PERIOD II.

POETS BORN IN THE

XVITH CENTURY.

SURREY TO HERRICK.

On the Death of Sir Thomas Wyatt.

WYATT resteth here, that quick could never rest:
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain ;
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast:
Such profit he by envy could obtain.
A head, whose wisdom mysteries did frame;
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain,
As on a stithe where that some work of fame
Was daily wrought, to turn to Britain's gain.
A visage stern, and mild; where both did grow
Vice to contemn, in virtue to rejoice :
Amid great storms, whom grace assured so,
To live upright, and smile at fortune's choice.
A hand, that taught what might be said in rime;
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit—
A mark, the which (unperfected for time)
Some may approach, but never none shall hit.
A tongue that served in foreign realms his king;
Whose courteous talk to virtue did inflame
Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring
Our English youth by travail unto fame.
An eye, whose judgment none effect could blind,
Friends to allure and foes to reconcile ;
Whose piercing look did represent a mind

Wyatt.

Chaucer.

With virtue fraught, reposèd, void of guile.
A heart, whose dread was never so impress'd
To hide the thought that might the truth advance ;
In neither fortune loft, nor yet repress'd,

To swell in wealth, or yield unto mischance.
A valiant corpse, where force and beauty met:
Happy, alas! too happy, but for foes,

Livèd, and ran the race that nature set;

Of manhood's shape, where she the mould did lose.

But to the heavens that simple soul is fled,

Which left, with such as covet Christ to know,
Witness of faith, that never shall be dead;
Sent for our health, but not received so.

Thus for our guilt this jewel have we lost;

The earth his bones, the heavens possess his ghost.

Chaucer.

SPENSER.

From The Shepherd's Calendar. [1579
February.

Thenot. But shall I tell thee a tale of truth,
Which I conned of Tityrus in my youth,

Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent?

Cuddie. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent

Then to hear novels of his devise;

They been so well thewed, and so wise
What ever that good old man bespake.

The. Many meet tales of youth did he make,
And some of love, and some of chivalry.

June.

Hobbinoll. Colin, to hear thy rimes and rounde

lays,

Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to sing,
I more delight than lark in summer days,
Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring,
And taught the birds, which in the lower spring
Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays,
Frame to thy song their cheerful chirruping,
Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays.

I saw Calliope with Muses moe,

Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound,

Their ivory lutes and tambourines forego,

And from the fountain, where they sat around,
Run after hastily thy silver sound;

But, when they came where thou thy skill didst

show,

They drew aback, as half with shame confound
Shepherd to see, them in their art outgo.

Colin. Of Muses, Hobbinoll, I conne no skill,
For they been daughters of the highest Jove,
And holden scorn of homely shepherd's quill;
For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove,
Which him to much rebuke and danger drove,
I never list presume to Parnasse hill,

But, piping low in shade of lowly grove,
I play to please myself, albeit ill.

Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame,

Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest :

Spenser