God poems
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The Triumph of Love
© Govinda Krishna Chettur
Dearest, and yet more dear than I can tell In these poor halting rhymes, when, word by word, You spell the passion that your beauty stirredSwiftly to flame, and holds me as a spell,You will not think he writeth "ill" or "well", Nor question make of the fond truths averred, But Love, of that, by Love's self charactered, A perfect understanding shall impel
The Wife of Bath's Prologue and Tale in the Hengwrt Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales
© Geoffrey Chaucer
{{Folio 58r}}¶Here bigynneth the prologe of the taleof the Wyf of BatheEXperience / thogh noon AuctoriteeWere in this world / is right ynogh for meTo speke of wo / that is in mariageffor lordynges / sith
þt
I twelf yeer was of ageThonked be god / that is eterne on lyueHou{s}bondes atte chirche dore / I haue had fyueIf I so ofte / myghte han wedded beAnd alle were worthy men / in hir degreeBut me was told certeyn / noght longe agon isThat sith
þt
The Summoner's Prologue and Tale in the Hengwrt Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales
© Geoffrey Chaucer
{{Folio 78v}}¶The Prologe of the Somnours taleThis Somnour in his Stiropes / hye he {s}toodVp on this frere / his herte was {s}o woodThat lyk an A{s}pen lief / he quook for Ire¶Lordynges quod he / but o thyng I de{s}ireI yow bi{s}eke / that of youre curtei{s}yeSyn ye had herd / this fal{s}e frere lyeAs suffreth me / I may my tale telleThis frere bo{s}teth / that he knoweth helleAnd god it woot/ that it is litel wonderffreres and feendes / been but lyte a {s}onder{{Folio 79r}}ffor pardee / ye han ofte tyme herd telleHow that a frere / rauy{ss}hed was to helleIn Spirit ones / by avi{s}iounAnd as an Aungel / ladde hym vp and downTo shewen hym / the peynes
þt
ther wereIn al the place / say he nat a frereOf oother folk / he say ynowe in woVn to this Aungel / spak the frere tho¶Now Sire quod he / han freres swich a
gra
The Shipman's Tale in the Hengwrt Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales
© Geoffrey Chaucer
{{Folio 204r}}¶Here bigynneth the Shipmannes tale A Marchant whilom / dwelled at Seint Denys That riche was / for which men helde hym wys A wyf he hadde / of excellent beautee And compaignable / and reuelous was she Which is a thyng/ that cau{s}eth moore di{s}pence Than worth / is al the cheere and reuerence That men hem doon / at fe{s}tes and at daunces Swiche salutacions / and contenances Pa{ss}en / as dooth a shadwe vp on the wal But wo is hym / that payen moot for al The sely hou{s}bonde / algate he moot paye He moot vs clothe / and he moot vs arraye Al for his owene wor{s}hip / richely In which array / we dauncen iolily And if
þt
he noght may /
per
The Reeve's Prologue and Tale from the Hengwrt Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales
© Geoffrey Chaucer
¶The
pro
loge / of the Reues tale Whan folk hadde laughen / at this nyce cas Of Ab{s}olon / and hende Nicholas Di
uer
The Pardoner's Introduction, Prologue, and Tale in the Hengwrt Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales
© Geoffrey Chaucer
{{Folio 195r}}¶The myry talkyng/ of the hoo{s}t/ to the Phi{s}cienOure hoo{s}t gan to swere / as he were woodHarrow quod he / by nayles and by bloodThis was a fals cherl / and a fals Iu{s}ti{s}eAs shameful deeth / as herte may deuy{s}eCome to thi{s}e Iuges / and hir aduocatzAlgate this sely mayde / is slayn allasAllas / to deere boghte she beauteeWherfore I seye alday /
þt
men may {s}eThat yiftes of ffortune / and of natureBeen cau{s}e of deeth / to many a creatureOf bothe yiftes /
þt
The Miller's Prologue and Tale from the Hengwrt Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales
© Geoffrey Chaucer
{{Folio 41r}}¶The prologe of the Milleres taleWHan that the knyght/ hadde thus his tale ytooldIn al the compaignie / nas ther yong ne ooldThat he ne seyde / it was a noble StorieAnd worthy / for to drawen to memorieAnd namely / the gentils euerichon¶Oure hoo{s}t lough / and swoor / {s}o moot I gonThis gooth aright/ vnbokeled is the maleLat se now / who shal telle another taleffor trewely / the game is wel bigonneNow telleth ye sire Monk / if
þt
ye konneSom what / to quite with the knyghtes tale¶The Millere / that for dronken was a paleSo that vnnethe / vp on his hors he satHe nolde aualen / neither hood ne hatNe abiden no man / for his curtei{s}yeBut in Pilates voys / he gan to cryeAnd swoor by armes / and by blood and bonesI kan a noble tale / for the nonesWith which / I wol now quite the knyghtes tale¶Oure hoo{s}t saugh /
þt
The General Prologue from the Hengwrt Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales
© Geoffrey Chaucer
{{Folio 2r}}Here bygynneth the Book{/} of the tales of Can
ter
buryWhan that Aueryll
with
The Friar's Prologue and Tale in the Hengwrt Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales
© Geoffrey Chaucer
{{Folio 73v}}¶The prologe of the ffreres tale This worthy lymytour / this noble frere He made alwey / a manere louryng cheere Vp on the Somnour / but for hone{s}tee No vileyns word / as yet to hym spak he But atte la{s}te / he seyde vn to the wyf ¶ Dame quod he god yeue yow right good lyf Ye han heer touched / al {s}o mote I thee In scole matere / greet difficultee Ye han seyd muche thyng/ right wel I seye But dame / here as we ryden by the weye Vs nedeth nat/ to speken / but of game And lete Auctoritees / on goddes name To prechyng/ and to scole of clergye But/ if it like / to this compaignye I wol yow / of a Somnour telle a game Pardee / ye may wel knowe by the name That of a Somn
our
/ may no good be {s}ayd I praye / that noon of yow / be ypayd A somnour / is a rennere vp and doun With mandementz / for fornicacioun And is ybet/ at euery townes ende ¶ Oure hoo{s}t tho spak / a sire ye sholde be hende{{Folio 74r}} And curteys / as a man of youre e{s}taat/ In compaignye / we wol no debaat/ Telleth youre tale / and lat the Somn
our
An Elegy upon the Death of the Dean of St. Paul's, Dr. John Donne
© Thomas Carew
Can we not force from widow'd poetry,Now thou art dead (great Donne) one elegyTo crown thy hearse? Why yet dare we not trust,Though with unkneaded dough-bak'd prose, thy dust,Such as th' unscissor'd churchman from the flowerOf fading rhetoric, short-liv'd as his hour,Dry as the sand that measures it, should layUpon thy ashes, on the funeral day?Have we no voice, no tune? Didst thou dispenseThrough all our language, both the words and sense?'Tis a sad truth
Risus Dei
© Brown Thomas Edward
Methinks in Him there dwells alwayA sea of laughter very deep,Where the leviathans leap,And little children play,Their white feet twinkling on its crisped edge;But in the outer bayThe strong man drives the wedgeOf polished limbs,And swims
XLII
© Boker George Henry
If she should give me all I ask of her,The virgin treasures of her modest love;If lip to lip in eager frenzy clove,And limb with limb should palpitate and stirIn that wild struggle whose delights conferA rapture which the jealous gods aboveEnvy and long for as they coldly moveThrough votive fumes of spice and burning myrrh;Yea, were her beauty thus securely mine,Forever waiting at my beck and call,I lord and master of her all in all;Yet at that weakness I would fret and pineWhich makes exhausted nature trip and fallJust at the point where it becomes divine
