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Let the bird of loudest lay
On the sole Arabian tree
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,
To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king;
Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st
With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
'Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the Turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.
So they lov'd, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance and no space was seen
'Twixt this Turtle and his queen:
But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine
That the Turtle saw his right
Flaming in the Phoenix' sight:
Either was the other's mine.
Property was thus appalled
That the self was not the same;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was called.
Reason, in itself confounded,
| 5 | sadness | 0.650738 | 0.133402 | 0.076618 | 0.094706 | 0.006762 | 0.03296 | 0.650738 | 0.004814 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Sir Charles into my chamber coming in,
When I was writing of my Fairy Queen;
I praysaid hewhen Queen Mab you do see
Present my service to her Majesty:
And tell her I have heard Fame's loud report
Both of her beauty and her stately court.
When I Queen Mab within my fancy viewed,
My thoughts bowed low, fearing I should be rude;
Kissing her garment thin which fancy made,
I knelt upon a thought, like one that prayed;
And then, in whispers soft, I did present
His humble service which in mirth was sent;
Thus by imagination I have been
In Fairy court and seen the Fairy Queen. | 0 | anger | 0.264296 | 0.264296 | 0.145707 | 0.057977 | 0.262715 | 0.019884 | 0.244457 | 0.004963 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Our vice runs beyond all that old men saw,
And far authentically above our laws,
And scorning virtues safe and golden mean,
Sits uncontrolled upon the high extreme.
Circes, thy monsters painted out the hue,
Of feigned filthiness, but ours is true.
Our vice puts down all proverbs and all themes,
Our vice excels all fables and all dreams. | 0 | anger | 0.758054 | 0.758054 | 0.210444 | 0.00369 | 0.001755 | 0.013997 | 0.011483 | 0.000578 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,
As time her taught in lowly Shepheards weeds,
Am now enforst a far unfitter taske,
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds,
And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
Whose prayses having slept in silence long,
Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds
To blazon broad emongst her learned throng:
Fierce warres and faithful loves shall moralize my song.
Helpe then, O holy Virgin chiefe of nine,
Thy weaker Novice to performe thy will,
Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne
The antique rolles, which there lye hidden still,
Of Faerie knights and fairest Tanaquill,
Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long
Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill,
That I must rue his undeserved wrong:
O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong.
And thou most dreaded impe of highest Jove,
Faire Venus sonne, that with thy cruell dart
At that good knight so cunningly didst rove,
That glorious fire it kindled in his hart,
Lay now thy deadly Heben bow apart,
And with thy mother milde come to mine ayde:
Come both, and with you bring triumphant Mart,
In loves and gentle jollities arrayd,
After his murdrous spoiles and bloudy rage allayd.
And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright,
Mirrour of grace and M | 0 | anger | 0.89628 | 0.89628 | 0.009259 | 0.004949 | 0.00232 | 0.007623 | 0.078088 | 0.001481 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Long have I longd to see my love againe,
Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it;
Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it)
Would I desire my loves sweet precious gaine.
Yet in my soule I see him everie day,
See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce,
But (ah) what is of long continuance,
Where majestie and beautie beares the sway?
Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him,
(As love is full of foolish fantasies)
Weening to kisse his lips, as my loves fees,
I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him.
Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine:
Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine. | 5 | sadness | 0.600543 | 0.027077 | 0.036344 | 0.075487 | 0.017212 | 0.187106 | 0.600543 | 0.05623 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
Might not compare with his pure ivorie white,
On whose faire front a poets pen may write,
Whose roseate red excels the crimson grape,
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
Are rarely framd tintrap poore gazine eies:
His cheeks, the lillie and carnation dies,
With lovely tincture which Apollos dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet,
His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe,
Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure pearle in blushing correll set.
Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring,
Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring? | 5 | sadness | 0.420042 | 0.04255 | 0.065545 | 0.066748 | 0.098261 | 0.162713 | 0.420042 | 0.144141 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Praisd be Dianas fair and harmless light;
Praisd be the dews wherewith she moists the ground;
Praisd be her beams, the glory of the night;
Praisd be her power by which all powers abound.
Praisd be her nymphs with whom she decks the woods,
Praisd be her knights in whom true honour lives;
Praisd be that force by which she moves the floods;
Let that Diana shine which all these gives.
In heaven queen she is among the spheres;
In aye she mistress-like makes all things pure;
Eternity in her oft change she bears;
She beauty is; by her the fair endure.
Time wears her not: she doth his chariot guide;
Mortality below her orb is placd;
By her the virtue of the stars down slide;
In her is virtues perfect image cast.
A knowledge pure it is her worth to know:
With Circes let them dwell that think not so. | 3 | joy | 0.442016 | 0.032106 | 0.029626 | 0.019745 | 0.442016 | 0.419692 | 0.034514 | 0.022301 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
When I was fair and young, then favor graced me.
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.
But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where; importune me no more.
How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,
How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,
But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.
Then spake fair Venus son, that proud victorious boy,
Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,
I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.
As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breast
That neither night nor day I could take any rest.
Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more. | 5 | sadness | 0.972623 | 0.003044 | 0.006402 | 0.001265 | 0.006771 | 0.008089 | 0.972623 | 0.001806 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
When by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead
And that thou think'st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tir'd before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call'st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink;
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,
I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threat'nings rest still innocent. | 5 | sadness | 0.79814 | 0.066643 | 0.017438 | 0.084698 | 0.009671 | 0.019653 | 0.79814 | 0.003757 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Pla ce bo,
Who is there, who?
Di le xi,
Dame Margery;
Fa, re, my, my,
Wherfore and why, why?
For the sowle of Philip Sparowe,
That was late slayn at Carowe,
Among the Nones Blake,
For that swete soules sake,
And for all sparowes soules,
Set in our bederolles,
Pater noster qui,
With an Ave Mari,
And with the corner of a Crede,
The more shalbe your mede.
Whan I remembre agayn
How mi Philyp was slayn,
Never halfe the payne
Was betwene you twayne,
Pyramus and Thesbe,
As than befell to me:
I wept and I wayled,
The tearys downe hayled;
But nothinge it avayled
To call Phylyp agayne,
Whom Gyb our cat hath slayne.
Gib, I saye, our cat,
Worrowyd her on that
Which I loved best:
It can not be exprest
My sorowfull hevynesse,
But all without redresse;
For within that stounde,
Halfe slumbrynge, in a swounde
I fell downe to the grounde.
Unneth I kest myne eyes
Towarde the cloudy skyes:
But whan I dyd beholde
My sparow dead and colde,
No creatuer but that wolde
Have rewed upon me,
To behold and se
What hevynesse dyd me pange;
Wherewith my handes I wrange,
That my senaws cracked,
As though I had ben racked,
So payned and so strayned,
That no lyfe wellnye remayned.
I syghed and I sobbed,
For that I was robbed
Of my sparowes lyfe.
O mayden, | 5 | sadness | 0.946559 | 0.007991 | 0.002493 | 0.011882 | 0.001422 | 0.009233 | 0.946559 | 0.02042 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Ye learned sisters which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne:
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But joyed in theyr prayse.
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment.
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside,
And having all your heads with girland crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound,
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride,
So I unto my selfe alone will sing,
The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.
Early before the worlds light giving lampe,
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,
Doe ye awake, and with fresh lusty hed,
Go to the bowre of my beloved love,
My truest turtle dove,
Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,
And long since ready forth his maske to move,
With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,
And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.
Bid her awake therefore and soone her dight,
For lo the wished day is come at last,
That | 5 | sadness | 0.978984 | 0.001429 | 0.001564 | 0.001156 | 0.005798 | 0.007477 | 0.978984 | 0.003592 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might;
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offer'd as a dower his burning throne,
Where she could sit for men to gaze upon.
The outside of her garments were of lawn,
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
Her wide sleeves green, and border'd with a grove,
Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies;
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reach'd to the ground beneath;
Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves,
Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives;
Many would praise the sweet smell as she past,
When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast;
And there for honey bees have sought in vain,
And beat from thence, have lighted there again.
About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone,
Which lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone.
She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind
Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind,
Or warm or cool them, for they | 1 | disgust | 0.754468 | 0.175206 | 0.754468 | 0.025787 | 0.001442 | 0.013677 | 0.027895 | 0.001525 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
By that he ended had his ghostly sermon,
The fox was well induc'd to be a parson,
And of the priest eftsoons gan to inquire,
How to a benefice he might aspire.
"Marry, there" (said the priest) "is art indeed:
Much good deep learning one thereout may read;
For that the ground-work is, and end of all,
How to obtain a beneficial.
First, therefore, when ye have in handsome wise
Yourself attired, as you can devise,
Then to some nobleman yourself apply,
Or other great one in the worldes eye,
That hath a zealous disposition
To God, and so to his religion.
There must thou fashion eke a godly zeal,
Such as no carpers may contrare reveal;
For each thing feigned ought more wary be.
There thou must walk in sober gravity,
And seem as saint-like as Saint Radegund:
Fast much, pray oft, look lowly on the ground,
And unto every one do courtesy meek:
These looks (nought saying) do a benefice seek,
But be thou sure one not to lack or long.
And if thee list unto the court to throng,
And there to hunt after the hoped prey,
Then must thou thee dispose another way:
For there thou needs must learn to laugh, to lie,
To face, to forge, to scoff, to company,
To crouch, to please, to be a beetle-stock
Of thy great master's will, to scorn, or mock.
So may'st thou chance mock out | 2 | fear | 0.834748 | 0.024138 | 0.019023 | 0.834748 | 0.00611 | 0.097676 | 0.011607 | 0.006697 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
CALM was the day, and through the trembling air
Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play,
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
When I whose sullen care,
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In prince's court, and expectation vain
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain,
Walked forth to ease my pain
Along the shore of silver streaming Thames,
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
Was painted all with variable flowers,
And all the meads adorned with dainty gems,
Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
And crown their paramours,
Against the bridal day, which is not long:
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
There, in a meadow, by the river's side,
A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untied,
As each had been a bride;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropt full featously
The tender stalks on high.
Of every sort, which in that meadow grew,
They gathered some; the violet pallid blue,
The little daisy, that at evening closes,
The virgin lily, an | 2 | fear | 0.865057 | 0.004148 | 0.003046 | 0.865057 | 0.025343 | 0.01838 | 0.08189 | 0.002137 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
THENOT & HOBBINOLL
Tell me good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete?
What? hath some Wolfe thy tender Lambes ytorne?
Or is thy Bagpype broke, that soundes so sweete?
Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne?
Or bene thine eyes attempred to the yeare,
Quenching the gasping furrowes thirst with rayne?
Like April shoure, so stremes the trickling teares
Adowne thy cheeke, to quenche thy thristye payne.
HOBBINOLL
Nor thys, nor that, so muche doeth make me mourne,
But for the ladde, whome long I lovd so deare,
Nowe loves a lasse, that all his love doth scorne:
He plongd in payne, his tressed locks dooth teare.
Shepheards delights he dooth them all forsweare,
Hys pleasaunt Pipe, whych made us meriment,
He wylfully hath broke, and doth forbeare
His wonted songs, wherein he all outwent.
THENOT
What is he for a Ladde, you so lament?
Ys love such pinching payne to them, that prove?
And hath he skill to make so excellent,
Yet hath so little skill to brydle love?
HOBBINOLL
Colin thou kenst, the Southerne shepheardes boye:
Him Love hath wounded with a deadly darte.
Whilome on him was all my care and joye,
Forcing with gyfts to winne his wanton heart.
But now from me hys madding mynd is starte,
And woes the Widdowes daughter of the glenne:
So nowe | 5 | sadness | 0.350866 | 0.093325 | 0.018645 | 0.070897 | 0.033454 | 0.275451 | 0.350866 | 0.157361 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
PIERCE & CUDDIE
Cuddie, for shame hold up thy heavye head,
And let us cast with what delight to chace,
And weary thys long lingring Phoebus race.
Whilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade,
In rymes, in ridles, and in bydding base:
Now they in thee, and thou in sleepe art dead.
CUDDY
Piers, I have pyped erst so long with payne,
That all mine Oten reedes bene rent and wore:
And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store,
Yet little good hath got, and much lesse gayne,
Such pleasaunce makes the Grashopper so poore,
And ligge so layd, when Winter doth her straine.
The dapper ditties, that I wont devise,
To feede youthes fancie, and the flocking fry,
Delighten much: what I the bett for thy?
They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise.
I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye:
What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?
PIERS
Cuddie, the prayse is better, then the price,
The glory eke much greater then the gayne:
O what an honor is it, to restraine
The lust of lawlesse youth with good advice:
Or pricke them forth with pleasaunce of thy vaine,
Whereto thou list their trayned willes entice.
Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in frame,
O how the rurall routes to thee doe cleave:
Seemeth thou dost their soule of sence bereave,
All | 5 | sadness | 0.455499 | 0.055833 | 0.030647 | 0.149821 | 0.130875 | 0.159082 | 0.455499 | 0.018242 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
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.
Poetry Out Loud Note: In the print anthology, this poem is titled simply "Song." The student may give either title during the recitation. | 2 | fear | 0.50376 | 0.062476 | 0.027293 | 0.50376 | 0.065238 | 0.138464 | 0.141556 | 0.061213 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or hearing, die. | 5 | sadness | 0.78902 | 0.035388 | 0.014954 | 0.102099 | 0.016637 | 0.03099 | 0.78902 | 0.010912 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring and foison of the year:
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart. | 4 | neutral | 0.458007 | 0.058337 | 0.086458 | 0.144161 | 0.020599 | 0.458007 | 0.07656 | 0.155877 | Renaissance | Mythology & Folklore |
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds oertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offenders sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offences cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
| 5 | sadness | 0.827174 | 0.055132 | 0.051077 | 0.040556 | 0.007885 | 0.014408 | 0.827174 | 0.003769 | Renaissance | Nature |
The welcome Sun from sea Freake is returned,
And cheereth with his beams the naked earth,
Which gains with his coming her apparel
And had his absence six long months mourned.
Out of her fragrant sides she sends to greet him
The rashed primrose and the violet;
While she the fields and meadows doth beset
With flowers, and hangs the trees with pearl to meet him.
Amid this hope and joy she doth forget,
To kill the hemlock which doth grow too fast,
And chill the adder making too much haste,
With his black sons revived with the heat;
Till summer comes with diverse colours clad,
Much like my Epigrams both good and bad. | 5 | sadness | 0.958849 | 0.001807 | 0.001566 | 0.003962 | 0.01509 | 0.014699 | 0.958849 | 0.004027 | Renaissance | Nature |
I met a courtier riding on the plain,
Well-mounted on a brave and gallant steed;
I sat upon a jade, and spurred to my pain
My lazy beast, whose tired sides did bleed:
He saw my case, and then of courtesy
Did rein his horse, and drew the bridle in,
Because I did desire his company:
But he corvetting way of me did win.
What should I do, who was besteaded so?
His horse stood still faster than mine could go. | 2 | fear | 0.545687 | 0.111922 | 0.026707 | 0.545687 | 0.006056 | 0.062752 | 0.197632 | 0.049245 | Renaissance | Nature |
Walking the fields a wantcatcher I spied,
To him I went, desirous of his game:
Sir, have you taken wants? Yes, he replied,
Here are a dozen, which were lately taen.
Then you have left no more. No more? quoth he.
Sir I can show you more: the more the worse;
And to his work he went, but 'twould not be,
For all the wants were crept into my purse.
Farewell friend wantcatcher, since 'twill not be,
Thou cannot catch the wants, but they catch me. | 5 | sadness | 0.676915 | 0.084338 | 0.028276 | 0.145034 | 0.027958 | 0.023842 | 0.676915 | 0.013636 | Renaissance | Nature |
Fishing, if I a fisher may protest,
Of pleasures is the sweetest, of sports the best,
Of exercises the most excellent.
Of recreations the most innocent.
But now the sport is marred, and what, ye, why?
Fishes decrease, and fishers multiply. | 5 | sadness | 0.499319 | 0.163236 | 0.223053 | 0.009158 | 0.009843 | 0.076223 | 0.499319 | 0.019168 | Renaissance | Nature |
Come darkest night, becoming sorrow best;
Light; leave thy light; fitt for a lightsome soule;
Darknes doth truly sure with mee oprest
Whom absence power doth from mirthe controle:
The very trees with hanging heads condole
Sweet sommers parting, and of leaves distrest
In dying coulers make a griefe-full role;
Soe much (alas) to sorrow are they prest,
Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpetts made:
Theyr fall, theyr branches, all theyr mournings prove;
With leavles, naked bodies, whose huese vade
From hopefull greene, to wither in theyr love,
If trees, and leaves for absence, mourners bee
Noe mervaile that I grieve, who like want see. | 5 | sadness | 0.986361 | 0.001114 | 0.000556 | 0.001985 | 0.003797 | 0.002906 | 0.986361 | 0.003281 | Renaissance | Nature |
Januarie. gloga prima. ARGVMENT.
IN this fyrst glogue Colin clout a shepheardes boy complaineth him of his vnfortunate loue, being but newly (as semeth) enamoured of a countrie lasse called Rosalinde: with which strong affection being very sore traueled, he compareth his carefull case to the sadde season of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to his owne winterbeaten flocke. And lastlye, fynding himselfe robbed of all former pleasaunce and delights, hee breaketh his Pipe in peeces, and casteth him selfe to the ground.
COLIN Cloute.
A Shepeheards boye (no better doe him call)
when Winters wastful spight was almost spent,
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent.
So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now vnnethes their feete could them vphold.
All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke,
For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while,)
May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke:
Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile.
Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde,
And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde.
Ye gods of loue, that pitie louers payne,
(if any gods the paine of louers pitie:)
Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine,
And bowe | 5 | sadness | 0.464738 | 0.359382 | 0.010176 | 0.094413 | 0.032297 | 0.020139 | 0.464738 | 0.018855 | Renaissance | Nature |
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslips bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bats back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. | 5 | sadness | 0.861803 | 0.009453 | 0.038084 | 0.007749 | 0.025416 | 0.04354 | 0.861803 | 0.013955 | Renaissance | Nature |
Tis true, tis day, what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because tis light?
Did we lie down because twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from him, that had them, go.
Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, thats the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.
He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo. | 1 | disgust | 0.766264 | 0.114752 | 0.766264 | 0.046326 | 0.002775 | 0.018766 | 0.048796 | 0.002322 | Renaissance | Nature |
As I in hoary winters night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprisd I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed
As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed.
Alas! quoth he, but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are mens defiled souls,
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood.
With this he vanishd out of sight and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas day. | 2 | fear | 0.982243 | 0.006271 | 0.000842 | 0.982243 | 0.001183 | 0.001591 | 0.003877 | 0.003993 | Renaissance | Nature |
Care for thy soul as thing of greatest price,
Made to the end to taste of power divine,
Devoid of guilt, abhorring sin and vice,
Apt by Gods grace to virtue to incline.
Care for it so as by thy retchless train
It be not brought to taste eternal pain.
Care for thy corse, but chiefly for souls sake;
Cut off excess, sustaining food is best;
To vanquish pride but comely clothing take;
Seek after skill, deep ignorance detest.
Care so, I say, the flesh to feed and clothe
That thou harm not thy soul and body both.
Care for the world to do thy body right;
Rack not thy wit to win thy wicked ways;
Seek not to oppress the weak by wrongful might;
To pay thy due do banish all delays.
Care to dispend according to thy store,
And in like sort be mindful of the poor.
Care for thy soul, as for thy chiefest stay;
Care for thy body for thy souls avail;
Care for the world for bodys help alway;
Care yet but so as virtue may prevail.
Care in such sort that thou be sure of this:
Care keep thee not from heaven and heavenly bliss. | 5 | sadness | 0.606267 | 0.058556 | 0.090753 | 0.140994 | 0.024269 | 0.07581 | 0.606267 | 0.003351 | Renaissance | Nature |
The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,
And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy;
For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects faith doth ebb,
Which should not be if reason ruled or wisdom weaved the web.
But clouds of joys untried do cloak aspiring minds,
Which turn to rain of late repent by changed course of winds.
The top of hope supposed the root upreared shall be,
And fruitless all their grafted guile, as shortly ye shall see.
The dazzled eyes with pride, which great ambition blinds,
Shall be unsealed by worthy wights whose foresight falsehood finds.
The daughter of debate that discord aye doth sow
Shall reap no gain where former rule still peace hath taught to know.
No foreign banished wight shall anchor in this port;
Our realm brooks not seditious sects, let them elsewhere resort.
My rusty sword through rest shall first his edge employ
To poll their tops that seek such change or gape for future joy. | 2 | fear | 0.48447 | 0.126587 | 0.012293 | 0.48447 | 0.045204 | 0.11199 | 0.215221 | 0.004235 | Renaissance | Nature |
Fie pleasure, fie! thou cloyest me with delight,
Thou fillst my mouth with sweetmeats overmuch;
I wallow still in joy both day and night:
I deem, I dream, I do, I taste, I touch,
No thing but all that smells of perfect bliss;
Fie pleasure, fie! I cannot like of this.
To taste (sometimes) a bait of bitter gall,
To drink a draught of sour ale (some season)
To eat brown bread with homely hands in hall,
Doth much increase mens appetites, by reason,
And makes the sweet more sugard that ensues,
Since minds of men do still seek after news.
The pamperd horse is seldom seen in breath,
Whose manger makes his grace (oftimes) to melt;
The crammed fowl comes quickly to his death;
Such colds they catch in hottest haps that swelt;
And I (much like) in pleasure scawled still,
Do fear to starve although I feed my fill.
It might suffice that Love hath built his bower
Between my ladys lively shining eyes;
It were enough that beautys fading flower
Grows ever fresh with her in heavenly wise;
It had been well that she were fair of face,
And yet not rob all other dames of grace.
To muse in mind, how wise, how fair, how good,
How brave, how frank, how courteous, and how true
My lady is, doth but inflame my blood
With humours such as bid my health adieu;
Si | 3 | joy | 0.943256 | 0.004874 | 0.006279 | 0.009114 | 0.943256 | 0.009983 | 0.024905 | 0.001588 | Renaissance | Nature |
Green groweth the holly,
So doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly.
As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.
As the holly groweth green
With ivy all alone
When flowers cannot be seen
And greenwood leaves be gone,
Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make,
From all other only
To her I me betake.
Adieu, mine own lady,
Adieu, my special
Who hath my heart truly
Be sure, and ever shall. | 5 | sadness | 0.860013 | 0.034284 | 0.019118 | 0.012303 | 0.011535 | 0.054496 | 0.860013 | 0.008251 | Renaissance | Nature |
Lucks, my fair falcon, and your fellows all,
How well pleasant it were your liberty!
Ye not forsake me that fair might ye befall.
But they that sometime liked my company:
Like lice away from dead bodies they crawl.
Lo what a proof in light adversity!
But ye my birds, I swear by all your bells,
Ye be my friends, and so be but few else. | 5 | sadness | 0.2609 | 0.068547 | 0.039989 | 0.242524 | 0.201191 | 0.154022 | 0.2609 | 0.032827 | Renaissance | Nature |
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherds tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancys spring, but sorrows fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
The Coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love. | 5 | sadness | 0.866221 | 0.090228 | 0.009286 | 0.004476 | 0.00439 | 0.021077 | 0.866221 | 0.004322 | Renaissance | Nature |
Gut eats all day and lechers all the night;
So all his meat he tasteth over twice;
And, striving so to double his delight,
He makes himself a thoroughfare of vice.
Thus in his belly can he change a sin:
Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in. | 1 | disgust | 0.920677 | 0.023302 | 0.920677 | 0.003139 | 0.001999 | 0.038285 | 0.011054 | 0.001543 | Renaissance | Nature |
The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approached, unlocked her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:
Farewell, all joys; Oh death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise. | 5 | sadness | 0.542876 | 0.117436 | 0.040734 | 0.190085 | 0.017212 | 0.082298 | 0.542876 | 0.00936 | Renaissance | Nature |
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As mans ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then, heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly... | 0 | anger | 0.642696 | 0.642696 | 0.0352 | 0.023325 | 0.047654 | 0.049076 | 0.182769 | 0.019281 | Renaissance | Nature |
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he:
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo! O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo! O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring-owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who!a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly | 2 | fear | 0.709932 | 0.01926 | 0.006627 | 0.709932 | 0.0981 | 0.035417 | 0.109383 | 0.021282 | Renaissance | Nature |
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to mans estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But thats all one, our play is done,
And well strive to please you every day. | 2 | fear | 0.369112 | 0.078644 | 0.032353 | 0.369112 | 0.109514 | 0.070312 | 0.30312 | 0.036945 | Renaissance | Nature |
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beautys rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory;
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feedst thy lights flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Though that art now the worlds fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, makst waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the worlds due, by the grave and thee. | 5 | sadness | 0.427777 | 0.24021 | 0.26603 | 0.015415 | 0.024016 | 0.023593 | 0.427777 | 0.00296 | Renaissance | Nature |
Shall I compare thee to a summers day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summers lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or natures changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owst;
Nor shall death brag thou wanderst in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growst:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. | 2 | fear | 0.817965 | 0.019137 | 0.010434 | 0.817965 | 0.012578 | 0.028966 | 0.083004 | 0.027916 | Renaissance | Nature |
Spring, the sweet spring, is the years pleasant king,
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet spring! | 3 | joy | 0.861662 | 0.019445 | 0.00395 | 0.013375 | 0.861662 | 0.067683 | 0.018474 | 0.015411 | Renaissance | Nature |
No crooked leg, no bleared eye,
No part deformed out of kind,
Nor yet so ugly half can be
As is the inward suspicious mind. | 2 | fear | 0.421183 | 0.032794 | 0.256589 | 0.421183 | 0.00256 | 0.195823 | 0.044693 | 0.046358 | Renaissance | Nature |
Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be;
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too;
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid Love ask, and now
That it assume thy body, I allow,
And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow.
Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught;
Ev'ry thy hair for love to work upon
Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere;
Then, as an angel, face, and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth wear,
So thy love may be my love's sphere;
Just such disparity
As is 'twixt air and angels' purity,
'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be. | 5 | sadness | 0.592713 | 0.170083 | 0.028184 | 0.107667 | 0.031443 | 0.043824 | 0.592713 | 0.026086 | Renaissance | Nature |
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that even in heav'nly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
Sure, if that long-with love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,
I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? | 5 | sadness | 0.97962 | 0.001552 | 0.00272 | 0.0019 | 0.001994 | 0.008567 | 0.97962 | 0.003647 | Renaissance | Nature |
When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
In colour black why wrapt she beams so bright?
Would she in beamy black, like painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre, mix'd of shades and light?
Or did she else that sober hue devise,
In object best to knit and strength our sight;
Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise,
They, sunlike, should more dazzle than delight?
Or would she her miraculous power show,
That, whereas black seems beauty's contrary,
She even in black doth make all beauties flow?
Both so, and thus, she, minding Love should be
Plac'd ever there, gave him this mourning weed
To honour all their deaths who for her bleed. | 5 | sadness | 0.797061 | 0.007638 | 0.028375 | 0.012849 | 0.045095 | 0.091772 | 0.797061 | 0.017209 | Renaissance | Nature |
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.
There will the river whispering run
Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun;
And there the 'enamour'd fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.
When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,
By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light having thee.
Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net.
Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest;
Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes.
For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait:
That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I. | 2 | fear | 0.745065 | 0.065739 | 0.051032 | 0.745065 | 0.008638 | 0.078853 | 0.045865 | 0.004808 | Renaissance | Nature |
Our storm is past, and that storm's tyrannous rage,
A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth 'suage.
The fable is inverted, and far more
A block afflicts, now, than a stork before.
Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves, or us;
In calms, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus.
As steady'as I can wish that my thoughts were,
Smooth as thy mistress' glass, or what shines there,
The sea is now; and, as the isles which we
Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be.
As water did in storms, now pitch runs out;
As lead, when a fir'd church becomes one spout.
And all our beauty, and our trim, decays,
Like courts removing, or like ended plays.
The fighting-place now seamen's rags supply;
And all the tackling is a frippery.
No use of lanthorns; and in one place lay
Feathers and dust, to-day and yesterday.
Earth's hollownesses, which the world's lungs are,
Have no more wind than the upper vault of air.
We can nor lost friends nor sought foes recover,
But meteor-like, save that we move not, hover.
Only the calenture together draws
Dear friends, which meet dead in great fishes' jaws;
And on the hatches, as on altars, lies
Each one, his own priest, and own sacrifice.
Who live, that miracle do multiply,
Where walkers in hot ovens do not die.
If in despite of these we s | 2 | fear | 0.58025 | 0.139397 | 0.027005 | 0.58025 | 0.023776 | 0.105809 | 0.121292 | 0.00247 | Renaissance | Nature |
Where, like a pillow on a bed
A pregnant bank swell'd up to rest
The violet's reclining head,
Sat we two, one another's best.
Our hands were firmly cemented
With a fast balm, which thence did spring;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes upon one double string;
So to'intergraft our hands, as yet
Was all the means to make us one,
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propagation.
As 'twixt two equal armies fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls (which to advance their state
Were gone out) hung 'twixt her and me.
And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day, the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all the day.
If any, so by love refin'd
That he soul's language understood,
And by good love were grown all mind,
Within convenient distance stood,
He (though he knew not which soul spake,
Because both meant, both spake the same)
Might thence a new concoction take
And part far purer than he came.
This ecstasy doth unperplex,
We said, and tell us what we love;
We see by this it was not sex,
We see we saw not what did move;
But as all several souls contain
| 2 | fear | 0.463716 | 0.043917 | 0.02068 | 0.463716 | 0.07221 | 0.131489 | 0.152439 | 0.115549 | Renaissance | Nature |
No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face.
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame;
Affection here takes reverence's name.
Were her first years the golden age? That's true,
But now she's gold oft tried and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable tropic clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,
They were Love's graves, for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit
Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorit;
And here till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he; though he sojourn ev'rywhere
In progress, yet his standing house is here:
Here where still evening is, not noon nor night,
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at council, sit.
This is Love's timber, youth his underwood;
There he, as wine in June, enrages blood,
Which | 5 | sadness | 0.326719 | 0.037624 | 0.220908 | 0.189721 | 0.044918 | 0.151084 | 0.326719 | 0.029026 | Renaissance | Nature |
Here take my picture; though I bid farewell
Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more
When we are shadows both, than 'twas before.
When weather-beaten I come back, my hand
Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun beams tann'd,
My face and breast of haircloth, and my head
With care's rash sudden storms being o'erspread,
My body'a sack of bones, broken within,
And powder's blue stains scatter'd on my skin;
If rival fools tax thee to'have lov'd a man
So foul and coarse as, oh, I may seem then,
This shall say what I was, and thou shalt say,
"Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay?
Or do they reach his judging mind, that he
Should now love less, what he did love to see?
That which in him was fair and delicate,
Was but the milk which in love's childish state
Did nurse it; who now is grown strong enough
To feed on that, which to disus'd tastes seems tough." | 0 | anger | 0.427883 | 0.427883 | 0.261616 | 0.080473 | 0.003673 | 0.019217 | 0.201378 | 0.00576 | Renaissance | Nature |
Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste,
I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday;
I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
Despair behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feebled flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
Only thou art above, and when towards thee
By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one hour I can myself sustain;
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart. | 2 | fear | 0.968676 | 0.011716 | 0.001674 | 0.968676 | 0.000962 | 0.003023 | 0.013208 | 0.000742 | Renaissance | Nature |
Since I am coming to that holy room,
Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be made thy music; as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then, think here before.
Whilst my physicians by their love are grown
Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie
Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown
That this is my south-west discovery,
Per fretum febris, by these straits to die,
I joy, that in these straits I see my west;
For, though their currents yield return to none,
What shall my west hurt me? As west and east
In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,
So death doth touch the resurrection.
Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are
The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?
Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar,
All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them,
Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.
We think that Paradise and Calvary,
Christ's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place;
Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;
As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,
May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.
So, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord;
By these his thorns, g | 5 | sadness | 0.524077 | 0.015105 | 0.010989 | 0.121711 | 0.193333 | 0.082816 | 0.524077 | 0.05197 | Renaissance | Nature |
My galley, charged with forgetfulness,
Thorough sharp seas in winter nights doth pass
'Tween rock and rock; and eke mine en'my, alas,
That is my lord, steereth with cruelness;
And every owre a thought in readiness,
As though that death were light in such a case.
An endless wind doth tear the sail apace
Of forced sighs and trusty fearfulness.
A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain,
Hath done the weared cords great hinderance;
Wreathed with error and eke with ignorance.
The stars be hid that led me to this pain;
Drowned is Reason that should me comfort,
And I remain despairing of the port. | 5 | sadness | 0.550266 | 0.020182 | 0.008024 | 0.407656 | 0.002517 | 0.009303 | 0.550266 | 0.002052 | Renaissance | Nature |
My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin,
They sang sometime a song of the field mouse,
That, for because her livelood was but thin,
Would needs go seek her townish sister's house.
She thought herself endured too much pain;
The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse
That when the furrows swimmed with the rain,
She must lie cold and wet in sorry plight;
And worse than that, bare meat there did remain
To comfort her when she her house had dight;
Sometime a barley corn; sometime a bean;
For which she laboured hard both day and night
In harvest time whilst she might go and glean;
And where store was stroyed with the flood,
Then well away! for she undone was clean.
Then was she fain to take instead of food
Sleep, if she might, her hunger to beguile.
"My sister," quod she, "hath a living good,
And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile.
In cold and storm she lieth warm and dry
In bed of down; the dirt doth not defile
Her tender foot, she laboureth not as I.
Richly she feedeth and at the richman's cost,
And for her meat she needs not crave nor cry.
By sea, by land, of the delicates, the most
Her cater seeks, and spareth for no peril.
She feedeth on boiled bacon meet and roast,
And hath thereof neither charge nor travail;
And when she l | 5 | sadness | 0.53484 | 0.036515 | 0.32642 | 0.034347 | 0.00556 | 0.05854 | 0.53484 | 0.00378 | Renaissance | Nature |
Forget this rotten world, and unto thee
Let thine own times as an old story be.
Be not concern'd; study not why, nor when;
Do not so much as not believe a man.
For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth
Is far more business than this world is worth.
I'he world is but a carcass; thou art fed
By it, but as a worm, that carcass bred;
And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more,
When this world will grow better than before,
Than those thy fellow-worms do think upon
That carcass's last resurrection?
Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
As of old clothes, cast off a year ago.
To be thus stupid is alacrity;
Men thus lethargic have best memory.
Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state
We now lament not, but congratulate.
She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
Where all sat heark'ning how her youthful age
Should be employ'd, because in all she did
Some figure of the golden times was hid.
Who could not lack, what'er this world could give,
Because she was the form, that made it live;
Nor could complain that this world was unfit
To be stay'd in, then when she was in it;
She, that first tried indifferent desires
By virtue, and virtue by religious fires;
She, to whose person paradise adher'd,
As courts to princes; she, whose eyes | 5 | sadness | 0.863142 | 0.022241 | 0.041898 | 0.026215 | 0.004478 | 0.039341 | 0.863142 | 0.002685 | Renaissance | Nature |
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The Shepherds Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love. | 3 | joy | 0.841323 | 0.005719 | 0.010471 | 0.001653 | 0.841323 | 0.119743 | 0.010335 | 0.010758 | Renaissance | Nature |
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them,ding-dong, bell. | 2 | fear | 0.715382 | 0.006306 | 0.005512 | 0.715382 | 0.010019 | 0.023463 | 0.046013 | 0.193305 | Renaissance | Nature |
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise. | 3 | joy | 0.583937 | 0.050854 | 0.020199 | 0.073314 | 0.583937 | 0.147102 | 0.068484 | 0.056109 | Renaissance | Nature |
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good. | 0 | anger | 0.587365 | 0.587365 | 0.234017 | 0.031237 | 0.003033 | 0.116329 | 0.024277 | 0.003741 | Renaissance | Nature |
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather. | 3 | joy | 0.776143 | 0.013408 | 0.008071 | 0.036082 | 0.776143 | 0.049279 | 0.109086 | 0.00793 | Renaissance | Nature |
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. | 1 | disgust | 0.481663 | 0.281837 | 0.481663 | 0.008176 | 0.005929 | 0.038037 | 0.179711 | 0.004647 | Renaissance | Nature |
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. | 2 | fear | 0.947699 | 0.007009 | 0.005125 | 0.947699 | 0.003222 | 0.004723 | 0.029881 | 0.002341 | Renaissance | Nature |
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time remov'd was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. | 5 | sadness | 0.928842 | 0.003154 | 0.005605 | 0.042062 | 0.005585 | 0.009223 | 0.928842 | 0.005528 | Renaissance | Nature |
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[......] these rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then. | 5 | sadness | 0.362631 | 0.277734 | 0.211918 | 0.017702 | 0.002898 | 0.088754 | 0.362631 | 0.038363 | Renaissance | Nature |
Now thou has loved me one whole day,
Tomorrow when you leavst, what wilt thou say?
Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow?
Or say that now
We are not just those persons which we were?
Or, that oaths made in reverential fear
Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear?
Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,
So lovers contracts, images of those,
Bind but till sleep, deaths image, them unloose?
Or, your own end to justify,
For having purposed change and falsehood, you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true?
Vain lunatic, against these scapes I could
Dispute and conquer, if I would,
Which I abstain to do,
For by tomorrow, I may think so too. | 0 | anger | 0.806707 | 0.806707 | 0.031867 | 0.124384 | 0.002294 | 0.022384 | 0.009531 | 0.002834 | Renaissance | Love |
Womanhood, wanton, ye want:
Your meddling, mistress, is mannerless;
Plenty of ill, of goodness scant,
Ye rail at riot, reckless:
To praise your port it is needless;
For all your draff yet and your dregs,
As well borne as ye full oft time begs.
Why so coy and full of scorn?
Mine horse is sold, I ween, you say;
My new furred gown, when it is worn...
Put up your purse, ye shall not pay!
By crede, I trust to see the day,
As proud a pea-hen as ye spread,
Of me and other ye may have need!
Though angelic be your smiling,
Yet is your tongue an adders tail,
Full like a scorpion stinging
All those by whom ye have avail.
Good mistress Anne, there ye do shail:
What prate ye, pretty pigesnye?
I trust to quite you ere I die!
Your key is meet for every lock,
Your key is common and hangeth out;
Your key is ready, we need not knock,
Nor stand long wresting there about;
Of your door-gate ye have no doubt:
But one thing is, that ye be lewd:
Hold your tongue now, all beshrewd!
To mistress Anne, that farly sweet,
That wones at The Key in Thames Street.
| 0 | anger | 0.638862 | 0.638862 | 0.218072 | 0.068367 | 0.005234 | 0.037749 | 0.028346 | 0.003369 | Renaissance | Love |
Wyatt resteth here, that quick could never rest;
Whose heavenly gifts increased by disdain,
And virtue sank the deeper in his breast;
Such profit he of envy could obtain.
A head, where wisdom mysteries did frame,
Whose hammers beat still in that lively brain
As on a stith, where some work of fame
Was daily wrought, to turn to Britains gain.
A visage, stern and mild; where both did grow,
Vice to condemn, in virtues to rejoice;
Amid great storms whom grace assured so,
To live upright and smile at fortunes choice.
A hand that taught what might be said in rhyme;
That reft Chaucer the glory of his wit;
A mark the which (unperfited, for time)
Some may approach, but never none shall hit.
A tongue that served in foreign realms his king;
Whose courteous talk to virtue did enflame
Each noble heart; a worthy guide to bring
Our English youth, by travail unto fame.
An eye whose judgment no affect could blind,
Friends to allure, and foes to reconcile;
Whose piercing look did represent a mind
With virtue fraught, reposed, void of guile.
A heart where dread yet never so impressed
To hide the thought that might the truth avaunce;
In neither fortune lift, nor so repressed,
To swell in wealth, nor yield unto mischance.
A valiant corps, where force and beaut | 2 | fear | 0.788151 | 0.062595 | 0.057084 | 0.788151 | 0.010298 | 0.039041 | 0.036794 | 0.006037 | Renaissance | Love |
Alas, madam, for stealing of a kiss
Have I so much your mind there offended?
Have I then done so grievously amiss
That by no means it may be amended?
Then revenge you, and the next way is this:
Another kiss shall have my life ended,
For to my mouth the first my heart did suck;
The next shall clean out of my breast it pluck. | 0 | anger | 0.763912 | 0.763912 | 0.109877 | 0.012996 | 0.001888 | 0.027259 | 0.080674 | 0.003394 | Renaissance | Love |
The sovereign beauty which I do admire,
Witness the world how worthy to be praised:
The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fire
In my frail spirit, by her from baseness raised;
That being now with her huge brightness dazed,
Base thing I can no more endure to view;
But looking still on her, I stand amazed
At wondrous sight of so celestial hue.
So when my tongue would speak her praises due,
It stopped is with thought's astonishment:
And when my pen would write her titles true,
It ravish'd is with fancy's wonderment:
Yet in my heart I then both speak and write
The wonder that my wit cannot endite. | 6 | surprise | 0.976323 | 0.003897 | 0.001215 | 0.007249 | 0.002821 | 0.006652 | 0.001843 | 0.976323 | Renaissance | Love |
Like as a huntsman after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escap'd away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds beguiled of their prey:
So after long pursuit and vain assay,
When I all weary had the chase forsook,
The gentle deer return'd the self-same way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook.
There she beholding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide:
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own goodwill her firmly tied.
Strange thing, me seem'd, to see a beast so wild,
So goodly won, with her own will beguil'd. | 2 | fear | 0.848628 | 0.011339 | 0.037982 | 0.848628 | 0.01051 | 0.04732 | 0.041625 | 0.002596 | Renaissance | Love |
Most happy letters, fram'd by skilful trade,
With which that happy name was first design'd:
The which three times thrice happy hath me made,
With gifts of body, fortune, and of mind.
The first my being to me gave by kind,
From mother's womb deriv'd by due descent,
The second is my sovereign Queen most kind,
That honour and large richesse to me lent.
The third my love, my life's last ornament,
By whom my spirit out of dust was raised:
To speak her praise and glory excellent,
Of all alive most worthy to be praised.
Ye three Elizabeths for ever live,
That three such graces did unto me give. | 3 | joy | 0.982779 | 0.00201 | 0.001099 | 0.000401 | 0.982779 | 0.005504 | 0.00348 | 0.004726 | Renaissance | Love |
Men call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that your self ye daily such do see:
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more prais'd of me.
For all the rest, how ever fair it be,
Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue:
But only that is permanent and free
From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed:
Deriv'd from that fair Spirit, from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fair, and what he fair hath made,
All other fair, like flowers untimely fade. | 5 | sadness | 0.784727 | 0.007342 | 0.024019 | 0.032246 | 0.017858 | 0.119013 | 0.784727 | 0.014796 | Renaissance | Love |
One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay,
A mortal thing so to immortalize;
For I myself shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise."
"Not so," (quod I) "let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life renew." | 5 | sadness | 0.335005 | 0.13352 | 0.304098 | 0.077632 | 0.01165 | 0.128981 | 0.335005 | 0.009114 | Renaissance | Love |
This holy season, fit to fast and pray,
Men to devotion ought to be inclin'd:
Therefore I likewise on so holy day,
For my sweet saint some service fit will find.
Her temple fair is built within my mind,
In which her glorious image placed is,
On which my thoughts do day and night attend,
Like sacred priests that never think amiss.
There I to her as th' author of my bliss,
Will build an altar to appease her ire:
And on the same my heart will sacrifice,
Burning in flames of pure and chaste desire:
The which vouchsafe, O goddess, to accept,
Amongst thy dearest relics to be kept. | 0 | anger | 0.913869 | 0.913869 | 0.04321 | 0.004171 | 0.004749 | 0.022125 | 0.01049 | 0.001386 | Renaissance | Love |
AH whither, Love, wilt thou now carry me?
What wontless fury dost thou now inspire
Into my feeble breast, too full of thee?
Whilst seeking to aslake thy raging fire,
Thou in me kindlest much more great desire,
And up aloft above my strength dost raise
The wondrous matter of my fire to praise.
That as I erst in praise of thine own name,
So now in honour of thy mother dear,
An honourable hymn I eke should frame,
And with the brightness of her beauty clear,
The ravish'd hearts of gazeful men might rear
To admiration of that heavenly light,
From whence proceeds such soul-enchanting might.
Thereto do thou, great goddess, queen of beauty,
Mother of love, and of all world's delight,
Without whose sovereign grace and kindly duty
Nothing on earth seems fair to fleshly sight,
Do thou vouchsafe with thy love-kindling light
T' illuminate my dim and dulled eyne,
And beautify this sacred hymn of thine:
That both to thee, to whom I mean it most,
And eke to her, whose fair immortal beam
Hath darted fire into my feeble ghost,
That now it wasted is with woes extreme,
It may so please, that she at length will stream
Some dew of grace into my withered heart,
After long sorrow and consuming smart.
WHAT time this world's great Workmaster did cast
To make all things | 0 | anger | 0.948485 | 0.948485 | 0.004515 | 0.008368 | 0.002066 | 0.009464 | 0.021608 | 0.005494 | Renaissance | Love |
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay, for shame,
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame;
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath given thee my heart
Never for to depart,
Nother for pain nor smart;
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus
And have no more pity
Of him that loveth thee?
Helas, thy cruelty!
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay, say nay! | 0 | anger | 0.778943 | 0.778943 | 0.072565 | 0.01251 | 0.003982 | 0.014077 | 0.108571 | 0.009351 | Renaissance | Love |
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
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." | 1 | disgust | 0.27138 | 0.261934 | 0.27138 | 0.007299 | 0.099869 | 0.099327 | 0.254412 | 0.005778 | Renaissance | Love |
You that do search for every purling spring
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts, into your poesy wring;
Ye that do dictionary's method bring
Into your rimes, running in rattling rows;
You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes
With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing:
You take wrong ways; those far-fet helps be such
As do bewray a want of inward touch,
And sure, at length stol'n goods do come to light.
But if, both for your love and skill, your name
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
Stella behold, and then begin to endite. | 5 | sadness | 0.516348 | 0.065415 | 0.054045 | 0.018385 | 0.01867 | 0.300319 | 0.516348 | 0.026819 | Renaissance | Love |
Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound, fly!
See there that boy, that murd'ring boy, I say,
Who, like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie
Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey.
So tyrant he no fitter place could spy,
Nor so fair level in so secret stay,
As that sweet black which veils the heav'nly eye;
There himself with his shot he close doth lay.
Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did,
And stay'd, pleas'd with the prospect of the place,
While that black hue from me the bad guest hid;
But straight I saw motions of lightning grace
And then descried the glist'ring of his dart:
But ere I could fly thence it pierc'd my heart. | 0 | anger | 0.938269 | 0.938269 | 0.013309 | 0.026552 | 0.001601 | 0.00941 | 0.009186 | 0.001672 | Renaissance | Love |
The curious wits, seeing dull pensiveness
Bewray itself in my long-settl'd eyes,
Whence those same fumes of melancholy rise,
With idle pains and missing aim do guess.
Some, that know how my spring I did address,
Deem that my Muse some fruit of knowledge plies;
Others, because the prince my service tries,
Think that I think state errors to redress;
But harder judges judge ambition's ragei
Scourge of itself, still climbing slipp'ry placei
Holds my young brain captiv'd in golden cage.
O fool or over-wise! alas, the race
Of all my thoughts hath neither stop nor start
But only Stella's eyes and Stella's heart. | 5 | sadness | 0.966096 | 0.004976 | 0.005646 | 0.001921 | 0.002166 | 0.012392 | 0.966096 | 0.006804 | Renaissance | Love |
Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,
That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told;
Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,
Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold.
Or else let them in statelier glory shine,
Ennobling newfound tropes with problems old;
Or with strange similes enrich each line,
Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold.
For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know;
Phrases and problems from my reach do grow,
And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites.
How then? even thus: in Stella's face I read
What love and beauty be; then all my deed
But copying is, what in her Nature writes. | 5 | sadness | 0.50384 | 0.008123 | 0.030069 | 0.026463 | 0.096012 | 0.327779 | 0.50384 | 0.007715 | Renaissance | Love |
I might!unhappy wordO me, I might,
And then would not, or could not, see my bliss;
Till now wrapt in a most infernal night,
I find how heav'nly day, wretch! I did miss.
Heart, rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right;
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his,
No force, no fraud robb'd thee of thy delight,
Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is;
But to myself myself did give the blow,
While too much wit, forsooth, so troubled me
That I respects for both our sakes must show:
And yet could not by rising morn foresee
How fair a day was near: O punish'd eyes,
That I had been more foolish,or more wise! | 5 | sadness | 0.960638 | 0.009018 | 0.001011 | 0.001506 | 0.006507 | 0.003932 | 0.960638 | 0.017388 | Renaissance | Love |
Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,
A rosy garland and a weary head:
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. | 5 | sadness | 0.823689 | 0.0185 | 0.007522 | 0.115031 | 0.007486 | 0.024555 | 0.823689 | 0.003217 | Renaissance | Love |
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. | 0 | anger | 0.22339 | 0.22339 | 0.123965 | 0.044964 | 0.17244 | 0.209053 | 0.170738 | 0.05545 | Renaissance | Love |
No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;
Oh, give my passions leave to run their race;
Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace;
Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry;
Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye;
Let me no steps but of lost labour trace;
Let all the earth with scorn recount my case,
But do not will me from my love to fly.
I do not envy Aristotle's wit,
Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame;
Nor aught do care though some above me sit;
Nor hope nor wish another course to frame,
But that which once may win thy cruel heart:
Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. | 0 | anger | 0.546669 | 0.546669 | 0.249229 | 0.015464 | 0.006329 | 0.042078 | 0.136913 | 0.003318 | Renaissance | Love |
Who will in fairest book of nature know
How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be,
Let him but learn of love to read in thee,
Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show.
There shall he find all vices' overthrow,
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty
Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly;
That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.
And, not content to be perfection's heir
Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move,
Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair.
So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love,
As fast thy virtue bends that love to good:
But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!" | 0 | anger | 0.567618 | 0.567618 | 0.142375 | 0.022288 | 0.012517 | 0.193217 | 0.042585 | 0.019401 | Renaissance | Love |
Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet
More oft than to a chamber melody.
Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet:
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully.
Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed;
By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot,
Nor blam'd for blood, nor sham'd for sinful deed;
And that you know I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,i
Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss. | 5 | sadness | 0.572614 | 0.009256 | 0.001952 | 0.002469 | 0.369974 | 0.024888 | 0.572614 | 0.018847 | Renaissance | Love |
Be your words made, good sir, of Indian ware,
That you allow me them by so small rate?
Or do you cutted Spartans imitate?
Or do you mean my tender ears to spare,
That to my questions you so total are?
When I demand of Phoenix Stella's state,
You say, forsooth, you left her well of late:
O God, think you that satisfies my care?
I would know whether she did sit or walk;
How cloth'd, how waited on; sigh'd she, or smil'd;
Whereof, with whom, how often did she talk;
With what pastime time's journey she beguiled;
If her lips deign'd to sweeten my poor name.
Say all; and all well said, still say the same. | 4 | neutral | 0.568786 | 0.039655 | 0.069044 | 0.013069 | 0.046042 | 0.568786 | 0.110949 | 0.152456 | Renaissance | Love |
Avising the bright beams of these fair eyes
Where he is that mine oft moisteth and washeth,
The wearied mind straight from the heart departeth
For to rest in his worldly paradise
And find the sweet bitter under this guise.
What webs he hath wrought well he perceiveth
Whereby with himself on love he plaineth
That spurreth with fire and bridleth with ice.
Thus is it in such extremity brought,
In frozen thought, now and now it standeth in flame.
Twixt misery and wealth, twixt earnest and game,
But few glad, and many diverse thought
With sore repentance of his hardiness.
Of such a root cometh fruit fruitless. | 5 | sadness | 0.660374 | 0.223849 | 0.060813 | 0.004349 | 0.005414 | 0.041999 | 0.660374 | 0.003202 | Renaissance | Love |
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 stamped 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 phnix 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 | 5 | sadness | 0.342169 | 0.05064 | 0.013707 | 0.066527 | 0.190854 | 0.250063 | 0.342169 | 0.086041 | Renaissance | Love |
Let it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty years,
I have had, and have, my peers;
Poets, though divine, are men,
Some have lov'd as old again.
And it is not always face,
Clothes, or fortune, gives the grace;
Or the feature, or the youth.
But the language and the truth,
With the ardour and the passion,
Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you then will read the story,
First prepare you to be sorry
That you never knew till now
Either whom to love or how;
But be glad, as soon with me,
When you know that this is she
Of whose beauty it was sung;
She shall make the old man young,
Keep the middle age at stay,
And let nothing high decay,
Till she be the reason why
All the world for love may die. | 5 | sadness | 0.683335 | 0.004551 | 0.00762 | 0.007219 | 0.10394 | 0.164946 | 0.683335 | 0.02839 | Renaissance | Love |
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Ha' you felt the wool o' the beaver?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she! | 3 | joy | 0.759422 | 0.018189 | 0.014873 | 0.003466 | 0.759422 | 0.113801 | 0.069269 | 0.02098 | Renaissance | Love |
Muses that sing love's sensual empery,
And lovers kindling your enraged fires
At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye,
Blown with the empty breath of vain desires;
You that prefer the painted cabinet
Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye,
That all your joys in dying figures set,
And stain the living substance of your glory;
Abjure those joys, abhor their memory,
And let my love the honour'd subject be
Of love, and honour's complete history.
Your eyes were never yet let in to see
The majesty and riches of the mind,
But dwell in darkness; for your god is blind. | 0 | anger | 0.966159 | 0.966159 | 0.016973 | 0.002849 | 0.00081 | 0.007126 | 0.004984 | 0.0011 | Renaissance | Love |
Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream;
It was a theme
For reason, much too strong for fantasy,
Therefore thou wak'd'st me wisely; yet
My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths, and fables histories;
Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best,
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.
As lightning, or a taper's light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise wak'd me;
Yet I thought thee
(For thou lovest truth) an angel, at first sight;
But when I saw thou sawest my heart,
And knew'st my thoughts, beyond an angel's art,
When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then,
I must confess, it could not choose but be
Profane, to think thee any thing but thee.
Coming and staying show'd thee, thee,
But rising makes me doubt, that now
Thou art not thou.
That love is weak where fear's as strong as he;
'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,
If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have;
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me;
Thou cam'st to kindle, goest to come; then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would | 2 | fear | 0.937947 | 0.007182 | 0.001305 | 0.937947 | 0.007717 | 0.008066 | 0.033993 | 0.00379 | Renaissance | Love |
"Who is it that this dark night
Underneath my window plaineth?"
It is one who from thy sight
Being, ah, exil'd, disdaineth
Every other vulgar light.
"Why, alas, and are you he?
Be not yet those fancies changed?"
Dear, when you find change in me,
Though from me you be estranged,
Let my change to ruin be.
"Well, in absence this will die;
Leave to see, and leave to wonder."
Absence sure will help, if I
Can learn how myself to sunder
From what in my heart doth lie.
"But time will these thoughts remove;
Time doth work what no man knoweth."
Time doth as the subject prove;
With time still the affection groweth
In the faithful turtle-dove.
"What if you new beauties see?
Will not they stir new affection?"
I will think they pictures be,
Image-like, of saints' perfection,
Poorly counterfeiting thee.
"But your reason's purest light
Bids you leave such minds to nourish."
Dear, do reason no such spite;
Never doth thy beauty flourish
More than in my reason's sight.
"But the wrongs love bears will make
Love at length leave undertaking."
No, the more fools it do shake,
In a ground of so firm making
Deeper still they drive the stake.
"Peace, I think that some give ear!
Come no more, lest I get anger!"
Bliss, I will my bliss forbear;
Fearing, swee | 0 | anger | 0.577503 | 0.577503 | 0.190031 | 0.133235 | 0.005504 | 0.049277 | 0.040235 | 0.004216 | Renaissance | Love |
Farewell love and all thy laws forever;
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more.
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore
To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavour.
In blind error when I did persever,
Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore,
Hath taught me to set in trifles no store
And scape forth, since liberty is lever.
Therefore farewell; go trouble younger hearts
And in me claim no more authority.
With idle youth go use thy property
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts,
For hitherto though I have lost all my time,
Me lusteth no lenger rotten boughs to climb. | 0 | anger | 0.452708 | 0.452708 | 0.054704 | 0.213573 | 0.012245 | 0.068117 | 0.195765 | 0.002888 | Renaissance | Love |
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow,
Though thou be black as night
And she made all of light,
Yet follow thy fair sun unhappy shadow.
Follow her whose light thy light depriveth,
Though here thou livst disgraced,
And she in heaven is placed,
Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth.
Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth,
That so have scorched thee,
As thou still black must be,
Till Her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
Follow her while yet her glory shineth,
There comes a luckless night,
That will dim all her light,
And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still since so thy fates ordained,
The Sun must have his shade,
Till both at once do fade,
The Sun still proved, the shadow still disdained.
Poetry Out Loud Note: In the print anthology, this poem is titled "Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow." The student may give either title during the recitation. | 5 | sadness | 0.742737 | 0.151508 | 0.039087 | 0.012548 | 0.005756 | 0.044925 | 0.742737 | 0.00344 | Renaissance | Love |
Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet;
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet.
There, wrapp'd 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. | 5 | sadness | 0.893108 | 0.047075 | 0.015925 | 0.004471 | 0.008058 | 0.028681 | 0.893108 | 0.002683 | Renaissance | Love |
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