William Shakespeare: The Complete Works 2nd Edition (365 page)
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Authors: William Shakespeare
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It is not clear whether the two stanzas engraved at opposite ends of the Stanley tomb in the parish church of Tong, in Shropshire, constitute one epitaph or two. Their most likely subject is Sir Thomas Stanley (d. 1576), Ferdinando’s uncle. The stanzas are ascribed to Shakespeare in two manuscript miscellanies of the 1630s and by the antiquary Sir William Dugdale in a manuscript appended to his
Visitation of Shropshire
in 1664.
Visitation of Shropshire
in 1664.
The satirical completion of an epitaph on Ben Jonson (written during his lifetime) is ascribed to Shakespeare in two different seventeenth-century manuscripts.
Shakespeare probably knew Elias James (
c
. 1578-1610), who managed a brewery in the Blackfriars district of London. His epitaph is ascribed to Shakespeare in the same Oxford manuscript as ‘Shall I die?’
c
. 1578-1610), who managed a brewery in the Blackfriars district of London. His epitaph is ascribed to Shakespeare in the same Oxford manuscript as ‘Shall I die?’
The Combe family of Stratford-upon-Avon were friends of Shakespeare. He bequeathed his sword to one of them, and John Combe, who died in 1614, left Shakespeare £5. Several mock epitaphs similar to the first epitaph on John Combe have survived, one (on an unnamed usurer) printed as early as 1608; later versions mention three other men as the usurer. Shakespeare may have adapted some existing lines; or some existing lines may have been adapted anonymously in Stratford, and later attributed to Stratford’s most famous poet. The ascription to him dates from 1634, and is supported by four other seventeenth-century manuscripts. The second Combe epitaph is found in only one manuscript; it seems entirely original, and alludes to a bequest to the poor made in Combe’s will.
The lines on King James first appear, unattributed, beneath an engraving of the King printed as the frontispiece to the 1616 edition of his works. They are attributed to Shakespeare—the leading writer of the theatre company of which King James was patron—in at least two seventeenth-century manuscripts; the same attribution was recorded in a printed broadside now apparently lost.
Shakespeare’s own epitaph is written in the first person; the tradition that he composed it himself is recorded in several manuscripts from the middle to the late seventeenth century.
Various Poems1
Shall I die? Shall I fly
Lovers’ baits and deceits,
sorrow breeding?
Shall I tend? Shall I send?
Shall I sue, and not rue
my proceeding?
In all duty her beauty
Binds me her servant for ever.
If she scorn, I mourn,
I retire to despair, joining never.
Lovers’ baits and deceits,
sorrow breeding?
Shall I tend? Shall I send?
Shall I sue, and not rue
my proceeding?
In all duty her beauty
Binds me her servant for ever.
If she scorn, I mourn,
I retire to despair, joining never.
2
Yet I must vent my lust
And explain inward pain
by my love conceiving.
If she smiles, she exiles
All my moan; if she frown,
all my hopes deceiving—
Suspicious doubt, O keep out,
For thou art my tormentor.
Fie away, pack away;
I will love, for hope bids me venture.
And explain inward pain
by my love conceiving.
If she smiles, she exiles
All my moan; if she frown,
all my hopes deceiving—
Suspicious doubt, O keep out,
For thou art my tormentor.
Fie away, pack away;
I will love, for hope bids me venture.
3
‘Twere abuse to accuse
My fair love, ere I prove
her affection.
Therefore try! Her reply
Gives thee joy—or annoy,
or affliction.
Yet howe’er, I will bear
Her pleasure with patience, for beauty
Sure will not seem to blot
Her deserts, wronging him doth her duty.
My fair love, ere I prove
her affection.
Therefore try! Her reply
Gives thee joy—or annoy,
or affliction.
Yet howe’er, I will bear
Her pleasure with patience, for beauty
Sure will not seem to blot
Her deserts, wronging him doth her duty.
4
In a dream it did seem—
But alas, dreams do pass
as do shadows—
I did walk, I did talk
With my love, with my dove,
through fair meadows.
Still we passed till at last
We sat to repose us for pleasure.
Being set, lips met,
Arms twined, and did bind my heart’s treasure.
But alas, dreams do pass
as do shadows—
I did walk, I did talk
With my love, with my dove,
through fair meadows.
Still we passed till at last
We sat to repose us for pleasure.
Being set, lips met,
Arms twined, and did bind my heart’s treasure.
5
Gentle wind sport did find
Wantonly to make fly
her gold tresses.
As they shook I did look,
But her fair did impair
all my senses.
As amazed, I gazed
On more than a mortal complexion.
You that love can prove
Such force in beauty’s inflection.
Wantonly to make fly
her gold tresses.
As they shook I did look,
But her fair did impair
all my senses.
As amazed, I gazed
On more than a mortal complexion.
You that love can prove
Such force in beauty’s inflection.
6
Next her hair, forehead fair,
Smooth and high; neat doth lie,
without wrinkle,
Her fair brows; under those,
Star-like eyes win love’s prize
when they twinkle.
In her cheeks who seeks
Shall find there displayed beauty’s banner;
O admiring desiring
Breeds, as I look still upon her.
Smooth and high; neat doth lie,
without wrinkle,
Her fair brows; under those,
Star-like eyes win love’s prize
when they twinkle.
In her cheeks who seeks
Shall find there displayed beauty’s banner;
O admiring desiring
Breeds, as I look still upon her.
7
Thin lips red, fancy’s fed
With all sweets when he meets,
and is granted
There to trade, and is made
Happy, sure, to endure
still undaunted.
Pretty chin doth win
Of all their culled commendations;
Fairest neck, no speck;
All her parts merit high admirations.
With all sweets when he meets,
and is granted
There to trade, and is made
Happy, sure, to endure
still undaunted.
Pretty chin doth win
Of all their culled commendations;
Fairest neck, no speck;
All her parts merit high admirations.
8
Pretty bare, past compare,
Parts those plots which besots
still asunder.
It is meet naught but sweet
Should come near that so rare
’tis a wonder.
No mis-shape, no scape
Inferior to nature’s perfection;
No blot, no spot:
She’s beauty’s queen in election.
Parts those plots which besots
still asunder.
It is meet naught but sweet
Should come near that so rare
’tis a wonder.
No mis-shape, no scape
Inferior to nature’s perfection;
No blot, no spot:
She’s beauty’s queen in election.
9
Whilst I dreamt, I, exempt
From all care, seemed to share
pleasure’s plenty;
But awake, care take—
For I find to my mind
pleasures scanty.
Therefore I will try
To compass my heart’s chief contenting.
To delay, some say,
In such a case causeth repenting.
‘Upon a pair of gloves that master sent to his mistress’From all care, seemed to share
pleasure’s plenty;
But awake, care take—
For I find to my mind
pleasures scanty.
Therefore I will try
To compass my heart’s chief contenting.
To delay, some say,
In such a case causeth repenting.
The gift is small,
The will is all:
Alexander Aspinall
The Passionate Pilgrim
4
Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen.
She told him stories to delight his ear,
She showed him favours to allure his eye;
To win his heart she touched him here and there—
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refused to take her figured proffer,
The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer.
Then fell she on her back, fair queen and toward:
He rose and ran away—ah, fool too froward!
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen.
She told him stories to delight his ear,
She showed him favours to allure his eye;
To win his heart she touched him here and there—
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.
But whether unripe years did want conceit,
Or he refused to take her figured proffer,
The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,
But smile and jest at every gentle offer.
Then fell she on her back, fair queen and toward:
He rose and ran away—ah, fool too froward!
6
Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an osier growing by a brook,
A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen.
Hot was the day, she hotter, that did look
For his approach that often there had been.
Anon he comes and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim.
The sun looked on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.
He, spying her, bounced in whereas he stood.
‘O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘why was not I a flood?’
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis made
Under an osier growing by a brook,
A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen.
Hot was the day, she hotter, that did look
For his approach that often there had been.
Anon he comes and throws his mantle by,
And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim.
The sun looked on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so wistly as this queen on him.
He, spying her, bounced in whereas he stood.
‘O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘why was not I a flood?’
7
Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle,
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty,
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet as iron rusty;
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing.
How many tales to please me hath she coined,
Dreading my love, the loss whereof still fearing.
Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.
She burnt with love as straw with fire flameth,
She burnt out love as soon as straw out burneth.
She framed the love, and yet she foiled the framing,
She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.
Was this a lover or a lecher whether,
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither?
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty,
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet as iron rusty;
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.
Her lips to mine how often hath she joined,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing.
How many tales to please me hath she coined,
Dreading my love, the loss whereof still fearing.
Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.
She burnt with love as straw with fire flameth,
She burnt out love as soon as straw out burneth.
She framed the love, and yet she foiled the framing,
She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.
Was this a lover or a lecher whether,
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither?
9
Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love,
Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,
For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and wild,
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill.
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds.
She, seely queen, with more than love’s good will
Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds.
‘Once,’ quoth she, ‘did I see a fair sweet youth
Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth.
See in my thigh,’ quoth she, ‘here was the sore.’
She showed hers; he saw more wounds than one,
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.
Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,
For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and wild,
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill.
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds.
She, seely queen, with more than love’s good will
Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds.
‘Once,’ quoth she, ‘did I see a fair sweet youth
Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth.
See in my thigh,’ quoth she, ‘here was the sore.’
She showed hers; he saw more wounds than one,
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.
10
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely plucked, soon faded—
Plucked in the bud and faded in the spring;
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded;
Fair creature, killed too soon by death’s sharp sting,
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree
And falls through wind before the fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have,
For why: thou left‘st me nothing in thy will,
And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave,
For why: I craved nothing of thee still.
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee:
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.
Plucked in the bud and faded in the spring;
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded;
Fair creature, killed too soon by death’s sharp sting,
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree
And falls through wind before the fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have,
For why: thou left‘st me nothing in thy will,
And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave,
For why: I craved nothing of thee still.
O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee:
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.
12
Crabbed age and youth cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short.
Youth is nimble, age is lame,
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold.
Youth is wild and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee.
O my love, my love is young.
Age, I do defy thee. O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay’st too long.
Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short.
Youth is nimble, age is lame,
Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold.
Youth is wild and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee.
O my love, my love is young.
Age, I do defy thee. O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay’st too long.
13
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good,
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly,
A flower that dies when first it ’gins to bud,
A brittle glass that’s broken presently.
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly,
A flower that dies when first it ’gins to bud,
A brittle glass that’s broken presently.
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie withered on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemished once, for ever lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie withered on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemished once, for ever lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
14
Good night, good rest—ah, neither be my share.
She bade good night that kept my rest away,
And daffed me to a cabin hanged with care
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
‘Farewell,’ quoth she, ‘and come again tomorrow.’
Fare well I could not, for I supped with sorrow.
She bade good night that kept my rest away,
And daffed me to a cabin hanged with care
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
‘Farewell,’ quoth she, ‘and come again tomorrow.’
Fare well I could not, for I supped with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,
In scorn or friendship nill I conster whether.
‘Tmay be she joyed to jest at my exile,
‘Tmay be, again to make me wander thither.
‘Wander’-a word for shadows like myself,
As take the pain but cannot pluck the pelf.
In scorn or friendship nill I conster whether.
‘Tmay be she joyed to jest at my exile,
‘Tmay be, again to make me wander thither.
‘Wander’-a word for shadows like myself,
As take the pain but cannot pluck the pelf.
Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch, the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest,
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.
While Philomela sings I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.
My heart doth charge the watch, the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest,
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.
While Philomela sings I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.
For she doth welcome daylight with her dite,
And daylight drives away dark dreaming night.
The night so packed, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight,
Sorrow changed to solace, and solace mixed with
sorrow,
Forwhy she sighed and bade me come tomorrow.
And daylight drives away dark dreaming night.
The night so packed, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight,
Sorrow changed to solace, and solace mixed with
sorrow,
Forwhy she sighed and bade me come tomorrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soon,
But now are minutes added to the hours.
To spite me now each minute seems a moon,
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now
borrow;
Short night tonight, and length thyself tomorrow.
Sonnets to Sundry Notes of MusicBut now are minutes added to the hours.
To spite me now each minute seems a moon,
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now
borrow;
Short night tonight, and length thyself tomorrow.
15
It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three,
That liked of her master as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye
could see,
Her fancy fell a-turning.
That liked of her master as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye
could see,
Her fancy fell a-turning.
Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did
fight: 5
To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight.
To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite
Unto the seely damsel.
fight: 5
To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight.
To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite
Unto the seely damsel.
But one must be refused, more mickle was the pain
That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain.
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with
disdain—
Alas, she could not help it.
That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain.
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with
disdain—
Alas, she could not help it.
Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,
Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away.
Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;
For now my song is ended.
Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away.
Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay;
For now my song is ended.
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