Baron Brooke Fulke Greville

Silence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage, Staled are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age; Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Enraged I write I know not what; dead, quick, I know not how. Hard-hearted minds relent and rigor's tears abound, And envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault was found. Knowledge her light hath lost, valor hath slain her knight, Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight. Place, pensive, wails his fall whose presence was her pride; Time crieth out, My ebb is come; his life was my spring tide. Fame mourns in that she lost the ground of her reports; Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts. He was (woe worth that word!) to each well-thinking mind A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined; Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit. He, only like himself, was second unto none, Whose death (though life) we rue, and wrong, and all in vain do moan; Their loss, not him, wail they that fill the world with cries, Death slew not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies. Now sink of sorrow I who live—the more the wrong! Who wishing death, whom death denies, whose thread is all too long; Who tied to wretched life, who looks for no relief, Must spend my ever dying days in never ending grief. Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking dreams, Farewell, sometimes enjoyëd joy, eclipsëd are thy beams. Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts which quietness brings forth, And farewell, friendship's sacred league, uniting minds of worth. And farewell, merry heart, the gift of guiltless minds, And all sports which for life's restore variety assigns; Let all that sweet is, void; in me no mirth may dwell: Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life's content, farewell! Now rhyme, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endless grief, which deads my life, yet knows not how to kill, Go, seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find Salute the stones that keep the limbs that held so good a mind.

from Mustapha O wearisome condition of humanity! Born under one law, to another bound; Vainly begot and yet forbidden vanity; Created sick, commanded to be sound. What meaneth nature by these diverse laws? Passion and reason, self-division cause. Is it the mark or majesty of power To make offenses that it may forgive? Nature herself doth her own self deflower To hate those errors she herself doth give. For how should man think that he may not do, If nature did not fail and punish, too? Tyrant to others, to herself unjust, Only commands things difficult and hard, Forbids us all things which it knows is lust, Makes easy pains, unpossible reward. If nature did not take delight in blood, She would have made more easy ways to good. We that are bound by vows and by promotion, With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites, To teach belief in good and still devotion, To preach of heaven’s wonders and delights; Yet when each of us in his own heart looks He finds the God there, far unlike his books.

You that seek what life is in death, Now find it air that once was breath. New names unknown, old names gone: Till time end bodies, but souls none. Reader! then make time, while you be, But steps to your eternity.

You little stars that live in skies And glory in Apollo’s glory, In whose aspècts conjoinèd lies The heaven’s will and nature’s story, Joy to be likened to those eyes, Which eyes make all eyes glad or sorry; For when you force thoughts from above, These overrule your force by love. And thou, O Love, which in these eyes Hast married Reason with Affection, And made them saints of Beauty’s skies, Where joys are shadows of perfection, Lend me thy wings that I may rise Up, not by worth, but thy election; For I have vowed in strangest fashion To love and never seek compassion.

The nurse-life wheat within his green husk growing, Flatters our hope, and tickles our desire, Nature’s true riches in sweet beauties showing, Which sets all hearts, with labor’s love, on fire. No less fair is the wheat when golden ear Shows unto hope the joys of near enjoying; Fair and sweet is the bud, more sweet and fair the rose, which proves that time is not destroying. Caelica, your youth, the morning of delight, Enamel’d o’er with beauties white and red, All sense and thoughts did to belief invite, That love and glory there are brought to bed; And your ripe year’s love-noon; he goes no higher, Turns all the spirits of man into desire.

I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head, I, that ware posies of her own hand-making, I, that mine own name in the chimneys read By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking: Must I look on, in hope time coming may With change bring back my turn again to play? I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flowers, Which I to wear about mine arm was bound, That each of us might know that all was ours: Must I now lead an idle life in wishes, And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes? I, that did wear the ring her mother left, I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed, I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, I, who did make her blush when I was named: Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked? I, that, when drowsy Argus fell asleep, Like jealousy o’erwatched with desire, Was even warned modesty to keep, While her breath, speaking, kindled Nature’s fire: Must I look on a-cold, while others warm them? Do Vulcan’s brothers in such fine nets arm them? Was it for this that I might Myra see Washing the water with her beauties white? Yet would she never write her love to me. Thinks wit of change, while thoughts are in delight? Mad girls must safely love as they may leave; No man can print a kiss: lines may deceive.