raw-bone cheekes through penurie and pine,
Were shronke into his jawes, as he did never dine.
His garment naught but many ragged clouts,
With thornes together pind and patched was,
The which his naked sides he wrapt abouts;
And him beside there lay upon the gras
A drearie corse, whose life away did pas,
All wallowd in his owne yet luke-warm blood,
That from his wound yet welled fresh alas;
In which a rustie knife fast fixed stood,
And made an open passage for the gushing flood.
This feels, I think it’s safe to say, as if it were written by a man who may have taken part in the Massacre of Smerwick. Much more typical of Spenser’s golden eloquence is his famous marriage hymn, written for himself, which shows why his influence on English poetry has lasted so long. It begins like this:
Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre,
Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titan’s beames, which then did glyster fayre:
When whom I sullein care,
Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay
In Princes Court, and expectation vayne
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away
Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,
Walkt forth to ease my payne
Along the shore of silver streaming Themmes,
Whose rutty Banke, the which his River hemmes,
Was paynted all with variable flowers,
And all the meades adorned with daintie gemmes,
Fit to decke maydens bowres
And crowne their Paramours,
Against the Brydale day, which is not long:
Sweete Themmes runne softly, till I end my Song.
The mastery of rhythm, the self-consciously archaic language and the repopulation of British landscapes with classical figures proved addictive for later generations of English poets. For better or for worse, that’s what ‘Spenserian’ means.
The Devonian freebooter, founder of the colony of Virginia and ruthless soldier Sir Walter Raleigh was a less considerable poet than Spenser, though his story of vaulting ambition, pride and vertiginous descent is even more dramatic. For his peers he was clearly charismatic, and if poetry can be charismatic then so too is Raleigh’s. He is famous above all for his poems of regret, having lost the favour of Queen Elizabeth. He would eventually be executed by her successor James I at the age of sixty-four after many years languishing in the Tower of London. His poem ‘The Lie’ is, for my money, the most splendidly sod-you-all verse ever written, from a dangerous man who sees through all that’s worst in his society:
Go, soul, the body’s guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Say to the court, it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church, it shows
What’s good, and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates, they live
Acting by others’ action;
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition,
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honour how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favour how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in overwiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
