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A strife is grown between Virtue and Love, While each pretends that Stella must be his: Her eyes, her lips, her all, saith Love, do this, Since they do wear his badge, most firmly prove. But Virtue thus that title doth disprove, That Stella (O dear name) that Stella is That virtuous soul, sure heir of heav’nly bliss; Not this fair outside, which our hearts doth move. And therefore, though her beauty and her grace Be Love’s indeed, in Stella’s self he may By no pretense claim any manner place. Well, Love, since this demur our suit doth stay, Let Virtue have that Stella's self; yet thus, Let Virtue but that body grant to us.

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations O Grammar rules, O now your virtues show; So children still read read To discern and discover you with awful awful Archaic term for “awe-filled”. eyes, As my young Dove may in your precepts wise Her grant to me, by her own virtue know. For late with heart most high, with eyes most low, I crav’d the thing which ever she denies: She lightning Love lightning Love That is, lightening Love , displaying Venus’ skies Venus’ skies Venus as both the planet (evening star) and the goddess of Love , Least once should not be heard, twice said, No, No. Sing Sing … sing This line is an example of epanalepsis, the poetic technique of beginning and ending the line with the same word. then my Muse, now Io P æ an Io P æ an Homer began his hymn to Apollo with these words, which serve as a Latinized version of the phrase “Sing Muse...” sing, Heav’ns envy not at my high triumphing: But Grammar’s force with sweet success confirm, For Grammar says (O this dear Stella weigh,) For Grammar says (to Grammar who says nay) That in one speech two Negatives affirm.

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try; Oh, give my passions leave to run their race; Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; Let me no steps but of lost labour trace; Let all the earth with scorn recount my case, But do not will me from my love to fly. I do not envy Aristotle's wit, Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; Nor aught do care though some above me sit; Nor hope nor wish another course to frame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart: Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art.

When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes, In colour black why wrapt she beams so bright? Would she in beamy black, like painter wise, Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light? Or did she else that sober hue devise, In object best to knit and strength our sight; Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise, They, sunlike, should more dazzle than delight? Or would she her miraculous power show, That, whereas black seems beauty's contrary, She even in black doth make all beauties flow? Both so, and thus, she, minding Love should be Plac'd ever there, gave him this mourning weed To honour all their deaths who for her bleed.

Who will in fairest book of nature know How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be, Let him but learn of love to read in thee, Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show. There shall he find all vices' overthrow, Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly; That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so. And, not content to be perfection's heir Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move, Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair. So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love, As fast thy virtue bends that love to good: But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!"

Desire, though thou my old companion art, And oft so clings to my pure Love that I One from the other scarcely can descry, While each doth blow the fire of my heart, Now from thy fellowship I needs must part; Venus is taught with Dian’s wings to fly; I must no more in thy sweet passions lie; Virtue’s gold now must head my Cupid’s dart. Service and honor, wonder with delight, Fear to offend, will worthy to appear, Care shining in mine eyes, faith in my sprite: These things are let me by my only dear; But thou, Desire, because thou wouldst have all, Now banished art. But yet alas how shall?

Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet More oft than to a chamber melody. Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet: My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed; By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot, Nor blam'd for blood, nor sham'd for sinful deed; And that you know I envy you no lot Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,i Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss.

Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee; Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my history; If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame A nest for my young praise in laurel tree: In truth I sweare, I wish not there should be Graved in mine epitaph a Poet’s name: Nay if I would, could I just title make, That any laud to me thereof should grow, Without my plumes from others’ wings I take. For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, Since all my words thy beauty doth endite, And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write.

Be your words made, good sir, of Indian ware, That you allow me them by so small rate? Or do you cutted Spartans imitate? Or do you mean my tender ears to spare, That to my questions you so total are? When I demand of Phoenix Stella's state, You say, forsooth, you left her well of late: O God, think you that satisfies my care? I would know whether she did sit or walk; How cloth'd, how waited on; sigh'd she, or smil'd; Whereof, with whom, how often did she talk; With what pastime time's journey she beguiled; If her lips deign'd to sweeten my poor name. Say all; and all well said, still say the same.

For Marina You say the old masters never got it wrong, But when Goya painted the death of the imagination It was a lost dog against a usurious yellow sky And the dog, a hapless creature who had drawn itself Ten miles on two legs, stared in amazement To see the man who once fed him from his plate Reduced to this. So I felt this week, the vile soil and everything upon it— The beggar guest kicked from the table Before his own dog, and even the honest unpicking Of art performed nightly and in seclusion. Like any Penelope my armor is resignation Although I thought I would lift the bow myself And draw. By the morning he is gone And what to make of this? The prostitutes hang from a beam like mice The suitors are piled unburied in the yard. And some say that it is now much better And others, that it is worse. So order was restored I stared in amazement • Perhaps Akhmatova was right When she wrote who knows what shit What tip, what pile of waste Brings forth the tender verse Like hogweed, like the fat hen under the fence Like the unbearable present tense Who knows what ill, what strife What crude shack of a life And how it twists sweetly about the broken sill: Pressingness, another word for honeysuckle But housewives? Has poetry Ever deepened in the pail Was it ever found in the sink, under the table Did it rise in the oven, quietly able To outhowl the hoover? Does it press more than the children’s supper The sudden sleepless wail? Did it ever? It lives. It takes seed Like the most unforgiving weed Grows wilder as the child grows older And spits on dreams, did I say How it thrives in the ashen family nest Or how iambs are measured best Where it hurts: With the heel of an iron On the reluctant breast Of a shirt? • MICHAEL BLANN There was a hush, then Michael Blann Stepped out onto the stage. Michael Blann, with his pipe and his jukebox head Oh, he’s your man. He has a song for all weathers, a pipe And a voice, and he sings and he roams He sings to the wind and a dog of how The trees are all bare and Jack’s come home. He’s a thin voice, like a spider thread On days when the sun is late and fine Live and let live, sings Michael Blann The wind yields not, but the hills is mine. He’s no call for fate passing over His sheep are all angels, the stars are his Lords He’ll play any part the clouds should fancy To humble tunes and hand-me-down words The acts are written in briar strands And the Pharisees are leaves in the air I likes a drop pipes Michael Blann Sing follow hark forward the innocent hare. He wore to his end a clutch of sheep’s wool To show the gods that Michael Blann Went alone, alone for most of his years But crossed the hills a singing man.