UCLA English 10A Final Poem Recognition

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Sir Thomas Wyatt "The Longë Love that in my Thought Doth Harbour", iambic pentameter, Petrachan, talks of unrequited love through an extended metaphor with a ship

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The longë love that in my thought doth harbour

And in mine hert doth keep his residence,

Into my face presseth with bold pretence

And therein campeth, spreading his banner.

She that me learneth to love and suffer

And will that my trust and lustës negligence

Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence,

With his hardiness taketh displeasure.

Wherewithall unto the hert's forest he fleeth,

Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,

And there him hideth and not appeareth.

What may I do when my master feareth

But in the field with him to live and die?

For good is the life ending faithfully.

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Sir Thomas Wyatt "Whoso List to Hunt, I Know where is an Hind", iambic pentameter, Italian, talks of unrequited love/lust through an extended metaphor with a deer and its hunter

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Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,

But as for me, hélas, I may no more.

The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,

I am of them that farthest cometh behind.

Yet may I by no means my wearied mind

Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore

Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,

Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,

As well as I may spend his time in vain.

And graven with diamonds in letters plain

There is written, her fair neck round about:

Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

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35 Terms

1
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Sir Thomas Wyatt "The Longë Love that in my Thought Doth Harbour", iambic pentameter, Petrachan, talks of unrequited love through an extended metaphor with a ship

The longë love that in my thought doth harbour

And in mine hert doth keep his residence,

Into my face presseth with bold pretence

And therein campeth, spreading his banner.

She that me learneth to love and suffer

And will that my trust and lustës negligence

Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence,

With his hardiness taketh displeasure.

Wherewithall unto the hert's forest he fleeth,

Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,

And there him hideth and not appeareth.

What may I do when my master feareth

But in the field with him to live and die?

For good is the life ending faithfully.

2
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Sir Thomas Wyatt "Whoso List to Hunt, I Know where is an Hind", iambic pentameter, Italian, talks of unrequited love/lust through an extended metaphor with a deer and its hunter

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,

But as for me, hélas, I may no more.

The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,

I am of them that farthest cometh behind.

Yet may I by no means my wearied mind

Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore

Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,

Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,

As well as I may spend his time in vain.

And graven with diamonds in letters plain

There is written, her fair neck round about:

Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

3
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Sir Thomas Wyatt "Farewell Love and all thy Laws for ever", iambic pentameter, Italian, talks of letting go of an unrequited love/lust and moving on

Farewell love and all thy laws forever;

Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more.

Senec and Plato call me from thy lore

To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavour.

In blind error when I did persever,

Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore,

Hath taught me to set in trifles no store

And scape forth, since liberty is lever.

Therefore farewell; go trouble younger hearts

And in me claim no more authority.

With idle youth go use thy property

And thereon spend thy many brittle darts,

For hitherto though I have lost all my time,

Me lusteth no lenger rotten boughs to climb.

4
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Sir Thomas Wyatt "They Flee From Me", iambic pentameter, talks of becoming older and not being seen as desirable as he was when he was younger and an affair he is having (possibly Anne Boleyn) with someone whom he previously loved but is currently not working out

They flee from me that sometime did me seek

With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.

I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,

That now are wild and do not remember

That sometime they put themself in danger

To take bread at my hand; and now they range,

Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise

Twenty times better; but once in special,

In thin array after a pleasant guise,

When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,

And she me caught in her arms long and small;

Therewithall sweetly did me kiss

And softly said, "Dear heart, how like you this?"

It was no dream: I lay broad waking.

But all is turned thorough my gentleness

Into a strange fashion of forsaking;

And I have leave to go of her goodness,

And she also, to use newfangleness.

But since that I so kindly am served

I would fain know what she hath deserved.

5
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Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey "The Soote Season", iambic pentameter, Shakespearean sonnet (predates Shakespeare though), talks about how the coming of summer does not alleviate the poet's misery

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,

With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale;

The nightingale with feathers new she sings,

The turtle to her make hath told her tale.

Summer is come, for every spray now springs,

The hart hath hung his old head on the pale,

The buck in brake his winter coat he flings,

The fishes float with new repaired scale,

The adder all her slough away she slings,

The swift swallow pursueth the flyës smale,

The busy bee her honey now she mings—

Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.

And thus I see, among these pleasant things

Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.

6
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Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey "Love That Doth Reign And Live", iambic pentameter, Shakespearean sonnet (predates Shakespeare though), talks about how the obsessive nature of love through an extended metaphor of a knight in battle

Love that doth reign and live within my thought

And built his seat within my captive breast,

Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,

Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.

But she that taught me love and suffer pain,

My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire

With shamefast look to shadow and refrain,

Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.

And coward Love then to the heart apace

Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and plain

His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.

For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pain;

Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:

Sweet is the death that taketh end by love.

7
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John Donne "The Flea", metaphysical, Donne frustratingly tries to seduce his unwed lover through an extended metaphor comparing being bitten by the same flea as having sex

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou deniest me is;

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;

Thou know'st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,

Yet this enjoys before it woo,

And pampered swells with one blood made of two,

And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, nay more than married are.

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;

Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,

And cloistered in these living walls of jet.

Though use make you apt to kill me,

Let not to that, self-murder added be,

And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?

Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou

Find'st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;

'Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:

Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me,

Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

8
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John Donne "The Sun Rising", metaphysical, Donne is frustrated that the Sun has interrupted his sexual activities with his girlfriend and characterizes the Sun as a judgmental being that always has its nose in other peoples' businesses while also sentimentally discussing how happy he is in his relationship

Busy old fool, unruly sun,

Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains call on us?

Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?

Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide

Late school boys and sour prentices,

Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,

Call country ants to harvest offices,

Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong

Why shouldst thou think?

I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,

But that I would not lose her sight so long;

If her eyes have not blinded thine,

Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,

Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine

Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.

Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,

And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

She's all states, and all princes, I,

Nothing else is.

Princes do but play us; compared to this,

All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.

Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,

In that the world's contracted thus.

Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be

To warm the world, that's done in warming us.

Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;

This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

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John Donne "The Canonization", metaphysical, talks about an older man who is frustrated with his friend's disapproval of his love and that love isn't some silly thing young people have and older people deserve to be seriously in love as well

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,

Or chide my palsy, or my gout,

My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,

With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,

Take you a course, get you a place,

Observe his honor, or his grace,

Or the king's real, or his stampèd face

Contemplate; what you will, approve,

So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?

What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?

Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?

When did my colds a forward spring remove?

When did the heats which my veins fill

Add one more to the plaguy bill?

Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still

Litigious men, which quarrels move,

Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;

Call her one, me another fly,

We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,

And we in us find the eagle and the dove.

The phoenix riddle hath more wit

By us; we two being one, are it.

So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.

We die and rise the same, and prove

Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,

And if unfit for tombs and hearse

Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;

And if no piece of chronicle we prove,

We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;

As well a well-wrought urn becomes

The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,

And by these hymns, all shall approve

Us canonized for Love.

And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love

Made one another's hermitage;

You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;

Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove

Into the glasses of your eyes

(So made such mirrors, and such spies,

That they did all to you epitomize)

Countries, towns, courts: beg from above

A pattern of your love!"

10
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John Donne "Holy Sonnet 1", iambic pentameter, Donne laments his aging and his sin and turns to God's grace

Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?

Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste,

I run to death, and death meets me as fast,

And all my pleasures are like yesterday;

I dare not move my dim eyes any way,

Despair behind, and death before doth cast

Such terror, and my feebled flesh doth waste

By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.

Only thou art above, and when towards thee

By thy leave I can look, I rise again;

But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,

That not one hour I can myself sustain;

Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,

And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.

11
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John Donne "Holy Sonnet 7", iambic pentameter, talks about the Day of Judgment where every soul (living, heaven, and hell) will be judged by God and Donne wants God to hold off the Day of Judgment so that he has time to repent for his sin

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow

Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise

From death, you numberless infinities

Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,

All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o'erthrow,

All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,

Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes,

Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe.

But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space;

For, if above all these, my sins abound,

'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace,

When we are there. Here on this lowly ground,

Teach me how to repent; for that's as good

As if thou hadst seal'd my pardon with thy blood.

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John Donne "Holy Sonnet 9", iambic pentameter, Italian, Donne questions on why humans should be punished for sins unlike animals, is angered at how it could be seen as blasphemous to question God, and wishes repentance for his sins

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree

Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us,

If lecherous goats, if serpents envious

Cannot be damn'd, alas, why should I be?

Why should intent or reason, born in me,

Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?

And mercy being easy, and glorious

To God, in his stern wrath why threatens he?

But who am I, that dare dispute with thee,

O God? Oh, of thine only worthy blood

And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood,

And drown in it my sins' black memory.

That thou remember them, some claim as debt;

I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

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John Donne "Holy Sonnet 10", iambic pentameter, Donne addresses death directly and says he is not scared of death because he believes in God's eternal life

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

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John Donne "Holy Sonnet 14", iambic pentameter, talks about Donne's questioning of his faith and compares wanting God to reveal himself to him to save himself from questioning and sin with an erotic seduction

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

I, like an usurp'd town to another due,

Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;

Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,

But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.

Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,

But am betroth'd unto your enemy;

Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,

Take me to you, imprison me, for I,

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

15
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John Donne "Holy Sonnet 17", iambic pentameter, Donne mourns the loss of his wife and wants more love from God to compensate but he then asks why he should ask for more love if God's love is infinite and implies that God might be jealous of his attachment to things that aren't divine

Since she whom I lov'd hath paid her last debt

To nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,

And her soul early into heaven ravished,

Wholly in heavenly things my mind is set.

Here the admiring her my mind did whet

To seek thee, God; so streams do show the head;

But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,

A holy thirsty dropsy melts me yet.

But why should I beg more love, whenas thou

Dost woo my soul, for hers off'ring all thine,

And dost not only fear lest I allow

My love to saints and angels, things divine,

But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt

Lest the world, flesh, yea devil put thee out.

16
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George Herbert "Prayer 1", iambic pentameter, talks about the immense power of prayer and the beauty and fulfilling nature of the action

Prayer the church's banquet, angel's age,

God's breath in man returning to his birth,

The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,

The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth

Engine against th' Almighty, sinner's tow'r,

Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,

The six-days world transposing in an hour,

A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;

Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss,

Exalted manna, gladness of the best,

Heaven in ordinary, man well drest,

The milky way, the bird of Paradise,

Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood,

The land of spices; something understood.

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George Herbert "Jordan (1)", talks about how Herbert thinks secular poetry at the time (mainly fictional or pastoral) isn't his thing and says he prefers religious writing because its authentic and true

Who says that fictions only and false hair

Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty?

Is all good structure in a winding stair?

May no lines pass, except they do their duty

Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it no verse, except enchanted groves

And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines?

Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves?

Must all be veil'd, while he that reads, divines,

Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing;

Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime;

I envy no man's nightingale or spring;

Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme,

Who plainly say, my God, my King.

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George Herbert "The Windows", questions how flawed humans can preach the perfect God's word and compares God lighting up his life with a stained glass whose Biblical imagery makes it beautiful

Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word?

He is a brittle crazy glass;

Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford

This glorious and transcendent place,

To be a window, through thy grace.

But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story,

Making thy life to shine within

The holy preachers, then the light and glory

More reverend grows, and more doth win;

Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin.

Doctrine and life, colors and light, in one

When they combine and mingle, bring

A strong regard and awe; but speech alone

Doth vanish like a flaring thing,

And in the ear, not conscience, ring.

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George Herbert "Denial", Herbert expresses his frustration and questions his belief in God as he does not appear to him at his most desperate and he continues to pray to God to see if finally he can hear him

When my devotions could not pierce

Thy silent ears,

Then was my heart broken, as was my verse;

My breast was full of fears

And disorder.

My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow,

Did fly asunder:

Each took his way; some would to pleasures go,

Some to the wars and thunder

Of alarms.

"As good go anywhere," they say,

"As to benumb

Both knees and heart, in crying night and day,

Come, come, my God, O come!

But no hearing."

O that thou shouldst give dust a tongue

To cry to thee,

And then not hear it crying! All day long

My heart was in my knee,

But no hearing.

Therefore my soul lay out of sight,

Untuned, unstrung:

My feeble spirit, unable to look right,

Like a nipped blossom, hung

Discontented.

O cheer and tune my heartless breast,

Defer no time;

That so thy favors granting my request,

They and my mind may chime,

And mend my rhyme.

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George Herbert "The Collar", the poem starts off with a frustrated clergyman who is about to renounce his religion because of all the rules attached and the Christian guilt is eating away at him and the perspective switches to God, who says that not sinning would lead him to eternal life in heaven and the rules he follows and the Christian guilt he has is manmade and not divine, and they reconcile at the end

I struck the board, and cried, "No more;

I will abroad!

What? shall I ever sigh and pine?

My lines and life are free, free as the road,

Loose as the wind, as large as store.

Shall I be still in suit?

Have I no harvest but a thorn

To let me blood, and not restore

What I have lost with cordial fruit?

Sure there was wine

Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn

Before my tears did drown it.

Is the year only lost to me?

Have I no bays to crown it,

No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted?

All wasted?

Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,

And thou hast hands.

Recover all thy sigh-blown age

On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute

Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage,

Thy rope of sands,

Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee

Good cable, to enforce and draw,

And be thy law,

While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.

Away! take heed;

I will abroad.

Call in thy death's-head there; tie up thy fears;

He that forbears

To suit and serve his need

Deserves his load."

But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild

At every word,

Methought I heard one calling, Child!

And I replied My Lord.

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George Herbert "Love (3)", talks about how God's love is unconditional regardless if you are a sinner

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,

If I lacked any thing.

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:

Love said, You shall be he.

I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,

I cannot look on thee.

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.

And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?

My dear, then I will serve.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:

So I did sit and eat.

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Ben Jonson "On My First Daughter", elegy mourning the loss of Jonson's first child Mary (who was a only toddler) and finds comfort that she is in heaven

Here lies, to each her parents' ruth,

Mary, the daughter of their youth;

Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due,

It makes the father less to rue.

At six months' end she parted hence

With safety of her innocence;

Whose soul heaven's queen, whose name she bears,

In comfort of her mother's tears,

Hath placed amongst her virgin-train:

Where, while that severed doth remain,

This grave partakes the fleshly birth;

Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

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Ben Jonson "On My First Son", elegy mourning the loss of Jonson's first son and favorite child (who was only seven) and shows Jonson's anguish from losing him and vows to never hold that much love for anyone ever again so that he could never feel what he felt at his son's loss ever again

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;

My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.

Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,

Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

O, could I lose all father now! For why

Will man lament the state he should envy?

To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,

And if no other misery, yet age?

Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie

Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry."

For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,

As what he loves may never like too much.

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Ben Jonson "Inviting a Friend to Supper", playful poem about a working class man who sets up a delicious dinner despite his social status and that the bonding experience and companionship that Jonson offers is what matters most

Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I

Do equally desire your company;

Not that we think us worthy such a guest,

But that your worth will dignify our feast

With those that come, whose grace may make that seem

Something, which else could hope for no esteem.

It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates

The entertainment perfect, not the cates.

Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,

An olive, capers, or some better salad

Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen,

If we can get her, full of eggs, and then

Lemons, and wine for sauce; to these a cony

Is not to be despaired of, for our money;

And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,

The sky not falling, think we may have larks.

I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:

Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some

May yet be there, and godwit, if we can;

Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe'er, my man

Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,

Livy, or of some better book to us,

Of which we'll speak our minds, amidst our meat;

And I'll profess no verses to repeat.

To this, if ought appear which I not know of,

That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.

Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be;

But that which most doth take my Muse and me,

Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine,

Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine;

Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,

Their lives, as so their lines, till now had lasted.

Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,

Are all but Luther's beer to this I sing.

Of this we will sup free, but moderately,

And we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by,

Nor shall our cups make any guilty men;

But, at our parting we will be as when

We innocently met. No simple word

That shall be uttered at our mirthful board,

Shall make us sad next morning or affright

The liberty that we'll enjoy tonight.

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Ben Jonson "To the Memory of My Beloved the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare", heroic couplet, Jonson acknowledges Shakespeare's impact on the English literary world and apologizes for not praising him enough and continues to praise him, saying he's better than all Latin and Greek poets

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,

Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;

While I confess thy writings to be such

As neither man nor muse can praise too much;

'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;

For seeliest ignorance on these may light,

Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance

The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,

And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.

These are, as some infamous bawd or *****

Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more?

But thou art proof against them, and indeed,

Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.

I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!

My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by

Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie

A little further, to make thee a room:

Thou art a monument without a tomb,

And art alive still while thy book doth live

And we have wits to read and praise to give.

That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,

I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses,

For if I thought my judgment were of years,

I should commit thee surely with thy peers,

And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,

Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,

From thence to honour thee, I would not seek

For names; but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus,

Euripides and Sophocles to us;

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,

To life again, to hear thy buskin tread,

And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on,

Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome

Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.

Tri'umph, my Britain, thou hast one to show

To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.

He was not o

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Robert Herrick "His Farewell to Sack", Herrick is trying to end his alcoholism by breaking up with wine and while he acknowledges the great times he had with wine, nature compels him to give it up

Farewell thou thing, time past so known, so dear

To me as blood to life and spirit; near,

Nay, thou more near than kindred, friend, man, wife,

Male to the female, soul to body; life

To quick action, or the warm soft side

Of the resigning, yet resisting bride.

The kiss of virgins, first fruits of the bed,

Soft speech, smooth touch, the lips, the maidenhead :

These and a thousand sweets could never be

So near or dear as thou wast once to me.

O thou, the drink of gods and angels! wine

That scatter'st spirit and lust, whose purest shine

More radiant than the summer's sunbeam shows;

Each way illustrious, brave, and like to those

Comets we see by night, whose shagg'd portents

Foretell the coming of some dire events,

Or some full flame which with a pride aspires,

Throwing about his wild and active fires;

'Tis thou, above nectar, O divinest soul !

Eternal in thyself, that can'st control

That which subverts whole nature, grief and care,

Vexation of the mind, and damn'd despair.

'Tis thou alone who, with thy mystic fan,

Workst more than wisdom, art, or nature can

To rouse the sacred madness and awake

The frost-bound blood and spirits, and to make

Them frantic with thy raptures flashing through

The soul like lightning, and as active too.

'Tis not Apollo can, or those thrice three

Castalian sisters, sing, if wanting thee.

Horace, Anacreon, both had lost their fame,

Hads't thou not fill'd them with thy fire and flame.

Phoebean splendour! and thou, Thespian spring!

Of which sweet swans must drink before they sing

Their true pac'd numbers and their holy lays,

Which makes them worthy cedar and the bays.

But why, why longer do I gaze upon

Thee with the eye of admiration?

Since I must leave thee, and enforc'd must say

To all thy witching beauties, Go away.

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Andrew Marvell "Bermudas", Marvell thanks God for taking him to the beautiful and abundant Bermudas of the Caribbean, European colonial perspective

Where the remote Bermudas ride

In th' ocean's bosom unespy'd,

From a small boat, that row'd along,

The list'ning winds receiv'd this song.

What should we do but sing his praise

That led us through the wat'ry maze

Unto an isle so long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own?

Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks,

That lift the deep upon their backs,

He lands us on a grassy stage,

Safe from the storm's and prelates' rage.

He gave us this eternal spring

Which here enamels everything,

And sends the fowls to us in care,

On daily visits through the air.

He hangs in shades the orange bright,

Like golden lamps in a green night;

And does in the pomegranates close

Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.

He makes the figs our mouths to meet

And throws the melons at our feet,

But apples plants of such a price,

No tree could ever bear them twice.

With cedars, chosen by his hand,

From Lebanon, he stores the land,

And makes the hollow seas that roar

Proclaim the ambergris on shore.

He cast (of which we rather boast)

The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,

And in these rocks for us did frame

A temple, where to sound his name.

Oh let our voice his praise exalt,

Till it arrive at heaven's vault;

Which thence (perhaps) rebounding, may

Echo beyond the Mexic Bay.

Thus sung they in the English boat

An holy and a cheerful note,

And all the way, to guide their chime,

With falling oars they kept the time.

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Andrew Marvell "To His Coy Mistress", carpe diem, Marvell encourages his mistress to let go of her prudishness and have sex before she grows old and dies

Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love's day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust;

The grave's a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

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Andrew Marvell "The Picture of Little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers", discusses Marvell's love for his young daughter as she sits on a plot of grass and tells her she must respect nature as it respects her

See with what simplicity

This nymph begins her golden days!

In the green grass she loves to lie,

And there with her fair aspect tames

The wilder flowers, and gives them names:

But only with the roses plays;

And them does tell

What colour best becomes them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause

This Darling of the Gods was born!

Yet this is she whose chaster laws

The wanton Love shall one day fear,

And, under her command severe,

See his bow broke and ensigns torn.

Happy, who can

Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O, then let me in time compound,

And parley with those conquering eyes;

Ere they have tried their force to wound,

Ere, with their glancing wheels, they drive

In triumph over hearts that strive,

And them that yield but more despise.

Let me be laid,

Where I may see thy glories from some shade.

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing

Itself does at thy beauty charm,

Reform the errors of the spring;

Make that the tulips may have share

Of sweetness, seeing they are fair;

And roses of their thorns disarm:

But most procure

That violets may a longer age endure.

But, O young beauty of the woods,

Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;

Lest Flora angry at thy crime,

To kill her infants in their prime,

Do quickly make the example yours;

And, ere we see,

Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.

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Andrew Marvell "The Garden", speaker is rejecting all human civilization to live in a garden away from all the pressures of human life and the garden is where people can destress and focus on their creativity

How vainly men themselves amaze

To win the palm, the oak, or bays,

And their uncessant labours see

Crown'd from some single herb or tree,

Whose short and narrow verged shade

Does prudently their toils upbraid;

While all flow'rs and all trees do close

To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,

And Innocence, thy sister dear!

Mistaken long, I sought you then

In busy companies of men;

Your sacred plants, if here below,

Only among the plants will grow.

Society is all but rude,

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen

So am'rous as this lovely green.

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,

Cut in these trees their mistress' name;

Little, alas, they know or heed

How far these beauties hers exceed!

Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,

No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat,

Love hither makes his best retreat.

The gods, that mortal beauty chase,

Still in a tree did end their race:

Apollo hunted Daphne so,

Only that she might laurel grow;

And Pan did after Syrinx speed,

Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wond'rous life in this I lead!

Ripe apples drop about my head;

The luscious clusters of the vine

Upon my mouth do crush their wine;

The nectarine and curious peach

Into my hands themselves do reach;

Stumbling on melons as I pass,

Ensnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,

Withdraws into its happiness;

The mind, that ocean where each kind

Does straight its own resemblance find,

Yet it creates, transcending these,

Far other worlds, and other seas;

Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade...

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John Donne “Air and Angels”, tell of a speaker’s search for the location of his love as he seeks out a relationship with the listener.

Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,

Before I knew thy face or name;

So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame

Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be;

         Still when, to where thou wert, I came,

Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.

         But since my soul, whose child love is,

Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,

         More subtle than the parent is

Love must not be, but take a body too;

         And therefore what thou wert, and who,

                I bid Love ask, and now

That it assume thy body, I allow,

And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.

Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,

And so more steadily to have gone,

With wares which would sink admiration,

I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught;

         Ev'ry thy hair for love to work upon

Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;

         For, nor in nothing, nor in things

Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere;

         Then, as an angel, face, and wings

Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth wear,

         So thy love may be my love's sphere;

                Just such disparity

As is 'twixt air and angels' purity,

'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be.

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John Donne “The Good Morrow”, a sonnet that describes the state of perfect love in which a speaker and his lover exist

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I

Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?

But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?

Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?

’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,

Which watch not one another out of fear;

For love, all love of other sights controls,

And makes one little room an everywhere.

Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,

Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,

Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,

And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;

Where can we find two better hemispheres,

Without sharp north, without declining west?

Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I

Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

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John Donne “The Relic”, describes the nature of miracles and the spiritual live that exists between the speaker and his love

When my grave is broke up again

       Some second guest to entertain,

       (For graves have learn'd that woman head,

       To be to more than one a bed)

                And he that digs it, spies

A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,

                Will he not let'us alone,

And think that there a loving couple lies,

Who thought that this device might be some way

To make their souls, at the last busy day,

Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

         If this fall in a time, or land,

         Where mis-devotion doth command,

         Then he, that digs us up, will bring

         Us to the bishop, and the king,

                To make us relics; then

Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I

                A something else thereby;

All women shall adore us, and some men;

And since at such time miracles are sought,

I would have that age by this paper taught

What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

         First, we lov'd well and faithfully,

         Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why;

         Difference of sex no more we knew

         Than our guardian angels do;

                Coming and going, we

Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;

                Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals

Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free;

These miracles we did, but now alas,

All measure, and all language, I should pass,

Should I tell what a miracle she was.

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John Donne “The Apparition”', explores scorned love turning vengeance, as a bitter speaker foretells haunting his unfaithful lover

When by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead

         And that thou think'st thee free

From all solicitation from me,

Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,

And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see;

Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,

And he, whose thou art then, being tir'd before,

Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think

         Thou call'st for more,

And in false sleep will from thee shrink;

And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou

Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie

         A verier ghost than I.

What I will say, I will not tell thee now,

Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,

I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,

Than by my threat'nings rest still innocent.

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John Donne “A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning”, describes the spiritual and transcendent love that Donne and his wife Anne shared

As virtuous men pass mildly away,

   And whisper to their souls to go,

Whilst some of their sad friends do say

   The breath goes now, and some say, No:

So let us melt, and make no noise,

   No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;

'Twere profanation of our joys

   To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,

   Men reckon what it did, and meant;

But trepidation of the spheres,

   Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love

   (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit

Absence, because it doth remove

   Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,

   That our selves know not what it is,

Inter-assured of the mind,

   Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,

   Though I must go, endure not yet

A breach, but an expansion,

   Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so

   As stiff twin compasses are two;

Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show

   To move, but doth, if the other do.

And though it in the center sit,

   Yet when the other far doth roam,

It leans and hearkens after it,

   And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,

   Like th' other foot, obliquely run;

Thy firmness makes my circle just,

   And makes me end where I begun.