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?