bothe leprous bodie and defiled face.

Yea washe me all, for I am all vncleane,

And from my sin, Lord, cleanse me ones againe.

GEORGE GASCOIGNE

(C. 1525—1577)

A Hundreth Sundrie Flowres_1573

The Posies of George Gascoinge Esquire_1575

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THE INTRODUCTION TO THE PSALME OF DE PROFUNDIS

The skies gan scowle, orecast with misty clowdes,

When (as I rode alone by London waye,

Cloakelesse, unclad) thus did I sing and say:

Behold quoth I, bright Titan how he shroudes

His head abacke, and yelds the raine his reach,

Till in his wrath, Dan Jove have soust the soile,

And washt me wretch which in his travaile toile.

But holla (here) doth rudenesse me appeach,

Since Jove is Lord and king of mighty power,

Which can commaund the Sunne to shewe his face,

And (when him lyst) to give the raine his place.

Why doe not I my wery muses frame,

(Although I bee well soused in this showre,)

To write some verse in honour of his name?

The pearle of price, which englishmen have sought 

So farre abrode, and cost them there so dere 

Is now founde out, within our contrey here 

And better cheape, amongst us may be bought 

I meane the frenche: that pearle of pleasant speeche 

Which some sought far, and bought it with their lives 

With sickenesse some, yea some with bolts and gyves 

But all with payne, this peerlesse pearle did seeche: 

Now Holyband (A frendly frenche in deede) 

Hath tane such payne, for everie english ease 

That here at home, we may this language learne: 

And for the price, he craveth no more meede 

But thankful harts, to whome his perles may please 

Oh thank him then, that so much thank doth earne.

A GORGEOUS GALLERY OF GALLANTS INVENTIONS_1578

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A TRUE DESCRIPTION OF LOVE

Ask what love is? It is a passion

Begun with rest, and pampered up in play,

Planted on sight, and nourished day by day, 

With talk at large, for hope to graze upon: 

It is a short joy, long sought and soon gone; 

An endless maze, wherein our willes do stray;

A guileful gain, repentance is the pay; 

A great fire, bred of small occasion; 

A plague, to make our frailty to us known, 

Where we thereby are subject to their lay;

Whose frailty ought to lean until our stay, 

In case ourselves this custom had not known: 

Of hope and health such creatures for to pray, 

Whose glory resteth chiefly on denay.

HENRY CHETTLE

(1564—1606)

The Forrest of Fancy_1579

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Not as I am, nor as I wish to be, 

But as false fortune frames my froward fate, 

Even so I am, not bound nor fully free, 

Not quite forlorn, nor yet in quiet state. 

I wish for death, and yet the death I hate; 

This life lead I, which life is wondrous strange, 

Yet for no life would I my life exchange. 

I seek the sight of that I sigh to see, 

I joy in that which breeds my great unrest: 

Such contraries do daily comber me, 

As in one thing I find both joy and rest, 

Which gain he gets that is Cupido’s guest; 

For whom he catcheth in his cursed snare 

He gives great hope, yet kills his heart with care.

ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE

(1545—1598)

The Poems of Alexander Montgomery_1821

Se pueden asignar varios poemas de este poeta escocés a la primera mitad de la década de 1580, incluidos sonetos, canciones de la corte y la primera versión inacabada de su obra más larga, la alegórica “Cherrie and the Slae”.

Fue el creador de la fórmula ABAB—BCBC—CDCD—EE, estructura que fuera después empleada con más fortuna por Edmund Spenser en sus “Amoretti” de 1595.

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SONNET I

To the Blessed Trinity

Supreme Essence, Beginning unbegun, 

Aye trinal One, —one undivided Three,— 

Eternal Word, that victory has won 

O'er death, o'er hell, triumphing on the Tree, 

Foreknowledge, Wisdom, and all-seeing Eye, 

Jehovah, Alpha and Omega, All,— 

Like unto none, and none like unto Thee, 

Unmoved who moves the rounds about the ball. 

Container uncontained; is, was, and shall 

Be sempiternal, merciRil, and just,— 

Creator uncreated, now I call. 

Teach me Thy truth since unto Thee I trust. 

Increase, confirm, and kindle from above. 

My faith, my hope, but more than all, my love.

SONNET XXXVI

(A Ladyis Lamentatione)

Fane wald I speir vhat spreit doth me inspyre.

I haif my wish, and yit I want my will;

I covet lyfe, and yit my corps Ikill;

I vrne for anger, yit I haif no yre;

I flie the flammis, yit folouis on the fire;

I lyke my lote, and yit my luk is ill;

I yoldin am, and yit am stryning still;

I dreid dispair, yit hope hes heght me hyre;

My blud is brunt, and yit my breist does bleid;

I haif no hurt, and yit my hairt hes harmes;

I am ouircome, but enimie or armis:

The doctours doubtis if I be quik or deid:

If that I kneu of vhome I culd inquyre,

Fain wold I speir vhat spreit does me inspyre.

SONNET XXXIX

To his Maistres (1:3)

Bright amorous ee vhare Love in ambush lyes,

Cleir cristal tear distilde at our depairt,

Sueet secreit sigh more peircing nor a dairt,

Inchanting voce, beuitcher of the wyse,

Quhyt ivory hand, vhilk thrust my fingers pryse 

I challenge you, the causers of my smarte,

As homiceids and murtherers of my harte,

In Resones court to suffer ane assyse.

Bot, oh! I fear, yea, rather wot I weill,

To be repledgt ye plainly will appeill

To Love, whom Resone never culd command:

Bot, since I can not better myn estate,

Yit, vhill I live, at leist I sall regrate

Ane ee, a teir, a sigh, a voce, a hand.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

(1554—1586)

Astrophel and Stella_1591 

Sonnets and Poetical Translations_1598

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SONNET LXXXVIII

Out, traitor Absence, darest thou counsel me

From my dear captainess to run away,

Because in brave array here marched she

That to win me, oft shows a present pay?

Is faith so weak? Or is such force in thee?

When sun is hid, can stars such beams display?

Cannot heav'n's food, once felt, keep stomachs free

From base desire on earthly cates to prey?

Tush, Absence, while thy mists eclipse that light,

My orphan sense flies to th'inward sight

Where memory sets forth the beams of love;

That where before heart lov'd and eyes did see,

In heart both sight and love now coupl'd be;

United powers make each the stronger prove.

SONNET XL

As good to write as for to lie and groan,

Oh Stella dear, how much thy power hath wrought,

That hast my mind, none of the basest, brought

My still-kept course, while others sleep, to moan.

Alas, if from the height of Virtue's throne,

Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought

Upon a wretch, that long thy grace hath sought;

Weigh then how I by thee am overthrown:

And then, think thus, although thy beauty be

Made manifest by such a victory,

Yet noblest conquerors do wrecks avoid.

Since then thou hast so far subdued me,

That in my heart I offer still to thee,

Oh do not let thy Temple be destroyed.

SONNET XXXIII

Thou blind man's mark, thou fool's self-chosen snare,

Fond fancy's scum, and dregs of scatter'd thought;

Band of all evils, cradle of causeless care;

Thou web of will, whose end is never wrought;

Desire, desire! I have too dearly bought,

With price of mangled mind, thy worthless ware;

Too long, too long, asleep thou hast me brought,

Who should my mind to higher things prepare.

But yet in vain thou hast my ruin sought;

In vain thou madest me to vain things aspire;

In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky fire;

For virtue hath this better lesson taught-

Within myself to seek my only hire,

Desiring nought but how to kill desire.

JOHN SOOWTHERN

(¿–?)

Pandora_1584

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SONNET I

Had with the moorning the Gods left their willes undone

They had not so soone herited such a soule:

Or if the mouth, tyme did not glotton up all.

Nor I, nor the world, were depriv'd of my Sonne,

Whose brest Venus, with a face dolefull and milde,

Doth washe with golden teares, inveying [sic] the skies

And when the water of the Goddesses eyes,

Makes almost, alive, the Marble, of my Childe:

One byds her leave styll, her dollor so extreme,

Telling her it is not, her young sonne Papheme,

To which she makes aunswer with a voice inflamed

(Feeling therewith her venime, to be more bitter)

As I was of Cupid, even so of it mother

"And a womans last chylde, is the most beloved"

HENRY CONSTABLE

(1562—1613)

H.C. Sonnet's_Circa 1590

Diana: The Praises of his Mistress, in Certain Sweete Sonnets_1592

Diana, or, The Excellent Conceitful Sonnets of H.C. Augmented with Divers Quatorzains of Honorable and Lerned Personages_1594

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He that by skill of stars doth fates foretell,

If reason give the verdit of his side,

Though by mischance things otherwise betide

Then he foretold, yet doth he calculi well.

A Phoenix, if she live, must needs excel;

And this, by reason's lawes, should not have dy'd:

But thus it chanc't –nature cannot abyde

More then one Phoenix in the world to dwell.

Now as the mother Phoenix death should slay,

Her beauties light did dazle so his eye,

As while he blindfold lethis arrowe flye,

He slew the yonge one which stood in the way:

Thus did the mother scape, and thus did I

By good ill hap fayle of my prophecie.

Sweet hand! The sweet but cruel bow thou art!

From whence at me five ivory arrows fly;

So with five wounds at once I wounded lie,

Bearing my breast the print of every dart.

Saint Francis had the like; yet felt no smart,         

Where I in living torments never die.

His wounds were in his hands and feet; where I

All these five helpless wounds feel in my heart.

Now, as Saint Francis, if a Saint am I,

The bow that shot these shafts a relic is.         

I mean the hand, which is the reason why

So many for devotion thee would kiss:

And some thy glove kiss, as a thing divine;

This arrows’ quiver, and this relic’s shrine.

Thine eye the glass where I behold my heart,

Mine eye the window through the which thine eye

May see my heart, and there thyself espy

In bloody colours how thou painted art.

Thine eye the pile is of a murdering dart;

Mine eye the sight thou tak'st thy level by

To hit my heart, and never shoot'st awry.

Mine eye thus helps thine eye to work my smart.

Thine eye a fire is both in heat and light;

Mine eye of tears a river doth become.

O that the water of mine eye had might

To quench the flames that from thine eye doth come,

Or that the fires kindled by thine eye,

The flowing streams of mine eyes could make dry.

When tedious much, and over weary long,

Cruel disdain, reflecting from her brow,

Hath been the cause that I endured such wrong;

And rest thus discontent and weary now.

Yet when posterity, in time to come,         

Shall find th’uncancelled tenour of her vow;

And her disdain be then confest of some,

How much unkind and long, I find it now.

O yet even then (though then, will be too late

To comfort me; dead, many a day, ere then),         

They shall confess—I did not force her heart:

And time shall make it known to other men—

That ne’er had her disdain made me despair,

Had she not been so excellently fair.

KING JAMES VI DE ESCOCIA

(1566—1625)

The Essayes of a Prentise in the Divine Art of Poesie [Some Reulis and Cautelis to be observit and eschewit in Scottis Poesie]_1584

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AN EPITAPHE ON MONTGOMERIE

What drousie sleepe doth syle your eyes allace

Ye sacred brethren of Castalian band

And shall the prince of Poets in our land

Goe thus to grave vumurned in anie cace

No; whett your pens ye imps of heavenlie grace

And toone me wp your sweete resounding strings

And mounte him so on your immortall wings

That ever he may live in everie place

Remember on Montgomeries flowand grace

His suggred stile his weightie words divine

And how he made the sacred Sisters nine

There montaine quitte to followe on his trace

Though to his buriall was refused the bell

The bell of fame, shall aye his praises knell.

WILLIAM FOWLER

(1560—1612)

The Tarantula of Love_1584/87

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SONNET C

Gifthat my thoughts in loving yow...

A fainting ons off thair affectioun trew,

Gif they haue not fra tyme to tyme bene paind

And daylye mair with furie dois persew

Your gracious grace, that does my hart subdew,

And with the bands of love hes me inchaind,

Then lett al plags vpon me, wrechte, insew,

And let me ay heirafter be disdaind;

Let thir myne eyne by blindnes so be staind

Quhilk did abeus your sparks and heuinly hew,

And let my toung, sa falcefyd and faind,

Serve to none vse bot ay my faults to rew;

And let my hairt become a seat of hell,

And alls my soul the scourger off hir sell.

SONNET III

Sence spreits, thoughts, harts, you haue frome me, faire, taine,

Then these lamenting and complayning lynes

May justlye to your mereits appertaine,

And dois belang to yow as dewe propynes;

Bot sen my style and muse not weill defynes,

Bot rather darks your prayse then right descryve,

Your just disdaynes of reasoun now enclynes

To cast my songs asyde and thame to ryve,

Whiche now half deade I have reviud alyfe,

And as the laymed birthe of my blunt brayne,

Whils your despyte dois theme of spreits depryve,

I send thame to your plesant hands agayne,

To die by thame, to perrishe in there yre,

To burne by flams as they wer borne by fyre.

SONNET LXXIII

Bellisa pansiue satt, and in her hands,

More whyte then snaw, did hald the holye booke,

And reiding that which shee weill vnderstands

Devoltlye with her eyes did thairin looke,

And quhils her heide was boued her brest shee strooke,

And with a godlye and a gudlye zeale

Pourd furth her sighs of vapours ful and smoke,

And with such incence did her plantis revele

"O god," sayd [?] I, "and [?] dois my day[m]e bewayle

My sore afflicted and distressed state?"

"O god," sayd [?] I, "repents shee of her fayte,

Her wrathe, her rigours, and her murder [?] greate?

No! No! For this I see and am asseurd,

Her godlines dois mak her mair indurd."

NICHOLAS YONGE

(1560—1619)

Música Transalpina_1588

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ANOTHER SONET THENCE TAKEN

Zephirus brings the time sweetly senteth

With flowers and hearbs, which Winters frost exileth:

Progne now chirpeth, Philomel lamentesh,

Flora the Garlands white and red compileth:

Fields doo reioyce, the frowning skie relenteth,

Loue to behold his dearest daughter smileth:

The ayre, the water, the earth to ioy consenteth,

Each creature now to loue him reconcileth.

But with me wretch, the stormes of woe perseuer,

And heauie sighs which from my hart she straineth

That tooke the key thereof to heauen for euer,

So that singing of birds, and spring-times flowring:

And Ladies loue that mens affection gaineth,

Are like a Desert, and cruell beasts deuouring.

ANNE EDGECOMBE DOWRICHE 

(1560—1613)

The French Historie_1589

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From Seate supernall of coelestiall Jove

Descended Truth, devoid of worldlie weed;

And with the brightnesse of her beames she strove

Gainst Sathan, Sinne, & Adams fleshlie Seed;

Reprooving wrongs, bewailing worldlings need;

Who thinke they swim in wealth (blinded by guile):

Yet wanting Truth; are wretched, poore & vile.

The World reproov’d; in rage attempts hir wracke,

Sathan assists, malicious Men devise

Torments for Truth, binde scourges at hir backe,

Exclaime against hir with blasphemous cries;

Condemning hir, exalting earthlie lies:

Yet no despite or paine can cause hir cease;

She wounded, springs; bedeckt with crowne of Peace.

JOHN STEWART OF BALDYNNEIS

(1545—1605)

Ane abbregement of roland fvriovs translait ovt of Aroist, togither vith svm rapsodies of the avthors ȝovthfvll braine, And last ane schersing ovt of trew felicitie, composit in scotis meitir be J. Stewart of Baldynneis_1590

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OF ANE POET

Thocht schollers of Caliope attaine

To douce Indyt, it drawith dour decay,

For quhan sic rage rings in their restles braine,

Their spreit perturbit may not sport nor play;

All vorldlie velth als from tham slyds away,

Ay thay ar puir And dois Induir desdaine,

For thocht thay paine their self both nycht and day,

Perfume of candill is their greatest gaine.

All solitary and sad thay do remaine

Vith feruent furie for to flie aloft,

Syn for to pen their purpois prompt and plaine

Both to and fro thay pouse the tabill oft,

And byts their nails, And vreyis their fingers vrang,

To thraw their versis ether schort or lang.

IN GOING TO HIS LUIF

O siluer hornit Diane, nychtis queine,

Quha for to kis Endimeon did discend,

Gif flame of luif thow haid don than susteine,

As I do now that instant dois pretend

T’embrasse my luif, Not villing to be kend,

Vith mistie vaill thow vold obscuir thy face

For reuth of me that dois sic trauell spend.

And finding now this visit grant of grace,

Bot let it be thy borrowit lycht alace,

I staying stand in feir for to be seine,

Sen yndling eine Inwirons all this place,

Quhois cursit mouths ay to defame dois meine.

Bot nether thay Nor ȝit thy schyning cleir

May cause appear my secret luif synceir.

SAMUEL DANIEL

(1562—1619)

Delia_1592

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SONNET V

Oft and in vain my rebel thoughts have ventured

To stop the passage of my vanquished heart;

And shut those ways my friendly foe first entered,

Hoping thereby to free my better part.

And whilst I guard the windows of this fort,

Where my heart's thief to vex me made her choice,

And thither all my forces do transport,

Another passage opens at her voice.

Her voice betrays me to her hand and eye,

My freedom's tyrant, conquering all by art;

But ah! What glory can she get thereby,

With three such powers to plague one silly heart!

Yet my soul's sovereign, since I must resign,

Reign in my thoughts, my love and life are thine!

GABRIEL HARVEY

(1545—1630)

Four letters and Certains Sonnets_1592

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SONNET IV

The miserable End of willful Desperateness

The jolly fly dispatch’d his silly self:

What stories quaint, of many a doughty fly

That read a lecture to the vent’rous elf?

Yet he will have his lusty swing to die.

Courage and stirring with in time do well;

But that same obstinate Desperation,

A furious fiend of self-devouring hell,

Rushing with terrible combination,

(What storm so hideous as Rage’s spell?)

Concludes with horrible lamentation.

Each blessed tongue accurse malediction,

The ugly mouth of ruthful confusion.

Nothing so dulcely sweet, or kindly dear,

As sugared lips, and heart’s delicious cheer.

SONNET V

The Learned should lovingly affect the Learned

I am not to instruct where I may learn,

But where I may persuasively exhort;

Nor over dissolute, nor over stern—

A courteous honesty I would extort.

Good loathes to damage or upbraid the good;

Gentle, how lovely to the gentle wight!

Who seeth not how every blooming bud

Smileth on every flower fairly dight,

And biddeth foul ill-favouredness good-night?

Would Alciat’s Emblem, or some scarlet hood,

Could teach the pregnant sons of shiny light

To interbrace each other with delight!

Fine Mercury conducts a dainty band

Of Charities and Muses, hand in hand.

WALTER RALEGH O RALEIGH

(1554—1618)

Poems_1892

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FAREWELL TO THE COURT; BEFORE 1593

Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expired,

And past return are all my dandled days,

My love misled, and fancy quite retired;

Of all which past, the sorrow only stays.

My lost delights, now clean from sight of land,         

Have left me all alone in unknown ways,

My mind to woe, my life in fortune’s hand;

Of all which past, the sorrow only stays.

As in a country strange without companion,

I only wail the wrong of death’s delays,         

Whose sweet spring spent, whose summer well nigh done;

Of all which past, the sorrow only stays;

Whom care forewarns, ere age and winter cold,

To haste me hence to find my fortune’s fold.

HENRY LOK, LOCK O LOCKE

(1553—1608)

Sundry Christian Passions_1593

Sundry Affectionate Sonets of a Feeling Conscience_1597

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FIRST PART

Sonnet XVIII

Ovt of the fountaine of eternall life,

I poore Samarytan here readie stand,

(To sinfull lust an old betrothed wife)

With pitcher readie in my trembling hand,

To draw a draught of liquor most diuine,

To quench the thirst of my inflamed hart

With heauenly de [...]: ere that my soule do pine,

And qualifie the rigor of my smart.

A Prophet true thou art I vnderstand,

Or rather father of all truth thou art,

A stranger I from faire Iudaea land,

With these thy blessings craue for to impart,

Then guide my hand and teach my soule to tast,

True faith the fountaine where all blisse is plast.

SECOND PART

Preface

Some men do mourne for suddeine ioy, they say,

And some likewise in midst of sorrow sing,

Such diuers frutes do passion often bring,

As reason cannot course of Nature stay,

And happie sure he is (I not denay)

That both these motions hath from heart contrite,

When frailtie of his flesh appeares to sight,

And mercy calling him backe from decay.

Who can behold the flesh and spirit fight,

The doubtfull issue and danger of the thing,

The losse whereto our nature might vs fling,

And gaine which grace doth giue, through Sauiors might,

And not delight, To glorifie his name,

SECOND PART

Sonnet L

No sooner loue intirely me possest,

But see how iealousie doth me assaile,

She seekes with deepe distrust my faith to quaile,

And to remoue from conscience quiet guest.

She telleth me my Lord doth sin detest,

And that my deeds they too vnworthie are,

That from his fauour they will me debarre,

Whose loue is fixed only on the best.

Feare had begun to worke in me so farre,

That to amaze my minde it could not faile,

Till to my loue my state I did bewaile,

Who shining sweetly like the morning starre,

Did stay their iarre, And bid my soule to rest

In Christ, by whom I surely shall be blest.

CONCLUSION

Though long (my soule) thou banished hast bin,

From place of thy repose, by tyrants might;

By world and worldly cares, by flesh, wherein

Thy wandring thoghts haue dazeld iudgemēts sight:

Learne yet at length to guide thy course aright,

Vnto that end which must begin thy rest;

Learne once for shame, so constantly to fight

Against affections, which please fancie best,

That all vnfruitfull thoughts thou maist detest,

And hold those common pleasures, combers great,

Whose issue, age and time with ruine threat,

VVhen death vnlookt for, seemes a fearefull guest,

Retire thy selfe, as wise Barzilla did,

From worldly cares, thy purer thoughts to rid.

SONNET XXII

Come to the Councell of your common weale,

Ye senses mine (which haue confederate bin

With world and Satan to infect with sin

My soule, whose harbour in your house befell)

Thinke ye your safety great, when he is thrall?

That ye can scape, if soule once captiue bee?

That plagues she feeles, shall not on ye befall?

And ye with her, bring endlesse woe to mee?

What earthly beauty can eyes brightnesse see?

What melodie heare eares? What liked smell?

What vnloathd tast, or feelings please so well,

That are not often noysome vnto yee?

Then (since such hazard great, short ioy ye win)

To watch with me, gainst common foes begin.

SONNET IX

I now begin to doubt my present state,

For that I feele no conflict in my mind:

A settled concord, needs must be vnkind,

Twixt flesh and spright, which should ech other hate,

They neere agree, but to their common woe,

And that through sin which luld them both a sleepe,

A warfare in this bodie would I goe,

Lest fraud, or treason in through rest should creepe.

The practises of Sathan are so deepe,

Armed with flesh and lust (whom prone we find)

That hardly can the soule his freedome keepe,

But that these fiendes would him with frailty bind.

Vnlesse with heauenly weapons at debate,

With them we stand, and fight, both rare and late.

BARNABE BARNES

(C.1571—1609)

Parthenophil and Parthenophe_1593

A Divine Centurie of Spiritual Sonnets_1595

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SONNET XII

Vext with th'assaults of thy conceivèd beauty,                    

I restless on thy favours meditate!                                         

And though despairfull love, sometimes, my suit tie         

Unto these faggots (figures of my state),                              

Which bound with endless line, by leisure wait                         

That happy moment of your heart's reply!                                  

Yet by those lines I hope to find the gate                                         

Which, through love's labyrinth shall guide me right.             

Whiles (unacquainted exercise!) I try                                          

Sweet solitude, I shun my life's chief light!                     

And all because I would forget thee quite.                       

And (working that) methinks, its such a sin                   

(As I take pen and paper for to write)                               

Thee to forget; that leaving, I begin!      

SONNET XXV

Then count it not disgrace! If any view me

Sometime to shower down rivers of salt tears,

From tempest of my sigh's despairful fears.

Then scorn me not, alas, sweet friends! But rue me!

Ah, pity! Pity me! For if you knew me!

How, with her looks, mine heart amends and wears;

Now calm, now ragious, as my passion bears;

You would lament with me! And She which slew me,

She which (Ay me!) She which did deadly wound me,

And with her beauty's balm, though dead, keeps lively

My lifeless body: and by charms hath bound me,

For thankless meed, to serve her: if she vively

Could see my sorrow's maze, which none can tread,

She would be soft and light, though flint and lead!

SONNET XCIX

This careful head, with divers thoughts distressed,        

My Fancy's Chronicler! my Sorrow's Muse!                   

These watchful eyes, whose heedless aim I curse,           

Love's sentinels! and Fountains of Unrest!                     

This tongue still trembling, Herald fit addressed                  

To my Love's grief! (Than any torment worse!)                    

This heart, true Fortress of my spotless love,                         

And rageous Furnace of my long desire!                                

Of these, by Nature, am I not possessed                         

(Though Nature their first means in me did move)      

But thou, dear Sweet! with thy love's holy fire,                   

My head Grief's Anvil made! with cares oppressed;           

Mine eyes, a Spring! my tongue, a Leaf wind-shaken!                

My heart, a wasteful Wilderness forsaken!                                

SONNET LXV

O mercy, mercy, which much greater is

Then heauens themselues! Oh truth, Oh sincere truth,

Which to the cloudes extendeth and insueth!

Of iustice which doth neuer iudge amisse!

Oh age of ages, euermore in youth!

Oh Iudge whose righteous punishment is ruth!

Which sinners worthlesse dost with bountie blisse?

Oh where shall I finde to my spirite voice?

Where to my voice sufficient choyce of words?

To shew how much my spirite doth reioyce

In those large blessings, which thy grace affords?

My spirite first will faile with feeble voice:

Oh my Lord God lende spirit, life and breath,

That I may praise thy name to conquer death.

SONNET XCIV

O what a gracious burthen huge and heauie,

What charge importable, and painefull weight

Those deadly sinnes which with our soules doe fight,

And fresh supplies of vile offences leuie?

Yeelding more puisance to their powrefull might,

In hope with shade of euerlasting night

To blind the beamesome rayes of my poore soule

(Which doth a restlesse stone of labour roule)

Till thy deare gracious mercies from thy sight

Do banish them, and with the glorie bright

Of thy sweete pardon lighten them againe?

And then (albeit no volumes can containe

Thy praise and mercies) yet will I contend

From East to West their memorie to send.

SONNET XCVIII

Where shall I vex'de my sinfull head repose?

If that in errour and conceiued vice,

Which with deceitefull Blandishments intice

My feeble nature mortified with sinne.

Then hope shall gates of my saluation close,

Against my soule: and my dispaire beginne,

If that in open sight, then open shame

The Scarlet of my conscience will disclose;

And sound the shamefull Trumpet of my fame.

Where then shall I my vexed soule dispose?

(If not in blind obscuritie nor light)

Then there euen there impenitence with those

Which weepe downe teares of comfort to delight

Their soule enlarged from eternall night.

THOMAS LODGE

(C. 1558—1625)

Phillis_1593

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SONNET XXXVII

These fierce incessant waves that stream along my face,

Which show the certain proof of my ne'er-ceasing pains,

Fair Phillis, are no tears that trickle from my brains;

For why? Such streams of ruth within me find no place.

These floods that wet my cheeks are gathered from thy grace

And thy perfections, and from hundred thousand flowers

Which from thy beauties spring; whereto I medley showers

Of rose and lilies too, the colours of thy face.

My love doth serve for fire, my heart the furnace is,

The aperries of my sighs augment the burning flame,

The limbec is mine eye that doth distil the same;

And by how much my fire is violent and sly,

By so much doth it cause the waters mount on high,

That shower from out mine eyes, for to assuage my miss.

MICHAEL DRAYTON

(1563—1631)

The Amour & Idea Sonnet Cycles_1594

THE AMOUR

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AMOUR 39

Die, die, my soule, and neuer taste of ioy,

If sighes, nor teares, nor vowes, nor prayers can moue;

If fayth and zeale be but esteemd a toy,

And kindnes be vnkindnes in my loue.

Then, with vnkindnes, Loue, reuenge thy wrong:

O sweet'st reuenge that ere the heauens gaue!

And with the swan record thy dying song,

And praise her still to thy vntimely graue.

So in loues death shall loues perfection proue

That loue diuine which I haue borne to you,

By doome concealed to the heauens aboue,

That yet the world vnworthy neuer knew;

Whose pure Idea neuer tongue exprest:

I feele, you know, the heauens can tell the rest.

AMOUR 14

Looking into the glasse of my youths miseries,

I see the ugly face of my deformed cares,

With withered browes, all wrinckled with dispaires,

That for my mis-spent youth the tears fel from my eyes.

Then, in these teares, the mirror of these eyes,

Thy fayrest youth and Beautie doe I see

Imprinted in my teares by looking still on thee:

Thus midst a thousand woes ten thousand joyes arise.

Yet in those joyes, the shadowes of my good,

In this fayre limned ground as white as snow,

Paynted the blackest Image of my woe,

With murthering hands imbru'd in mine own blood:

And in this Image his darke clowdy eyes,

My life, my youth, my loue, I heere Anotamize.

AMOUR 5

Since holy Vestall lawes haue been neglected,

The Gods pure fire hath been extinguisht quite;

No Virgin once attending on that light,

Nor yet those heauenly secrets once respected;

Till thou alone, to pay the heauens their dutie

Within the Temple of thy sacred name,

With thine eyes kindling that Celestiall flame,

By those reflecting Sun-beames of thy beautie.

Here Chastity that Vestall most diuine,

Attends that Lampe with eye which neuer sleepeth;

The volumes of Religions lawes shee keepeth,

Making thy breast that sacred reliques shryne,

Where blessed Angels, singing day and night,

Praise him which made that fire, which lends that light.

IDEAS MIRROUR

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SONNET XXXIX

Some, when in rhyme they of their loves do tell,

With flames and lightnings their exordiums paint,

Some call on Heaven, some invocate on Hell,

And Fates and Furies with their woes acquaint.

Elysium is too high a seat for me;

I will not come in Styx or Phlegethon;

The thrice-three Muses but too wanton be,

Like they that lust, I care not, I will none.

Spiteful Erinnys frights me with her looks,

My manhood dares not with foul Ate mell,

I quake to look on Hecate's charming books,

I still fear bugbears in Apollo's cell.

I pass not for Minerva nor Astraea,

Only I call on my divine Idea.

SONNET XXXV

To Miracle

Some, misbelieving and profane in love,

When I do speak of miracles by thee,

May say, that thou art flatterèd by me,

Who only write my skill in verse to prove.

See miracles, ye unbelieving, see,

A dumb-born Muse made to express the mind,

A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind,

One by thy name, the other touching thee;

Blind were mine eyes, till they were seen of thine,

And mine ears deaf by thy fame healèd be,

My vices cured by virtues sprung from thee,

My hopes revived, which long in grave had lien,

All unclean thoughts, foul spirits, cast out in me

Only by virtue that proceeds from thee.

IDEAS MIRROUR_Edición 1599

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SONNET V

Nothing but No, and Aye, and Aye, and No?

How falls it out so strangely you reply?

I tell ye, fair, I'll not be answered so,

With this affirming No, denying Aye.

I say “I love,” you slightly answer Aye;

I say “you love,” you pule me out a No;

I say “I die,” you echo me an Aye;

“Save me,” I cry, you sigh me out a No;

Must woe and I have nought but No and Aye?

No I am I, if I no more can have;

Answer no more, with silence make reply,

And let me take myself what I do crave.

Let No and Aye with I and you be so;

Then answer No, and Aye, and Aye and No.

WILLIAM PERCY

(1574—1648)

Sonnets to the Fairest Coelia_1594

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Sonnet V

Fair Queen of Gnidos come adorn my forehead,

And crown me with the laurel emperor,

I'o thrice sing I'o about thy Poet,

Lo in my goddess I am conqueror.

For once by chance, not sure, or wittingly,

Upon my foot, her tender foot alighted,

With that she pluck’d it off full wimbely,

As though the very touch had her affrighted.

Dear mistresse, will you deal so cruelly,

To prive me of so small a benefit?

What? Do you jet it off so nimbely,

As though in very sooth a snake had bit it?

Yea bit perhaps indeed: Ho, Muses blab you?

Not a word, Picannets, or I will gag you.

ZEPHERIA_1594

Se trata de una colección de cuarenta sonetos o “canzons” (como su anónimo autor los llama) y conocida por el uso reiterado que hace del vocabulario legal.

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CANZON XIX

No! No, Zepheria! Fame is too rich a prize

My all-unmeriting lines for to attend on!

The best applause of my Muse, on thine eyes

Depends! It craves but smiles, his pains to guerdon!

But thine, the glory of this weak emprise!         

Well wot I, his demerit is but bare!

Duteous respect then, will not that I portionise

To me, in love’s respect, equal like care.

Lovely respective! equal thou this care!

And with thine heaven’s calm smiles, mine heart imparadise!         

Shine forth thy comfort’s sun, my fears’ Dismayer!

O well it fits lovers to sympathise!

Hold thou the spoils of Fame, for thine inheritance!

Thy love, to me is sweetest chevisance!

RICHARD BARNFIELD

(1574—1620)

Cynthia,with Certain Sonnets, and the Legend of Cassandra_1595

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SONNET XI

Sighing, and sadly sitting by my love,

He asked the cause of my heart's sorrowing,

Conjuring me by heaven's eternal King

To tell the cause which me so much did move.

Compelled (quoth I), to thee will I confess,

Love is the cause, and only love it is

That doth deprive me of my heavenly bliss.

Love is the pain that doth my heart oppress.

And what is she (quoth he) whom thou dost love?

Look in this glass (quoth I), there shalt thou see

The perfect form of my felicity.

When, thinking that it would strange magic prove,

He opened it, and taking off the cover,

He straight perceived himself to be my lover.

SIR JOHN DAVIES 

(1569—1626)

Gullinge Sonnets_1595

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SONNET VII

Into the middle Temple of my heart

The wanton Cupid did himself admit,

And gave for pledge your eagle-sighted wit

That he would play no rude uncivil part:

Long time he cloak'd his nature with his art,

And sad, and grave, and sober he did sit;

But at the last he’ gan to revel it,

To break good rules, and orders to pervert:

Then love and his young pledge were both convented

Before sad Reason, that old bencher grave,

Who this sad sentence unto him presented

By diligence, that sly and secret knave:

That love and wit, for ever should depart

Out of the Middle Temple of my heart.

EMARICDULFE_1595

Este libro conformado por cuarenta sonetos se debe a la autoría anónima de quien solo se conoce como “E. C., Esquier”.

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SONNET V

When first the rage of love assail'd my hart,

And towards my thoughts his fiery forces bent:

Eftsoones to shield me from his wounding dart,

Arm'd with disdaine, I held him in contempt.

Curld headed love when from mount Erecine

He saw this geere, so ill thereof he brookes,

That thence he speedes unwilling to be seene,

Till he had tane his stand in thy faire lookes.

There all inrag'd his golden bow he bent,

And nockt his arrow like a pretie elfe:

Which when I saw, I humbly to him went,

And cri'd hold, hold, and I will yeeld my selfe.

Thus Cupid conquer'd me, and made me sweare

Homage to him, and dutie to my deare.

SONNET XIX

The Heavens and Nature when my Love was borne,

Strove which of both shuld most adorne and grace her:

The sacred heavens in wealthie natures scorne

With wisedomes pure infusion did imbrace her:

Nature lent wings to wisdome for her flight,

And deckt my Ladie with such heavenly features,

As nere before appear'd in humane sight,

Ne ever sithence in terrestriall creatures.

(Quoth Wisdome) I will guide her constant hart

At all assaies with policie to relieve her:

(Quoth Nature) I will cast those gifts apart,

With outward graces that I meane to give her.

Yet were they reconcil'd, and swore withall

To make her more then halfe celestiall.

 

EDMUND SPENSER

(1552—1599)

Amoretti and Epithalamion_1595

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SONNET V

Rudely thou wrongest my dear hart’s desire,

In finding fault with her too portly pride:

The thing which I do most in her admire,

Is of the world unworthy most envide.

For in those lofty looks is close implide,

Scorn of base things, & sdeigne of foul dishonor:

Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide,

That loosely they ne dare to look upon her.

Such pride is praise, such portliness is honor,

That boldened innocence bears in her eyes:

And her faire countenance like a goodly banner,

Spreads in defiance of all enemies.

Was never in this world ought worthy tride,

Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.

BARTHOLOMEW GRIFFIN

(¿?—1602)

Fidessa_ 1596

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SONNET XXIII

Fly to her heart, hover about her heart,

With dainty kisses mollify her heart,

Pierce with thy arrows her obdurate heart,

With sweet allurements ever move her heart,

At midday and at midnight touch her heart,

Be lurking closely, nestle about her heart,

With power—thou art a god!—command her heart,

Kindle thy coals of love about her heart,

Yea, even into thyself transform her heart!

Ah, she must love! Be sure thou have her heart;

And I must die if thou have not her heart;

Thy bed if thou rest well, must be her heart;

He hath the best part sure that hath her heart;

What have I not, if I have but her heart!

RICHARD LINCHE O LYNCHE

(C. 1570—1601)

Diella_ 1596

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SONNET VIII

Like to a falcon watching for a flight,

Duly attending his desirèd game;

Have I oft watched and marked to have a sight

Of thy fair face, exceeding niggard Fame!

Thine eyes, those seminaries of my grief!         

Have been more gladsome to my tirèd sprite,

Than naked savages receive relief

By comfort-bearing warmth of Phoebus’ light.

But when each part so glorious I had seen;

I trembled more than Autumn’s parchèd leaves!         

Mine eyes were greedy whirlpools sucking in

That heavenly Fair, which me of rest bereaves.

Then as thy Beauty thus hath conquered me,

Fair! Let relenting Pity conquer thee!

ANÓNIMO 

Traducción de un soneto de Philippe Desportes para William Barley's 

New Book of Tabliture_1596

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CONQUEST 

Those eyes that set my fancy on a fire,

Those crisped hairs that hold my heart in chains,

Those dainty hands which conquered my desire,

That wit which of my thoughts doth hold the reins:

Then Love, be judge, what heart may therewith stand

Such eyes, such head, such wit, and such a hand?

Those eyes for clearness do the stars surpass,

Those hairs obscure the brightness of the sun,

Those hands more white than ever ivory was,

That wit even to the skies hath glory won.

O eyes that pierce our hearts without remorse!

O hairs of right that wear a royal crown,

O hands that conquer more than Caesar's force!

O wit that turns huge kingdoms upside down!

ROBERT PARRY

(1540—1612)

Sinetes Passions Vppon his Fortunes_1597

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SONETTO 30

Sweete beautie in thy face doth still appeere,

Myne onely ioye and best beloued deere:

Myne onlye deere and best belou'd content,

Reuiue my heart and lyinge spirrits spent:

The onlye agent of my thoughtes delight,

Embrace my loue and doe not me despight:

Secure my feares and solace cares content,

With hopes repast to fauour mine entent;

The sier will out if fuell doe but want,

And loue in time will die if it be scant:

Let then desire yeilde fuell to your minde,

That loue be not blowen out with euerie winde.

So shall my heart like Etnas lasting flame,

Burne with your loue and ioye still in the same.

M.C. (ANÓNIMO)

Restituta_Volumen IV

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TO THE AUTHOR (LOK, ECCLESIASTES)

[1597]

For me to praise this worke, it were no praise; 

Whilst thou doest publish it, it praiseth thee: 

Things once call’d perfect, further praise denayes, 

Because all other words inferior bee. 

With happie sight thy Muse appeares to see, 

That could select a subject of such choyce, 

Which hath enforced many more then mee 

With silence for thy blist attempt, rejoyce. 

Thy former veine no vaine conceipt bewrayes 

By passions, patternes of a Christian fight; 

But for this worke yet highest honor stayes, 

And therefore henceforth feare no other's flight, 

Thy zeale, thy theame, thy gift, thy fame to staine, 

Which imitate they may, but not attaine.

WILLIAM ALABASTER

(1567—1640)

Divine Meditations_1597/98

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SONNET XXIII

Jesus is risen from the infernal mire:

But who art thou that say'st Jesus arose?

Such holy words are only fit for those

Whose souls with Christ above the heavens aspire.

But if thou hast not raisèd thy desire

From earth to heaven, but in the world dost close

Thy love which unto heaven thou shouldst dispose,

Say not that Christ is yet ascended higher,

But yet within thy heart he lieth dead,

And by the devil is impoisonèd.

Rejoice not then in vain of his ascent;

For as his glorious rise doth much augment

All good men's hopes, so unto those that tread

False paths, it is a dreadful argument.

SONNET XXXII

Beehould a cluster to it selfe a vine

Behould a vine extended in one cluster

Whose grapes doe swell with grace and heavnly luster

Clyming uppon a crosse with lovely twine

Sent downe to earth from Canaan divine

To styrr us up unto our warlike muster

To take that garden where this Cluster grew

Whose néctar sweete the Angells doth bedewe;

See how the purple bloode doth from it draine

With thornes, and whippes, and nailes, and speare diffus’d;

drinke, drinke apace, my Soule, that Soveraigne raine

by which heaven is into my spirit infusd.

O drinke to thirst, and thirst to drinke that treasuer,

Where the onely danger is to keepe a measuer. 

 

BARTHOLOMEW YONG O YOUNG

(1560—1612)

Diana of George of Montemayor, Translated out of Spanish into English by Bartholomew Yong of the Middle Temple, Gentleman_1598

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Near to a shepherd did a damsel sit

As leane as withered sticke by scorching flame:

Her body as full of eies as might be in it,

A toong she had, but could not mooue the same.

her winde she drew aboue, and eke beneath,

But from one part she neuer yet did change,

A wofull Shepherd came to kisse her breath,

Then made she plaints most sorrowfull and strange:

The more the Shepherd put his mouth vnto

Her mouth in stopping it, she cried amaine,

Opening her eies, and shutting them againe.

See now what this dumbe Shepherdesse could doe,

That when her mouth he did but touch or kisse,

He waxeth dumbe, but she still speaking is.

Fair shepherdess, what hast with grief to fill me

And how long dost thou purpose to destroy me,

When wilt thou make an end with woundes to noy me,

Not stretching foorth thy cruell hand to kill me?

Tell me the cause, why dost thou so much will me

To visit thee, and with such words dost ioy me?

That to my death I rather would imploy me,

Then by such present pangs and greefes to spill me.

Woe to my soule, since this doth cause thy sorrow,

That such a little fauour thou hast done me,

Little it is, in sooth, if it be peased

With all my teares, that neuer yet haue ceased

To fall, that to my death haue almost woon me:

They great, this small, those giue I, this I borrow.

The fearful bat that lurks in stony wall,

Flies here and there assured of her sight,

When that she sees the signs of darksome night

Approaching on, contented therewithal;

But when she spies the sunny beams so bright,

Her fault she doth acknowledge and recall.

So now of late to me it did befall:

For I did think there was no other light

Nor beauty than in her, who did invite

My senses first to love: but, to my thrall, 

When I beheld Diana so bedight

With beauties, and such grace Angelical,

Then by and by I knevv that heretofore

I plainly err’d: but never could do more.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(1564—1616)

Sonnets_1609

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SONNET CXXXV

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,

And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;

More than enough am I, that vex thee still,

To thy sweet will making addition thus.

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,

Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?

Shall will in others seem right gracious,

And in my will no fair acceptance shine?

The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,

And in abundance addeth to his store;

So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will

One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.

Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;

Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

JOSHUA SYLVESTER

(1563—1618)

Sonnets Upon the Late Miraculous Pace in France_1599

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SONNET III

Fair fruitfull Daughter of th’Ommipotent,

Great Umpire that doet either World sustain. 

Without whose help all would return again 

(Like hideous Chaos) to confusion bent.

O Mother of the living, second Nature 

Of th' Elements (Fire, Water, Earth, and Air).

O Grace (whereby men climb the heav'nly stair) 

Whence void, this world harbours no happy creature. 

Pillar of Lawes, Religious Pedestall, 

Hope of the godly, glory of th' immortall; 

Honour of Cities, Pearl of Kingdoms all; 

Thou Nurse of Vertues, Muses' chief supportall; 

Patron of Arts, of Good the speciall spring: 

All hail (dear Peace) which us all heale dost bring.

EDMUND BOLTON O BOULTON

(1575—1633)

Englands Helicon_1614

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A PALINODE 

[1600]

As withereth the primrose by the river,

As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains,

As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever,

As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains:

So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers

The rose, the shine, the bubble and the snow

Of praise, pomp, glory, joy –which short life gathers–

Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy.

The withered primrose by the mourning river,

The faded summer's sun from weeping fountains,

The light-blown bubble, vanishéd for ever,

The molten snow upon the naked mountains,

Are emblems that the treasures we up-lay

Soon wither, vanish, fade and melt away.

_____________________________

OBRAS CONSULTADAS:

THE WORKS OF HENRY HOWARD & SIR THOMAS WYATT, Volúmenes I y II, Editado por Geo. Fred. Nott, D.D. F.S.A. — 1816. 

JAMES CRANSTOUN, The Poems of Alexander Montgomerie, 1887.

SCOTTISH POETRY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY, Editado por George Eyre-Todd, 1892.

SIDNEY LEE, Elizabethan Sonnets, (Volúmenes I y II), 1904.

THOMAS SECCOMBE & J.W. ALLEN, The Age of Shakespeare (1579-1631), Volúmenes I y II, 1920.

J. WILLIAM HEBEL & HOYT H HUDSON, Poetry of English Renaissance, 1929.

TOTTEL’S MISCELLANY (1557-1587), Volúmenes I y II, Editado por Hyder Edward Rollins, 1929.

WANG BAOTONG, Sound O‘er the Realms of Gold—How Poetry Rings, 1998.