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Every man has his sorrows
© Arthur Symons
Every man has his sorrows; yet each stillHides under a calm forehead his own will
A Ballad of François Villon, Prince of All Ballad-Makers
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,First of us all and sweetest singer born Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;When song new-born put off the old world's attireAnd felt its tune on her changed lips expire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that cameFresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears,And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers Till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears;Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire,When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fameSpurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears!Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears!What far delight has cooled the fierce desireThat like some ravenous bird was strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame,But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?
Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire,A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire; Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame
Atalanta in Calydon: A Tragedy (complete text)
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
Tous zontas eu dran. katthanon de pas anerGe kai skia. to meden eis ouden repei
What's the Good?
© Studdert Kennedy Geoffrey Anketell
Well, I've done my bit o' scrappin', And I've done in quite a lot;Nicked 'em neatly wiv my bayonet, So I needn't waste a shot
The Faerie Queene, Book III, Canto 6
© Edmund Spenser
THE THIRD BOOKE OF THE FAERIE QUEENEContayningTHE LEGENDE OF BRITOMARTISOR OF CHASTITIE
Eleventh Song
© Sir Philip Sidney
"Who is it that this dark nightUnderneath my window plaineth?"It is one who from thy sightBeing, ah, exil'd, disdainethEvery other vulgar light.
Astrophel and Stella: Eleuenth Song
© Sir Philip Sidney
Who is it that this darke night,Vnderneath my window playneth?It is one who from thy sight,Being (ah) exild, disdaynethEuery other vulgar light
Astrophel and Stella: 86
© Sir Philip Sidney
Alas, whence came this change of lookes? if IHaue chang'd desert, let mine owne conscience beA still felt plague, to selfe condemning me:Let wo gripe on my heart, shame loade mine eye,But if all faith, like spotlesse Ermine lySafe in my soule, which onely doth to thee(As his sole object of felicitie)With wings of Loue in aire of wonder flie
Astrophel and Stella: 28
© Sir Philip Sidney
You that with allegories curious frame,Of others children changelings vse to make,With me those paines for Gods sake do not takeI list not dig so deepe for brasen fame
A Pastoral Ballad, Absence
© William Shenstone
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, Whose flocks never carelessly roam;Should Corydon's happen to stray, Oh! call the poor wanderers home
Shakespeare's Sonnets: Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
© William Shakespeare
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?So far from variation or quick change?Why with the time do I not glance asideTo new-found methods, and to compounds strange?Why write I still all one, ever the same,And keep invention in a noted weed,That every word doth almost feal my name,Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?O know, sweet love, I always write of you,And you and love are still my argument:So all my best is dressing old words new,Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told
Shakespeare's Sonnets: When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
© William Shakespeare
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,I all alone beweep my out-cast stateAnd trouble deaf heav'n with my bootless cries,And look upon my self and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess't,Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,Haply I think on thee, and then my state(Like to the lark at break of day arising)From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate, For thy sweet love rememb'red such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings
Shakespeare's Sonnets: When I consider every thing that grows
© William Shakespeare
When I consider every thing that growsHolds in perfection but a little moment,That this huge stage presenteth nought but showsWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;When I perceive that men as plants increase,Cheered and check't even by the self-same sky,Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,And wear their brave state out of memory
