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Witness those rings and rounddelayes
Of theirs, which yet remaine; Were footed in queene Maries dayes
On many a grassy playne. But since of late Elizabeth
And later James came in; They never danc'd on any heath,
As when the time hath bin.
To William Churne of Staffordshire
Give laud and praises due,
With tales both old and true:
And pray yee for noddle:
Were lost, if it were addle.
By which wee note the fairies
Were of the old profession: Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession. But now, alas ! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas, Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.
To his Son, Vincent Corbet.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure; And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punished sure:
To pinch such blacke and blue :
Such justices as you!
What I shall leave thee none can tell,
Now they have left our quarters;
A Register they have,
A man both wise and grave.
By one that I could name
To William for the same.
Dieser zu seiner Zeit gefeierteste Nachahmer Spenser's, ward 1584 geboren, zu Eton und Cambridge wissenschaftlich gebildet und trat dann in den geistlichen Stand. 1621 erhielt er ein geistliches Amt zu Hilgay in Norfolk, das er neun und zwanzig Jahre hindurch bekleidete und in dem er wahrscheinlich 1650 starb. Seine Gedichte, the Purple Island, Piscatory Eglogues und Miscellaneous poems enthaltend, erschienen zuerst gesammelt 1633 und sind seitdem öfter wieder aufgelegt worden; sie finden sich auch im 4. Bande von Anderson's British Poets. Unter ihnen ist das beschreibende Gedicht die Purpurinsel, das eigenthümlichste; es soll nämlich das ganze Leben umfassen und ist eine poetische Anthropologie; zuerst schildert nämlich der Dichter bald wirk
lich, bald allegorisch den Körper des Menschen, dann die Seele bis in das Kleinste. Trotz der Geschmacklosigkeit der Idee und der Ausführung der ersten Gesänge namentlich, finden sich doch viele sehr schöne und erhabene Stellen in diesem Werke, so dass man lebhaft die Verinung eines so begabten Dichters beklagen muss, der so reiche Phantasie, einen solchen Schwung des Geistes und eine so energische Ausdrucksweise besitzt; glänzende Eigenschaften, die sich auch in seinen übrigen Gedichten offenbaren.
The Shepherd's Home. The world's great Light his lowly state hath (From the Purple-Island.)
And left his Heav'n to be a shepherd base: Thrice, oh, thrice happie shepherd's life and state Thousand sweet songs he to his pipe addrest: When courts are happinesse, unhappie pawns!
Swift rivers stood, beasts, trees, stones, ranne His cottage low, and safely humble gate,
apace, Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns, and
And serpents flew, to heare his softest fawns:
strains: No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep: He fed his flock where rolling Jordan reignes;
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep; There took our rags, gave us his robes, and bore Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.
our pains. No Serian worms he knows, that with their threed
Draw out their silken lives:— nor silken pride: Fond man, that looks on Earth for happinesse, His lambes' warm fleece well fits his little need,
And here long seeks what here is never found! Not in that proud Sidonian tincture di’d:
For all our good we hold from Heav'n by lease, No emptie hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
With many forfeits and conditions bound; No begging wants his middle fortune bite:
Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due: But sweet content exiles both miserie and spite. Tho' now but writ, and seal'd, and giv'n
anew, Instead of music and base flattering tongues,
Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. Which wait to first-salute my lord's uprise; The cheerfull lark wakes him with early songs, Why should'st thou here look for perpetuall good, And birds' sweet whistling notes unlock his
At ev'ry losse against Heay'ns face repining? eyes.
Do but behold where glorious cities stood, In countrey playes is all the strife he uses;
With gilded tops and silver turrets shining; Or sing, or dance, unto the rurall Muses;
There now the hart, fearlesse of greyhound, And but in music's sports, all difference refuses.
And loving pelican in safety breeds; His certain life, that never can deceive him,
There shrieking satyres fill the people's emptie Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content:
steads. The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him With coolest shades, till noon-tide's rage is Where is th' Assyrian lion's golden hide,
That all the east once graspt in lordly paw? His life is neither tost in boist’rous seas
Where that great Persian beare, whose swelling Of troublous world, nor lost in slothfull ease;
pride Pleas'd and full blest he lives, when he his God The lion's self tore out with ravenous jaw?
Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard,
Thro' all the world with nimble pineons His bed of wool yeelds safe and quiet sleeps,
far'd, While by his side his faithfull spouse hath
And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingplace:
domes shar'd? His little sonne into his bosome creeps, The lively picture of his father's face: Hardly the place of such antiquitie, Never his humble house or state torment Or note of these great monarcbies we finde:
Onely a fading verball memorie,
But when this second life and glory fades, And when he dies, green turfs, with grassie tombe, And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades,
content him. A second fall succeeds, and double death invades.
That monstrous beast, which, nurst in Tiber's | And that black vulture, which with deathfull wing
Oreshadows half the Earth, whose dismall sight Did all the world with hideous shape affray; Frighted the Muses from their native spring, That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping denne, Already stoops, and flagges with weary flight: And trode down all the rest to dust and clay: Who then shall look for happiness beneath? His batt'ring horns pull'd out by civil Where each new day proclaims chance, hands,
change, and death, And iron teeth, lie scatter'd on the sands; And life itsell's as flit as is the aire we breathe. Backt, bridled by a monk, with sev’n heads
Er war des Vorigen Bruder; Beide dürfen nicht mit dem dramatischen Dichter John Fletcher verwechselt werden. Der hier Genannte ward einige Jahre nach seinem Bruder geboren, studirte ebenfalls Theologie, erhielt eine Pfründe zu Alderton in Suffolk und starb daselbst um 1623. Ausser zwei Elegieen hinterliess er ein grösseres Gedicht, episch-descriptiver Art, das zuerst 1610 in Cambridge erschien und seitdem nur selten wieder aufgelegt worden ist. Es findet sich auch in Anderson's British Poets Bd. IV. wieder abgedruckt, führt den Titel Christ's Victory and Triumph, und besteht aus vier Gesängen, von denen der erste sich auf die Menschwerdung Christi, der zweite auf dessen Versuchung, der dritte auf die Kreuzigung und der vierte auf die Auferstehung bezieht; doch hat der Dichter so viel Profanes, namentlich aus der klassischen Mythologie eingemischt, dass das Ganze sehr buntscheckig geworden ist und den beabsichtigten Eindruck natürlich verfehlt. Trotz dem sind aber sehr schöne Stellen darin, die des Verfassers poetischen Beruf lebendig beurkunden, wie z. B. die hier mitgetheilten, in welchen der Erlöser geschildert wird, wie er in der Wildniss weilt, dann einen alten Einsiedler begleitet und nun vergeblich auf verschiedene Weise vom Satan versucht wird.
From Christ's Triumph on Earth.
And all the waie he went, he ever blest (Christ's Victory and Triumph C. II.)
With benedicities, and prayers store, Twice had Diana bent her golden bowe,
But the bud ground was blessed ne'r the more, And shot from Heav'n her silver shafts, to rouse And all his head with snowe of age was waxen
A good old hermit he might seeme to be,
Since to his beads he had himselfe betaken, But fruit thear none did growe, nor rivers none Whear all his former sinnes he might awaken,
And them might wash away with dropping
brine, At length an aged syre farre off he sawe
And almes, and fasts, and churche's discipline: Come slowely footing, every step he guest
And dead, might rest his bones under the holy One of his feete he from the grave did drawe.
shrine. Three legges he had, the woodden was the best,
But when he neerer came, he lowted lowe The garden like a ladie faire was cut,
That to this Sainte a thousand soules convey The flow'rs-de-luce, and the round sparks of
dew, What caren they for beasts, or for the wearie That hung upon their azure leaves, did shew
Upon a hillie banke her head shee cast,
White and red roses for her face wear plac't, Ere long they came nere to a balefull bowre,
And for her tresses marigolds wear spilt: Much like the mouth of that infernall cave, Them broadly shee displaied, like flaming guilt, That gaping stood all commers to devoure, Till in the ocean the glad day wear drown'd: Dark, dolefull, dreary, like a greedy grave, Then up againe her yellow locks she wound, That still for carrion carkasses doth crave.
And with greene fillets in their prettie culls them The ground no hearbs, but venomous, did beare,
bound. Nor ragged trees did leave; but every whear Dead bones and skulls wear cast, and bodies What should I here depeint her lillie hand,
hanged wear. Her veines of violets, her ermine brest,
Which there in orient colours living stand: Upon the roofe the bird of sorrowe sat,
Or how her gowne with silken leaves is drest, Elonging joyfull day with her sad note,
Or how her watchman, arm'd with boughie crest, And through the shady aire the fluttering bat
A wall of prim hid in his bushes bears, Did wave her leather sayles, and blindely flote
Shaking at every winde their leavie spears While with her wings the fatal screech owle
While she supinely sleeps ne to be waked fears?
smote Th' unblessed house: thear on a craggy stone Over the hedge depends the graping elme, Celeno hung, and made his direfull mone,
Whose greener head, empurpuled in wine, And all about the murdered ghosts did shreek Seemed to wonder at his bloodie helme,
And halfe suspect the bunches of the vine,
Least they, perhaps, his wit should undermine, Like cloudie moonshine in some shadowie grove, For well he knewe such fruit he never bore: Such was the light in which Despaire did dwell;
But her weake armes embraced him the more,
Sunk in his skull, his staring eyes did glowe, Under the shadowe of these drunken elmes
did showe (When her some flood of fancie overwhelms, Like cockatrice's eyes, that sparks of poison And one of all her favourites she chuses)
To bathe herselfe, whom she in lust abuses,
And from his wanton body sucks his soule, His clothes wear ragged clouts, with thornes Which, drown'din pleasure in that shally bowle,
pin'd fast; And swimming in delight, doth amorously rowle. And as he musing lay, to stonie fright A thousand wilde chimeras would him cast: The font of silver was, and so his showrs As when a fearefull dreame in midst of night,
In silver fell, onely the gilded bowles Skips to the braine, and phansies to the sight
(Like to a fornace, that the min'rall powres) Some winged furie, strait the hasty foot,
Seemed to have moul't it in their shining holes: Eger to flie, cannot plucke up his root:
And on the water, like to burning coles, The voyce dies in the tongue, and mouth gapes
On liquid silver leaves of roses lay: without boot.
But when Panglorie here did list to play, Rose-water then it ranne, and milke it rain'd,
The roofe thicke cloudes did paint, from which | High over all, Panglorie’s blazing throne,
three boyes In her bright turret, all of christall wrought, Three gaping mermaides with their eawrs did Like Phoebus' lampe, in midst of Heaven, shone:
Whose starry top, with pride infernall fraught, Whose brests let fall the streame, with sleepie Selfe-arching columns to uphold wear taught:
In which her image still reflected was To lions mouths, from whence it leapt with speede, By the smooth crystall, that, most like her And in the rosie laver seem'd to bleed;
glasse, The naked boyes unto the water's fall, In beauty and in frailtie did all others passe.
Their stonie nightingales had taught to call,
And, for a crowne of gold, her haire she wore ; And all about, embayed in soft sleepe,
Onely a garland of rose-buds did play
She full of emptinesse had bladdered,
And all the world therein depictured: And turn'd to beasts; so fabled Homer old, Whose colours, like the rainebowe, ever vanished.
That Circe with her potion, charm'd in gold, Us'd manly soules in beastly bodies to immould. Such wat'ry orbicles young boyes doe blowe
Out from their sopy shells, and much admire Through this false Eden, to his leman's bowre, with easie breath till it be waved higher:
The swimming world, which tenderly they rowe (Whome thousand soules devoutly idolize)
But if they chaunce but roughly once aspire, Our first destroyer led our Saviour;
The painted bubble instantly doth fall. Thear in the lower roome, in solemne wise,
Here when she came, she 'gan for musique call, They daunc'd a round, and powr'd their sacrifice
And sung this wooing song, to welcome him To plumpe Lyaeus, and among the rest,
withall: The jolly priest, in yvie garlands drest, Chaunted wild orgialls, in honour of the feast.
"Love is the blossome where thear blowes
Every thing that lives or growes : Others within their arbours swilling sat,
Love doth make the Heav'ns to move, (For all the roome about was arboured)
And the Sun doth burne in love:
And makes the yvie climbe the oke;
Under whose shadowes lions wilde,
He burnes the fishes in the seas; Flaggons of wine, to set on fire that spueing rout. Not all the skill his wounds can stench,
Not all the sea his fire can quench:
Love did make the bloody spear
While in his leaves thear shrouded lay And sieke to drinke themselves with drinking Sweete birds, for love that sing and play:
And of all love's joyfull flame, Some vomiting, all drunken with delight.
I the bud and blossome am. Hence to a loft, carv'd all in yvorie white,
Onely bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooeing shall thy winning be.
"See, see the flowers that belowe,