Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 13

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 13

O! that you were your self; but, love you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 12

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 12

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 11

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 11

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 10

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 10

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 9

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 9

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:
Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 8

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 8

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: 'Thou single wilt prove none.'

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 7

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 7

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:
Unlook'd, on diest unless thou get a son.

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 6

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 6

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 5

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 5

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 4

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 4

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 3

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 3

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 2

By William Shakespeare

Sonnet 2

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Sonnet 1

By William Shakespeare

The first 17 sonnets are called the procreation sonnets, because they are written to a young man, urging him to marry and have children, thereby passing down his beauty to the next generation.

Sonnet 1

From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

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Thursday, March 18, 2010

On The Spring

By Thomas Gray

1. Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of Spring:
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

2. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade.
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'ercanopies the glade,
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little, are the proud,
How indigent the great!

3. Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark! how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon;
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily gilded trim,
Quick glancing to the sun.

4. To Contemplation's sober eye,
Such is the race of Man,
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter through life's little day,
In Fortune's varying colours dress'd;
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

5. Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply,
Poor Moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown,
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic while 'tis May.

The Ruines of Time

By Edmund Spenser

It chaunced me on* day beside the shore
Of silver streaming Thamesis to bee,
Nigh where the goodly Verlame stood of yore,
Of which there now remaines no memorie,
Nor anie little moniment to see, 5
By which the travailer that fares that way
This once was she may warned be to say.
[* On, one.]

There, on the other side, I did behold
A Woman sitting sorrowfullie wailing,
Rending her yeolow locks, like wyrie golde 10
About her shoulders careleslie downe trailing,
And streames of teares from her faire eyes forth railing*:
In her right hand a broken rod she held,
Which towards heaven shee seemd on high to weld,
[* Railing, flowing.]

Whether she were one of that rivers nymphes, 15
Which did the losse of some dere Love lament,
I doubt; or one of those three fatall impes
Which draw the dayes of men forth in extent;
Or th'auncient genius of that citie brent*;
But, seeing her so piteouslie perplexed, 20
I, to her calling, askt what her so vexed.
[* Brent, burnt.]

"Ah! what delight," quoth she, "in earthlie thing,
Or comfort can I, wretched creature, have?
Whose happines the heavens envying,
From highest staire to lowest step me drave, 25
And have in mine owne bowels made my grave,
That of all nations now I am forlorne*,
The worlds sad spectacle, and Fortunes scorne."
[* Forlorne, forsaken.]

Much was I mooved at her piteous plaint,
And felt my heart nigh riven in my brest 30
With tender ruth to see her sore constraint;
That, shedding teares, a while I still did rest,
And after did her name of her request.
"Name have I none," quoth she, "nor anie being,
Bereft of both by Fates uniust decreeing. 35

"I was that citie which the garland wore
Of Britaines pride, delivered unto me
By Romane victors which it wonne of yore;
Though nought at all but ruines now I bee,
And lye in mine owne ashes, as ye see, 40
VERLAME I was; what bootes it that I was,
Sith now I am but weedes and wastfull gras?

"O vaine worlds glorie, and unstedfast state
Of all that lives on face of sinfull earth!
Which, from their first untill their utmost date, 45
Tast no one hower of happines or merth;
But like as at the ingate* of their berth
They crying creep out of their mothers woomb,
So wailing backe go to their wofull toomb.
[* Ingate, entrance, beginning.]

"Why then dooth flesh, a bubble-glas of breath, 50
Hunt after honour and advauncement vaine,
And reare a trophee for devouring death
With so great labour and long-lasting paine,
As if his daies for ever should remaine?
Sith all that in this world is great or gaie 55
Doth as a vapour vanish and decaie.

"Looke backe, who list, unto the former ages,
And call to count what is of them become.
Where be those learned wits and antique sages,
Which of all wisedome knew the perfect somme? 60
Where those great warriors, which did overcome
The world with conquest of their might and maine,
And made one meare* of th'earth and of their raine?
[* Meare, boundary.]

"What nowe is of th'Assyrian Lyonesse,
Of whome no footing now on earth appeares? 65
What of the Persian Beares outragiousnesse,
Whose memorie is quite worne out with yeares?
Who of the Grecian Libbard* now ought heares,
That over-ran the East with greedie powre,
And left his whelps their kingdomes to devoure? 70
[* Libbard, leopard]

"And where is that same great seven-headded beast,
That made all nations vassals of her pride,
To fall before her feete at her beheast,
And in the necke of all the world did ride?
Where doth she all that wondrous welth nowe hide? 75
With her own weight downe pressed now shee lies,
And by her heaps her hugenesse testifies.

"O Rome, thy ruine I lament and rue,
And in thy fall my fatall overthrowe,
That whilom was, whilst heavens with equall vewe 80
Deignd to behold me and their gifts bestowe,
The picture of thy pride in pompous shew:
And of the whole world as thou wast the empresse,
So I of this small Northerne world was princesse.

"To tell the beawtie of my buildings fayre, 85
Adornd with purest golde and precious stone,
To tell my riches and endowments rare,
That by my foes are now all spent and gone,
To tell my forces, matchable to none,
Were but lost labour that few would beleeve, 90
And with rehearsing would me more agreeve.

"High towers, faire temples, goodly theaters,
Strong walls, rich porches, princelie pallaces,
Large streetes, brave houses, sacred sepulchers,
Sure gates, sweete gardens, stately galleries 95
Wrought with faire pillours and fine imageries,—
All those, O pitie! now are turnd to dust,
And overgrowen with blacke oblivions rust.

"Theretoo, for warlike power and peoples store
In Britannie was none to match with mee, 100
That manie often did abie full sore:
Ne Troynovant*, though elder sister shee,
With my great forces might compared bee;
That stout Pendragon to his perill felt,
Who in a siege seaven yeres about me dwelt. 105
[* Troynovant, London]

"But long ere this, Bunduca, Britonnesse,
Her mightie hoast against my bulwarkes brought;
Bunduca! that victorious conqueresse,
That, lifting up her brave heroick thought
Bove womens weaknes, with the Romanes fought, 110
Fought, and in field against them thrice prevailed:
Yet was she foyld, when as she me assailed.

"And though at last by force I conquered were
Of hardie Saxons, and became their thrall,
Yet was I with much bloodshed bought full deere, 115
And prizde with slaughter of their generall,
The moniment of whose sad funerall,
For wonder of the world, long in me lasted,
But now to nought, through spoyle of time, is wasted.

"Wasted it is, as if it never were; 120
And all the rest that me so honord made,
And of the world admired ev'rie where,
Is turnd to smoake that doth to nothing fade;
And of that brightnes now appeares no shade,
But greislie shades, such as doo haunt in hell 125
With fearfull fiends that in deep darknes dwell.

"Where my high steeples whilom usde to stand,
On which the lordly faulcon wont to towre,
There now is but an heap of lyme and sand
For the shriche-owle to build her balefull bowre: 130
And where the nightingale wont forth to powre
Her restles plaints, to comfort wakefull lovers,
There now haunt yelling mewes and whining plovers.

"And where the christall Thamis wont to slide
In silver channell downe along the lee, 135
About whose flowrie bankes on either side
A thousand nymphes, with mirthfull iollitee,
Were wont to play, from all annoyance free,
There now no rivers course is to be seene,
But moorish fennes, and marshes ever greene. 140

"Seemes that that gentle river, for great griefe
Of my mishaps which oft I to him plained,
Or for to shunne the horrible mischiefe
With which he saw my cruell foes me pained,
And his pure streames with guiltles blood oft stained,
From my unhappie neighborhood farre fled, 145
And his sweete waters away with him led.

"There also where the winged ships were seene
In liquid waves to cut their fomie waie,
And thousand fishers numbred to have been, 150
In that wide lake looking for plenteous praie
Of fish, which they with baits usde to betraie,
Is now no lake, nor anie fishers store,
Nor ever ship shall saile there anie more.

"They all are gone, and all with them is gone! 155
Ne ought to me remaines, but to lament
My long decay, which no man els doth mone,
And mourne my fall with dolefull dreriment:
Yet it is comfort in great languishment,
To be bemoned with compassion kinde, 160
And mitigates the anguish of the minde.

"But me no man bewaileth, but in game
Ne sheddeth teares from lamentable eie;
Nor anie lives that mentioneth my name
To be remembred of posteritie, 165
Save one, that maugre Fortunes iniurie,
And Times decay, and Envies cruell tort*,
Hath writ my record in true-seeming sort.
[* Tort, wrong]

"CAMBDEN! the nourice* of antiquitie,
And lanterne unto late succeding age 170
To see the light of simple veritie
Buried in ruines, through the great outrage
Of her owne people led with warlike rage,
CAMBDEN! though Time all moniments obscure,
Yet thy iust labours ever shall endure. 175
[* Nourice, nurse]

"But whie, unhappie wight! doo I thus crie,
And grieve that my remembrance quite is raced*
Out of the knowledge of posteritie,
And all my antique moniments defaced?
Sith I doo dailie see things highest placed, 180
So soone as Fates their vitall thred have shorne,
Forgotten quite as they were never borne
[* Raced, razed.]

"It is not long, since these two eyes beheld
A mightie Prince*, of most renowmed race,
Whom England high in count of honour held, 185
And greatest ones did sue to game his grace;
Of greatest ones he, greatest in his place,
Sate in the bosom of his Soveraine,
And Right and Loyall** did his word maintaine.
[* I. e. the Earl of Leicester.]
[** Leicester's motto.]

"I saw him die, I saw him die as one 190
Of the meane people, and brought foorth on beare;
I saw him die, and no man left to mone
His dolefull fate that late him loved deare;
Scarse anie left to close his eylids neare;
Scarse anie left upon his lips to laie 195
The sacred sod, or requiem to saie.

"O trustlesse state of miserable men,
That builde your blis on hope of earthly thing,
And vainly thinke your selves halfe happie then,
When painted faces with smooth flattering 200
Doo fawne on you, and your wide praises sing;
And, when the courting masker louteth* lowe,
Him true in heart and trustie to you trow!
[* Louteth, boweth.]

"All is but fained, and with oaker* dide,
That everie shower will wash and wipe away; 205
All things doo change that under heaven abide,
And after death all friendship doth decaie.
Therefore, what ever man bearst worldlie sway,
Living, on God and on thy selfe relie;
For, when thou diest, all shall with thee die. 210
[* Oaker, ochre, paint.]

"He now is dead, and all is with him dead,
Save what in heavens storehouse he uplaid:
His hope is faild, and come to passe his dread,
And evill men (now dead) his deeds upbraid:
Spite bites the dead, that living never baid. 215
He now is gone, the whiles the foxe is crept
Into the hole the which the badger swept.

"He now is dead, and all his glorie gone,
And all his greatnes vapoured to nought,
That as a glasse upon the water shone, 220
Which vanisht quite so soone as it was sought.
His name is worne alreadie out of thought,
Ne anie poet seekes him to revive;
Yet manie poets honourd him alive.

"Ne doth his Colin, carelesse Colin Cloute, 225
Care now his idle bagpipe up to raise,
Ne tell his sorrow to the listning rout
Of shepherd groomes, which wont his songs to praise:
Praise who so list, yet I will him dispraise,
Untill he quite* him of this guiltie blame. 230
Wake, shepheards boy, at length awake for shame!
[* Quite, acquit.]

"And who so els did goodnes by him game,
And who so els his bounteous minde did trie*,
Whether he shepheard be, or shepheards swaine,
(For manie did, which doo it now denie,) 235
Awake, and to his song a part applie:
And I, the whilest you mourne for his decease,
Will with my mourning plaints your plaint increase.
[* Trie, experience.]

"He dyde, and after him his brother dyde,
His brother prince, his brother noble peere, 240
That whilste he lived was of none envyde,
And dead is now, as living, counted deare;
Deare unto all that true affection beare,
But unto thee most deare, O dearest Dame,
His noble spouse and paragon of fame. 245

"He, whilest he lived, happie was through thee,
And, being dead, is happie now much more;
Living, that lincked chaunst with thee to bee,
And dead, because him dead thou dost adore
As living, and thy lost deare love deplore. 250
So whilst that thou, faire flower of chastitie,
Dost live, by thee thy lord shall never die.

"Thy lord shall never die, the whiles this verse
Shall live, and surely it shall live for ever:
For ever it shall live, and shall rehearse 255
His worthie praise, and vertues dying never,
Though death his soule doo from his bodie sever:
And thou thy selfe herein shalt also live;
Such grace the heavens doo to my verses give.

"Ne shall his sister, ne thy father, die; 260
Thy father, that good earle of rare renowne,
And noble patrone of weake povertie;
Whose great good deeds, in countrey and in towne.
Have purchast him in heaven an happie crowne:
Where he now liveth in eternall blis, 265
And left his sonne t'ensue those steps of his.

"He, noble bud, his grandsires livelie hayre,
Under the shadow of thy countenaunce
Now ginnes to shoote up fast, and flourish fayre
In learned artes, and goodlie governaunce, 270
That him to highest honour shall advaunce.
Brave impe* of Bedford, grow apace in bountie,
And count of wisedome more than of thy countie!
[* Impe, graft, scion.]

"Ne may I let thy husbands sister die,
That goodly ladie, sith she eke did spring 275
Out of this stocke and famous familie
Whose praises I to future age doo sing;
And foorth out of her happie womb did bring
The sacred brood of learning and all honour;
In whom the heavens powrde all their gifts upon her.

"Most gentle spirite breathed from above, 281
Out of the bosome of the Makers blis,
In whom all bountie and all vertuous love
Appeared in their native propertis,
And did enrich that noble breast of his 285
With treasure passing all this worldës worth,
Worthie of heaven it selfe, which brought it forth:

"His blessed spirite, full of power divine
And influence of all celestiall grace,
Loathing this sinfull earth and earthlie slime, 290
Fled backe too soonc unto his native place;
Too soone for all that did his love embrace,
Too soone for all this wretched world, whom he
Robd of all right and true nobilitie.

"Yet, ere his happie soule to heaven went 295
Out of this fleshlie goale, he did devise
Unto his heavenlie Maker to present
His bodie, as a spotles sacrifise,
And chose that guiltie hands of enemies
Should powre forth th'offring of his guiltles blood:
So life exchanging for his countries good. 300

"O noble spirite, live there ever blessed,
The worlds late wonder, and the heavens new ioy;
Live ever there, and leave me here distressed
With mortall cares and cumbrous worlds anoy! 305
But, where thou dost that happines enioy,
Bid me, O bid me quicklie come to thee,
That happie there I maie thee alwaies see!

"Yet, whilest the Fates affoord me vitall breath,
I will it spend in speaking of thy praise, 310
And sing to thee, untill that timelie death
By heavens doome doo ende my earthlie daies:
Thereto doo thou my humble spirite raise,
And into me that sacred breath inspire,
Which thou there breathest perfect and entire. 315

"Then will I sing; but who can better sing
Than thine owne sister, peerles ladie bright,
Which to thee sings with deep harts sorrowing,
Sorrowing tempered with deare delight,
That her to heare I feele my feeble spright 320
Robbed of sense, and ravished with ioy;
O sad ioy, made of mourning and anoy!

"Yet will I sing; but who can better sing
Than thou thyselfe thine owne selfes valiance,
That, whilest thou livedst, madest the forrests ring, 325
And fields resownd, and flockes to leap and daunce,
And shepheards leave their lambs unto mischaunce,
To runne thy shrill Arcadian pipe to heare:
O happie were those dayes, thrice happie were!

"But now more happie thou, and wretched wee, 330
Which want the wonted sweetnes of thy voice,
Whiles thou now in Elisian fields so free,
With Orpheus, and with Linus, and the choice
Of all that ever did in rimes reioyce,
Conversest, and doost heare their heavenlie layes, 335
And they heare thine, and thine doo better praise.

"So there thou livest, singing evermore,
And here thou livest, being ever song
Of us, which living loved thee afore,
And now thee worship mongst that blessed throng 340
Of heavenlie poets and heroës strong.
So thou both here and there immortall art,
And everie where through excellent desart.

"But such as neither of themselves can sing,
Nor yet are sung of others for reward, 345
Die in obscure oblivion, as the thing
Which never was; ne ever with regard
Their names shall of the later age be heard,
But shall in rustic darknes ever lie,
Unles they mentiond be with infamie. 350

"What booteth it to have been rich alive?
What to be great? what to be gracious?
When after death no token doth survive
Of former being in this mortall hous,
But sleepes in dust dead and inglorious, 355
Like beast, whose breath but in his nostrels is,
And hath no hope of happinesse or blis.

"How manie great ones may remembred be,
Which in their daies most famouslie did florish,
Of whome no word we heare, nor signe now see, 360
But as things wipt out with a sponge to perishe,
Because they living cared not to cherishe
No gentle wits, through pride or covetize,
Which might their names for ever memorize!

"Provide therefore, ye Princes, whilst ye live, 365
That of the Muses ye may friended bee,
Which unto men eternitie do give;
For they be daughters of Dame Memorie
And love, the father of Eternitie,
And do those men in golden thrones repose, 370
Whose merits they to glorifie do chose.

"The seven-fold yron gates of grislie Hell,
And horrid house of sad Proserpina,
They able are with power of mightie spell
To breake, and thence the soules to bring awaie 375
Out of dread darkenesse to eternall day,
And them immortall make which els would die
In foule forgetfulnesse, and nameles lie.

"So whilome raised they the puissant brood
Of golden-girt Alcmena, for great merite, 380
Out of the dust to which the Oetaean wood
Had him consum'd, and spent his vitall spirite,
To highest heaven, where now he doth inherite
All happinesse in Hebes silver bowre,
Chosen to be her dearest paramoure. 385

"So raisde they eke faire Ledaes warlick twinnes.
And interchanged life unto them lent,
That, when th'one diës, th'other then beginnes
To shew in heaven his brightnes orient;
And they, for pittie of the sad wayment*, 390
Which Orpheus for Eurydice did make,
Her back againe to life sent for his sake.
[* Wayment, lament.]

"So happie are they, and so fortunate,
Whom the Pierian sacred sisters love,
That freed from bands of impacable** fate, 395
And power of death, they live for aye above,
Where mortall wreakes their blis may not remove:
But with the gods, for former verities meede,
On nectar and ambrosia do feede.
[* Impacable, unappeasable.]

"For deeds doe die, how ever noblie donne, 400
And thoughts of men do as themselves decay;
But wise wordes taught in numbers for to runne,
Recorded by the Muses, live for ay;
Ne may with storming showers be washt away,
Ne bitter-breathing windes with harmfull blast, 405
Nor age, nor envie, shall them ever wast.

"In vaine doo earthly princes then, in vaine,
Seeke with pyramides to heaven aspired,
Or huge colosses built with costlie paine,
Or brasen pillours never to be fired, 410
Or shrines made of the mettall most desired,
To make their memories for ever live:
For how can mortall immortalitie give?

"Such one Mausolus made, the worlds great wonder,
But now no remnant doth thereof remaine: 415
Such one Marcellus, but was torne with thunder:
Such one Lisippus, but is worne with raine:
Such one King Edmond, but was rent for gaine.
All such vaine moniments of earthlie masse,
Devour'd of Time, in time to nought doo passe. 420

"But Fame with golden wings aloft doth flie,
Above the reach of ruinous decay,
And with brave plumes doth beate the azure skie,
Admir'd of base-borne men from farre away:
Then who so will with vertuous deeds assay 425
To mount to heaven, on Pegasus must ride,
And with sweete Poets verse be glorifide.

"For not to have been dipt in Lethe lake,
Could save the sonne of Thetis from to die;
But that blinde bard did him immortall make 430
With verses dipt in deaw of Castalie:
Which made the Easterne conquerour to crie,
O fortunate yong man! whose vertue found
So brave a trompe thy noble acts to sound.

"Therefore in this halfe happie I doo read* 435
Good Melibae, that hath a poet got
To sing his living praises being dead,
Deserving never here to be forgot,
In spight of envie, that his deeds would spot:
Since whose decease, learning lies unregarded, 440
And men of armes doo wander unrewarded.
[* Read, consider]

"Those two be those two great calamities,
That long agoe did grieve the noble spright
Of Salomon with great indignities,
Who whilome was alive the wisest wight: 445
But now his wisedome is disprooved quite,
For he that now welds* all things at his will
Scorns th'one and th'other in his deeper skill.
[* Welds, wields]

"O griefe of griefes! O gall of all good heartes!
To see that vertue should dispised bee 450
Of him that first was raisde for vertuous parts,
And now, broad spreading like an aged tree,
Lets none shoot up that nigh him planted bee.
O let the man of whom the Muse is scorned,
Nor alive nor dead, be of the Muse adorned! 455

"O vile worlds trust! that with such vaine illusion
Hath so wise men bewitcht and overkest*,
That they see not the way of their confusion:
O vainesse to be added to the rest
That do my soule with inward griefe infest! 460
Let them behold the piteous fall of mee,
And in my case their owne ensample see.
[* Overkest, overcast.]

"And who so els that sits in highest seate
Of this worlds glorie, worshipped of all,
Ne feareth change of time, nor fortunes threats, 465
Let him behold the horror of my fall,
And his owne end unto remembrance call;
That of like ruine he may warned bee,
And in himselfe be moov'd to pittie mee."

Thus having ended all her piteous plaint, 470
With dolefull shrikes shee vanished away,
That I, through inward sorrowe wexen faint,
And all astonished with deepe dismay
For her departure, had no word to say;
But sate long time in sencelesse sad affright, 475
Looking still, if I might of her have sight.

Which when I missed, having looked long,
My thought returned greeved home againe,
Renewing her complaint with passion strong,
For ruth of that same womans piteous paine; 480
Whose wordes recording in my troubled braine,
I felt such anguish wound my feeble heart,
That frosen horror ran through everie part.

So inlie greeving in my groning brest,
And deepelie muzing at her doubtfull speach, 485
Whose meaning much I labored foorth to wreste,
Being above my slender reasons reach,
At length, by demonstration me to teach,
Before mine eies strange sights presented were,
Like tragicke pageants seeming to appeare. 490


I saw an Image, all of massie gold,
Placed on high upon an altare faire,
That all which did the same from farre beholde
Might worship it, and fall on lowest staire.
Not that great idoll might with this compaire, 495
To which th'Assyrian tyrant would have made
The holie brethren falslie to have praid.

But th'altare on the which this image staid
Was (O great pitie!) built of brickle* clay,
That shortly the foundation decaid, 500
With showres of heaven and tempests worne away;
Then downe it fell, and low in ashes lay,
Scorned of everie one which by it went;
That I, it seing, dearelie did lament.
[* Brickle, brittle.]


Next unto this a statelie Towre appeared, 505
Built all of richest stone that might bee found,
And nigh unto the heavens in height upreared,
But placed on a plot of sandie ground:
Not that great towre which is so much renownd
For tongues confusion in Holie Writ, 510
King Ninus worke, might be compar'd to it.

But, O vaine labours of terrestriall wit,
That buildes so stronglie on so frayle a soyle,
As with each storme does fall away and flit,
And gives the fruit of all your travailes toyle 515
To be the pray of Tyme, and Fortunes spoyle,
I saw this towre fall sodainlie to dust,
That nigh with griefe thereof my heart was brust.


Then did I see a pleasant Paradize,
Full of sweete flowres and daintiest delights, 520
Such as on earth man could not more devize,
With pleasures choyce to feed his cheereful sprights:
Not that which Merlin by his magicke slights
Made for the gentle Squire, to entertaine
His fayre Belphoebe, could this gardine staine. 525

But O short pleasure bought with lasting paine!
Why will hereafter anie flesh delight
In earthlie blis, and ioy in pleasures vaine?
Since that I sawe this gardine wasted quite,
That where it was scarce seemed anie sight; 530
That I, which once that beautie did beholde,
Could not from teares my melting eyes with-holde.


Soone after this a Giaunt came in place,
Of wondrous power, and of exceeding stature,
That none durst vewe the horror of his face; 535
Yet was he milde of speach, and meeke of nature.
Not he which in despight of his Creatour
With railing tearmes defied the Iewish hoast,
Might with this mightie one in hugenes boast;

For from the one he could to th'other coast 540
Stretch his strong thighes, and th'ocean overstride,
And reatch his hand into his enemies hoast.
But see the end of pompe and fleshlie pride!
One of his feete unwares from him did slide,
That downe hee fell into the deepe abisse, 545
Where drownd with him is all his earthlie blisse.


Then did I see a Bridge, made all of golde,
Over the sea from one to other side,
Withouten prop or pillour it t'upholde,
But like the coloured rainbowe arched wide: 550
Not that great arche which Traian edifide,
To be a wonder to all age ensuing,
Was matchable to this in equall vewing.

But ah! what bootes it to see earthlie thing
In glorie or in greatnes to excell, 555
Sith time doth greatest things to ruine bring?
This goodlie bridge, one foote not fastned well,
Gan faile, and all the rest downe shortlie fell,
Ne of so brave a building ought remained,
That griefe thereof my spirite greatly pained. 560


I saw two Beares, as white as anie milke,
Lying together in a mightie cave,
Of milde aspect, and haire as soft as silke,
That salvage nature seemed not to have,
Nor after greedie spoyle of blood to crave: 565
Two fairer beasts might not elswhere be found,
Although the compast* world were sought around.
[* Compast, rounded.]

But what can long abide above this ground
In state of blis, or stedfast happinesse?
The cave in which these beares lay sleeping sound
Was but earth, and with her owne weightinesse 571
Upon them fell, and did unwares oppresse;
That, for great sorrow of their sudden fate,
Henceforth all worlds felicitie I hate.

Much was I troubled in my heavie spright, 575
At sight of these sad spectacles forepast,
That all my senses were bereaved quight,
And I in minde remained sore agast,
Distraught twixt feare and pitie; when at last
I heard a voyce which loudly to me called, 580
That with the suddein shrill I was appalled.

"Behold," said it, "and by ensample see,
That all is vanitie and griefe of minde,
Ne other comfort in this world can be,
But hope of heaven, and heart to God inclinde; 585
For all the rest must needs be left behinde."
With that it bad me to the other side
To cast mine eye, where other sights I spide.


Upon that famous rivers further shore,
There stood a snowie Swan, of heavenly hiew 590
And gentle kinde as ever fowle afore;
A fairer one in all the goodlie criew
Of white Strimonian brood might no man view:
There he most sweetly sung the prophecie
Of his owne death in dolefull elegie. 595

At last, when all his mourning melodie
He ended had, that both the shores resounded,
Feeling the fit that him forewarnd to die,
With loftie flight above the earth he bounded,
And out of sight to highest heaven mounted, 600
Where now he is become an heavenly signe;
There now the ioy is his, here sorrow mine.


Whilest thus I looked, loe! adowne the lee*
I sawe an Harpe, stroong all with silver twyne,
And made of golde and costlie yvorie, 605
Swimming, that whilome seemed to have been
The harpe on which Dan Orpheus was seene
Wylde beasts and forrests after him to lead,
But was th'harpe of Philisides** now dead.
[* Lee, surface of the stream.]
[** Phili-sid-es, Sir Philip Sidney]

At length out of the river it was reard, 610
And borne above the cloudes to be divin'd,
Whilst all the way most heavenly noyse was heard
Of the strings, stirred with the warbling wind,
That wrought both ioy and sorrow in my mind:
So now in heaven a signe it doth appeare, 615
The Harpe well knowne beside the Northern Beare.


Soone after this I saw on th'other side
A curious Coffer made of heben* wood,
That in it did most precious treasure hide,
Exceeding all this baser worldës good: 620
Yet through the overflowing of the flood
It almost drowned was and done to nought,
That sight thereof much griev'd my pensive thought.
[* Heben, ebony.]

At length, when most in perill it was brought,
Two angels, downe descending with swift flight, 625
Out of the swelling streame it lightly caught,
And twixt their blessed armes it carried quight
Above the reach of anie living sight:
So now it is transform'd into that starre,
In which all heavenly treasures locked are. 630


Looking aside I saw a stately Bed,
Adorned all with costly cloth of gold,
That might for anie princes couche be red*,
And deckt with daintie flowres, as if it shold
Be for some bride, her ioyous night to hold: 635
Therein a goodly virgine sleeping lay;
A fairer wight saw never summers day.
[* Red, taken.]

I heard a voyce that called farre away,
And her awaking bad her quickly dight,
For lo! her bridegrome was in readie ray 640
To come to her, and seeke her loves delight:
With that she started up with cherefull sight,
When suddeinly both bed and all was gone,
And I in languor left there all alone.


Still as I gazed, I beheld where stood 645
A Knight all arm'd, upon a winged steed,
The same that was bred of Medusaes blood,
On which Dan Perseus, borne of heavenly seed,
The faire Andromeda from perill freed:
Full mortally this knight ywounded was, 650
That streames of blood foorth flowed on the gras.

Yet was he deckt (small ioy to him, alas!)
With manie garlands for his victories,
And with rich spoyles, which late he did purchas
Through brave atcheivements from his enemies: 655
Fainting at last through long infirmities,
He smote his steed, that straight to heaven him bore,
And left me here his losse for to deplore.


Lastly, I saw an Arke of purest golde
Upon a brazen pillour standing hie, 660
Which th'ashes seem'd of some great prince to hold,
Enclosde therein for endles memorie
Of him whom all the world did glorifie:
Seemed the heavens with the earth did disagree,
Whether should of those ashes keeper bee. 665

At last me seem'd wing-footed Mercurie,
From heaven descending to appease their strife,
The arke did beare with him above the skie,
And to those ashes gave a second life,
To live in heaven, where happines is rife: 670
At which the earth did grieve exceedingly,
And I for dole was almost like to die.


Immortall spirite of Philisides,
Which now art made the heavens ornament,
That whilome wast the worldës chiefst riches. 675
Give leave to him that lov'de thee to lament
His losse by lacke of thee to heaven hent*,
And with last duties of this broken verse,
Broken with sighes, to decke thy sable herse!
[* Hent, taken away.]

And ye, faire Ladie! th'honor of your daies 680
And glorie of the world, your high thoughts scorne,
Vouchsafe this moniment of his last praise
With some few silver dropping teares t'adorne;
And as ye be of heavenlie off-spring borne,
So unto heaven let your high minde aspire, 685
And loath this drosse of sinfull worlds desire.

Monday, March 15, 2010

A Lover's Complaint

By William Shakespeare

From off a hill whose concave womb re-worded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tun'd tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcase of a beauty spent and done.
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of Heaven's fell rage
Some beauty peeped through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laund'ring the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.

Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride;
As they did battery to the spheres intend;
Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied
To th' orbed earth; sometimes they do extend
Their view right on; anon their gazes lend
To every place at once, and nowhere fix'd,
The mind and sight distractedly commix'd.

Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat,
Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride;
For some, untuck'd, descended her sheav'd hat,
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;
Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,
And, true to bondage, would not break from thence,
Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew
Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,
Which one by one she in a river threw,
Upon whose weeping margent she was set;
Like usury applying wet to wet,
Or monarchs' hands, that lets not bounty fall
Where want cries 'some,' but where excess begs all.

Of folded schedules had she many a one,
Which she perus'd, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood;
Crack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone,
Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud;
Found yet mo letters sadly penn'd in blood,
With sleided silk feat and affectedly
Enswath'd, and seal'd to curious secrecy.

These often bath'd she in her fluxive eyes,
And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear;
Cried, 'O false blood, thou register of lies,
What unapproved witness dost thou bear!
Ink would have seem'd more black and damned here!'
This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,
Big discontent so breaking their contents.

A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh,
Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew
Of court, of city, and had let go by
The swiftest hours, observed as they flew,
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew;
And, privileg'd by age, desires to know
In brief, the grounds and motives of her woe.

So slides he down upon his grained bat,
And comely-distant sits he by her side;
When he again desires her, being sat,
Her grievance with his hearing to divide:
If that from him there may be aught applied
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,
'Tis promised in the charity of age.

'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,
Let it not tell your judgement I am old;
Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:
I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied
Love to myself, and to no love beside.

'But woe is me! too early I attended
A youthful suit (it was to gain my grace)
Of one by nature's outwards so commended,
That maiden's eyes stuck over all his face:
Love lack'd a dwelling and made him her place;
And when in his fair parts she did abide,
She was new lodg'd and newly deified.

'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls;
And every light occasion of the wind
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.
What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find:
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind;
For on his visage was in little drawn,
What largeness thinks in paradise was sawn.

'Small show of man was yet upon his chin;
His phoenix down began but to appear,
Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin,
Whose bare out-bragg'd the web it seemed to wear:
Yet show'd his visage by that cost more dear;
And nice affections wavering stood in doubt
If best were as it was, or best without.

His qualities were beauteous as his form,
For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free;
Yet if men mov'd him, was he such a storm
As oft 'twixt May and April is to see,
When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be.
His rudeness so with his authoriz'd youth
Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.

'Well could he ride, and often men would say
That horse his mettle from his rider takes:
Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,
What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!
And controversy hence a question takes,
Whether the horse by him became his deed,
Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.

'But quickly on this side the verdict went;
His real habitude gave life and grace
To appertainings and to ornament,
Accomplish'd in himself, not in his case,:
All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,
Came for additions; yet their purpos'd trim
Pierc'd not his grace, but were all grac'd by him.

'So on the tip of his subduing tongue
All kind of arguments and question deep,
All replication prompt, and reason strong,
For his advantage still did wake and sleep:
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,
He had the dialect and different skill,
Catching all passions in his craft of will;

'That he did in the general bosom reign
Of young, of old; and sexes both enchanted,
To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain
In personal duty, following where he haunted:
Consents bewitch'd, ere he desire, have granted;
And dialogued for him what he would say,
Ask'd their own wills, and made their wills obey.

'Many there were that did his picture get,
To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind;
Like fools that in the imagination set
The goodly objects which abroad they find
Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd;
And labouring in mo pleasures to bestow them,
Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them:

'So many have, that never touch'd his hand,
Sweetly suppos'd them mistress of his heart.
My woeful self, that did in freedom stand,
And was my own fee-simple, (not in part,)
What with his heart in youth, and youth in art,
Threw my affections in his charmed power,
Reserv'd the stalk, and gave him all my flower.

'Yet did I not, as some my equals did,
Demand of him, nor being desired yielded;
Finding myself in honour so forbid,
With safest distance I mine honour shielded:
Experience for me many bulwarks builded
Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil
Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.

'But ah! who ever shunn'd by precedent
The destin'd ill she must herself assay?
Or force'd examples, 'gainst her own content,
To put the by-pass'd perils in her way?
Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay;
For when we rage, advice is often seen
By blunting us to make our wills more keen.

'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood,
That we must curb it upon others' proof,
To be forbod the sweets that seems so good,
For fear of harms that preach in our behoof.
O appetite, from judgement stand aloof!
The one a palate hath that needs will taste,
Though reason weep, and cry It is thy last.

'For further I could say, This man's untrue,
And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;
Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew,
Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling;
Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling;
Thought characters and words, merely but art,
And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.

'And long upon these terms I held my city,
Till thus he 'gan besiege me: Gentle maid,
Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,
And be not of my holy vows afraid:
That's to you sworn, to none was ever said;
For feasts of love I have been call'd unto,
Till now did ne'er invite, nor never woo.

'All my offences that abroad you see
Are errors of the blood, none of the mind;
Love made them not; with acture they may be,
Where neither party is nor true nor kind:
They sought their shame that so their shame did find;
And so much less of shame in me remains,
By how much of me their reproach contains.

'Among the many that mine eyes have seen,
Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd,
Or my affection put to the smallest teen,
Or any of my leisures ever charm'd:
Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harmed;
Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,
And reign'd, commanding in his monarchy.

'Look here what tributes wounded fancies sent me,
Of paled pearls and rubies red as blood;
Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me
Of grief and blushes, aptly understood
In bloodless white and the encrimson'd mood;
Effects of terror and dear modesty,
Encamp'd in hearts, but fighting outwardly.

'And, lo! behold these talents of their hair,
With twisted metal amorously empleach'd,
I have receiv'd from many a several fair,
(Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd,)
With the annexions of fair gems enrich'd,
And deep-brain'd sonnets that did amplify
Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality.

'The diamond, why 'twas beautiful and hard,
Whereto his invis'd properties did tend;
The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard
Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend;
The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend
With objects manifold; each several stone,
With wit well blazon'd, smil'd, or made some moan.

'Lo! all these trophies of affections hot,
Of pensiv'd and subdued desires the tender,
Nature hath charg'd me that I hoard them not,
But yield them up where I myself must render,
That is, to you, my origin and ender:
For these, of force, must your oblations be,
Since I their altar, you enpatron me.

'O then advance of yours that phraseless hand,
Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;
Take all these similes to your own command,
Hallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise;
What me your minister, for you obeys,
Works under you; and to your audit comes
Their distract parcels in combined sums.

'Lo! this device was sent me from a nun,
Or sister sanctified of holiest note;
Which late her noble suit in court did shun,
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote;
For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove
To spend her living in eternal love.

'But O, my sweet, what labour is't to leave
The thing we have not, mastering what not strives?
Paling the place which did no form receive,
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves:
She that her fame so to herself contrives,
The scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight,
And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

'O pardon me, in that my boast is true:
The accident which brought me to her eye,
Upon the moment did her force subdue,
And now she would the caged cloister fly:
Religious love put out religion's eye:
Not to be tempted, would she be immur'd,
And now, to tempt all, liberty procur'd.

'How mighty then you are, O hear me tell!
The broken bosoms that to me belong
Have emptied all their fountains in my well,
And mine I pour your ocean all among:
I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong,
Must for your victory us all congest,
As compound love to physic your cold breast.

'My parts had pow'r to charm a sacred nun,
Who, disciplin'd and dieted in grace,
Believ'd her eyes when they t oassail begun,
All vows and consecrations giving place.
O most potential love! vow, bond, nor space,
In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine,
For thou art all, and all things else are thine.

'When thou impressest, what are precepts worth
Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame,
How coldly those impediments stand forth,
Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame!
Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense, 'gainst
And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears,
The aloes of all forces, shocks and fears.

'Now all these hearts that do on mine depend,
Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine,
And supplicant their sighs to your extend,
To leave the battery that you make 'gainst mine,
Lending soft audience to my sweet design,
And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath,
That shall prefer and undertake my troth.

'This said, his watery eyes he did dismount,
Whose sights till then were levell'd on my face;
Each cheek a river running from a fount
With brinish current downward flow'd apace:
O, how the channel to the stream gave grace!
Who, glaz'd with crystal, gate the glowing roses
That flame through water which their hue encloses.

'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies
In the small orb of one particular tear!
But with the inundation of the eyes
What rocky heart to water will not wear?
What breast so cold that is not warmed here?
O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath,
Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.

'For lo! his passion, but an art of craft,
Even there resolv'd my reason into tears;
There my white stole of chastity I daff'd,
Shook off my sober guards, and civil fears;
Appear to him, as he to me appears,
All melting; though our drops this difference bore:
His poison'd me, and mine did him restore.

'In him a plenitude of subtle matter,
Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,
Of burning blushes or of weeping water,
Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves,
In either's aptness, as it best deceives,
To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,
Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows;

'That not a heart which in his level came
Could scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,
Showing fair nature is both kind and tame;
And, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim:
Against the thing he sought he would exclaim;
When he most burned in heart-wish'd luxury,
He preach'd pure maid and prais'd cold chastity.

'Thus merely with the garment of a Grace
The naked and concealed fiend he cover'd,
That the unexperienc'd gave the tempter place,
Which, like a cherubin, above them hover'd.
Who, young and simple, would not be so lover'd?
Ay me! I fell, and yet do question make
What I should do again for such a sake.

'O, that infected moisture of his eye,
O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd,
O, that forc'd thunder from his heart did fly,
O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd,
O, all that borrow'd motion, seeming ow'd,
Would yet again betray the fore-betray'd,
And new pervert a reconciled maid.'

Saturday, March 13, 2010

To a Friend, Unsuccessful in Love

By Mark Akenside

1 Indeed, my Phædria, if to find
That wealth can female wishes gain,
Had e'er disturb'd your thoughtful mind,
Or caused one serious moment's pain,
I should have said that all the rules
You learn'd of moralists and schools
Were very useless, very vain.

2 Yet I perhaps mistake the case—
Say, though with this heroic air,
Like one that holds a nobler chase,
You try the tender loss to bear,
Does not your heart renounce your tongue?
Seems not my censure strangely wrong
To count it such a slight affair?

3 When Hesper gilds the shaded sky,
Oft as you seek the well-known grove,
Methinks I see you cast your eye
Back to the morning scenes of love:
Each pleasing word you heard her say,
Her gentle look, her graceful way,
Again your struggling fancy move.

4 Then tell me, is your soul entire?
Does Wisdom calmly hold her throne?
Then can you question each desire,
Bid this remain, and that be gone?
No tear half-starting from your eye?
No kindling blush, you know not why?
No stealing sigh, nor stifled groan?

5 Away with this unmanly mood!
See where the hoary churl appears,
Whose hand hath seized the favourite good
Which you reserved for happier years:
While, side by side, the blushing maid
Shrinks from his visage, half afraid,
Spite of the sickly joy she wears.

6 Ye guardian powers of love and fame,
This chaste, harmonious pair behold;
And thus reward the generous flame
Of all who barter vows for gold.
O bloom of youth, O tender charms
Well-buried in a dotard's arms!
O equal price of beauty sold!

7 Cease then to gaze with looks of love:
Bid her adieu, the venal fair:
Unworthy she your bliss to prove;
Then wherefore should she prove your care?
No: lay your myrtle garland down;
And let a while the willow's crown
With luckier omens bind your hair.

8 O just escaped the faithless main,
Though driven unwilling on the land;
To guide your favour'd steps again,
Behold your better Genius stand:
Where Truth revolves her page divine,
Where Virtue leads to Honour's shrine,
Behold, he lifts his awful hand.

9 Fix but on these your ruling aim,
And Time, the sire of manly care,
Will fancy's dazzling colours tame;
A soberer dress will beauty wear:
Then shall esteem, by knowledge led,
Enthrone within your heart and head
Some happier love, some truer fair.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

On The Winter Solstice - 1740

By Mark Akenside

1 The radiant ruler of the year
At length his wintry goal attains;
Soon to reverse the long career,
And northward bend his steady reins.
Now, piercing half Potosi's height,
Prone rush the fiery floods of light
Ripening the mountain's silver stores:
While, in some cavern's horrid shade,
The panting Indian hides his head,
And oft the approach of eve implores.

2 But lo, on this deserted coast,
How pale the sun! how thick the air!
Mustering his storms, a sordid host,
Lo, Winter desolates the year.
The fields resign their latest bloom;
No more the breezes waft perfume,
No more the streams in music roll:
But snows fall dark, or rains resound;
And, while great Nature mourns around,
Her griefs infect the human soul.

3 Hence the loud city's busy throngs
Urge the warm bowl and splendid fire:
Harmonious dances, festive songs,
Against the spiteful heaven conspire.
Meantime, perhaps, with tender fears
Some village dame the curfew hears,
While round the hearth her children play:
At morn their father went abroad;
The moon is sunk, and deep the road;
She sighs, and vonders at his stay.

4 But thou, my lyre, awake, arise,
And hail the sun's returning force:
Even now he climbs the northern skies,
And health and hope attend his course.
Then louder howl the aerial waste,
Be earth with keener cold embraced,
Yet gentle hours advance their wing;
And Fancy, mocking Winter's might,
With flowers and dews and streaming light
Already decks the new-born Spring.

5 O fountain of the golden day,
Could mortal vows promote thy speed,
How soon before thy vernal ray
Should each unkindly damp recede!
How soon each hovering tempest fly,
Whose stores for mischief arm the sky,
Prompt on our heads to burst amain,
To rend the forest from the steep,
Or, thundering o'er the Baltic deep,
To whelm the merchant's hopes of gain!

6 But let not man's unequal views
Presume o'er Nature and her laws:
'Tis his with grateful joy to use
The indulgence of the Sovereign Cause;
Secure that health and beauty springs
Through this majestic frame of things,
Beyond what he can reach to know;
And that Heaven's all-subduing will,
With good, the progeny of ill,
Attempereth every state below.

7 How pleasing wears the wintry night,
Spent with the old illustrious dead!
While, by the taper's trembling light,
I seem those awful scenes to tread
Where chiefs or legislators lie,
Whose triumphs move before my eye,
In arms and antique pomp array'd;
While now I taste the Ionian song,
Now bend to Plato's godlike tongue
Resounding through the olive shade.

8 But should some cheerful, equal friend
Bid leave the studious page a while.
Let mirth on wisdom then attend,
And social ease on learned toil.
Then while, at love's uncareful shrine,
Each dictates to the god of wine
Her name whom all his hopes obey,
What flattering dreams each bosom warm,
While absence, heightening every charm,
Invokes the slow-returning May!

9 May, thou delight of heaven and earth,
When will thy genial star arise?
The auspicious morn, which gives thee birth,
Shall bring Eudora to my eyes.
Within her sylvan haunt, behold,
As in the happy garden old,
She moves like that primeval fair:
Thither, ye silver-sounding lyres,
Ye tender smiles, ye chaste desires,
Fond hope and mutual faith, repair.

10 And if believing love can read
His better omens in her eye,
Then shall my fears, O charming maid,
And every pain of absence die:
Then shall my jocund harp, attuned
To thy true ear, with sweeter sound
Pursue the free Horatian song:
Old Tyne shall listen to my tale,
And Echo, down the bordering vale,
The liquid melody prolong.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

The Queen Of Spades

By Alexander Poushkin

AT the house of Naroumov, a cavalry officer, the long winter night had
been passed in gambling. At five in the morning breakfast was served
to the weary players. The winners ate with relish; the losers, on the
contrary, pushed back their plates and sat brooding gloomily. Under
the influence of the good wine, however, the conversation then became

"Well, Sourine?" said the host inquiringly.

"Oh, I lost as usual. My luck is abominable. No matter how cool I keep,
I never win."

"How is it, Herman, that you never touch a card?" remarked one of the
men, addressing a young officer of the Engineering Corps. "Here you are
with the rest of us at five o'clock in the morning, and you have neither
played nor bet all night."

"Play interests me greatly," replied the person addressed, "but I hardly
care to sacrifice the necessaries of life for uncertain superfluities."

"Herman is a German, therefore economical; that explains it," said
Tomsky. "But the person I can't quite understand is my grandmother, the
Countess Anna Fedorovna."

"Why?" inquired a chorus of voices.

"I can't understand why my grandmother never gambles."

"I don't see anything very striking in the fact that a woman of eighty
refuses to gamble," objected Naroumov.

"Have you never heard her story?"


"Well, then, listen to it. To begin with, sixty years ago my grandmother
went to Paris, where she was all the fashion. People crowded each other
in the streets to get a chance to see the 'Muscovite Venus,' as she was
called. All the great ladies played faro, then. On one occasion, while
playing with the Duke of Orleans, she lost an enormous sum. She told her
husband of the debt, but he refused outright to pay it. Nothing could
induce him to change his mind on the subject, and grandmother was at
her wits' ends. Finally, she remembered a friend of hers, Count
Saint-Germain. You must have heard of him, as many wonderful stories
have been told about him. He is said to have discovered the elixir of
life, the philosopher's stone, and many other equally marvelous things.
He had money at his disposal, and my grandmother knew it. She sent him a
note asking him to come to see her. He obeyed her summons and found her
in great distress. She painted the cruelty of her husband in the darkest
colors, and ended by telling the Count that she depended upon his
friendship and generosity.

"'I could lend you the money,' replied the Count, after a moment of
thoughtfulness, 'but I know that you would not enjoy a moment's rest
until you had returned it; it would only add to your embarrassment.
There is another way of freeing yourself.'

"'But I have no money at all,' insisted my grandmother.

"'There is no need of money. Listen to me.'

"The Count then told her a secret which any of us would give a good deal
to know."

The young gamesters were all attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, took a few
whiffs, then continued:

"The next evening, grandmother appeared at Versailles at the Queen's
gaming-table. The Duke of Orleans was the dealer. Grandmother made some
excuse for not having brought any money, and began to punt. She chose
three cards in succession, again and again, winning every time, and was
soon out of debt."

"A fable," remarked Herman; "perhaps the cards were marked."

"I hardly think so," replied Tomsky, with an air of importance.

"So you have a grandmother who knows three winning cards, and you
haven't found out the magic secret."

"I must say I have not. She had four sons, one of them being my father,
all of whom are devoted to play; she never told the secret to one of
them. But my uncle told me this much, on his word of honor. Tchaplitzky,
who died in poverty after having squandered millions, lost at one time,
at play, nearly three hundred thousand rubles. He was desperate and
grandmother took pity on him. She told him the three cards, making him
swear never to use them again. He returned to the game, staked fifty
thousand rubles on each card, and came out ahead, after paying his

As day was dawning the party now broke up, each one draining his glass
and taking his leave.

The Countess Anna Fedorovna was seated before her mirror in her
dressing-room. Three women were assisting at her toilet. The old
Countess no longer made the slightest pretensions to beauty, but she
still clung to all the habits of her youth, and spent as much time at
her toilet as she had done sixty years before. At the window a young
girl, her ward, sat at her needlework.

"Good afternoon, grandmother," cried a young officer, who had just
entered the room. "I have come to ask a favor of you."

"What, Pavel?"

"I want to be allowed to present one of my friends to you, and to take
you to the ball on Tuesday night."

"Take me to the ball and present him to me there."

After a few more remarks the officer walked up to the window where
Lisaveta Ivanovna sat.

"Whom do you wish to present?" asked the girl.

"Naroumov; do you know him?"

"No; is he a soldier?"


"An engineer?"

"No; why do you ask?"

The girl smiled and made no reply.

Pavel Tomsky took his leave, and, left to herself, Lisaveta glanced
out of the window. Soon, a young officer appeared at the corner of the
street; the girl blushed and bent her head low over her canvas.

This appearance of the officer had become a daily occurrence. The man
was totally unknown to her, and as she was not accustomed to coquetting
with the soldiers she saw on the street, she hardly knew how to explain
his presence. His persistence finally roused an interest entirely
strange to her. One day, she even ventured to smile upon her admirer,
for such he seemed to be.

The reader need hardly be told that the officer was no other than
Herman, the would-be gambler, whose imagination had been strongly
excited by the story told by Tomsky of the three magic cards.

"Ah," he thought, "if the old Countess would only reveal the secret to
me. Why not try to win her good-will and appeal to her sympathy?"

With this idea in mind, he took up his daily station before the house,
watching the pretty face at the window, and trusting to fate to bring
about the desired acquaintance.

One day, as Lisaveta was standing on the pavement about to enter the
carriage after the Countess, she felt herself jostled and a note was
thrust into her hand. Turning, she saw the young officer at her elbow.
As quick as thought, she put the note in her glove and entered the
carriage. On her return from the drive, she hastened to her chamber to
read the missive, in a state of excitement mingled with fear. It was
a tender and respectful declaration of affection, copied word for word
from a German novel. Of this fact, Lisa was, of course, ignorant.

The young girl was much impressed by the missive, but she felt that
the writer must not be encouraged. She therefore wrote a few lines of
explanation and, at the first opportunity, dropped it, with the letter,
out of the window. The officer hastily crossed the street, picked up the
papers and entered a shop to read them.

In no wise daunted by this rebuff, he found the opportunity to send
her another note in a few days. He received no reply, but, evidently
understanding the female heart, he presevered, begging for an interview.
He was rewarded at last by the following:

"To-night we go to the ambassador's ball. We shall remain until two
o'clock. I can arrange for a meeting in this way. After our departure,
the servants will probably all go out, or go to sleep. At half-past
eleven enter the vestibule boldly, and if you see any one, inquire for
the Countess; if not, ascend the stairs, turn to the left and go on
until you come to a door, which opens into her bedchamber. Enter
this room and behind a screen you will find another door leading to a
corridor; from this a spiral staircase leads to my sitting-room. I shall
expect to find you there on my return."

Herman trembled like a leaf as the appointed hour drew near. He obeyed
instructions fully, and, as he met no one, he reached the old lady's
bedchamber without difficulty. Instead of going out of the small door
behind the screen, however, he concealed himself in a closet to await
the return of the old Countess.

The hours dragged slowly by; at last he heard the sound of wheels.
Immediately lamps were lighted and servants began moving about. Finally
the old woman tottered into the room, completely exhausted. Her women
removed her wraps and proceeded to get her in readiness for the night.
Herman watched the proceedings with a curiosity not unmingled with
superstitious fear. When at last she was attired in cap and gown, the
old woman looked less uncanny than when she wore her ball-dress of blue

She sat down in an easy chair beside a table, as she was in the habit
of doing before retiring, and her women withdrew. As the old lady sat
swaying to and fro, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, Herman
crept out of his hiding-place.

At the slight noise the old woman opened her eyes, and gazed at the
intruder with a half-dazed expression.

"Have no fear, I beg of you," said Herman, in a calm voice. "I have not
come to harm you, but to ask a favor of you instead."

The Countess looked at him in silence, seemingly without comprehending
him. Herman thought she might be deaf, so he put his lips close to her
ear and repeated his remark. The listener remained perfectly mute.

"You could make my fortune without its costing you anything," pleaded
the young man; "only tell me the three cards which are sure to win,

Herman paused as the old woman opened her lips as if about to speak.

"It was only a jest; I swear to you, it was only a jest," came from the
withered lips.

"There was no jesting about it. Remember Tchaplitzky, who, thanks to
you, was able to pay his debts."

An expression of interior agitation passed over the face of the old
woman; then she relapsed into her former apathy.

"Will you tell me the names of the magic cards, or not?" asked Herman
after a pause.

There was no reply.

The young man then drew a pistol from his pocket, exclaiming: "You old
witch, I'll force you to tell me!"

At the sight of the weapon the Countess gave a second sign of life. She
threw back her head and put out her hands as if to protect herself; then
they dropped and she sat motionless.

Herman grasped her arm roughly, and was about to renew his threats, when
he saw that she was dead!


Seated in her room, still in her ball-dress, Lisaveta gave herself up to
her reflections. She had expected to find the young officer there, but
she felt relieved to see that he was not.

Strangely enough, that very night at the ball, Tomsky had rallied her
about her preference for the young officer, assuring her that he knew
more than she supposed he did.

"Of whom are you speaking?" she had asked in alarm, fearing her
adventure had been discovered.

"Of the remarkable man," was the reply. "His name is Herman."

Lisa made no reply.

"This Herman," continued Tomsky, "is a romantic character; he has the
profile of a Napoleon and the heart of a Mephistopheles. It is said he
has at least three crimes on his conscience. But how pale you are."

"It is only a slight headache. But why do you talk to me of this

"Because I believe he has serious intentions concerning you."

"Where has he seen me?"

"At church, perhaps, or on the street."

The conversation was interrupted at this point, to the great regret of
the young girl. The words of Tomsky made a deep impression upon her, and
she realized how imprudently she had acted. She was thinking of all this
and a great deal more when the door of her apartment suddenly opened,
and Herman stood before her. She drew back at sight of him, trembling

"Where have you been?" she asked in a frightened whisper.

"In the bedchamber of the Countess. She is dead," was the calm reply.

"My God! What are you saying?" cried the girl.

"Furthermore, I believe that I was the cause of her death."

The words of Tomsky flashed through Lisa's mind.

Herman sat down and told her all. She listened with a feeling of terror
and disgust. So those passionate letters, that audacious pursuit were
not the result of tenderness and love. It was money that he desired. The
poor girl felt that she had in a sense been an accomplice in the death
of her benefactress. She began to weep bitterly. Herman regarded her in

"You are a monster!" exclaimed Lisa, drying her eyes.

"I didn't intend to kill her; the pistol was not even loaded.

"How are you going to get out of the house?" inquired Lisa. "It is
nearly daylight. I intended to show you the way to a secret staircase,
while the Countess was asleep, as we would have to cross her chamber.
Now I am afraid to do so."

"Direct me, and I will find the way alone," replied Herman.

She gave him minute instructions and a key with which to open the street
door. The young man pressed the cold, inert hand, then went out.

The death of the Countess had surprised no one, as it had long been
expected. Her funeral was attended by every one of note in the
vicinity. Herman mingled with the throng without attracting any especial
attention. After all the friends had taken their last look at the dead
face, the young man approached the bier. He prostrated himself on the
cold floor, and remained motionless for a long time. He rose at last
with a face almost as pale as that of the corpse itself, and went up the
steps to look into the casket. As he looked down it seemed to him that
the rigid face returned his glance mockingly, closing one eye. He turned
abruptly away, made a false step, and fell to the floor. He was picked
up, and, at the same moment, Lisaveta was carried out in a faint.

Herman did not recover his usual composure during the entire day. He
dined alone at an out-of-the-way restaurant, and drank a great deal, in
the hope of stifling his emotion. The wine only served to stimulate his
imagination. He returned home and threw himself down on his bed without

During the night he awoke with a start; the moon shone into his chamber,
making everything plainly visible. Some one looked in at the window,
then quickly disappeared. He paid no attention to this, but soon he
heard the vestibule door open. He thought it was his orderly, returning
late, drunk as usual. The step was an unfamiliar one, and he heard the
shuffling sound of loose slippers.

The door of his room opened, and a woman in white entered. She came
close to the bed, and the terrified man recognized the Countess.

"I have come to you against my will," she said abruptly; "but I was
commanded to grant your request. The tray, seven, and ace in succession
are the magic cards. Twenty-four hours must elapse between the use
of each card, and after the three have been used you must never play

The fantom then turned and walked away. Herman heard the outside door
close, and again saw the form pass the window.

He rose and went out into the hall, where his orderly lay asleep on the
floor. The door was closed. Finding no trace of a visitor, he returned
to his room, lit his candle, and wrote down what he had just heard.

Two fixed ideas cannot exist in the brain at the same time any more than
two bodies can occupy the same point in space. The tray, seven, and ace
soon chased away the thoughts of the dead woman, and all other thoughts
from the brain of the young officer. All his ideas merged into a single
one: how to turn to advantage the secret paid for so dearly. He even
thought of resigning his commission and going to Paris to force a
fortune from conquered fate. Chance rescued him from his embarrassment.


Tchekalinsky, a man who had passed his whole life at cards, opened
a club at St. Petersburg. His long experience secured for him the
confidence of his companions, and his hospitality and genial humor
conciliated society.

The gilded youth flocked around him, neglecting society, preferring the
charms of faro to those of their sweethearts. Naroumov invited Herman
to accompany him to the club, and the young man accepted the invitation
only too willingly.

The two officers found the apartments full. Generals and statesmen
played whist; young men lounged on sofas, eating ices or smoking. In
the principal salon stood a long table, at which about twenty men sat
playing faro, the host of the establishment being the banker.

He was a man of about sixty, gray-haired and respectable. His ruddy face
shone with genial humor; his eyes sparkled and a constant smile hovered
around his lips.

Naroumov presented Herman. The host gave him a cordial handshake, begged
him not to stand upon ceremony, and returned, to his dealing. More than
thirty cards were already on the table. Tchekalinsky paused after each
coup, to allow the punters time to recognize their gains or losses,
politely answering all questions and constantly smiling.

After the deal was over, the cards were shuffled and the game began

"Permit me to choose a card," said Herman, stretching out his hand over
the head of a portly gentleman, to reach a livret. The banker bowed
without replying.

Herman chose a card, and wrote the amount of his stake upon it with a
piece of chalk.

"How much is that?" asked the banker; "excuse me, sir, but I do not see

"Forty thousand rubles," said Herman coolly.

All eyes were instantly turned upon the speaker.

"He has lost his wits," thought Naroumov.

"Allow me to observe," said Tchekalinsky, with his eternal smile, "that
your stake is excessive."

"What of it?" replied Herman, nettled. "Do you accept it or not?"

The banker nodded in assent. "I have only to remind you that the cash
will be necessary; of course your word is good, but in order to keep the
confidence of my patrons, I prefer the ready money."

Herman took a bank-check from his pocket and handed it to his host. The
latter examined it attentively, then laid it on the card chosen.

He began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a tray.

"The tray wins," said Herman, showing the card he held--a tray.

A murmur ran through the crowd. Tchekalinsky frowned for a second only,
then his smile returned. He took a roll of bank-bills from his pocket
and counted out the required sum. Herman received it and at once left
the table.

The next evening saw him at the place again. Every one eyed him
curiously, and Tchekalinsky greeted him cordially.

He selected his card and placed upon it his fresh stake. The banker
began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a seven.

Herman then showed his card--a seven spot. The onlookers exclaimed,
and the host was visibly disturbed. He counted out ninety-four-thousand
rubles and passed them to Herman, who accepted them without showing the
least surprise, and at once withdrew.

The following evening he went again. His appearance was the signal for
the cessation of all occupation, every one being eager to watch the
developments of events. He selected his card--an ace.

The dealing began: to the right, a queen; to the left, an ace.

"The ace wins," remarked Herman, turning up his card without glancing at

"Your queen is killed," remarked Tchekalinsky quietly.

Herman trembled; looking down, he saw, not the ace he had selected,
but the queen of spades. He could scarcely believe his eyes. It seemed
impossible that he could have made such a mistake. As he stared at the
card it seemed to him that the queen winked one eye at him mockingly.

"The old woman!" he exclaimed involuntarily.

The croupier raked in the money while he looked on in stupid terror.
When he left the table, all made way for him to pass; the cards were
shuffled, and the gambling went on.

Herman became a lunatic. He was confined at the hospital at Oboukov,
where he spoke to no one, but kept constantly murmuring in a monotonous
tone: "The tray, seven, ace! The tray, seven, queen!"