Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ON SANNAZAR'S BEING HONOURED WITH SIX HUNDRED DUCATS BY CLARISSIMI, by RICHARD LOVELACE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON SANNAZAR'S BEING HONOURED WITH SIX HUNDRED DUCATS BY CLARISSIMI, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Twas a blithe prince exchang'd five hundred crowns
Last Line: All wrath and storms do end in calms and praise.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets; Venice, Italy


'TWAS a blithe prince exchang'd five hundred crowns
For a fair turnip---dig, dig on, O clowns!---
But how this comes about, Fates, can you tell,
This more than Maid of Meurs, this miracle?
Let me not live, if I think not St. Mark
Has all the ore, as well as beasts, in 's ark!
No wonder 'tis he marries the rich Sea;
But to betroth him to nak'd Poesy,
And with a bankrupt Muse to merchandize---
His treasure's beams, sure, have put out his eyes.
His conquest at Lepanto I'll let pass,
When the sick sea with turbans night-capp'd was;
And now at Candy his full courage shown,
That wan'd to a wan line the half-half-moon;
This is a wreath, this is a victory
Cæsar himself would have look'd pale to see,
And, in the height of all his triumphs, feel
Himself but chain'd to such a mighty wheel.
And now methinks we ape Augustus' state,
So ugly we his high worth imitate,
Monkey his godlike glories; so that we
Keep light and form with such deformity
As I have seen an arrogant baboon
With a small piece of glass zany the sun.
Rome to her bard, who did her battles sing,
Indifferent gave to poet and to king;
With the same laurels were his temples fraught,
Who best had written, and who best had fought;
The selfsame fame they equally did feel,
One's style ador'd as much as th' other's steel.
A chain or fasces she could then afford
The sons of Phœbus, we, an axe or cord;
Sometimes a coronet was her renown,
And ours the dear prerogative of a crown.
In marble-statu'd walks great Lucan lay,
And now we walk our own pale statua.
They the whole year with roses crown'd would dine,
And we in all December know no wine;
Disciplin'd, dieted, sure there hath bin
Odds 'twixt a poet and a Capuchin.
Of princes, women, wine to sing I see
Is no apocrypha; for, to rise high,
Commend this olio of this lord, 'tis fit,
Nay, ten to one but you have part of it;
There is that justice left, since you maintain
His table, he should counterfeed your brain.
Then write how well he in his sack hath droll'd,
Straight there 's a bottle to your chamber roll'd;
Or with embroider'd words praise his French suit,
Month hence 'tis yours, with his man's curse to boot;
Or but applaud his boss'd legs, two to none
But he most nobly doth give you one;
Or spin an elegy on his false hair,
"'Tis well," he cries, "but living hair is dear";
Yet say that out of order there 's one curl,
And all the hopes of your reward you furl.
Write a deep epic poem, and you may

As soon delight them as the opera,
Where they Diogenes thought in his tub
Never so sour did look, so sweet a club.
You that do suck for thirst your black quill's blood,
And chaw your labour'd papers for your food,
I will inform you how and what to praise,
Then skin y' in satin as young Loveless plays.
Beware, as you would your fierce guests, your lice,
To strip the cloth of gold from cherish'd Vice:
Rather stand off with awe and reverend fear,
Hang a poetic pendant in her ear.
Court her as her adorers do their glass,
Though that as much of a true substance has,
Whilst all the gall from your wild ink you drain,
The beauteous sweets of Virtue's cheeks to stain;
And in your livery let her be known
As poor and tattered as in her own.
Nor write, nor speak you more of sacred writ,
But what shall force up your arrested wit.
Be chaste Religion and her priests your scorn,
Whilst the vain fanes of idiots you adorn.
It is a mortal error, you must know,
Of any to speak good, if he be so,
Rail till your edged breath flay your raw throat,
And burn all marks on all of gen'rous note;
Each verse be an indictment, be not free
Sanctity 'tself from thy scurrility.
Libel your father, and your dam buffoon,
The noblest matrons of the isle lampoon,
Whilst Aretine and 's bodies you dispute,
And in your sheets your sister prostitute.
Yet there belongs a sweetness, softness too,
Which you must pay, but first pray know to who.
There is a creature (if I may so call
That unto which they do all prostrate fall)
Term'd mistress, when they're angry, but pleas'd high,
It is a princess, saint, divinity.
To this they sacrifice the whole day's light,
Then lie with their devotion all night:
For this you are to dive to the Abyss,
And rob for pearl the closet of some fish.
Arabia and Sabæa you must strip
Of all their sweets, for to supply her lip;
And steal new fire from heav'n to repair
Her unfledg'd scalp with Berenice's hair;
Then seat her in Cassiopeia's Chair,
As now you 're in your coach. Save you, bright sir,
(Oh, spare your thanks) is not this finer far
Than walk unhided, when that every stone
Has knock'd acquaintance with your ankle-bone?
When your wing'd papers, like the last dove, ne'er
Return'd to quit you of your hope or fear,
But left you to the mercy of your host,
And your day's fare, a fortified toast.
How many battles, sung in epic strain,
Would have procur'd your head thatch from the rain?
Not all the arms of Thebes and Troy would get
One knife but to anatomize your meat;
A funeral elegy, with a sad boon,
Might make you (hei!) sip wine like macaroon;
But if perchance there did a ribband come,
Not the train-band so fierce with all its drum;
Yet with your torch you homeward would retire,
And heart'ly wish your bed your fun'ral pyre.
With what a fury have I known you feed
Upon a contract, and the hopes't might speed!
Not the fair bride, impatient of delay,
Doth wish like you the beauties of that day;
Hotter than all the roasted cooks you sat
To dress the fricasse of your alphabet,
Which sometimes would be drawn dough anagram,
Sometimes acrostic parched in the flame;
Then posies stew'd with sippets, mottoes by,
Of minced verse a miserable pie.
How many knots slipp'd ere you twist their name,
With th' old device, as both their hearts the same!
Whilst, like to drills, the feast in your false jaw
You would transmit at leisure to your maw;
Then after all your fooling, fat, and wine,
Glutton'd at last, return at home to pine.
Tell me, O Sun, since first your beams did play
To night, and did awake the sleeping day;
Since first your steeds of light their race did start,
Did you e'er blush as now? O thou that art
The common father to the base pismire,
As well as great Alcides, did the fire

From thine own altar which the gods adore
Kindle the souls of gnats and wasps before?
Who would delight in his chaste eyes to see
Dormice to strike at lights of poesy?
Faction and envy now is downright rage.
Once a five-knotted whip there was, the Stage,
The beadle and the executioner,
To whip small errors, and the great ones tear.
Now, as ere Nimrod the first king, he writes
That's strongest, th' ablest deepest bites.
The Muses weeping fly their Hill, to see
Their noblest sons of peace in mutiny.
Could there naught else this civil war complete,
But poets raging with poetic heat,
Tearing themselves and th' endless wreath, as though,
Immortal they, their wrath should be so too?
And doubly fir'd Apollo burns to see
In silent Helicon a naumachy.
Parnassus hears these as his first alarms;
Never till now Minerva was in arms.
O more than conqu'ror of the world, great Rome!
Thy heroes did with gentleness o'ercome
Thy foes themselves, but one another first,
Whilst Envy, stripp'd, alone was left, and burst.
The learn'd Decemviri, 'tis true, did strive
But to add flames to keep their fame alive;
Whilst the eternal laurel hung i' th' air;
Nor of these ten sons was there found one heir,
Like to the golden tripod it did pass
From this to this, till't came to him whose 'twas:
Cæsar to Gallus trundled it, and he
To Maro; Maro, Naso, unto thee;
Naso to his Tibullus flung the wreath,
He to Catullus; thus did each bequeath
This glorious circle to another round;
At last the temples of their god it bound.
I might believe, at least, that each might have
A quiet fame contented in his grave,
Envy the living, not the dead, doth bite,
For after death all men receive their right.
If it be sacrilege for to profane
Their holy ashes, what is 't then their flame?
He does that wrong unwitting or in ire,
As if one should put out the vestal fire.
Let earth's four quarters speak, and thou, Sun, bear
Now witness for thy fellow-traveller;
I was alli'd, dear uncle, unto thee
In blood, but thou, alas, not unto me:
Your virtues, pow'rs, and mine differ'd at best
As they whose springs you saw, the east and west:
Let me a while be twisted in thy shine.
And pay my due devotions at thy shrine.
Might learned Wenman rise, who went with thee
In thy heav'n's work beside divinity,
I should sit still; or mighty Falkland stand,
To justify with breath his pow'rful hand;
The glory that doth circle your pale urn
Might hallow'd still and undefiled burn.
But I forbear; flames that are wildly thrown
At sacred heads curl back upon their own.
Sleep, heav'nly Sandys, whilst what they do or write
Is to give God himself and you your right.
There is not in my mind one sullen fate
Of old, but is concentred in our state.
Vandal o'errunners, Goths in literature,
Ploughmen that would Parnassus new manure,
Ringers of verse that all-in all-in chime,
And toll the changes upon every rhyme.
A mercer now by th' yard does measure o'er
An ode which was but by the foot before;
Deals you an ell of epigram, and swears
It is the strongest, and the finest wears.
No wonder if a drawer verses rack,
If'tis not his't may be the spir't of sack;
Whilst the fair barmaid strokes the Muse's teat,
For milk to make the posset up complete.
Arise, thou rev'rend shade, great Jonson, rise!
Break through thy marble natural disguise!
Behold a mist of insects, whose mere breath
Will melt thy hallow'd leaden house of death.
What was Crispinus that you should defy
The age for him? He durst not look so high
As your immortal rod, he still did stand
Honour'd, and held his forehead to thy brand.
These scorpions with which we have to do
Are fiends, not only small but deadly too.
Well mightst thou rive thy quill up to the back,
And screw thy lyre's grave chords until they crack.
For though once hell resented music, these
Devils will not, but are in worse disease.
How would thy masc'line spirit, Father Ben,
Sweat to behold basely deposed men
Justled from the prerog'tive of their bed,
Whilst wives are per'wigg'd with their husband's head!
Each snatches the male quill from his faint hand,
And must both nobler write and understand,
He to her fury the soft plume doth bow:
O pen! ne'er truly justly slit till now!
Now as herself a poem she doth dress,
And curls a line as she would do a tress;
Powders a sonnet as she does her hair,
Then prostitutes them both to public air.
Nor is't enough that they their faces blind
With a false dye, but they must paint their mind;
In metre scold, and in scann'd order brawl:
Yet there's one Sappho left may save them all.
But now let me recall my passion.
O (from a noble father, nobler son!)
You that alone are the Clarissimi,
And the whole gen'rous state of Venice be,
It shall not be recorded Sannazar
Shall boast enthron'd alone this new-made star;
You whose correcting sweetness hath forbade
Shame to the good, and glory to the bad,
Whose honour hath ev'n into virtue tam'd
These swarms that now so angerly I nam'd;
Forgive what thus distemper'd I indite,
For it is hard a satire not to write.
Yet as a virgin that heats all her blood
At the first motion of bad understood,
Then at mere thought of fair chastity,
Straight cools again the tempests of her sea:
So, when to you I my devotions raise,
All wrath and storms do end in calms and praise.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net