Seven Minor Epics of the English Renaissance (1596-1624)Barksted, William, active 1611
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Seven Minor Epics of the English Renaissance (1596-1624)
Barksted, William, active 1611
English poetry -- Early modern, 1500-1700; Epic poetry, English; Renaissance -- England
Go decke thy beauty with heauens ornament,
Shine Cinthia like with iewels in the night,
As she with starres stucke in heauens firmament;
But thine, the greater will deface her light,
Making her yeeld to thee her gouernment.
On _Saturnes_ top thy face shall gaine opinion,
Beyond cold _Phoebe_ shining out so bright,
Thou shalt be courted by her loue _Endimion_.
101
Let ioy possesse thy heart, and be thou proud,
In sight of all the Turkish Emperours Peares,
Let not thy sunne of beauty in a cloud,
Be hid from those, whose eies with deawy teares,
For want of thy pure heate in shades do shroud,
Their drooping forheads, but thy beames exhales
All misty vapours, and the welkin cleares,
Like putrifying lightning, or _Ioues_ balles.
102
Then hand in hand they passe out of the roome,
Her beauty like a blazing starre admired,
Well may I tearme it so, it shew'd the doome,
Of her liues date that instant was expired.
Now to the presence chamber they are come,
Where all in reuerence kisse the humble earth,
Here nature tooke her own, and death hath hir'd;
To giue that backe againe, which she gaue birth.
103
Now stands in the midst, and thus begins,
(Taking the faire _Hirena_ by the hand:)
Which of you here, that such a creature wins,
Would part with her, for honor, loue, or land?
The gods were enuious wh[=e] they made those sins
Which are th crowns of this fraile worlds c[=o]tent,
Nor can it with their humane reason stand,
To thinke our ioyes begets our punishiment.
104
View but her hand, her lip, her brow, her eyes,
The smalnesse of her waste, and comely stature,
And let your iudgement bou'e your hatred rise,
Th[=e] you must needs c[=o]fesse, she excels in feature.
That you are onely fooles, I truly wise,
Doe not her presence admiration strike,
And broken is her frame by angry nature,
For feare she wrongs herselfe, and make the like.
105
What man that hauing toild in hidden Art,
Spent all his youth, and substance to the bone,
All bookes and knowledge in the deepest part,
To finde that _Phoenix_, that gold-getting stone,
And hauing it, to comfort his weake heart,
Shall he his seruants, wife, or friends to please,
With his owne eies go see that iewell throwne,
Into the bottomelesse and gaping seas.
106
Or which of you can haue the fortitude,
To lop a limbe off, or pull out an eye,
Or being in a heauenly seruitude,
To free your selues would with the damned lye?
Of force with me you now must all conclude,
That mortall men are subiect to loues rod,
But heere you shall perceiue that onely I,
Am natures conquerour, and a perfect God.
107
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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