Poems Flashcards

1
Q

And in mine hert doth keep his residence,
Into my face presseth with bold pretence
And therein campeth, spreading his banner.
She that me learneth to love and suffer
And will that my trust and lustës negligence
Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence,
With his hardiness taketh displeasure.
Wherewithall unto the hert’s forest he fleeth,
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,
And there him hideth and not appeareth.
What may I do when my master feareth
But in the field with him to live and die?
For good is the life ending faithfully.

A

The Long Love that in my Thought doth Harbour by Sir Thomas Wyatt

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2
Q

Love that doth reign and live within my thought
And built his seat within my captive breast,
Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.
But she that taught me love and suffer pain,
My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire
With shamefast look to shadow and refrain,
Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.
And coward Love then to the heart apace
Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and plain
His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.
For my lord’s guilt thus faultless bide I pain;
Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:
Sweet is the death that taketh end by love.

A

Love that Doth Reign and Live within my Thought by Henry Howard (Earl of Surrey)

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3
Q

But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

A

Whoso List to Hunt by Sir Thomas Wyatt

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4
Q

With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.

Thanked be fortune it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small;
Therewithall sweetly did me kiss
And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this?”

It was no dream: I lay broad waking.
But all is turned thorough my gentleness
Into a strange fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness,
And she also, to use newfangleness.
But since that I so kindly am served
I would fain know what she hath deserved.

A

They Flee From Me by Sir Thomas Wyatt

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5
Q

That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,—
Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn’d brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention’s stay;
Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows;
And others’ feet still seem’d but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
“Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart, and write.”

A

Astrophil & Stella 1: Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show by Sir Philip Sydney

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6
Q

Love gave the wound which while I breathe will bleed:
But known worth did in mine of time proceed,
Till by degrees it had full conquest got.
I saw, and liked; I liked, but lovèd not;
I loved, but straight did not what love decreed:
At length to love’s decrees I, forced, agreed,
Yet with repining at so partial lot.
Now even that footstep of lost liberty
Is gone, and now like slave-born Muscovite
I call it praise to suffer tyranny;
And now employ the remnant of my wit
To make myself believe that all is well,
While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.

A

Astrophil and Stella 2: Not at First Sight, Nor with a Dribbed Shot by Sir Philip Sidney

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7
Q

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, nay more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou
Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;
’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,
Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.

A

The Flea by John Donne

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8
Q

Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil’s foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be’st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.

If thou find’st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

A

Song: Go and catch a falling star by John Donne

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9
Q

For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king’s real, or his stampèd face
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who’s injured by my love?
What merchant’s ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We’re tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We’ll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for Love.

And thus invoke us: “You, whom reverend love
Made one another’s hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world’s soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!”

A

The Canonization by John Donne

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10
Q

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
The breath goes now, and some say, No:

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
‘Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th’ earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers’ love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other do.

And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th’ other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

A

A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning by John Donne

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10
Q

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

A

Death Be Not Proud (Holy Sonnet 10) by John Donne

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11
Q

Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov’d fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

A

Batter my Heart, Three Person’d God by John Donne

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12
Q

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labour, I in labour lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s Zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime,
Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th’hill’s shadow steals.
Off with that wiry Coronet and shew
The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow:
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heaven’s Angels used to be
Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee
A heaven like Mahomet’s Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,
By this these Angels from an evil sprite,
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d,
My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,
That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a Gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made
For lay-men, are all women thus array’d;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;
As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew
Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first; why then
What needst thou have more covering than a man.

A

Elegy 19: To His Mistress Going to Bed by John Donne

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13
Q

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy.
Seven years tho’ wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon ‘scap’d world’s and flesh’s rage,
And if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask’d, say, “Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.”
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.

A

On My First Son by Ben Jonson

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14
Q

Twice Forty moneths in wedlock I did stay,
Then had my vows crown’d with a lovely boy.
And yet in forty days he dropt away;
O! Swift vicissitude of humane Joy!

I did but see him, and he disappear’d,
I did but touch the Rosebud, and it fell;
A sorror unforeseen and scarcely fear’d,
Soe ill can mortals their afflictions spell.

And now (sweet babe) what can my trembling heart
Suggest to right my doleful fate or thee?
Tears are my muse, and sorrow all my Art,
So piercing growns must be thy elegy.

Thus whilst no eye is a witness of my mone,
I grieve thy loss (Ah, boy too dear to live!)
And let the unconcerned World alone,
Who neither will, nor can refreshment give.

An off’ring too for thy sad Tomb I have,
Too just a tribute to thy early hearse;
Receive these gasping numbers to thy grave,
The last of thy unhappy Mother’s Verse

A

On the Death of my First and Dearest Child, Hector Philips by Katherine Philips

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15
Q

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

A

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick

16
Q

Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

A

To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell

17
Q

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc’d fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his wat’ry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

  Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse! So may some gentle muse With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, And as he passes turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!

  For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning bright Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song.

  But O the heavy change now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white thorn blows: Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.

  Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Ay me! I fondly dream Had ye bin there'—for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

  Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed."

  O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood. But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea, That came in Neptune's plea. He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, "What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?" And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory. They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

  Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: "How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reck'ning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw, The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said, But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more".

  Return, Alpheus: the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales and bid them hither cast Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied showers And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world, Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold: Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth; And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

  Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more: Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.

  Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay; And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropp'd into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
A

Lycidas by John Milton

18
Q

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

A

When I Consider How My Light Is Spent by John Milton

19
Q

BELINDA
Shake the cloud from off your brow,
Fate your wishes does allow;
Empire growing,
Pleasures flowing,
Fortune smiles and so should you.

 CHORUS
 Banish sorrow, banish care,
 Grief should ne'er approach the fair.
 
 DIDO
 Ah! Belinda, I am prest
 With torment not to be Confest,
 Peace and I are strangers grown.
 I languish till my grief is known,
 Yet would not have it guest.
 
 BELINDA
 Grief increases by concealing,
 
 DIDO
 Mine admits of no revealing.
 
 BELINDA
 Then let me speak; the Trojan guest
 Into your tender thoughts has prest;
 The greatest blessing Fate can give
 Our Carthage to secure and Troy revive.
 
 CHORUS
 When monarchs unite, how happy their state,
 They triumph at once o'er their foes and their fate.
 
 DIDO
 Whence could so much virtue spring?
 What storms, what battles did he sing?
 Anchises' valour mixt with Venus' charms
 How soft in peace, and yet how fierce in arms!
 
 BELINDA
 A tale so strong and full of woe
 Might melt the rocks as well as you.
 What stubborn heart unmov'd could see
 Such distress, such piety?
 
 DIDO
 Mine with storms of care opprest
 Is taught to pity the distrest.
 Mean wretches' grief can touch,
 So soft, so sensible my breast,
 But ah! I fear, I pity his too much.
 
 BELINDA AND SECOND WOMAN
 [Repeated by Chorus]
 Fear no danger to ensue,
 The Hero Loves as well as you,
 Ever gentle, ever smiling,
 And the cares of life beguiling,
 Cupid strew your path with flowers
 Gather'd from Elysian bowers.
 
 DANCE THIS CHORUS
 
 THE BASKE
 [Aeneas enters with his train]
 
 BELINDA
 See, your Royal Guest appears,
 How Godlike is the form he bears!
 
 AENEAS
 When, Royal Fair, shall I be blest
 With cares of love and state distrest?
 
 DIDO
 Fate forbids what you pursue.
 
 AENEAS
 Aeneas has no fate but you!
 Let Dido smile and I'll defy
 The feeble stroke of Destiny.
 
 CHORUS
 Cupid only throws the dart
 That's dreadful to a warrior's heart,
 And she that wounds can only cure the smart.
 
 AENEAS
 If not for mine, for Empire's sake,
 Some pity on your lover take;
 Ah! make not, in a hopeless fire
 A hero fall, and Troy once more expire.
 
 BELINDA
 Pursue thy conquest, Love; her eyes
 Confess the flame her tongue denies.
 
 A DANCE. GITTARS CHACONY.
 
 CHORUS
 To the hills and the vales, to the rocks and the mountains
 To the musical groves and the cool shady fountains.
 Let the triumphs of love and of beauty be shown,
 Go revel, ye Cupids, the day is your own.
 
 THE TRIUMPHING DANCE

ACT THE SECOND

 Scene [I]: The Cave
 [enter Sorceress]
 
 [PRELUDE FOR THE WITCHES]
 
 SORCERESS
 Wayward sisters, you that fright
 The lonely traveller by night
 Who, like dismal ravens crying,
 Beat the windows of the dying,
 Appear! Appear at my call, and share in the fame
 Of a mischief shall make all Carthage flame.
 Appear!
 [enter Enchantresses]
 
 FIRST WITCH
 Say, Beldam, say what's thy will.
 
 CHORUS
 Harm's our delight and mischief all our skill.
 
 SORCERESS
 The Queen of Carthage, whom we hate,
 As we do all in prosp'rous state,
 Ere sunset, shall most wretched prove,
 Depriv'd of fame, of life and love!
 
 CHORUS
 Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! [etc.]
 
 TWO WITCHES
 Ruin'd ere the set of sun?
 Tell us, how shall this be done?
 
 SORCERESS
 The Trojan Prince, you know, is bound
 By Fate to seek Italian ground;
 The Queen and he are now in chase.
 
 FIRST WITCH
 Hark! Hark! the cry comes on apace.
 
 SORCERESS
 But, when they've done, my trusty Elf
 In form of Mercury himself
 As sent from Jove shall chide his stay,
 And charge him sail tonight with all his fleet away.
 
 CHORUS
 Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! [etc.]
 [Enter a Drunken Sailor; a dance]
 
 TWO WITCHES
 But ere we this perform,
 We'll conjure for a storm
 To mar their hunting sport
 And drive 'em back to court.
 
 CHORUS [in the manner of an echo.]
 In our deep vaulted cell the charm we'll prepare, 
 Too dreadful a practice for this open air.
 
 ECHO DANCE [Enchantresses and Fairies]
 
 Scene [II]: The Grove
 [enter Aeneas, Dido, Belinda, and their train]
 
 RITORNELLE [Orchestra]
 
 BELINDA [Repeated by Chorus]
 Thanks to these lovesome vales,
 These desert hills and dales, 
 So fair the game, so rich the sport, 
 Diana's self might to these woods resort.
 
 GITTER GROUND A DANCE
 
 SECOND WOMAN
 Oft she visits this lov'd mountain,
 Oft she bathes her in this fountain; 
    Here Actaeon met his fate, 
 Pursued by his own hounds, 
 And after mortal wounds 
    Discover'd, discover'd too late.
 [A Dance to entertain Aeneas by Dido's women]
 
 AENEAS
 Behold, upon my bending spear
 A monster's head stands bleeding, 
 With tushes far exceeding 
 Those did Venus' huntsman tear.
 
 DIDO
 The skies are clouded, hark! how thunder
 Rends the mountain oaks a sunder.
 
 BELINDA [Repeated by Chorus]
 Haste, haste to town, this open field 
 No shelter from the storm can yield.
 [exeunt Dido and Belinda and train]
 
 [The Spirit of the Sorceress descends to Aeneas in the 
 likeness of Mercury] 
 
 SPIRIT
 Stay, Prince and hear great Jove's command; 
 He summons thee this Night away.
 
 AENEAS
 Tonight?
 
 SPIRIT
 Tonight thou must forsake this land, 
 The Angry God will brook no longer stay. 
 Jove commands thee, waste no more 
 In Love's delights, those precious hours, 
 Allow'd by th'Almighty Powers 
 To gain th' Hesperian shore 
 And ruined Troy restore.
 
 AENEAS
 Jove's commands shall be obey'd,
 Tonight our anchors shall be weighed.
 [Exit Spirit.]
 But ah! what language can I try 
 My injur'd Queen to Pacify: 
 No sooner she resigns her heart,
 But from her arms I'm forc'd to part. 
 How can so hard a fate be took?
 One night enjoy'd, the next forsook. 
 Yours be the blame, ye gods! For I 
 Obey your will, but with more ease could die.
 
 THE SORCERESS AND HER ENCHANTRESSES (CHORUS)
 Then since our Charmes have sped, 
 A Merry Dance be led 
 By the Nymphs of Carthage to please us. 
 They shall all Dance to ease us,
 A Dance that shall make the Spheres to wonder,
 Rending those fair Groves asunder.
 
 THE GROVES DANCE

ACT THE THIRD

 Scene: The Ships
 [enter the Sailors, the Sorceress, and her Enchantresses]
 
 PRELUDE
 
 FIRST SAILOR [Repeated by Chorus]
 Come away, fellow sailors, your anchors be weighing.
 Time and tide will admit no delaying.
 Take a bouzy short leave of your nymphs on the shore,
 And silence their mourning
 With vows of returning
 But never intending to visit them more.
 
 THE SAILORS' DANCE
 
 SORCERESS
 See the flags and streamers curling
 Anchors weighing, sails unfurling.
 
 FIRST WITCH
 Phoebe's pale deluding beams
 Guilding more deceitful streams.
 
 SECOND WITCH
 Our plot has took,
 The Queen's forsook.
 
 TWO WITCHES
 Elissa's ruin'd, ho, ho!
 Our plot has took,
 The Queen's forsook, ho, ho!
 
 SORCERESS
 Our next Motion
 Must be to storme her Lover on the Ocean!
 From the ruin of others our pleasures we borrow,
 Elissa bleeds tonight, and Carthage flames tomorrow.
 
 CHORUS
 Destruction's our delight
 Delight our greatest sorrow!
 Elissa dies tonight and Carthage flames tomorrow.
 [Jack of the the Lanthorn leads the Spaniards out of 
 their way among the Enchantresses.] 
 
 A DANCE
 
 [Enter Dido, Belinda and train]
 
 DIDO
 Your counsel all is urged in vain
 To Earth and Heav'n I will complain!
 To Earth and Heav'n why do I call?
 Earth and Heav'n conspire my fall.
 To Fate I sue, of other means bereft
 The only refuge for the wretched left.
 
 BELINDA
 See, Madam, see where the Prince appears;
 Such Sorrow in his looks he bears
 As would convince you still he's true.
 [enter Aeneas]
 
 AENEAS
 What shall lost Aeneas do?
 How, Royal Fair, shall I impart
 The God's decree, and tell you we must part?
 
 DIDO
 Thus on the fatal Banks of Nile,
 Weeps the deceitful crocodile
 Thus hypocrites, that murder act,
 Make Heaven and Gods the authors of the Fact.
 
 AENEAS
 By all that's good ...
 
 DIDO
 By all that's good, no more!
 All that's good you have forswore.
 To your promis'd empire fly
 And let forsaken Dido die.
 
 AENEAS
 In spite of Jove's command, I'll stay.
 Offend the Gods, and Love obey.
 
 DIDO
 No, faithless man, thy course pursue;
 I'm now resolv'd as well as you.
 No repentance shall reclaim
 The injur'd Dido's slighted flame.
 For 'tis enough, whate'er you now decree,
 That you had once a thought of leaving me.
 
 AENEAS
 Let Jove say what he will: I'll stay!
 
 DIDO
 Away, away! No, no, away!
 
 AENEAS
 No, no, I'll stay, and Love obey!
 
 DIDO
 To Death I'll fly
 If longer you delay;
 Away, away!.....
 [Exit Aeneas]
 But Death, alas! I cannot shun;
 Death must come when he is gone.
 
 CHORUS
 Great minds against themselves conspire
 And shun the cure they most desire.
 
 DIDO
 [Cupids appear in the clouds o're her tomb]
 Thy hand, Belinda, darkness shades me,
       On thy bosom let me rest,
    More I would, but Death invades me;
 Death is now a welcome guest.
 When I am laid in earth, May my wrongs create
             No trouble in thy breast;
             Remember me, but ah! forget my fate.
 
 CHORUS
 With drooping wings you Cupids come,
 To scatter roses on her tomb.
 Soft and Gentle as her Heart
 Keep here your watch, and never part.
 
 CUPIDS DANCE
 
 FINIS
A

Dido and Aeneas (1688) Composed by Henry Purcell and written by Nahum Tate