Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Volume 1

English poetry

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;
  She draws her favours to the lowest ebb:
Her tides have equal times to come and go;
  Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web:
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,
  Not endless night, yet not eternal day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
  The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
  That net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are cross'd;
  Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
Unmingled joys here to no man befall;
Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.




THOMAS WATSON.


He was born in 1560, and died about 1592. All besides known certainly of
him is, that he was a native of London, and studied the common law, but
seems to have spent much of his time in the practice of rhyme. His
sonnets--one or two of which we subjoin--have considerable merit; but we
agree with Campbell in thinking that Stevens has surely overrated them
when he prefers them to Shakspeare's.


THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY-QUEEN.

With fragrant flowers we strew the way,
And make this our chief holiday:
For though this clime was blest of yore,
Yet was it never proud before.
O beauteous queen of second Troy,
Accept of our unfeigned joy.

Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm,
And satyrs dance about the palm;
Now earth with verdure newly dight,
Gives perfect signs of her delight:
O beauteous queen!

Now birds record new harmony,
And trees do whistle melody:
And everything that nature breeds
Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds.


SONNET.

Actaeon lost, in middle of his sport,
Both shape and life for looking but awry:
Diana was afraid he would report
What secrets he had seen in passing by.
To tell the truth, the self-same hurt have I,
By viewing her for whom I daily die;
I lose my wonted shape, in that my mind
Doth suffer wreck upon the stony rock
Of her disdain, who, contrary to kind,
Does bear a breast more hard than any stock;
And former form of limbs is changed quite
By cares in love, and want of due delight.
I leave my life, in that each secret thought
Which I conceive through wanton fond regard,
Doth make me say that life availeth nought,
Where service cannot have a due reward.
I dare not name the nymph that works my smart,
Though love hath graven her name within my heart.




THOMAS TURBERVILLE.


Of this author--Thomas Turberville--once famous in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth, but now almost totally forgotten, and whose works are
altogether omitted in most selections, we have preserved a little. He
was a voluminous author, having produced, besides many original pieces,
a translation of Ovid's Heroical Epistles, from which Warton has
selected a short specimen.


IN PRAISE OP THE RENOWNED LADY ANNE, COUNTESS OF
WARWICK.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

General

Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Volume 1

English poetry

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;
  She draws her favours to the lowest ebb:
Her tides have equal times to come and go;
  Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web:
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,
  Not endless night, yet not eternal day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
  The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
  That net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are cross'd;
  Few all they need, but none have all they wish.
Unmingled joys here to no man befall;
Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.




THOMAS WATSON.


He was born in 1560, and died about 1592. All besides known certainly of
him is, that he was a native of London, and studied the common law, but
seems to have spent much of his time in the practice of rhyme. His
sonnets--one or two of which we subjoin--have considerable merit; but we
agree with Campbell in thinking that Stevens has surely overrated them
when he prefers them to Shakspeare's.


THE NYMPHS TO THEIR MAY-QUEEN.

With fragrant flowers we strew the way,
And make this our chief holiday:
For though this clime was blest of yore,
Yet was it never proud before.
O beauteous queen of second Troy,
Accept of our unfeigned joy.

Now the air is sweeter than sweet balm,
And satyrs dance about the palm;
Now earth with verdure newly dight,
Gives perfect signs of her delight:
O beauteous queen!

Now birds record new harmony,
And trees do whistle melody:
And everything that nature breeds
Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds.


SONNET.

Actaeon lost, in middle of his sport,
Both shape and life for looking but awry:
Diana was afraid he would report
What secrets he had seen in passing by.
To tell the truth, the self-same hurt have I,
By viewing her for whom I daily die;
I lose my wonted shape, in that my mind
Doth suffer wreck upon the stony rock
Of her disdain, who, contrary to kind,
Does bear a breast more hard than any stock;
And former form of limbs is changed quite
By cares in love, and want of due delight.
I leave my life, in that each secret thought
Which I conceive through wanton fond regard,
Doth make me say that life availeth nought,
Where service cannot have a due reward.
I dare not name the nymph that works my smart,
Though love hath graven her name within my heart.




THOMAS TURBERVILLE.


Of this author--Thomas Turberville--once famous in the reign of Queen
Elizabeth, but now almost totally forgotten, and whose works are
altogether omitted in most selections, we have preserved a little. He
was a voluminous author, having produced, besides many original pieces,
a translation of Ovid's Heroical Epistles, from which Warton has
selected a short specimen.


IN PRAISE OP THE RENOWNED LADY ANNE, COUNTESS OF
WARWICK.

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Volume 1

Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Volume 1

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