The Book-Lovers' Anthology

Books; Books -- Literary collections; Books in literature

Cadenus many things had writ:
    Vanessa much esteemed his wit,
    And called for his Poetic Works:
    Meantime the boy in secret lurks;
    And, while the book was in her hand,
    The urchin from his private stand
    Took aim, and shot with all his strength
    A dart of such prodigious length,
    It pierced the feeble volume through,
    And deep transfixed her bosom too.
    Some lines, more moving than the rest,
    Stuck to the point that pierced her breast,
    And, borne directly to her heart,
    With pains unknown increased her smart.

                         J. SWIFT. _Cadenus and Vanessa._


BOOKS AS SPOKESMEN

    O! LET my books be then the eloquence
    And dumb presagers of my speaking breast.

                   W. SHAKESPEARE. _Sonnet XXIII._


TO HIS BOOK: OF HIS LADY

    Happy, ye leaves, when as those lily hands,
    Which hold my life in their dead doing might,
    Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands,
    Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.
    And happy lines on which, with starry light,
    Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,
    And read the sorrows of my dying spright,
    Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book.
    And happy rhymes bathed in the sacred brook
    Of Helicon, whence she derivèd is,
    When ye behold that Angel's blessèd look,
    My soul's long-lackèd food, my heaven's bliss.
        Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone,
        Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

                        E. SPENSER. _Amoretti._


TO THE LADY LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD

    And this fair course of knowledge whereunto
      Your studies, learned Lady, are addressed,
      Is the only certain way that you can go
    Unto true glory, to true happiness:
      All passages on earth besides, are so
      Incumbered with such vain disturbances;
    As still we lose our rest in seeking it,
      Being but deluded with appearances;
      And no key had you else that was so fit
    To unlock that prison of your sex, as this;
      To let you out of weakness, and admit
      Your powers into the freedom of that bliss
    That sets you there where you may oversee
      This rolling world, and view it as it is;
      And apprehend how the outsides do agree
    With the inward being of the things we deem
      And hold in our ill-cast accounts, to be
      Of highest value and of best esteem;
    Since all the good we have rests in the mind,
      By whose proportions only we redeem
      Our thoughts from out confusion, and do find
    The measure of our selves, and of our powers.

           *       *       *       *       *

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

Opening the text

General

The Book-Lovers' Anthology

Books; Books -- Literary collections; Books in literature

Cadenus many things had writ:
    Vanessa much esteemed his wit,
    And called for his Poetic Works:
    Meantime the boy in secret lurks;
    And, while the book was in her hand,
    The urchin from his private stand
    Took aim, and shot with all his strength
    A dart of such prodigious length,
    It pierced the feeble volume through,
    And deep transfixed her bosom too.
    Some lines, more moving than the rest,
    Stuck to the point that pierced her breast,
    And, borne directly to her heart,
    With pains unknown increased her smart.

                         J. SWIFT. _Cadenus and Vanessa._


BOOKS AS SPOKESMEN

    O! LET my books be then the eloquence
    And dumb presagers of my speaking breast.

                   W. SHAKESPEARE. _Sonnet XXIII._


TO HIS BOOK: OF HIS LADY

    Happy, ye leaves, when as those lily hands,
    Which hold my life in their dead doing might,
    Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands,
    Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.
    And happy lines on which, with starry light,
    Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,
    And read the sorrows of my dying spright,
    Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book.
    And happy rhymes bathed in the sacred brook
    Of Helicon, whence she derivèd is,
    When ye behold that Angel's blessèd look,
    My soul's long-lackèd food, my heaven's bliss.
        Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone,
        Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

                        E. SPENSER. _Amoretti._


TO THE LADY LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD

    And this fair course of knowledge whereunto
      Your studies, learned Lady, are addressed,
      Is the only certain way that you can go
    Unto true glory, to true happiness:
      All passages on earth besides, are so
      Incumbered with such vain disturbances;
    As still we lose our rest in seeking it,
      Being but deluded with appearances;
      And no key had you else that was so fit
    To unlock that prison of your sex, as this;
      To let you out of weakness, and admit
      Your powers into the freedom of that bliss
    That sets you there where you may oversee
      This rolling world, and view it as it is;
      And apprehend how the outsides do agree
    With the inward being of the things we deem
      And hold in our ill-cast accounts, to be
      Of highest value and of best esteem;
    Since all the good we have rests in the mind,
      By whose proportions only we redeem
      Our thoughts from out confusion, and do find
    The measure of our selves, and of our powers.

           *       *       *       *       *

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

The Book-Lovers' Anthology

The Book-Lovers' Anthology

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