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 Karen's

 Poetry Corner

~Updated 07/09/03~

 

This page will be developed further but in light of today being Valentines Day, I'm posting my favorite poem..... It brings me back in time... to Freshman English class even, and my favorite wrestler with the huge hair and killer smile...

 

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love

 

 Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593)

 

                    Come live with me and be my love,

                    And we will all the pleasures prove,

                    That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

                    Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

 

                    And we will sit upon the rocks,

                    Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,

                    By shallow rivers, to whose falls

                    Melodious birds sing madrigals.

 

                    And I will make thee beds of roses,

                    And a thousand fragrant posies,

                    A cap of flowers and a kirtle

                    Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle:

 

                    A gown made of the finest wool,

                    Which from our pretty lambs we pull;

                    Fair lined slippers for the cold,

                    With buckles of the purest gold:

 

                    A belt of straw and ivy buds,

                    With coral clasps and amber studs;

                    And if these pleasures may thee move,

                    Come live with me and be my love.

 

                    The shepherd swains shall dance and sing

                    For thy delight each May morning;

                    If these delights thy mind may move,

                    Then live with me and be my love.

 

Christopher Marlowe

 

There have been various replies including the following:

The Nymph's Reply

Sir Walter Raleigh (ca. 1552-1618)

                  If all the world and love were young,

                  And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
                  These pretty pleasures might me move
                  To live with thee and be thy love.
 
                 Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
                 When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
                 And Philomel becometh dumb;
                 The rest complains of cares to come.
 
                 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
                 To wayward winter reckoning yields;
                 A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
                 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
 
                 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
                 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
                 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,--
                 In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
 
                 Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
                 The coral clasps and amber studs,
                 All these in me no means can move
                 To come to thee and be thy love.
 
                 But could youth last and love still breed,
                 Had joys no date nor age no need,
                 Then these delights my mind might move
                 To live with thee and be thy love.

 

The Bait

John Donne (1572-1631)
 

                  Come live with me, and be my love,
                  And we will some new pleasures prove
                  Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
                  With silken lines, and silver hooks.
 
                  There will the river whispering run
                  Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun;
                  And there the 'enamour'd fish will stay,
                  Begging themselves they may betray.
 
                  When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
                   Each fish, which every channel hath,
                   Will amorously to thee swim,
                   Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
 
                   If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,
                   By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both,
                   And if myself have leave to see,
                   I need not their light having thee.
 
                   Let others freeze with angling reeds,
                   And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
                   Or treacherously poor fish beset,
                   With strangling snare, or windowy net.
 
                   Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
                   The bedded fish in banks out-wrest;
                   Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies,
                   Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes.
 
                   For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
                   For thou thyself art thine own bait:
                   That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,
                   Alas, is wiser far than I.

 

Song

 

C. Day-Lewis (1935)

 

                 Come, live with me and be my love,

                 And we will all the pleasures prove

                 Of peace and plenty, bed and board,

                 That chance employment may afford

 

                 Ill handle dainties on the docks

                 And thou shalt read of summer frocks:

                 At evening my the sour canals

                 Well hope to hear some madrigals.

 

                 Care on thy maiden brow shall put

                 A wreath of wrinkles, and thy foot

                 Be shod with pain: not silken dress

                 But toil shall tire thy loveliness.

 

                Hunger shall make thy modest zone

                And cheat fond death of all but bone--

                If these delights thy mind may move,

                Then live with me and be my love.

 

 

 

Here's an awesome speech from Henry V.  Read it carefully and think of a certain night in early February, 2002!!

Henry V

St. Crispian's Day Speech

William Shakespeare, 1599

                                  Enter the KING

        WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
            But one ten thousand of those men in England
            That do no work to-day!
         
        KING. What's he that wishes so?
            My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
            If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
            To do our country loss; and if to live,
            The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
            God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
            By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
            Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
            It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
            Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
            But if it be a sin to covet honour,
            I am the most offending soul alive.
            No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
            God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
            As one man more methinks would share from me
            For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
            Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
            That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
            Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
            And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
            We would not die in that man's company
            That fears his fellowship to die with us.
            This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
            He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
            Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
            And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
            He that shall live this day, and see old age,
            Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
            And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
            Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
            And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
            Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
            But he'll remember, with advantages,
            What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
            Familiar in his mouth as household words-
            Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
            Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
            Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
            This story shall the good man teach his son;
            And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
            From this day to the ending of the world,
            But we in it shall be remembered-
            We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
            For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
            Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
            This day shall gentle his condition;
            And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
            Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
            And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
            That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

 

                For additional background/commentary on this speech see

http://www.chronique.com/Library/Knights/crispen.htm

 

~Many Pages Under Construction~

 

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