Now comes my lover tripping like a roe,
And brings my longings tangled in her hair.
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who cried aloud, "What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"
Go hurtless souls, whom mischief hath oppressed
Even in first porch of life but lately had,
And fathers fury -- go, unhappy kind,
O little children, by the way full sad
Of journey knowen.
Go see the angry kings.
(Jasper Heywood, translating Seneca re the dead children of Hercules -- I found the Latin helped me parse the English here:
ite ad Stygios, umbrae, portusIf thou wilt stay,
ite, innocues, quas in primo
limine vitae scelus oppressit
ite, iratos visite reges.)
Leap in mine arms; mine arms are open wide;
If not, turn from me, and I'll turn from thee;
For though thou hast the heart to say farewell,
I have not power to stay thee.
The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps
The fluent summer's vein; and drizzling sleet
Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numb'd earth,
While snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leaves
From the nak'd shuddering branch