An Hymne In Honour Of Love
Love,
that
long
since
hast
to
thy
mighty
powre
Perforce
subdude
my
poor
captived
hart,
And
raging
now
therein
with
restlesse
stowre,
Doest
tyrannize
in
everie
weaker
part,
Faine
would
I
seeke
to
ease
my
bitter
smart
By
any
service
I
might
do
to
thee,
Or
ought
that
else
might
to
thee
pleasing
bee.
And
now
t'asswage
the
force
of
this
new
flame,
And
make
thee
more
propitious
in
my
need,
I
meane
to
sing
the
praises
of
thy
name,
And
thy
victorious
conquests
to
areed,
By
which
thou
madest
many
harts
to
bleed
Of
mighty
victors,
with
wide
wounds
embrewed,
And
by
thy
cruell
darts
to
thee
subdewed.
Onely
I
fear
my
wits,
enfeebled
late
Through
the
sharp
sorrowes
which
thou
hast
me
bred,
Should
faint,
and
words
should
faile
me
to
relate
The
wondrous
triumphs
of
thy
great
god-hed:
But,
if
thou
wouldst
vouchsafe
to
overspred
Me
with
the
shadow
of
thy
gentle
wing,
I
should
enabled
be
thy
actes
to
sing.
Come,
then,
O
come,
thou
mightie
God
of
Love!
Out
of
thy
silver
bowres
and
secret
blisse,
Where
thou
dost
sit
in
Venus
lap
above,
Bathing
thy
wings
in
her
ambrosial
kisse,
25
That
sweeter
farre
than
any
nectar
is,
Come
softly,
and
my
feeble
breast
inspire
With
gentle
furie,
kindled
of
thy
fire.
And
ye,
sweet
Muses!
which
have
often
proved
The
piercing
points
of
his
avengefull
darts,
And
ye,
fair
Nimphs!
which
oftentimes
have
loved
The
cruel
worker
of
your
kindly
smarts,
Prepare
yourselves,
and
open
wide
your
harts
For
to
receive
the
triumph
of
your
glorie,
That
made
you
merie
oft
when
ye
were
sorrie.
And
ye,
faire
blossoms
of
youths
wanton
breed!
Which
in
the
conquests
of
your
beautie
bost,
Wherewith
your
lovers
feeble
eyes
you
feed,
But
sterve
their
harts,
that
needeth
nourture
most,
Prepare
your
selves
to
march
amongst
his
host,
And
all
the
way
this
sacred
hymne
do
sing,
Made
in
the
honor
of
your
soveraigne
king.
Great
God
of
Might,
that
reignest
in
the
mynd,
And
all
the
bodie
to
thy
hest
doest
frame,
Victor
of
gods,
subduer
of
mankynd,
That
doest
the
lions
and
fell
tigers
tame,
Making
their
cruell
rage
thy
scornfull
game,
And
in
their
roring
taking
great
delight,
Who
can
expresse
the
glorie
of
thy
might?
Or
who
alive
can
perfectly
declare
The
wondrous
cradle
of
thine
infancie,
When
thy
great
mother
Venus
first
thee
bare,
Begot
of
Plenty
and
of
Penurie,
Though
elder
then
thine
own
nativitie,
And
yet
a
chyld,
renewing
still
thy
yeares,
And
yet
the
eldest
of
the
heavenly
peares?
For
ere
this
worlds
still
moving
mightie
masse
Out
of
great
Chaos
ugly
prison
crept,
In
which
his
goodly
face
long
hidden
was
From
heavens
view,
and
in
deep
darknesse
kept,
Love,
that
had
now
long
time
securely
slept
In
Venus
lap,
unarmed
then
and
naked,
Gan
reare
his
head,
by
Clotho
being
waked:
And
taking
to
him
wings
of
his
own
heat,
Kindled
at
first
from
heavens
life-giving
fyre,
He
gan
to
move
out
of
his
idle
seat;
Weakly
at
first,
but
after
with
desyre
Lifted
aloft,
he
gan
to
mount
up
hyre,
And,
like
fresh
eagle,
made
his
hardy
flight
Thro
all
that
great
wide
wast,
yet
wanting
light.
Yet
wanting
light
to
guide
his
wandring
way,
His
own
faire
mother,
for
all
creatures
sake,
Did
lend
him
light
from
her
owne
goodly
ray;
Then
through
the
world
his
way
he
gan
to
take,
The
world,
that
was
not
till
he
did
it
make,
Whose
sundrie
parts
he
from
themselves
did
sever.
The
which
before
had
lyen
confused
ever.
The
earth,
the
ayre,
the
water,
and
the
fyre,
Then
gan
to
raunge
themselves
in
huge
array,
And
with
contrary
forces
to
conspyre
Each
against
other
by
all
meanes
they
may,
Threatning
their
owne
confusion
and
decay:
Ayre
hated
earth,
and
water
hated
fyre,
Till
Love
relented
their
rebellious
yre.
He
then
them
tooke,
and,
tempering
goodly
well
Their
contrary
dislikes
with
loved
meanes,
Did
place
them
all
in
order,
and
compell
To
keepe
themselves
within
their
sundrie
raines,
Together
linkt
with
adamantine
chaines;
Yet
so
as
that
in
every
living
wight
They
mix
themselves,
and
shew
their
kindly
might.
So
ever
since
they
firmely
have
remained,
And
duly
well
observed
his
beheast;
Through
which
now
all
these
things
that
are
contained
Within
this
goodly
cope,
both
most
and
least,
Their
being
have,
and
daily
are
increast
Through
secret
sparks
of
his
infused
fyre,
Which
in
the
barraine
cold
he
doth
inspyre.
Thereby
they
all
do
live,
and
moved
are
To
multiply
the
likenesse
of
their
kynd,
Whilest
they
seeke
onely,
without
further
care,
To
quench
the
flame
which
they
in
burning
fynd;
But
man,
that
breathes
a
more
immortall
mynd,
Not
for
lusts
sake,
but
for
eternitie,
Seekes
to
enlarge
his
lasting
progenie.
For
having
yet
in
his
deducted
spright
Some
sparks
remaining
of
that
heavenly
fyre,
He
is
enlumind
with
that
goodly
light,
Unto
like
goodly
semblant
to
aspyre;
Therefore
in
choice
of
love
he
doth
desyre
That
seemes
on
earth
most
heavenly
to
embrace,
That
same
is
Beautie,
borne
of
heavenly
race.
For
sure,
of
all
that
in
this
mortall
frame
Contained
is,
nought
more
divine
doth
seeme,
Or
that
resembleth
more
th'immortall
flame
Of
heavenly
light,
than
Beauties
glorious
beam.
What
wonder
then,
if
with
such
rage
extreme
Frail
men,
whose
eyes
seek
heavenly
things
to
see,
At
sight
thereof
so
much
enravisht
bee?
Which
well
perceiving,
that
imperious
boy
Doth
therewith
tip
his
sharp
empoisned
darts,
Which
glancing
thro
the
eyes
with
countenance
coy
Kest
not
till
they
have
pierst
the
trembling
harts,
And
kindled
flame
in
all
their
inner
parts,
Which
suckes
the
blood,
and
drinketh
up
the
lyfe,
Of
carefull
wretches
with
consuming
griefe.
Thenceforth
they
playne,
and
make
full
piteous
mone
Unto
the
author
of
their
balefull
bane:
The
daies
they
waste,
the
nights
they
grieve
and
grone,
Their
lives
they
loath,
and
heavens
light
disdaine;
No
light
but
that
whose
lampe
doth
yet
remaine
Fresh
burning
in
the
image
of
their
eye,
They
deigne
to
see,
and
seeing
it
still
dye.
The
whylst
thou,
tyrant
Love,
doest
laugh
and
scorne
At
their
complaints,
making
their
paine
thy
play;
Whylest
they
lye
languishing
like
thrals
forlorne,
The
whyles
thou
doest
triumph
in
their
decay;
And
otherwhyles,
their
dying
to
delay,
Thou
doest
emmarble
the
proud
hart
of
her
Whose
love
before
their
life
they
doe
prefer.
So
hast
thou
often
done
(ay
me
the
more!)
To
me
thy
vassall,
whose
yet
bleeding
hart
With
thousand
wounds
thou
mangled
hast
so
sore,
That
whole
remaines
scarse
any
little
part;
Yet
to
augment
the
anguish
of
my
smart,
Thou
hast
enfrosen
her
disdainefull
brest,
That
no
one
drop
of
pitie
there
doth
rest.
Why
then
do
I
this
honor
unto
thee,
Thus
to
ennoble
thy
victorious
name,
Sith
thou
doest
shew
no
favour
unto
mee,
Ne
once
move
ruth
in
that
rebellious
dame,
Somewhat
to
slacke
the
rigour
of
my
flame?
Certes
small
glory
doest
thou
winne
hereby,
To
let
her
live
thus
free,
and
me
to
dy.
But
if
thou
be
indeede,
as
men
thee
call,
The
worlds
great
parent,
the
most
kind
preserver
Of
living
wights,
the
soveraine
lord
of
all,
How
falles
it
then
that
with
thy
furious
fervour
Thou
doest
afflict
as
well
the
not-deserver,
As
him
that
doeth
thy
lovely
heasts
despize,
And
on
thy
subiects
most
doth
tyrannize?
Yet
herein
eke
thy
glory
seemeth
more,
By
so
hard
handling
those
which
best
thee
serve,
That,
ere
thou
doest
them
unto
grace
restore,
Thou
mayest
well
trie
if
they
will
ever
swerve,
And
mayest
them
make
it
better
to
deserve,
And,
having
got
it,
may
it
more
esteeme;
For
things
hard
gotten
men
more
dearely
deeme.
So
hard
those
heavenly
beauties
be
enfyred,
As
things
divine
least
passions
doe
impresse;
The
more
of
stedfast
mynds
to
be
admyred,
The
more
they
stayed
be
on
stedfastnesse;
But
baseborne
minds
such
lamps
regard
the
lesse,
Which
at
first
blowing
take
not
hastie
fyre;
Such
fancies
feele
no
love,
but
loose
desyre.
For
Love
is
lord
of
truth
and
loialtie,
Lifting
himself
out
of
the
lowly
dust
On
golden
plumes
up
to
the
purest
skie,
Above
the
reach
of
loathly
sinfull
lust,
Whose
base
affect,
through
cowardly
distrust
Of
his
weake
wings,
dare
not
to
heaven
fly,
But
like
a
moldwarpe
in
the
earth
doth
ly.
His
dunghill
thoughts,
which
do
themselves
enure
To
dirtie
drosse,
no
higher
dare
aspyre;
Ne
can
his
feeble
earthly
eyes
endure
The
flaming
light
of
that
celestiall
fyre
Which
kindleth
love
in
generous
desyre,
And
makes
him
mount
above
the
native
might
Of
heavie
earth,
up
to
the
heavens
hight.
Such
is
the
powre
of
that
sweet
passion,
That
it
all
sordid
basenesse
doth
expell,
And
the
refyned
mynd
doth
newly
fashion
Unto
a
fairer
forme,
which
now
doth
dwell
In
his
high
thought,
that
would
it
selfe
excell;
Which
he
beholding
still
with
constant
sight,
Admires
the
mirrour
of
so
heavenly
light.
Whose
image
printing
in
his
deepest
wit,
He
thereon
feeds
his
hungrie
fantasy,
Still
full,
yet
never
satisfyde
with
it;
Like
Tantale,
that
in
store
doth
sterved
ly,
So
doth
he
pine
in
most
satiety;
For
nought
may
quench
his
infinite
desyre,
Once
kindled
through
that
first
conceived
fyre.
Thereon
his
mynd
affixed
wholly
is,
Ne
thinks
on
ought
but
how
it
to
attaine;
His
care,
his
ioy,
his
hope,
is
all
on
this,
That
seemes
in
it
all
blisses
to
containe,
In
sight
whereof
all
other
blisse
seemes
vaine:
Thrice
happie
man,
might
he
the
same
possesse,
He
faines
himselfe,
and
doth
his
fortune
blesse.
And
though
he
do
not
win
his
wish
to
end,
Yet
thus
farre
happie
he
himselfe
doth
weene,
That
heavens
such
happie
grace
did
to
him
lend
As
thing
on
earth
so
heavenly
to
have
seene,
His
harts
enshrined
saint,
his
heavens
queene,
Fairer
then
fairest
in
his
fayning
eye,
Whose
sole
aspect
he
counts
felicitye.
Then
forth
he
casts
in
his
unquiet
thought,
What
he
may
do
her
favour
to
obtaine;
What
brave
exploit,
what
perill
hardly
wrought,
What
puissant
conquest,
what
adventurous
paine,
May
please
her
best,
and
grace
unto
him
gaine;
He
dreads
no
danger,
nor
misfortune
feares,
His
faith,
his
fortune,
in
his
breast
he
beares.
Thou
art
his
god,
thou
art
his
mightie
guyde,
Thou,
being
blind,
letst
him
not
see
his
feares,
But
carriest
him
to
that
which
he
had
eyde,
Through
seas,
through
flames,
through
thousand
swords
and
speares;
Ne
ought
so
strong
that
may
his
force
withstand,
With
which
thou
armest
his
resistlesse
hand.
Witnesse
Leander
in
the
Euxine
waves,
And
stout
Aeneas
in
the
Troiane
fyre,
Achilles
preassing
through
the
Phrygian
glaives,
And
Orpheus,
daring
to
provoke
the
yre
Of
damned
fiends,
to
get
his
love
retyre;
For
both
through
heaven
and
hell
thou
makest
way,
To
win
them
worship
which
to
thee
obay.
And
if
by
all
these
perils
and
these
paynes
He
may
but
purchase
lyking
in
her
eye,
What
heavens
of
ioy
then
to
himselfe
he
faynes!
Eftsoones
he
wypes
quite
out
of
memory
Whatever
ill
before
he
did
aby:
Had
it
beene
death,
yet
would
he
die
againe,
To
live
thus
happie
as
her
grace
to
gaine.
Yet
when
he
hath
found
favour
to
his
will,
He
nathemore
can
so
contented
rest,
But
forceth
further
on,
and
striveth
still
T'approch
more
neare,
till
in
her
inmost
brest
He
may
embosomd
bee
and
loved
best;
And
yet
not
best,
but
to
be
lov'd
alone;
For
love
cannot
endure
a
paragone.
The
fear
whereof,
O
how
doth
it
torment
His
troubled
mynd
with
more
then
hellish
paine!
And
to
his
fayning
fansie
represent
Sights
never
seene,
and
thousand
shadowes
vaine,
To
breake
his
sleepe
and
waste
his
ydle
braine:
Thou
that
hast
never
lov'd
canst
not
beleeve
Least
part
of
th'evils
which
poore
lovers
greeve.
The
gnawing
envie,
the
hart-fretting
feare,
The
vaine
surmizes,
the
distrustfull
showes,
The
false
reports
that
flying
tales
doe
beare,
The
doubts,
the
daungers,
the
delayes,
the
woes,
The
fayned
friends,
the
unassured
foes,
With
thousands
more
then
any
tongue
can
tell,
Doe
make
a
lovers
life
a
wretches
hell.
Yet
is
there
one
more
cursed
then
they
all,
That
cancker-worme,
that
monster,
Gelosie,
Which
eates
the
heart
and
feedes
upon
the
gall,
Turning
all
Loves
delight
to
miserie,
Through
feare
of
losing
his
felicitie.
Ah,
gods!
that
ever
ye
that
monster
placed
In
gentle
Love,
that
all
his
ioyes
defaced!
By
these,
O
Love!
thou
doest
thy
entrance
make
Unto
thy
heaven,
and
doest
the
more
endeere
Thy
pleasures
unto
those
which
them
partake,
As
after
stormes,
when
clouds
begin
to
cleare,
The
sunne
more
bright
and
glorious
doth
appeare;
So
thou
thy
folke,
through
paines
of
Purgatorie,
Dost
beare
unto
thy
blisse,
and
heavens
glorie.
There
thou
them
placest
in
a
paradize
Of
all
delight
and
ioyous
happy
rest,
Where
they
doe
feede
on
nectar
heavenly-wize,
With
Hercules
and
Hebe,
and
the
rest
Of
Venus
dearlings,
through
her
bountie
blest;
And
lie
like
gods
in
yvory
beds
arayd,
With
rose
and
lillies
over
them
displayd.
There
with
thy
daughter
Pleasure
they
doe
play
Their
hurtlesse
sports,
without
rebuke
or
blame,
And
in
her
snowy
bosome
boldly
lay
Their
quiet
heads,
devoyd
of
guilty
shame,
After
full
ioyance
of
their
gentle
game;
Then
her
they
crowne
their
goddesse
and
their
queene,
And
decke
with
floures
thy
altars
well
beseene.
Ay
me!
deare
Lord,
that
ever
I
might
hope,
For
all
the
paines
and
woes
that
I
endure,
To
come
at
length
unto
the
wished
scope
Of
my
desire,
or
might
myselfe
assure
That
happie
port
for
ever
to
recure!
Then
would
I
thinke
these
paines
no
paines
at
all,
And
all
my
woes
to
be
but
penance
small.
Then
would
I
sing
of
thine
immortal
praise
An
heavenly
hymne
such
as
the
angels
sing,
And
thy
triumphant
name
then
would
I
raise
Bove
all
the
gods,
thee
only
honoring;
My
guide,
my
god,
my
victor,
and
my
king:
Till
then,
drad
Lord!
vouchsafe
to
take
of
me
This
simple
song,
thus
fram'd
in
praise
of
thee.
Edmund Spenser
Edmund Spenser (born 1552/53, London, England—died January 13, 1599, London) English poet whose long allegorical poem The Faerie Queene is one of the greatest in the English language. It was written in what came to be called the Spenserian stanza. In 1598 rebels attacked and burned Kilcolman Castle, forcing Spenser and his family to flee to Cork. In December he returned to England, where he delivered a report on the Irish crisis at Whitehall on Christmas Eve. Three weeks later, on 13 January 1599, he died, perhaps of illness brought on by exhaustion. He was buried soon after in the south transept of Westminster Abbey in the Poets’ Corner.