Poets From England

"Tonight I am going to speak of practically the greatest obstacle to occult Wisdom, spiritual attainment and mystical progress. That obstacle is Conventionality in whatever form it may take, be it in relation to morals or religion. The New Testament writers portrayed the Pharisees as its most typical adherents, and Jesus is reported to have said that the harlots were nearer the kingdom of Heaven than these Pharisees- which, allowing for Oriental hyperbole, is in accordance with fact."

"One of our rules is never to do things in an extraordinary way, when they can be done in an ordinary way. What we do after the disciple and the Master have become closely linked is another matter."

"Men ignorant of letters, studious for their bellies, and ignominiously lazy."

"THE LAST LIVING ROSE:"

"LET ENGLAND SHAKE:"

"…I'm always looking for extremes in things. That's what I try to do in my music, push something as far as you can take it. Until it becomes almost unacceptable."

"I'm probably much more influenced by film-makers and painters than I am by other songwriters or poets…With songs I almost see the images, see the action, and then all I have to do is describe it. It's almost like watching a scene from a film, and that's what I go about trying to catch in a song."

"Even when I feel really happy, it's never enough. The only way it seems that I can reach 'enough' is through music. I've never found a relationship that is 'enough'. Sometimes when I do feel really happy, I write some of the most horrible songs! It doesn't stop my songwriting at all, I don't need to be tortured and angst-ridden to write."

"I literally left school and went straight into music via art college for a year, and I've been so involved in my job of writing songs that the more actively involved part became channelled into standing on the stage and saying things that way. It's only now that it's come full circle and I'm using my voice again in a way that's tying everything together."

"Well, there’s one thing if I’d had a job all these years, I no doubt wouldn’t have been on Yorkshire TV’s Against All Odds programme. I wouldn’t have been on Radio 4 talking about my poems."

"Living is more or less a constant bore."

"Once I dreamed I'd write songs."

"Her Amazonian files with lunar shields Penthesilea leads, and in the midst Of thousand storms, beneath her naked pap Her golden belt she buckles, warlike maid, And, though a virgin, dares engage with men."

"If Helenus has any skill, If any faith, and if Apollo right Inspires his prophet: one thing, goddess-born, One thing, above the rest, I will advise, and oft repeat it: with religious prayer First Juno's deity adore; to her Pay willing sacrifices, and with vows, Suppliant, overpower the mighty queen of heaven."

"Aurora, from Tithonus' saffron bed Now rising, sprinkled over the world with light."

"Arms and the man I sing who first from Troy Came to the Italian and Lavinian shores, Exiled by fate; much tossed on land and sea By power divine and cruel Juno's rage; Much too in war he suffered, till he reared A city and to Latium brought his gods: Whence sprung the Latin progeny, the kings Of Alba, and the walls of towering Rome."

"Two gates of sleep there are: the one of horn, Through which with ease the real phantoms pass; With polished elephant the other shines, Through which the manes send false dreams to light."

"Of mine the world will and ought to be judge, whatever I say or think, and its judgment in these matters is never erroneous."

"Here, in the brakes and savage dens of beasts, He nursed his daughter from the dugs of mares, Milking their teats into her tender lips. Soon as the infant first with doubtful feet Could press the ground, her little hands he filled With pointed darts, and on her shoulder hung A bow and quiver. No soft caul of gold Her tresses strains; nor flows her waving gown: Instead of these a tiger's horrid hide Hangs from her head, and over her back descends. Darts with her tender hand even then she threw; And, whirling round her head a sounding sling, Struck a Strymonian crane, or snow-white swan."

"His versification here, as everywhere else, is generally flowing and harmonious, and a multitude of beauties of all kinds are scattered through the whole. But then, besides his often grossly mistaking his author's sense, as a translator he is extremely licentious. Whatever he alledges to the contrary in his preface, he makes no scruple of adding or retrenching as his turn is best served by either. In many places, where he shines most as a poet he is least a translator, and where you most admire Mr. Dryden, you see least of Virgil."

"If some gentlemen are resolved that blank verse shall be prose, they have my free leave to enjoy their saying, provided I may have theirs to think they mean nothing by it, unless they can prove that rhyme is essential to metre; consequently that the Goths and monks were the first inventers of verse, and that Homer and Virgil, as well as Milton, wrote nothing but prose."

"To him the wind with doubtful terror wafts The mingled noise: hoarse murmurs of distress And clamours from the city pierce his ears. Ah me! what sounds confused, what cries disturb The town? Why rush the clamours from the walls? He said; and, with his coursers' reins repressed, In dumb amaze stood listening."

"To Dr. Trapp's unrhymed version of the Augustan Epic [...] I am disposed to attribute much more praise than it has been its fortune to obtain. Trapp was a scholar and a critic; and, fully possessing the sense of his author, he has communicated it, at all times, in flowing numbers, and, occasionally, in poetic diction. His notes discover accurate learning; and his prefaces contain much erudite and tasteful criticism. To any reader, unversed in the Roman language and desirous of becoming acquainted with Virgil, I would recommend Trapp as his instructor: for in the volumes of the Oxford professor is to be found a greater mass of Virgilian information than can be obtained from any other single work in our language."

"His book may continue its existence as long as it is the clandestine refuge of schoolboys."

"Better than Virgil? Yes—perhaps— But then, by Jove, 'tis Dr. Trapp's!"

"Adjectis istiusmodi notis nitori paginae detractum fore existimavimus."

"Death, judgment, heaven, and hell! Think, Christians, think! You stand on vast eternity's dread brink. Faith and repentance, piety and prayer! Despise this world, the next be all your care. Thus while my tomb the solemn silence breaks, And to the eye this cold dumb marble speaks, Though dead I preach, if ever with ill success, Living I strove the important truths to press, Your precious, your immortal souls to save; Hear me, at least, oh, hear me from my grave."

"Read the commandments, Trapp, translate no further; For there 'tis written, Thou shalt do no murder."

"The art and triumph of poetry are in nothing more seen and felt than in moving the passions."

"However poetry may have been dishonoured by the follies of some and the vices of others, the abuse or corruption of the best things being always the worst, it will notwithstanding be ever regarded, as it ever has been, by the wisest and most judicious of men as the very flower of human thinking, the most exquisite spirit that can be extracted from the wit and learning of mankind."

"The king, observing with judicious eyes The state of both his universities, To Oxford sent a troop of horse, and why? That learned body wanted loyalty; To Cambridge books, as very well discerning How much that loyal body wanted learning."

"Some beauties are the more so, for not being capable of explanation. I feel it, though I cannot account for it."

"Poetry itself being the music of thoughts and words, as music is the poetry of sounds."

"A man cannot command his own motions while he reads this; the very verses are alive; and the reader is transported out of himself."

"When in her turn the moon obscure withdraws Her light, and setting stars persuade to sleep: Lonely she pines within the empty court, Lies on the couch which just before []he left; Him absent, absent still she hears and sees."

"He who says he values no translation of this or that poem because he understands the original, has indeed no true relish, that is, in effect, no true understanding of either."

"Confounded with the crowd of various thoughts, And stiffening with amaze, the hero stood, In silence deep: within his bosom boils Disdainful shame, and grief to madness wrought, And love inflamed with rage, and conscious worth."

"As when, complaining in melodious groans, Sweet Philomel, beneath a poplar shade, Mourns her lost young, which some rough village hind Observing, from their nest, unfledged, has stole: She weeps all night; and, perched upon a bough, With plaintive notes repeated fills the grove."

"Poem: Lines on the Death of my Husband"

"Poem: After the Bomb had Fallen"

"Friendship's an abstract of this noble flame, 'Tis love refined and purged from all its dross, The next to angel's love, if not the same, As strong as passion is, though not so gross: It antedates a glad eternity And is an heaven in epitome."

"I did but see him and he disappeared, I did but pluck the rose-bud and it fell, A sorrow unforeseen and scarcely feared, For ill can mortals their afflictions spell."

"Essential honour must be in a friend, Not such as every breath fans to and fro; But born within, is its own judge and end, And dares not sin, though sure that none should know. Where friendship's spoke, honesty's understood; For none can be a friend that is not good."

"Love, give me leave to serve thee, and be wise To keepe thy torch in, but restore blind eyes. I will a flame into my bosome take, That Martyrs Court when they embrace the stake: Not dull, and smoakie fires, but heat divine, That burnes not to consume, but to refine. I have a Mistresse for perfections rare In every eye, but in my thoughts most faire. Like Tapers on the Altar shine her eyes; Her breath is the perfume of Sacrifice. And where soe’re my fancy would begin, Still her perfection lets religion in. I touch her like my Beads with devout care; And come unto my Courtship as my Praier. Wee sit, and talke, and kisse away the houres, As chastly as the morning dews kisse flowers. Goe wanton Lover spare thy sighs and teares, Put on the Livery which thy dotage weares, And call it Love, where heresie gets in Zeal’s but a coale to kindle greater sin. Wee weare no flesh, but one another greet, As blessed soules in separation meet. Wer’t possible that my ambitious sin, Durst commit rapes upon a Cherubin, I might have lustfull thoughts to her, of all Earths heav’nly Quire the most Angelicall. Looking into my brest, her forme I find That like my Guardian-Angell keeps my mind From rude attempts; and when affections stirre, I calme all passions with one thought of her. Thus they whose reasons love, and not their sence, The spirits love: thus one Intelligence Reflects upon his like, and by chast loves In the same spheare this and that Angell moves. Nor is this barren Love; one noble thought Begets an other, and that still is brought To bed of more; vertues and grace increase, And such a numerous issue ne’re can cease. Where Children, though great blessings, only bee Pleasures repriv’d to some posteritie. Beasts love like men, if men in lust delight, And call that Love which is but appetite. When essence meets with essence, and soules joyne In mutuall knots, thats the true Nuptall twine: Such Lady is my Love, and such is true; All other Love is to your Sexe, not You."

"Come spurre away, I have no patience for a longer stay; But must go downe, And leave the chargeable noise of this great Towne. I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in gray, Doth looke more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell you City-wits that are Almost at Civil war; Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.More of my dayes I will not spend to gaine an Idiots praise; Or to make sport For some slight Punie of the Innes of Court. Then worthy Stafford say How shall we spend the day, With what delights, Shorten the nights? When from this tumult we are got secure; Where mirth with all her freedome goes, Yet shall no finger loose; Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure.There from the tree We’ll cherries plucke, and pick the strawbery. And every day Go see the wholesome Country Girles make hay, Whose browne hath lovelier grace, Than any painted face, That I doe know Hyde-Parke can show. Where I had rather gaine a kisse than meet (Though some of them in greater state Might court my love with plate,) The beauties of the Cheape, and wives of Lumbardstreet.But thinke upon Some other pleasures, these to me are none; Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate? I never meane to wed, That torture to my bed; My Muse is shee My Love shall bee. Let Clownes get wealth, and heires; when I am gone, And the great Bugbear grisly death Shall take this idle breath, If I a Poem leave, that Poem is my Sonne.Of this no more; We’ll rather taste the bright Pomona’s store. No fruit shall scape Our palates, from the damson, to the grape; Then full we’ll seek a shade, And heare what musique’s made; How Philomell Her tale doth tell: And how the other Birds doe fill the quire; The Thrush and Blackbird lend their throats Warbling melodious notes; We will all sports enjoy, which others but desire.Ours is the skie, Where at what fowle we please our Hawke shall fly; Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty foxe, or timorous hare, But let our hounds runne loose In any ground they’ll choose; The buck shall fall, The stag and all: Our pleasures must from their owne warrants bee, For to my Muse, if not to mee, I’m sure all game is free; Heaven, Earth, are all but parts of her great Royalty.And when we meane To taste of Bacchus blessings now and then, And drinke by stealth A cup or two to noble Barkleys health, I’ll take my pipe and try The Phrygian melody; Which he that heares Lets through his eares A madnesse to distemper all the braine. Then I another pipe will take And Dorique musique make, To Civilize with graver notes our wits again."

"Joy to the Bridegroome and the Bride That lye by one anothers side! O fie upon the Virgin Bedds, No losse is gain but Maiden heads. Love quickly send the time may be When I shall deal my Rosemary!I long to simper at a feast, To dance, and kisse, and doe the rest. When I shall wed, and Bedded be O then the qualme comes over me, And tells the sweetnesse of a Theame That I ne’re knew but in a dreame.You Ladies have the blessed nights, I pine in hope of such delights. And silly Dam’sell only can Milk the cowes teats and think on man: And sigh and wish to tast and prove The wholesome Sillibub of Love.Make hast, at once twin-Brothers beare; And leave new matter for a starre. Woemen and ships are never shown So fair as when their sayles be blown. Then when the Midwife hears your moane, I’le sigh for grief that I have none.And you, deare Knight, whose every kisse Reapes the full crop of Cupids blisse, Now you have found, confesse and tell That single sheets doe make up hell. And then so charitable be To get a man to pitty me."

"When age hath made me what I am not now; And every wrinckle tels me where the plow Of time hath furrowed; when an Ice shalt flow Through every vein, and all my head wear snow: When death displayes his coldnesse in my cheeke, And I, my selfe in my owne Picture seeke, Not finding what I am, but what I was; In doubt which to beleive, this, or my glasse: Yet though I alter, this remaines the same As it was drawne, retaines the primitive frame, And first complexion; here will still be seen Blood on the cheeke, and Downe upon the chin. Here the smooth brow will stay, the lively eye, The ruddy Lip, and haire of youthfull dye. Behold what frailty we in man may see, Whose Shaddow is lesse given to change then hee."

"SHEPHERD: Men are more eloquent then women made: NYMPH: But women are more powerfull to persuade."

"Thinke that is just; 'tis not enough to doe, Unless thy very thoughts are upright too."

"First thinke, and if thy thoughts approve thy will, Then speake, and after what thou speakst fulfill."