Nor any but yourself, O dearest dread,
Hath done this wrong; to wreak on worthless wight
Your high displeasure, through misdeeming bred:
That when your pleasure is to deem aright,
Ye may redress, and me restore to light.
Which sorry words, her mighty heart did mate
With mild regard, to see his rueful plight,
That her in-burning wrath she gan abate,
And him received again to former favour's state.
[Wedding of the Medway and the Thames.]
[This piece is a remarkable specimen of the allegorical man-
ner of the poet. Natural objects are here personified in an abun.
dance, and with a facility which almost bewilders the reader.]
It fortun'd then a solemn feast was there,
To all the sea-gods and their fruitful seed,
In honour of the spousals which then were
Betwixt the Medway and the Thames agreed.
Long had the Thames (as we in records read)
Before that day her wooed to his bed,
But the proud nymph would for no wordly meed,
Nor no entreaty, to his love be led,
Till now at last relenting, she to him was wed.
So both agreed that this, their bridal feast,
Should for the gods in Proteus' house be made,
To which they all repair'd, both most and least,
As well which in the mighty ocean trade
As that in rivers swim, or brooks do wade;
All which not if an hundred tongues to tell,
And hundred mouths, and voice of brass, I had.
And endless memory, that mote excell,
In order as they came could I recount them well.
Help, therefore, O thou sacred imp of Jove!
The nursling of dame memory, his dear,
To whom those rolls, laid up in heaven above,
And records of antiquity appear,
To which no wit of man may comen near;
Help me to tell the names of all those floods,
And all those nymphs, which then assembled were
To that great banquet of the watery gods,
And all their sundry kinds, and all their hid
First came great Neptune, with his threeforkt mace,
That rules the seas, and makes them rise or fall;
His dewy locks did drop with brine apace
Under his diadem imperial;
And by his side his queen with coronal,
Fair Amphitrite, most divinely fair,
Whose ivory shoulders weren cover'd all,
As with a robe, with her own silver hair,
And after him the famous rivers came
Which do the earth enrich and beautify;
The fertile Nile, which creatures now doth frame;
Long Rhodanus, whose course springs from the sky;
Fair Ister, flowing from the mountains high;
Divine Scamander, purpled yet with blood
Of Greeks and Trojans, which therein did die;
Pactolus, glistering with his golden flood,
And Tigris fierce, whose streams of none may be with-
stood.
Great Ganges, and immortal Euphrates;
Deep Indus, and Meander intricate;
Slow Peneus, and tempestuous Phasides;
Swift Rhine and Alpheus still immaculate;
Ooraxes, feared for great Cyrus' fate;
Tybris, renowned for the Roman's fame;
Rich Oranochy, though but knowen late;
And that huge river which doth bear his name
Of warlike Amazons, which do possess the same.
Then was there heard a most celestial sound
Of dainty music, which did next ensue
Before the spouse, that was Arion crown'd,
Who playing on his harp, unto him drew
The ears and hearts of all that godly crew:
That even yet the dolphin which him bore
Through the Egean seas from pirate's view,
Stood still by him, astonish'd at his lore,
And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar.
So went he playing on the watery plain;
Soon after whom the lovely bridegroom came,
The noble Thames, with all his goodly train;
But him before there went, as best became,
His ancient parents, namely th' ancient Thame;
But much more aged was his wife than he,
The Ouse, whom men do Isis rightly name;
Full weak, and crooked creature seemed she,
And almost blind through eld, that scarce her way
could see.
Therefore on either side she was sustain'd
Of two small grooms, which by their names were hight
The Churn and Charwell, two small streams which
Themselves her footing to direct aright,
[pain'd
Which failed oft through faint and feeble plight;
But Thame was stronger, and of better stay,
Yet seem'd full aged by his outward sight,
With head all hoary and his beard all gray,
Dewed with silver drops that trickled down alway:
And eke somewhat seemed to stoop afore
With bowed back, by reason of the load
And ancient heavy burden which he bore
Of that fair city, wherein make abode
So many learned imps, that shoot abroad,
And with their branches spread all Britany,
And deck'd with pearls which the Indian seas for her No less than do her elder sister's brood:
These marched far afore the other crew,
And all the way before them, as they went,
Triton his trumpet shrill before them blew,
For goodly triumph and great jollyment,
That made the rocks to roar as they were rent;
And after them the royal issue came,
Which of them sprung by lineal descent;
First the sea-gods, which to themselves do claim
Joy to you both, ye double nursery
Of arts, but Oxford ! thine doth Thame most glorify.
But he their son full fresh and jolly was,
All decked in a robe of watchet hue,
On which the waves, glittering like crystal glass,
So cunningly inwoven were, that few
Could weenen whether they were false or true;
And on his head like to a coronet
He wore, that seemed strange to common view,
The power to rule the billows, and the waves to In which were many towers and castles set,
Next came the aged ocean and his dame,
Old Tethys, th' oldest two of all the rest,
For all the rest of those two parents came,
Which afterward both sea and land possest.
Of all which Nereus, th' eldest and the best,
Did first proceed, than which none more upright,
Ne more sincere in word and deed profest,
Most void of guile, most free from foul despite,
Doing himself, and teaching others to do right.
That it encompass'd round as with a golden fret.
Like as the mother of the gods they say,
In her great iron chariot wonts to ride,
When to love's palace she doth take her way,
Old Cybele, array'd with pompous pride,
Wearing a diadem embattled wide
With hundred turrets, like a turribant ;
With such an one was Thamis beautified,
That was to weet the famous Troynovant,
In which her kingdom's throne is chiefly resiant.
And round about him many a pretty page
Attended duly, ready to obey;
All little rivers which owe vassalage
To him, as to their lord, and tribute pay;
The chalky Kennet, and the Thetis gray;
The moorish Cole, and the soft-sliding Breane;
The wanton Lee, that oft doth lose his way,
And the still Darent in whose waters clean,
Ten thousand fishes play, and deck his pleasant stream.
Then came his neighbour floods which nigh him dwell,
And water all the English soil throughout;
They all on him this day attended well,
And with meet service waited him about,
Ne none disdained low to him to lout;
No, not the stately Severn grudg'd at all,
Ne storming Humber, though he looked stout,
But both him honor'd as their principal,
And let their swelling waters low before him fall.
There was the speedy Tamar, which divides
The Cornish and the Devonish confines,
Through both whose borders swiftly down it glides,
And meeting Plim, to Plymouth thence declines;
And Dart, nigh chok'd with sands of tinny mines;
But Avon marched in more stately path,
Proud of his adamants with which he shines
And glisters wide, as als' of wondrous Bath,
And Bristow fair, which on his waves he builded hath.
Next there came Tyne, along whose stony bank
That Roman monarch built a brazen wall,
Which mote the feebled Britons strongly flank
Against the Picts, that swarmed over all,
Which yet thereof Gualsever they do call;
And Tweed, the limit betwixt Logris' land
And Albany; and Eden, though but small,
Yet often stain'd with blood of many a band
Of Scots and English both, that tyned on his strand.
These after came the stony shallow Lone,
That to old Loncaster his name doth lend,
And following Dee, which Britons long ygone,
Did call divine, that doth by Chester tend;
And Conway, which out of his stream doth send
Plenty of pearls to deck his dames withal;
And Lindus, that his pikes doth most commend,
Of which the ancient Lincoln men do call:
All these together marched toward Proteus' hall.
Then came the bride, the lovely Medua came,
Clad in a vesture of unknowen gear,
And uncouth fashion, yet her well became,
That seem'd like silver sprinkled here and there,
With glittering spangs that did like stars appear,
And wav'd upon like water chamelot,
To hide the metal, which yet everywhere
Bewray'd itself, to let men plainly wot,
It was no mortal work, that seem'd and yet was not.
Her goodly locks adown her back did flow
Unto her waist, with flowers bescattered,
The which ambrosial odours forth did throw
To all about, and all her shoulders spread,
As a new spring; and likewise on her head
A chapelet of sundry flowers she wore,
From under which the dewy humour shed
Did trickle down her hair, like to the hoar
Congealed little drops, which do the morn adore.
On her two pretty handmaids did attend,
One call'd the Theise, the other call'd the Crane,
Which on her waited, things amiss to mend,
And both behind upheld her spreading train,
Under the which her feet appeared plain,
Her silver feet, fair wash'd against this day:
And her before there paced pages twain,
Both clad in colours like, and like array
In the above extracts from the Faery Queen, we have, for the sake of perspicuity, modernised the spelling, without changing a word of the original. The following two highly poetical descriptions are given in the poet's own orthography :
He making speedy way through spersed ayre,
To Morpheus' house doth hastily repaire.
And through the world of waters wide and deepe,
Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe,
And low, where dawning day doth never peepe,
His dwelling is, there Tethys his wet bed
Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe,
In silver deaw, his ever drouping hed,
Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred.
Whose double gates he findeth locked fast,
The one fayre fram'd of burnisht yvory,
The other all with silver overcast ;
And wakeful dogges before them farre doe lye,
Watching to banish Care their enimy,
Who oft is wont to trouble gentle sleepe.
By them the sprite doth passe in quietly,
And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe
In drowsie fit he findes ; of nothing he takes keepe.
And more to lulle him in his slumber soft,
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,
And ever-drizling raine upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne.
No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes,
As still are wont t' annoy the walled towne,
Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lyes
Wrapt in eternal silence farre from enimyes.
[Description of Belphœbe.]
In her faire eyes two living lamps did flame,
Kindled above at th' heavenly Maker's light,
And darted fyrie beames out of the same,
So passing persant, and so wondrous bright,
That quite bereav'd the rash beholders sight:
In them the blinded god his lustfull fyre
To kindle oft assayd, but had no might;
For, with dredd majestie and awfull yre,
She broke his wanton darts, and quenched base desyre.
Her yvorie forhead, full of bountie brave,
Like a broad table did itselfe dispred,
For Love his loftie triumphes to engrave,
And write the battailes of his great godhed:
All good and honour might therein be red;
For there their dwelling was. And, when she spake,
Sweete wordes, like dropping honey, she did shed;
And 'twixt the perles and rubins softly brake
A silver sound, that heavenly musicke seemd to make.
Upon her eyelids many Graces sate,
Under the shadow of her even browes,
Working belgardes and amorous retrate;
And everie one her with a grace endowes,
And everie one with meekenesse to her bowes :
So glorious mirrhour of celestiall grace,
And soveraine moniment of mortall vowes,
How shall frayle pen descrive her heavenly face,
For feare, through want of skill, her beauty to disgrace!
So faire, and thousand thousand times more faire,
She seemd, when she presented was to sight;
And was yclad, for heat of scorching aire,
All in a silken Camus lily white,
Purfled upon with many a folded plight,
Which all above besprinckled was throughout
The Doun and eke the Frith, both which prepared her With golden aygulets.
And in her hand a sharpe bore-speare she held,
And at her backe a bow, and quiver gay
Stuft with steel-headed dartes, wherewith she queld
The salvage beastes in her victorious play,
Knit with a golden bauldricke which forelay
Athwart her snowy brest, and did divide
Her daintie paps; which, like young fruit in May,
Now little gan to swell, and being tide
Through her thin weed their places only signifide.
Her yellow lockes, crisped like golden wyre,
About her shoulders weren loosely shed,
And, when the winde emongst them did inspyre,
They waved like a penon wyde despred,
And low behinde her backe were scattered:
And, whether art it were or heedlesse hap,
As through the flouring forrest rash she fled,
In her rude heares sweet flowres themselves did lap,
And flourishing fresh leaves and blossomes did enwrap.
[Fable of the Oak and the Briar.]
There grew an aged tree on the green,
A goodly Oak sometime had it been,
With arms full strong and largely display'd,
But of their leaves they were disaray'd:
The body big and mightily pight,
Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height;
Whilom had been the king of the field,
And mochel mast to the husband did yield,
And with his nuts larded many swine,
But now the gray moss marred his rine,
His bared boughs were beaten with storms,
His top was bald, and wasted with worms,
His honour decay'd, his branches sere.
Hard by his side grew a bragging Briere,
Which proudly thrust into th' element,
And seemed to threat the firmament:
It was embellisht with blossoms fair,
And thereto aye wonted to repair
The shepherd's daughters to gather flowres,
To paint their garlands with his colowres,
And in his small bushes used to shroud,
The sweet nightingale singing so loud,
Which made this foolish Briere wex so bold,
That on a time he cast him to scold,
And sneb the good Oak, for he was old.
Why stands there (quoth he) thou brutish block?
Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock;
Seest how fresh my flowres been spread,
Died in lily white and crimson red,
With leaves engrained in lusty green,
Colours meet to cloath a maiden queen?
Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground,
And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round:
The mouldy moss, which thee accloyeth,
My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth :
Wherefore soon I rede thee hence remove,
Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove.
So spake this bold Briere with great disdain,
Little him answer'd the Oak again,
But yielded, with shame and grief adaw'd,
That of a weed he was over-craw'd.
It chanced after upon a day,
The husband-man's self to coine that way,
Of custom to surview his ground,
And his trees of state in compass round:
Him when the spiteful Briere had espyed,
Causeless complained, and loudly cryed
Unto his lord, stirring up stern strife:
O my liege Lord! the god of my life,
Please you ponder your suppliant's plaint,
Caused of wrong and cruel constraint,
Which I your poor vassal daily endure;
And but your goodness the same recure,
And like for desperate dole to die,
Through felonous force of mine enemy.
Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,
Him rested the good man on the lea,
And bade the Briere in his plaint proceed.
With painted words then gan this proud weed
(As most usen ambitious folk)
His colour'd crime with craft to cloke.
Ah, my Sovereign! lord of creatures all,
Thou placer of plants both humble and tall,
Was not I planted of thine own hand,
To be the primrose of all thy land,
With flow ring blossoms to furnish the prime,
And scarlet berries in sommer-time?
How falls it then that this faded Oak,
Whose body is sere, whose branches broke,
Whose naked arins stretch unto the fire,
Unto such tyranny doth aspire,
Hindring with his shade my lovely light,
And robbing me of the sweet sun's sight?
So beat his old boughs my tender side,
That oft the blood springeth from wounds wide,
Untimely my flowers forced to fall,
That been the honour of your coronal;
And oft he lets his canker-worms light
Upon my branches, to work me more spight;
And of his hoary locks down doth cast,
Wherewith my fresh flowrets been defast:
For this, and many more such outrage,
Craving your godlyhead to assuage
The rancorous rigour of his might;
Nought ask I but only to hold my right,
Submitting me to your good sufferance,
And praying to be guarded from grievance.
To this this Oak cast him to reply
Well as he couth; but his enemy
Had kindled such coals of displeasure,
That the good man nould stay his leisure,
But home him hasted with furious heat,
Encreasing his wrath with many a threat ;
His harmful hatchet he hent in hand,
(Alas! that it so ready should stand!)
And to the field alone he speedeth,
(Aye little help to harm there needeth)
Anger nould let him speak to the tree,
Enaunter his rage might cooled be,
But to the root bent his sturdy stroke,
And made many wounds in the waste Oak.
The axe's edge did oft turn again,
As half unwilling to cut the grain,
Seemed the senseless iron did fear,
Or to wrong holy eld did forbear;
For it had been an ancient tree,
Sacred with many a mystery,
And often crost with the priests' crew,
And often hallowed with holy-water dew;
But like fancies weren foolery,
And broughten this Oak to this misery;
For nought might they quitten him from decay,
For fiercely the good man at him did lay.
The block oft groaned under his blow,
And sighed to see his near overthrow.
In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,
Then down to the ground he fell forthwith.
His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,
Th' earth shrunk under him, and seem'd to shake;
There lieth the Oak pitied of none.
Now stands the Briere like a lord alone,
Puff'd up with pride and vain pleasance;
But all this glee had no continuance:
For eftsoons winter 'gan to approach,
The blustering Boreas did encroach,
And beat upon the solitary Briere,
For now no succour was seen him near.
Now 'gan he repent his pride too late,
For naked left and disconsolate,
The biting frost nipt his stalk dead,
The watry wet weighed down his head,
And heap'd snow burdned him so sore,
That now upright he can stand no more;
And being down is trod in the dirt
Of cattle, and brouzed, and sorely hurt.
Such was th' end of this ambitious Briere,
For scorning eld.'———
[From the Epithalamion.]
Wake now, my love, awake; for it is time;
The rosy morn long since left Tithon's bed,
All ready to her silver coach to climb;
And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head.
Hark! now the cheerful birds do chant their lays,
And carol of Love's praise.
The merry lark her matins sings aloft;
The thrush replies; the mavis descant plays;
The ouzel shrills; the ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this day's merriment.
Ah! my dear love, why do you sleep thus long,
When meeter were that you should now awake,
T' await the coming of your joyous make,
And hearken to the birds' love-learned song,
The dewy leaves among!
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,
That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.
My love is now awake out of her dream,
And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams
More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear.
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight,
Help quickly her to dight:
But first come, ye fair Hours, which were begot,
In Jove's sweet paradise, of Day and Night;
Which do the seasons of the year allot,
And all, that ever in this world
Do make and still repair;
And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen, The which do still adorn her beauties' pride, Help to adorn my beautifullest bride:
And, as ye her array, still throw between
Some graces to be seen;
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
Her modest eyes, abashed to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixed are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,
So far from being proud.
Nathless do ye still loud her praises sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.
Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did ye see
So fair a creature in your town before?
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,
Adorned with beauty's grace, and virtue's store;
Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright,
Her forehead ivory white,
Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded,
Her lips like cherries charming men to bite,
Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded.
Why stand ye still, ye virgins in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,
To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring?
But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively sp'rit,
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree,
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonished like to those which read
Medusa's mazeful head.
There dwells sweet Love, and constant Chastity,
Unspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood,
Regard of Honour, and mild Modesty ;
There Virtue reigns as queen in royal throne,
And giveth laws alone,
The which the base affections do obey,
And yield their services unto her will;
Ne thought of things uncomely ever may
Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures,
And unrevealed pleasures,
Then would ye wonder and her praises sing,
That all the woods would answer, and your echo ring.
Open the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring. And all the posts adorn as doth behove,
Now is my love all ready forth to come :
Let all the virgins therefore well await;
And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom,
Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight.
Set all your things in seemly good array,
Fit for so joyful day:
The joyfull'st day that ever sun did see.
Fair Sun! show forth thy favourable ray,
And let thy lifeful heat not fervent be,
For fear of burning her sunshiny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.
O fairest Phoebus! father of the Muse!
If ever I did honour thee aright,
Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight,
Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse,
But let this day, let this one day be mine;
Let all the rest be thine.
Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing,
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
For to receive this saint with honour due,
That cometh in to you.
With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She cometh in, before the Almighty's view:
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces:
Bring her up to the high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endless matrimony make;
And let the roaring organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throats,
The choristers the joyous anthem sing,
That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.
Behold, while she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,
That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
Lo! where she comes along with portly pace,
Like Phoebe, from her chamber of the east,
Arising forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.
So well it her beseems, that ye would ween
Some angel she had been.
Her long loose yellow locks, like golden wire,
Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,
Do like a golden mantle her attire ;
And being crowned with a garland green,
Seem like some maiden queen.
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain,
Like crimson dyed in grain;
That even the angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,
Forget their service and about her fly,
The more they on it stare.
Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair.
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governed with goodly modesty,
That suffers not a look to glance awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsound.
Why blush you, love, to give to me your hand,
The pledge of all our band?
Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluya sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.
A distinguished place among the secondary poetical lights of the reign of Elizabeth is due to ROBERT SOUTHWELL, who is also remarkable as a victim of the religious contentions of the period. He was born in 1560, at St Faiths, Norfolk, of Roman Catholic parents, who sent him, when very young, to be educated at the English college at Douay, in Flanders, and from thence to Rome, where, at sixteen years of age, he entered the society of the Jesuits. In 1584, he returned to his native country, as a missionary, notwithstanding a law which threatened all members of his profession found in England with death. For eight years he appears to have ministered secretly but zealously to the scattered adherents of his creed, without, as far as is known, doing anything to disturb the peace of society, when, in 1592, he was apprehended in a gentleman's house at Uxenden in Middlesex, and committed to a dungeon in the Tower, so noisome and filthy, that, when he was brought out for examination, his clothes were covered with vermin. Upon this his father, a man of good family, presented a petition to Queen Elizabeth, begging, that if his son had committed anything for which, by the laws, he had deserved death, he might suffer death; if not, as he was a gentleman, he hoped her majesty would be pleased to order him to be treated as a gentleman. Southwell was, after this, somewhat better lodged, but an imprisonment of three years, with ten inftictions of the rack, wore out his patience, and he intreated to be brought to trial. Cecil is said to have made the brutal remark, that if he was in so much haste to be hanged, he should quickly have his desire.' Being at this trial found guilty, upon his own confession, of being a Romish priest, he was condemned to death, and executed at Tyburn accordingly, with all the horrible circumstances dictated by the old treason laws of Eng: land. Throughout all these scenes, he behaved with a mild fortitude which nothing but a highly regulated mind and satisfied conscience could have prompted.
I often look upon a face
Most ugly, grisly, bare, and thin;
I often view the hollow place
Where eyes and nose had sometime been ;
I see the bones across that lie,
Yet little think that I must die.
I read the label underneath,
That telleth me whereto I must;
I see the sentence too, that saith,
'Remember, man, thou art but dust.'
But yet, alas! how seldom I
Do think, indeed, that I must die!
Continually at my bed's head
A hearse doth hang, which doth me tell
That I ere morning may be dead,
Though now I feel myself full well;
But yet, alas! for all this, I
Have little mind that I must die!
The gown which I am used to wear,
The knife wherewith I cut my meat;
And eke that old and ancient chair,
Which is my only usual seat;
All these do tell me I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.
My ancestors are turn'd to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away,
And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no; I know that I must die,
And yet my life amend not I.
If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart;
If rich and poor his beck obey;
If strong, if wise, if all do smart,
Then I to 'scape shall have no way:
Then grant me grace, O God! that I
My life may mend, since I must die.
The lopped tree in time may grow again,
The sorriest wight may find release of pain,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
Time goes by turns, and chances change by course,
The driest soil suck in some moistening shower:
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;
The life of Southwell, though short, was full of
grief. The prevailing tone of his poetry is therefore
that of a religious resignation to severe evils. His
two longest poems, St Peter's Complaint, and Mary
Magdalene's Funeral Tears, were, like many other
works of which the world has been proud, written
in prison. It is remarkable that, though composed
while suffering under persecution, no trace of angry
feeling against any human being or any human insti-The saddest birds a season find to sing,
tution, occurs in these poems. After experiencing
great popularity in their own time, insomuch that
eleven editions were printed between 1593 and 1600,
the poems of Southwell fell, like most of the other
productions of that age, into a long-enduring neglect.
Their merits having been again acknowledged in
our own day, a complete reprint of them appeared
in 1818, under the editorial care of Mr W. Joseph
Walter.
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb:
Her tides have equal times to come and go;
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web:
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,
Not endless night, yet not eternal day:
The Image of Death.
Before my face the picture hangs,
That daily should put me in mind
Of those cold names and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to find;
But yet, alas! full little I
Do think hereon, that I must die.
Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all,
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
That net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are cross'd;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
Unmingled joys here to no man befall;
Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.
She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil,
Pretending good in ill;
She offereth joy, but bringeth grief;
A kiss-where she doth kill.
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