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Songes and Sonettes (Tottel's Miscellany)

im pissed that I can't get home manager to work the way that i want. so we're doing this now.

no good online versions of this poetry exist online that aren't old PDFs. and even if they do... here's a solid transcription nonetheless.

written by the ryght honorable Lorde Henry Haward late Earle of Surrey, and other.

The Printer to the Reader.

That to haue wel written in verſe, yea and in ſmall parcelles, deſerueth great praiſe, and the workes of diuers Latines, Italians, and other, doe proue ſuſſciently. That our tong is able in that kynde to do as praiſeworthely as ye reſt, the honorable ſtile of the noble earle of Surrey, and the weightineſſe of the depewitted ſir Thomas Wyat the elders verſe, with ſeuerall graces in ſondry good Engliſhe writers, doe ſhow abundantly. It reſteth nowe (gentle reder) that thou thinke it not euill doon, to publiſh, to the honor of the Engliſhe tong, and for profit of the ſtudious of the Engliſhe eloquence, thoſe workes which vngentle horders vp of ſuch treaſure haue heretofore enuied thee. And for this point (good reder) thine own profit and pleaſure, in theſe preſently, and in moe hereafter, ſhal anſwere for my defence. If parhappes ſome milſlike the ſtatelineſſe of ſtile remoued from the rude ſkill of common eares: I aſke help of the learned to defend their learned frendes, the authors of this work: And I exhort the vnlearned, by reding to learne to be more ſkilfull, and to purge that ſwinelike groſſeneſſe, that maketh the ſwete maierome not to ſmell to their delight.

[POEMS BY HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.]

Deſcripcion of the reſtleſſe ſtate of a louer, with ſute to his ladie, to rue on his diyng hart.

Theſonne hath twiſe brought furth his tender grene,

And clad the earth in liuely luſtineſſe:

Ones haue the windes the trees deſpoiled clene,

And new again begins their cruelneſſe,

Since I haue hid vnder my breſt the harm

That neuer ſhall recouer healthfulneſſe.

The winters hurt recouers with the warm:

The parched grene reſtored is with the ſhade.

What warmth (alas) may ſerue for to diſarm

The froſen hart that mine in flame hath made?

What colde againe is able to reſtore

My freſh grene yeares, that wither thus and fade?

Alas, I ſe, nothing hat hurt ſo ſore,

But time in time reduceth a returne:

In time my harm increaſeth more and more,

And ſemes to haue my cure alwaies in ſcorne.

Strange kindes of death, in life that I doe trie,

At hand to melt, farre of in flame to burne.

And like as time liſt to my cure aply,

So doth eche place my comfort cleane reſuſe.

All thing aliue, that ſeeth the heauens with eye,

With cloke of night may couer, and excuſe

It ſelſ from trauail of the dayes vnreſt,

Saue I, alas, againſt all others vſe,

That then ſtirre vp the tormentes of my breſt,

And curſe eche ſterre as cauſer of my fate.

And when the ſonne hath eke the dark oppreſt,

And brought the day, it doth nothing abate

The trauailes of mine endles ſmart and payn,

For then, as one that hath the light in hate,

I wiſh for night, more couertly to playn,

And me withdraw from euery haunted place,

Left by my chere my chance appere to playn:

And in my minde I meaſure pace by pace,

To ſeke the place where I my ſelf had loſt,

That day that I was tangled in the lace,

In ſemyng ſlack that knitteth euer moſt:

But neuer yet the trauaile of my thought

Of better ſtate coulde catche a cauſe to boſt.

For if I found ſometime that I haue ſought,

Thoſe ſterres by whome I truſted of the porte,

My ſayles doe fall, and I aduance right nought,

As ankerd ſaſt, my ſpretes doe all reſorte

To ſtande agazed, and ſinke in more and more

The deadly harme which ſhe dothe take in ſport.

Lo, if I ſeke, how I doe finde my ſore:

And yſ I flee I carie with me ſtill

The venomde ſhaftm which doth his force reſtore

By haſt of flight, and J may plaine my fill

Vnto my ſelſe, vnleſſe this carefull ſong

Printe in your harte ſome parcell of my tene

For I, alas, in ſilence all to long

Of myne olde hurte yet ſele the wounde but grene.

Rue on my life: or els your cruell wronge

Shall well appere, and by my death be fene.

Deſcription of Spring, wherin eche thing renewes, ſaue onelie the louer.

The ſoote ſeaſon, that bud and blome furth bringes,

With grene hath clad the hill and eke the vale:

The nightingale with fethers new ſhe ſinges:

The turtle to her make hath tolde her tale:

Somer is come, for euery ſpray nower ſpringes,

The hart hath hong his olde hed on the pale:

The buck in brake his winter cote he flinges