Great Throughts Treasury

"O liberty, parent of happiness, a celestial born when the first man became a living soul; his sacred genius thou."

"A Fancy - Hee that his mirth hath loste, Whose comfort is dismaid, Whose hope is vaine, whose faith is scorned, Whose trust is all betraid, If he have held them deare, And cannot cease to moane, Come, let him take his place by me; He shall not rue alone. But if the smalest sweete Be mixt with all his sowre; If in the day, the moneth, the yeare, He finde one lightsome hower, Then rest he by himself; He is noe mate for me, Whose hope is falen, whose succor voyde, Whose hart his death must be. Yet not the wishèd death, That hathe noe plainte nor lacke, Which, making free the better parte, Is onely nature's sacke. Oh me! that wer too well, My death is of the minde, Which alwayes yeeldès extreame paines, Yet keepes the worst behind. As one that lives in shewe But inwardly doth die, Whose knowledge is a bloody field Wheare all hope slaine doth lie; Whose harte the aulter is, Whose spirit, the sacrifize Unto the Powers whome to appease Noe sorrowes can sufize. Whose fancies are like thornes, On which I goe by night, Whose arguments are like a hoste, That force hath put to flight. Whose sense is passion's spye, Whose thoughtes, like ruins old Of Carthage, or the famous towne That Sinon bought and sold. Which still before my face, My mortall foe doth lay, Whome love and fortune once advanced And nowe hath cast away. O thoughtes! noe thoughtes but woundes, Sometimes the seate of Joy Sometimes the chaire of quiet rest But nowe of all annoy. I sowed the feild of peace, My blisse was in the Springe; And day by day I ate the fruit That my Live's tree did bring. To nettels nowe my corne, My feild is turnd to flint, Where sitting in the cipres shade, I reade the hiacint. The joy, the rest, the life That I enioyed of yore Came to my lot that by my losse, My smarte might smarte the more. Thus to unhappie men The best frames to the worste; O tyme, O places. O woordes, O lookes, Deere then but nowe accurst! In 'was' stood my delight, In 'is' and 'shall' my woe; My horrors fastned in the 'yea,' My hope hangs in the 'noe.' I looke for noe delight, Releefe will come too late; Too late I finde, I finde too well, Too well stoode my Estate. Behold, heere is the end, And nothing heere is sure: Ah nothinge ells but plaints and cares Doth to the world enduer. Forsaken first was I, Then utterly foregotten; And he that came not to my faith, Lo! my reward hath gotten. Nowe Love, where are thy lawes That make thy torments sweete? What is the cause that some through thee Have thought their death but meet? Thy stately chaste disdaine, Thy secret thanckfulnes, Thy grace reservd, thy common light That shines in worthines. O that it were not soe Or that I could excuse! O that the wrath of Jelousie My judgement might abuse! O fraile unconstant kind, And safe in truste to noe man! Noe woemen angells are, yet loe! My mistris is a woman! Yet hate I but the falte, And not the faultie one; Nor can I rid me of the bonds Wherein I lie alone. Alone I lie, whose like By love was never yet; Nor rich, nor poore, nor younge, nor old, Nor fond, nor full of witt. Hers still remaine must I, By wronge, by death, by shame; I cannot blot out of my minde That love wrought in her name. I cannot set at naught That I have held soe deare, I cannot make it seem so farre That is indeede soe neare. Nor that I meane, henceforth This strange will to professe: I never will betray such trust And fall to ficklenesse. Nor shall it ever faile That my word bare in hand: I gave my word, my worde gave me, Both worde and gaift shall stand. Syth then it must be thus And this is all to ill, I yeelde me captiue to my curse, My harde fate to fulfill. The solitarie woodes, My Cittie shall become; The darkest den shalbe my lodge Whereto noe light shall come. Of heban blacke my boorde; The wormes my meate shalbe, Wherewith my carcase shalbe fed Till thes doe feede on me. My wine, of Niobe, My bed the cragie rocke, My harmony, the serpent's hisse, The shreikinge owle, my cocke. Mine exercise naught ells But raginge agonies; My bookes, of spightfull fortune's foiles And drerye tragedies. My walkes the pathes of plaint, My prospect into Hell, With Sisiphus and all his pheres In endles paines to dwell. And though I seeme to use The poet's fainèd stile, To figure forth my wofull plight, My fall and my exile. Yet is my greeffe not faind, Wherein I starve and pine, Whoe feeleth most shall finde it least Comparinge his with mine. My songe,--if anie aske Whose grievous case is such? Dy er thou let'st his name be knowne,-- His follye showes too much. But best, were thee to hide And never come to light; For in the worle can none but thee These accents sound aright. And soe a end: my tale is tould: His life is but disdaind, Whose sorrowes present paine him soe, His pleasures are full faind."

"Love-Contradictions - As rare to heare as seldome to be seene, It cannot be nor never yet hathe bene That fire should burne with perfecte heate and flame Without some matter for to yealde the same. A straunger case yet true by profe I knowe A man in joy that livethe still in woe: A harder happ who hathe his love at lyste Yet lives in love as he all love had miste: Whoe hathe enougehe, yet thinkes he lives wthout, Lackinge no love yet still he standes in doubte. What discontente to live in suche desyre, To have his will yet ever to requyre."

"I woulde it were not as it is Or that I cared not yea or no; I woulde I thoughte it not amiss, Or that amiss mighte blamles goo; I woulde I were, yet woulde I not, I mighte be gladd yet coulde I not. I coulde desire to know the meane Or that the meane desyre soughte; I woulde I coulde my fancye weane From suche sweet joyes as Love hathe wroughte; Onlye my wishe is leaste of all A badge whereby to know a thrall. O happy man whiche doste aspire To that whiche semeleye thou dost crave! Thrise happy man, if thy desyre Maye winn with hope good happ to have; But woe to me unhappy man Whom hope nor happ acquiet cann. The budds of hope are starvde with feare And still his foe presents his face; My state, if hope the palme shoulde beare Unto my happ woulde be disgrace. As diamond in woode were set Or Irus raggs in goulde I frett. For loe my tyrèd shoulders beare Desyre's weery beatinge winges; And at my feet a clogg I weare Tyde one wth selfe disdayning stringes. My wings to mounte aloft make hast. My clog doth sinke me downe as faste. This is our state, loe thus we stande They ryse to fall that climbe to hye; The boye that fled kynge Minos lande Maye learne the wise more love to flye. What gaynde his poynte agaynste the sonne He drownde in seas himself, that wonne. Yet Icarus more happy was, By present deathe his cares to ende Than I, pore mann, on whom alas Tenn thousande deathes theire paynes do sende. Now greife, now hope, now loue, now spyghte Longe sorrows mixte withe shorte delyghte. The pheere and fellowe of thy smarte Prometheus I am indeede; Upon whose ever livinge harte The greedy gryphes do daylye feede; But he that lyfts his harte so hye Muste be contente to pine and dye."

"And love is love, in beggars and in kings. "

"My mind to me a kingdom is, such present joys therein I find, that it excels all other bliss that world affords or grows by kind. Though much I want which most would have, yet still my mind forbids to crave. Some have too much, yet still do crave; I little have, and seek no more: they are but poor, though much they have, and I am rich with little store: they poor, I rich; they beg, I give; they lack, I have; they pine, I live."

"The man of Woe - The mann whose thoughtes agaynste him do conspyre, One whom Mishapp her storye dothe depaynt, The mann of woe, the matter of desier, Free of the dead, that lives in endles plaint, His spirit am I, whiche in this deserte lye, To rue his case, whose cause I cannot flye. Despayre my name, whoe never findes releife, Frended of none, but to my selfe a foe; An idle care, mayntaynde by firme beleife That prayse of faythe shall throughe my torments growe, And counte those hopes, that others hartes do ease, Butt base conceites the common sense to please. For sure I am I never shall attayne The happy good from whence my joys aryse; Nor haue I powre my sorrows to refrayne But wayle the wante, when noughte ellse maye suffyse; Whereby my lyfe the shape of deathe muste beare, That deathe which feeles the worst that lyfe doth feare. But what auayles withe tragicall complaynte, Not hopinge healpe, the Furyes to awake? Or why shoulde I the happy mynds aquaynte With doleful tunnes, theire settled peace to shake? All ye that here behoulde Infortune's feare, May judge noe woe may withe my gref compare. Finis. Sir Edward Dyer"

"True hearts have ears and eyes, no tongues to speak; they hear and see, and sigh, and then they break. "