Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry | Page 2

forced my heart to die,
Thy grace, thy face, the part
Where art?Stands gazing still to see?The wondrous gifts and power,
Each hour,?That hath bewitched me.
ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX.
Leeving at large all fables vainly us'd,?all trifling toys that doe no truth import,?Lo, here how the end (at length), though long diffus'd,?unfoldeth plaine a rare and true report,?To glad those minds who seek their countries wealth?by proffer'd pains t'enlarge its happy health.
At Rome I was when Fox did there arrive;?therefore I may sufficiently express?What gallant joy his deedes did there revive?in the hearts of those which heard his valiantness.?And how the Pope did recompense his pains,?and letters gave to move his greater gains.
But yet I know that many doe misdoubt?that those his pains are fables, and untrue;?Not only I in this will bear him out,?but divers more that did his Patents view,?And unto those so boldly I dare say?that nought but truth John Fox cloth here bewray.
Besides, there's one was slave with him in thrall?lately return'd into our native land;?This witness can this matter perfect all:?what needeth more? for witness he may stand.?And thus I end, unfolding what I know;?the other man more larger proof can show.
"Honos alit Artes"
The above lines by Anthony Munday are omitted by Hakluyt in his reprint of the captivity of John Fox in his "Principal English Voyages," vol. ii. p. 136, ed. 1598-1600. John Fox, of Woodbridge, gunner of the Three Half Moons, was made prisoner by the Turks in 1563. Escaped with 266 other Christians in 1577.
CARE FOR THY SOULE.
Care for thy soule, as thing of greatest pryce!?Made to the ende to taste of power Divine,?Devoid of guilt, abhorryng sin and vice,?Apt by God's grace to virtue to incline;?Care for it soe, as by thy retchless traine?It bee not brought to taste eternall paine!
Care for thy corpse (body), but chiefely for soules sake,?Not of excess; sustainyng food is best?To vanquish pryde, but comely clothing take.?Seeke after skille; deepe ignorance detest;?Care so, I say, the flesh to feede and cloth,?That thou harm not thy soule and bodie both.
Care for the world, to doe thy bodie right;?Back not thy wytt to win by wicked wayes;?Seeke not t'oppress the weak by wrongfull might;?To pay thy due, doe banish all delayes;?Care to dispend accordyng to thy store,?And, in like sort, bee mindfull of the pore.
Care for thy soule, as for thy chiefest staye,?Care for thy bodie, for the soules avail;?Care for the world, for bodies helpe alwaye,?Care yett but soe as virtue may prevail;?Care in such sort, that thou be sure of this,?Care keepe the not from heaven and heavenlie blisse.
MEGLIORA SPERO.
By Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford.
Faction, that ever dwells in Courte where witt excels,
Hath sett defiance;?Fortune and Love have sworne that they were never borne
Of one alliance.
Cupid, which doth aspire to be god of Desire,
Swears he "gives lawes;?That where his arrows hit, somejoy, some sorrow it:
Fortune no cause."
Fortune swears "weakest heartes," the bookes of Cupide's artes.
"Turn'd with her wheel,?Senselesse themselves shal prove. Venture hath place in love.
Aske them that feel!"
This discord it begot atheists, that honour not.
Nature thought good?Fortune shoud ever dwel in Court where wits excel;
Love keepe the wood.
Soe to the wood went I, with Love to live and dye;
Fortunes forlorne.?Experience of my youth made mee thinke humble Truth
In deserts borne.
My saint I keepe to mee, and Joan herself is free,
Joan fair and true!?Shee that doth onely move passions of love with Love.
Fortune! adieu!
A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE KING.
Disgrac'd, undone, forlorn, made Fortune's Sport,?Banish'd your Kingdom first, and then your Court;?Out of my Places turn'd, and out of Doors,?And made the meanest of your Sons of Whores;?The scene of Laughter, and the common chats?Of your salt Bitches, and your other Brats;?Forc'd to a private Life, to Whore and Drink,?On my past Grandeur and my Follies Think:?Would I had been the Brat of some mean Drab,?Whom Fear or Chance had caus'd to choak or stab,?Rather than be the Issue of a King,?And by him made so wretched, scorn'd a Thing.?How little cause has mankind to be proud?Of Noble Birth, the Idol of the Crowd!?Have I abroad in Battels Honour won?To be at home dishonourably undone??Mark'd with a Star and Garter, and made fine?With all those gaudy Trifles once call'd mine,?Your Hobby-Horses [1] and your Joys of State,?And now become the Object of your Hate;?But, d------'ee, Sir, I'll be Legitimate.?I was your Darling, but against your Will,?And know that I will be the Peoples still;?And when you're dead, I and my Friends, the Rout,?Will with my Popish Uncle try a Bout,?And to my Troubles this one Comfort bring,?Next after you, by ------, I will be King.
[Footnote 1: At the age of sixteen he was made Master of the Horse.]
THE KING'S ANSWER.
Ungrateful Boy! I will not call thee Son,?Thou hast thyself unhappily undone;?And