Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

 

p                                                                     portrait (detail) by Vincent Galloway

from The Garden

What a 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. 

Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

        Bermudas

Where the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean’s bosom unespied
From a small boat, that rowed along, 
The listening winds received this song.
    ‘What should we do but sing his praise
That led us through the watery 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 storms, and prelate’s 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 pom’granates 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 those 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 Mexique Bay.’
Thus sung they, in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note,
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

Michael Drayton (1563-1631)

Sonnet Lxi: Since There's No Help

Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part.

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;

And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,

That thus so cleanly I myself can free.

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,

And when we meet at any time again,

Be it not seen in either of our brows

That we one jot of former love retain.

Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,

And Innocence is closing up his eyes—

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,

From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!

Henry Vaughn (1621-1695)

 The Evening-Watch: A Dialogue

BODY 

Farewell! I go to sleep; but when 

The day-star springs, I’ll wake again. 

SOUL 

Go, sleep in peace; and when thou liest 

Unnumber’d in thy dust, when all this frame 

Is but one dram, and what thou now descriest 

In sev’ral parts shall want a name, 

Then may his peace be with thee, and each dust 

Writ in his book, who ne’er betray’d man’s trust! 

BODY 

Amen! but hark, ere we two stray 

How many hours dost think ’till day? 

SOUL 

Ah go; th’art weak, and sleepy. Heav’n 

Is a plain watch, and without figures winds 

All ages up; who drew this circle, even 

He fills it; days and hours are blinds. 

Yet this take with thee. The last gasp of time 

Is thy first breath, and man’s eternal prime.

John Donne (1572-1631)

Song: Go and catch a falling star

Go and catch a falling star,

    Get with child a mandrake root,

Tell me where all past years are,

    Or who cleft the devil's foot,

Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

Or to keep off envy's stinging,

            And find

            What wind

Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,

    Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand days and nights,

    Till age snow white hairs on thee,

Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,

All strange wonders that befell thee,

            And swear,

            No where

Lives a woman true, and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,

    Such a pilgrimage were sweet;

Yet do not, I would not go,

    Though at next door we might meet;

Though she were true, when you met her,

And last, till you write your letter,

            Yet she

            Will be

False, ere I come, to two, or three.

John Donne (1572-1631)

 

Meditation XVII

No man is an island entire of itself; every man 
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; 
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe 
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as 
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine 
own were; any man's death diminishes me, 
because I am involved in mankind. 
And therefore never send to know for whom 
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. 

Henry Vaughn (1562-1695)

 

On Mr. G. Herbert's Book

Know you fair, on what you look; 

Divinest love lies in this book, 

Expecting fire from your eyes, 

To kindle this his sacrifice. 

When your hands untie these strings, 

Think you’have an angel by th’ wings. 

One that gladly will be nigh, 

To wait upon each morning sigh. 

To flutter in the balmy air 

Of your well-perfumed prayer. 

These white plumes of his he’ll lend you, 

Which every day to heaven will send you, 

To take acquaintance of the sphere, 

And all the smooth-fac’d kindred there. 

         And though Herbert’s name do owe 

         These devotions, fairest, know 

         That while I lay them on the shrine 

         Of your white hand, they are mine.