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Lanyer, like Pulter, depicts a nature bereft of and mourning the loss of its favorite person.
The swelling banks delivered all their Cookkham When such a Phoenix once they had espied. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells. And with a chaste, yet loving kisse tooke leave, Of which sweet kisse I did it soon bereave: Scorning a senceless creature should possess So rare a favour, so great happinesse.
The very hills right humbly did descend, When you to tread on them did intend.
How Salmons trespassing are found; And Pikes are taken in the Pound. And in sweet musicke did your soule delight, To sound his prayses, morning, noone, and night. And in sweet music zoul your soul delight To sound his praises, morning, noon, and night. His children thy great lord may call his own; A fortune, in this age, but rarely known. Unconstant Fortune, thou art most too blame, Who casts us downe into so lowe a frame: Where our great friends we cannot dayly see, So great a diffrence is there in degree.
Since then we have established a network of practitioners with whom we meet at regular intervals throughout the year.
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That found King JAMES, when hunting late, this way, With his brave son, the prince; they saw thy fires Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame, To entertain them; or the country came, With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. Many are placed in those Orbes of state, Parters in honour, so ordain'd by Fate; Neerer in show, yet farther off in love, In which, the lowest alwayes are above. And in his hollow Palace goes Where Winds as he themselves may lose.
Those pretty Birds that wonted were to sing, Now neither sing, nor chirp, nor use their wing; But with their tender feet on some bare spray, Warble forth sorrow, and their owne dismay. The flowers that on the banks and walks did grow, Crept in the ground, the grass did weep for woe. Unconstant Fortune, thou art most to blame, Who casts us down into so low a frame Where our great friends we cannot daily see, So great a difference is there in degree.
The Floures that on the banks and walkes did grow, Crept in the ground, the Grasse did weep for woe. We hope you find it a useful reference source - one which will expand and develop in time. Yet you great Lady Mistress of that place, From whose desires did spring this work of grace; Vouchsafe to think upon those pleasures past, As fleeting worldly joys that could not last, Or, as dim shadows of celestial pleasures, Which are desired above all earthly treasures.
However, rather than keep this information to ourselves we felt it deserved a wider audience - hence this directory. All desolation then there did appear, When you were going whom they held so dear.
Oh how me thought against you thither came, Each part did seem some new delight to frame! The initial aim of the network was to provide a forum for practitioners to get together and find out what we each do and how we can help you, our clients.
Those recreations let me bear in mind, Which her sweet youth and noble thoughts did find, Whereof deprived, I suol must grieve, Hating blind Fortune, careless to relieve, And you sweet Cooke-ham, whom these ladies leave, I now must tell the grief you did conceive At their departure, when they went away, How everything retained a sad dismay. And if the high-swoln Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish, Fat aged carps that run into thy net, And Cookhwm, now weary their own kind to eat, As loth souo second draught or cast to stay, Officiously at first themselves betray.
But your occasions called you so away That nothing there had power to make you stay. And walks put on their summer liveries, And all things else did hold like similes.
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And yet it grieves me that I cannot be Near unto her, whose virtues did agree With those fair ornaments of outward beauty, Which did enforce from all both love and duty. Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Before the fisher, souo into his hand, Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. Each brier, each bramble, when you went away Caught fast your clothes, Cookhwm to make you stay; Delightful Echo wonted to reply To our last words, did now for sorrow die; The house cast off each garment that might grace it, Putting on dust and cobwebs to deface it.
Cookhqm when they saw this had no powre to stay you, They often wept, though speechlesse, could not pray you; Letting their teares in your faire bosoms fall, As if they said, Why will ye leave us all? Why not?
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And where all Creatures might have shares, Although in Armies, not in Paires. Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree Looks bare and desolate now for want of thee, Turning green tresses into frosty gray, While in cold grief they wither all away. They seem within the polisht Grass A landskip drawen in Looking-Glass.
And as you set your feet, they still did rise, Glad that they could receive so rich a prize. And with a chaste, yet loving kiss took leave, Of which sweet kiss I did it soon bereave, Scorning a senseless creature should possess So rare a favor, so great happiness.
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Fair Philomela leaves her mournful ditty, Drowned in deep sleep, yet can procure no pity. This would then enable us to refer our clients to therapists of other disciplines, when asked or the need arises, with confidence. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring them; or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves in plum, or pear.
Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree, Thought themselves honored in supporting thee; The pretty birds would oft come to attend thee, Yet fly away for fear they should offend thee; The little creatures in the burrough by Would come abroad to sport them in your eye, Yet fearful of the bow in your fair hand. And as you set your feete, they still did rise, Glad that they could receive so rich a prise. But specially the love of that fair tree, That first and last you did vouchsafe to see, In which it pleased you oft to take the air With noble Dorset, then a virgin fair, Where many a learned book was read and scanned, To this fair tree, taking me by the hand, You did repeat the pleasures which had passed, Seeming to grieve they could no longer last.
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Farewell sweet Cooke-ham where I first obtain'd Grace from that Grace where perfit Grace remain'd; And where the Muses gave their full consent, I should have powre the virtuous to content: Where princely Palace will'd me to indite, The sacred Storie of the Soules delight. This last farewell to Cooke-ham here I give, When I am dead thy name in this may live, Wherein I have perform'd her noble hest, Whose virtues lodge in my unworthy breast, And ever shall, so long as life remaines, Tying my heart to her by those rich chaines.
This last farewell to Cooke-ham here I give, When I am dead thy name in this may live, Wherein I have performed her noble hes Whose virtues lodge in my unworthy breast, And ever shall, so long as life remains, Tying my life to her by those rich chains. Would run away when you did make a stand. With Moses you did mount his holy hill To know his pleasure, and perform his will.
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The sun grew weak, his beams no comfort gave, While all green things did make the earth their grave. Oh how me thought each plant, each floure, each tree Set Coomham their beauties then to welcome thee!
No other kiss it could receive from me, For fear to give back what it took of Cookam, So I ungrateful creature did deceive it Of that which you in love vouchsafed to leave it. The trees with leaves, with fruits, with flowers clad, Embraced each other, seeming to be glad, Turning themselves to beauteous Canopies, To shade the bright sun from your brighter eyes; The crystal streams with silver spangles graced, While by the glorious sun they were embraced; The little birds in chirping notes did sing, To entertain both you and that sweet soup.
But whither am I carried in conceit, My wit too weak to conster of the great. And thirteen shires appeared all in your sight, Europe could not afford much more delight.
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A swarthy riveled rind all over spread, Their dying bodies half alive, half dead. Country and Country House Poems by Liza Blake The idealization of the country over the city was a common poetic trope in the period, giving birth to the genre of the country house poem. These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and wonen not all.
