Henry Howard: Verses about Fire

NORFOLK sprung thee, Lambeth holds thee dead ;
Clere, of the Count of Cleremont, though hight
Within the womb of Ormond's race thou bred,
And saw'st thy cousin crowned in thy sight.
Shelton for love, Surrey for Lord thou chase ;
(Aye, me ! whilst life did last that league was tender)
Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsal blaze,
Landrecy burnt, and batter'd Boulogne render.
At Montreuil gates, hopeless of all recure,
Thine Earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will ;
Which cause did thee this pining death procure,
Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfill.
Ah ! Clere ! if love had booted, care, or cost,
Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost.

THOUGH I regarded not
The promise made by me ;
Or passed not to spot
My faith and honesty :
Yet were my fancy strange,
And wilful will to wite,
If I sought now to change
A falcon for a kite.

All men might well dispraise
My wit and enterprise,
If I esteemed a pese1
Above a pearl in price :
Or judged the owl in sight
The sparhawk to excel ;
Which flieth but in the night,
As all men know right well.

Or if I sought to sail
Into the brittle port,
Where anchor hold doth fail
To such as do resort ;
And leave the haven sure,
Where blows no blustering wind ;
No fickleness in ure,2
So far-forth as I find.

No ! think me not so light,
Nor of so churlish kind,
Though it lay in my might
My bondage to unbind,
That I would leave the hind
To hunt the gander's foe.
No ! no ! I have no mind
To make exchanges so.
Nor yet to change at all ;
For think, it may not be
That I should seek to fall
From my felicity.
Desirous for to win,
And loth for to forego ;
Or new change to begin ;
How may all this be so ?

The fire it cannot freeze,
For it is not his kind ;
Nor true love cannot lese
The constance of the mind.
Yet as soon shall the fire
Want heat to blaze and burn ;
As I, in such desire,
Have once a thought to turn.

London, hast thou accused me
Of breach of laws, the root of strife?
Within whose breast did boil to see,
So fervent hot, thy dissolute life,
That even the hate of sins that grow
Within thy wicked walls so rife,
For to break forth did convert so
That terror could it not repress.
The which, by words since preachers know
What hope is left for to redress,
By unknown means it liked me
My hidden burden to express,
Whereby it might appear to thee
That secret sin hath secret spite;
From justice' rod no fault is free;
But that all such as work unright
In most quiet are next ill rest.
In secret silence of the night
This made me, with a reckless breast,
To wake thy sluggards with my bow--
A figure of the Lord's behest,
Whose scourge for sin the Scriptures show.
That, as the fearful thunder-clap
By sudden flame at hand we know,
Of pebble-stones the soundless rap
The dreadful plague might make thee see
Of God's wrath that doth thee enwrap;
That pride might know, from conscience free
How lofty works may her defend;
And envy find, as he hath sought,
How other seek him to offend;
And wrath taste of each cruel thought
The just shapp higher in the end;
And idle sloth, that never wrought,
To heaven his spirit lift may begin;
And greedy lucre live in dread
To see what hate ill-got goods win;
The lechers, ye that lusts do feed,
Perceive what secrecy is in sin;
And gluttons' hearts for sorrow bleed,
Awaked, when their fault they find:
In loathsome vice each drunken wight
To stir to God, this was my mind.
Thy windows had done me no spite;
But proud people that dread no fall,
Clothed with falsehood and unright,
Bred in the closures of thy wall;
But wrested to wrath in fervent zeal,
Thou haste to strife, my secret call.
Endured hearts no warning feel.
O shameless whore, is dread then gone
By such thy foes as meant thy weal?
O member of false Babylon!
The shop of craft, the den of ire!
Thy dreadful doom draws fast upon;
Thy martyrs' blood, by sword and fire,
In heaven and earth for justice call.
The Lord shall hear their just desire;
The flame of wrath shall on thee fall;
With famine and pest lamentably
Stricken shall be thy lechers all;
Thy proud towers and turrets high,
En'mies to God, beat stone from stone,
Thine idols burnt that wrought iniquity;
When none thy ruin shall bemoan,
But render unto the right wise Lord
That so hath judged Babylon,
Immortal praise with one accord.

London, hast thou accused me
Of breach of laws, the root of strife?
Within whose breast did boil to see,
So fervent hot, thy dissolute life,
That even the hate of sins that grow
Within thy wicked walls so rife,
For to break forth did convert so
That terror could it not repress.
The which, by words since preachers know
What hope is left for to redress,
By unknown means it liked me
My hidden burden to express,
Whereby it might appear to thee
That secret sin hath secret spite;
From justice' rod no fault is free;
But that all such as work unright
In most quiet are next ill rest.
In secret silence of the night
This made me, with a reckless breast,
To wake thy sluggards with my bow--
A figure of the Lord's behest,
Whose scourge for sin the Scriptures show.
That, as the fearful thunder-clap
By sudden flame at hand we know,
Of pebble-stones the soundless rap
The dreadful plague might make thee see
Of God's wrath that doth thee enwrap;
That pride might know, from conscience free
How lofty works may her defend;
And envy find, as he hath sought,
How other seek him to offend;
And wrath taste of each cruel thought
The just shapp higher in the end;
And idle sloth, that never wrought,
To heaven his spirit lift may begin;
And greedy lucre live in dread
To see what hate ill-got goods win;
The lechers, ye that lusts do feed,
Perceive what secrecy is in sin;
And gluttons' hearts for sorrow bleed,
Awaked, when their fault they find:
In loathsome vice each drunken wight
To stir to God, this was my mind.
Thy windows had done me no spite;
But proud people that dread no fall,
Clothed with falsehood and unright,
Bred in the closures of thy wall;
But wrested to wrath in fervent zeal,
Thou haste to strife, my secret call.
Endured hearts no warning feel.
O shameless whore, is dread then gone
By such thy foes as meant thy weal?
O member of false Babylon!
The shop of craft, the den of ire!
Thy dreadful doom draws fast upon;
Thy martyrs' blood, by sword and fire,
In heaven and earth for justice call.
The Lord shall hear their just desire;
The flame of wrath shall on thee fall;
With famine and pest lamentably
Stricken shall be thy lechers all;
Thy proud towers and turrets high,
En'mies to God, beat stone from stone,
Thine idols burnt that wrought iniquity;
When none thy ruin shall bemoan,
But render unto the right wise Lord
That so hath judged Babylon,
Immortal praise with one accord.

Suche waiwarde waies hath love that moste parte in discorde;
Our willes do stand wherby our hartes but seldom dooth accorde.
Disceyte is his delight, and to begyle and mocke
The symple hertes which he doth stryke with froward dyvers stroke.
He cawseth hertes to rage with golden burninge darte,
And doth alaye with ledden cold agayne the tothers harte.
Hot gleames of burning fyre and easye sparkes of flame
In balaunce of unegall weight he pondereth by ame.
From easye fourde, where I might wade and passe full well,
He me withdrawes, and doth me drive into the darke diep well;
And me withholdes where I am cald and offerd place,
And wooll that still my mortall foo I do beseche of grace.
He lettes me to pursue a conquest well nere woon,
To follow where my paynes were spilt or that my sute begune.
Lo, by these rules I know how sone a hart can turne
From warr to peace, from trewce to stryf, and so again returne.
I know how to convert my will in others lust;
Of litle stuff unto my self to weyve a webb of trust;
And how to hide my harme with soft dissembled chere,
When in my face the paynted thoughtes wolde owtwardlye appere.
I know how that the blood forsakes the faas for dredd,
And how by shame it staynes agayne the cheke with flaming redd.
I know under the grene the serpent how he lurckes;
The hamer of the restles forge I know eke how yt workes.
25tell,
But ofte the wordes come forth a wrye of hym that loveth well.
I know in heat and cold the lover how he shakes,
In singinge how he can complayne, in sleaping how he wakes,
To languishe without ache, sickles for to consume,
A thousand thinges for to devyse resolving all hys fume.
And thoughe he lyke to see his ladies face full sore,
Such pleasure as delightes his eye doth not his health restore.
I know to seke the tracke of my desyred foo,
And feare to fynd that I do seke; but chefelye this I know,
That lovers must transforme into the thing beloved,
And live (alas, who colde beleve?) with spryte from lief removed.
I know in hart ye sighes and lawghters of the splene
At ones to chaunge my state, my will, and eke my colour clene.
I know how to disceyve myself withouten helpp,
And how the lyon chastysed is by beating of the whelpp.
In standing nere my fyer, I know how that I frese;
Farr of, to burn; in both to wast, and so my lief to lese.
I know how love doth rage uppon the yeldon mynd,
How small a nett may take and mashe a harte of gentle kynd;
With seldome tasted swete, to season heaps of gall,
Revyved with a glyns of grace olde sorowes to let fall.
The hidden traynes I know, and secret snares of love;
How sone a loke may prynt a thought that never will remove.
That slipper state I know, those sodayne tournes from welthe,
That doubtfull hope, that certayne woo, and sure dispaire of helthe.


------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------

Description of the fickle affections panges and sleightes of loue

Suche waiward waies hath loue, that most part in discord
Our willes do stand, whereby our hartes but seldom doe accord.
Disceit is his delight, and to begile, and mock
The simple hartes whom he doth strike with froward diuers strok.
He makes the one to rage with golden burning dart,
And doth alay with leaden colde agayn the other hart.
Whote glemes of burnyng fire, and easy sparkes of flame
In balance of vnegall weight he pondereth by aime.
From easy forde, where I might wade and passe ful wel,
He me withdrawes, and doth me driue into a depe dark hel,
And me withholdes where I am calde and offred place,
And willes me that my mortall foe I doe beseke of grace:
He lettes me to pursue a conquest welnere wonne,
To folow where my paines were lost ere that my suite begonne.
So by this meanes I know how soone a hart may turne
From warre to peace, from truce to strife, and so again returne,
I know how to content my self in others lust,
Of litle stuffe vnto my self to weaue a webbe of trust:
And how to hide my harmes with soft dissembling chere,
When in my face the painted thoughtes would outwardly apere.
I know how that the blood forsakes the face for dred:
And how by shame it staines again the chekes with flaming red.
I know vnder the grene the serpent how he lurkes.
The hammer of the restles forge I wote eke how it wurkes.
I know and can by roate the tale that I would tel:
But oft the wordes come furth awrie of him that loueth wel.
I know in heat and colde the louer how he shakes:
In singing how he doth complain, in slepyng how he wakes:
To languish without ache, sicklesse for to consume:
A thousand thinges for to deuise resoluing all in fume.
And though he list to se his ladies grace ful sore,
Such pleasures as delight the eye doe not his health restore.
I know to seke the track of my desired foe,
And feare to finde that I do seke. But chiefly this I know,
That louers must transforme into the thing beloued,
And liue (alas who would beleue?) with sprite from life remoued,
I know in harty sighes, and laughters of the splene
At once to change my state, my wyll, and eke my coloure clene.
I know how to deceaue my self with others help:
And how the Lion chastised is by beating of the whelp.
In standyng nere my fire I know how that I freze.
Farre of I burne, in both I wast, and so my life I leze.
I know how loue doth rage vpon a yelding mynde:
How smal a net may take and meash a hart of gentle kinde:
Or els with seldom swete to season heapes of gall,
Reuiued with a glimse of grace olde sorowes to let fall,
The hidden traines I know, and secret snares of loue:
How soone a loke wil printe a thought, that neuer may remoue.
The slipper state I know, the sodain turnes from wealth,
The doubtful hope, the certain woe, and sure despeire of health.