Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

REVOLUTIONS

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

William Shakespeare

A LAMENT

My thoughts hold mortal strife;

I do detest my life,

And with lamenting cries

Peace to my soul to bring

Oft call that prince' which here doth monarchise:
But he, grim grinning King,

Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,
Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

William Drummond

A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS

Brave flowers that I could gallant it like you,
And be as little vain!

You come abroad, and make a harmless show,
And to your beds of earth again.
You are not proud: you know your birth:
For your embroider'd garments are from earth.

You do obey your months and times, but I
Would have it ever Spring:

My fate would know no Winter, never die,
Nor think of such a thing.

Oh that I could my bed of earth but view
And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

Oh teach me to see Death and not to fear,
But rather to take truce!

How often have I seen you at a bier,

And there look fresh and spruce!

You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

Henry King

VANITAS VANITATUM

All the flowers of the spring
Meet to perfume our burying;
These have but their growing prime,
And man does flourish but his time:
Survey our progress from our birth
We are set, we grow, we turn to earth.
Courts adieu, and all delights,
All bewitching appetites!

Sweetest breath and clearest eye
Like perfumes go out and die;
And consequently this is done
As shadows wait upon the sun.
Vain the ambition of kings

Who seek by trophies and dead things
To leave a living name behind,

And weave but nets to catch the wind.

John Webster

MAN

I know my soul hath power to know all things,
Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:

I know I'm one of Nature's little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life's a pain and but a span;
I know my sense is mock'd in everything;
And, to conclude, I know myself a Man
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.
Sir John Davies

O COME QUICKLY!

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,
Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more,

Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:

O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise,
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our

eyes:

Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see:

come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

Thomas Campion

DEVOTION

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,

And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:
But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,

Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return again!

All that I sung still to her praise did tend;

Still she was first, still she my songs did end;

Yet she my love and music both doth fly,

The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy:

Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!

It shall suffice that they were breath'd and died for her

delight.

Thomas Campion

SONG

Seek not the tree of silkiest bark
And balmiest bud,

To carve her name while yet 'tis dark
Upon the wood.

The world is full of noble tasks,

And wreaths hard won:

Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, Till day is done.

Sing not that violet-veinèd skin,

That cheek's pale roses,

The lily of that form wherein

Her soul reposes:

Forth to the fight, true man, true knight;

The clash of arms

Shall more prevail than whispered tale

To win her charms.

The warrior for the True, the Right,
Fights in Love's name:

The love that lures thee from that fight
Lures thee to shame:

The love which lifts the heart, yet leaves
The spirit free,

That love, or none, is fit for one

Man-shaped, like thee.

Aubrey De Vere

« AnteriorContinuar »