Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry | Page 2

me sorrow so.
Thy crimson cheeks, my dear!
So clear,
Have so much wrought my woe.
Thy pleasing smiles and grace,
Thy face,
Have ravished so my sprites,
That life is grown to nought
Through thought
Of love, which me affrights.
For fancy's flames of fire
Aspire
Unto such furious power,
As but the tears I shed
Make dead,
The brands would me devour.

I should consume to nought
Through thought
Of thy fair shining eye,
Thy cheeks, thy pleasing
smiles,
The wiles
That forced my heart to die,
Thy grace, thy face, the part
Where art
Stands gazing still to see
The wondrous gifts and power,
Each hour,
That hath bewitched me.
ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN
FOX.
Leeving at large all fables vainly us'd,
all trifling toys that doe no
truth import,
Lo, here how the end (at length), though long diffus'd,

unfoldeth plaine a rare and true report,
To glad those minds who seek
their countries wealth
by proffer'd pains t'enlarge its happy health.
At Rome I was when Fox did there arrive;
therefore I may
sufficiently express
What gallant joy his deedes did there revive
in
the hearts of those which heard his valiantness.
And how the Pope did
recompense his pains,
and letters gave to move his greater gains.
But yet I know that many doe misdoubt
that those his pains are fables,
and untrue;
Not only I in this will bear him out,
but divers more that
did his Patents view,
And unto those so boldly I dare say
that
nought but truth John Fox cloth here bewray.
Besides, there's one was slave with him in thrall
lately return'd into
our native land;
This witness can this matter perfect all:
what
needeth more? for witness he may stand.
And thus I end, unfolding
what I know;
the other man more larger proof can show.

"Honos alit Artes"
The above lines by Anthony Munday are omitted by Hakluyt in his
reprint of the captivity of John Fox in his "Principal English Voyages,"
vol. ii. p. 136, ed. 1598-1600. John Fox, of Woodbridge, gunner of the
Three Half Moons, was made prisoner by the Turks in 1563. Escaped
with 266 other Christians in 1577.
CARE FOR THY SOULE.
Care for thy soule, as thing of greatest pryce!
Made to the ende to
taste of power Divine,
Devoid of guilt, abhorryng sin and vice,
Apt
by God's grace to virtue to incline;
Care for it soe, as by thy retchless
traine
It bee not brought to taste eternall paine!
Care for thy corpse (body), but chiefely for soules sake,
Not of excess;
sustainyng food is best
To vanquish pryde, but comely clothing take.

Seeke after skille; deepe ignorance detest;
Care so, I say, the flesh
to feede and cloth,
That thou harm not thy soule and bodie both.
Care for the world, to doe thy bodie right;
Back not thy wytt to win
by wicked wayes;
Seeke not t'oppress the weak by wrongfull might;

To pay thy due, doe banish all delayes;
Care to dispend accordyng
to thy store,
And, in like sort, bee mindfull of the pore.
Care for thy soule, as for thy chiefest staye,
Care for thy bodie, for
the soules avail;
Care for the world, for bodies helpe alwaye,
Care
yett but soe as virtue may prevail;
Care in such sort, that thou be sure
of this,
Care keepe the not from heaven and heavenlie blisse.
MEGLIORA SPERO.
By Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford.
Faction, that ever dwells in Courte where witt excels,

Hath sett defiance;
Fortune and Love have sworne that they were
never borne
Of one alliance.
Cupid, which doth aspire to be god of Desire,
Swears he "gives lawes;
That where his arrows hit, somejoy, some
sorrow it:
Fortune no cause."
Fortune swears "weakest heartes," the bookes of Cupide's artes.
"Turn'd with her wheel,
Senselesse themselves shal prove. Venture
hath place in love.
Aske them that feel!"
This discord it begot atheists, that honour not.
Nature thought good
Fortune shoud ever dwel in Court where wits
excel;
Love keepe the wood.
Soe to the wood went I, with Love to live and dye;
Fortunes forlorne.
Experience of my youth made mee thinke humble
Truth
In deserts borne.
My saint I keepe to mee, and Joan herself is free,
Joan fair and true!
Shee that doth onely move passions of love with
Love.

Fortune! adieu!
A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE
KING.
Disgrac'd, undone, forlorn, made Fortune's Sport,
Banish'd your
Kingdom first, and then your Court;
Out of my Places turn'd, and out
of Doors,
And made the meanest of your Sons of Whores;
The
scene of Laughter, and the common chats
Of your salt Bitches, and
your other Brats;
Forc'd to a private Life, to Whore and Drink,
On
my past Grandeur and my Follies Think:
Would I had been the Brat
of some mean Drab,
Whom Fear or Chance had caus'd to choak or
stab,
Rather than be the Issue of a King,
And by him made so
wretched, scorn'd a Thing.
How little cause has mankind to be proud

Of Noble Birth, the Idol of the Crowd!
Have I abroad in Battels
Honour won
To be at home dishonourably undone?
Mark'd