Monday, June 12, 2017
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Saturday, June 10, 2017
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Here, sweete Groundlyngs, thou mayest behold mine sonnet 35. Hastow a love who hath hurt thee, and though thou mayest forgive, thy do hold to some spite?
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authórizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing these sins more than these sins are.
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense—
Thy adverse party is thy advocate—
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate
That I an áccessory needs must be
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Thursday, May 25, 2017
Monday, May 22, 2017
O mine Groundlynges, how your Will doth loathe those men who, once emboldened by the drinking of sack, do invade the personal space of this poet. If thou know'st such an one, feel free to tagge him on Facebooke or share at thou see'st fit.
Monday, May 15, 2017
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
Monday, May 1, 2017
Friday, April 28, 2017
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
Monday, April 10, 2017
Monday, March 27, 2017
Monday, March 20, 2017
O mine Groundlyngs, your will hath passed a long day into eve with quarrelsome actors and half-wits who do call themselves playwrightes. I go to bed anon, having done well to keepe these mine hands to mine own person. Feel free to tagge on Facebooke those who do need this warninge shouldst thou be so misfortuned to know of such an one.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
Beholde, Groundlyngs, mine sonnet 31, in which I do think on lost loves. I hath these wordes imprinted here on the image of Sir Philip Sydney's funerary procession. I hath listed for thee here Lord Sydney's own poesie, his sonnet 31 from Astrophel and Stella which doth also speake on love and loss:
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?