Augustine, Aquinas, and Southwell

IAH 221B-730

Summer 2016

Robert Southwell selections

“The Burning Babe”

As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow ; And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear ; Who, scorchëd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed. Alas, quoth he, but newly born in fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I ! My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns, Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns ; The fuel justice layeth on, and mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilëd souls, For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood. With this he vanished out of sight and swiftly shrunk away, And straight I callëd unto mind that it was Christmas day.

“Love’s Servile Lot”

LOVE, mistress is of many minds,     Yet few know whom they serve ; They reckon least how little Love     Their service doth deserve. The will she robbeth from the wit,     The sense from reason's lore ; She is delightful in the rind,     Corrupted in the core. She shroudeth vice in virtue's veil,     Pretending good in ill ; She offereth joy, affordeth grief,     A kiss where she doth kill. A honey-shower rains from her lips,     Sweet lights shine in her face ; She hath the blush of virgin mind,     The mind of viper's race. She makes thee seek, yet fear to find     To find, but not enjoy : In many frowns some gliding smiles     She yields to more annoy. She woos thee to come near her fire,     Yet doth she draw it from thee ; Far off she makes thy heart to fry,     And yet to freeze within thee. She letteth fall some luring baits     For fools to gather up ; Too sweet, too sour, to every taste     She tempereth her cup. Soft souls she binds in tender twist,     Small flies in spinner's web ; She sets afloat some luring streams,     But makes them soon to ebb. Her watery eyes have burning force ;     Her floods and flames conspire : Tears kindle sparks, sobs fuel are,     And sighs do blow her fire. May never was the month of love,     For May is full of flowers ; But rather April, wet by kind,     For love is full of showers. Like tyrant, cruel wounds she gives,     Like surgeon, salve she lends ; But salve and sore have equal force,     For death is both their ends. With soothing words enthralled souls     She chains in servile bands ; Her eye in silence hath a speech     Which eye best understands. Her little sweet hath many sours,     Short hap immortal harms ; Her loving looks are murd'ring darts,     Her song bewitching charms. Like winter rose and summer ice,     Her joys are still untimely ; Before her Hope, behind Remorse :     Fair first, in fine unseemly. Moods, passions, fancy's jealous fits     Attend upon her train : She yieldeth rest without repose,     And heaven in hellish pain. Her house is Sloth, her door Deceit,     And slippery Hope her stairs ; Unbashful Boldness bids her guests,     And every vice repairs. Her diet is of such delights     As please till they be past ; But then the poison kills the heart     That did entice the taste. Her sleep in sin doth end in wrath,     Remorse rings her awake ; Death calls her up, Shame drives her out,     Despairs her upshot make. Plough not the seas, sow not the sands,     Leave off your idle pain ; Seek other mistress for your minds,     Love's service is in vain.

“A Vale of Tears”

A vale there is, enwrapt with dreadful shades,      Which thick of mourning pines shrouds from the sun, Where hanging cliffs yield short and dumpish glades,      And snowy flood with broken streams doth run. Where eye-room is from rock to cloudy sky,      From thence to dales with stony ruins strew'd, Then to the crushèd water's frothy fry,      Which tumbleth from the tops where snow is thaw'd. Where ears of other sound can have no choice,      But various blust'ring of the stubborn wind In trees, in caves, in straits with divers noise;      Which now doth hiss, now howl, now roar by kind. Where waters wrestle with encount'ring stones,      That break their streams, and turn them into foam, The hollow clouds full fraught with thund'ring groans,      With hideous thumps discharge their pregnant womb. And in the horror of this fearful quire      Consists the music of this doleful place; All pleasant birds from thence their tunes retire,      Where none but heavy notes have any grace. Resort there is of none but pilgrim wights,      That pass with trembling foot and panting heart; With terror cast in cold and shivering frights,      They judge the place to terror framed by art. Yet nature's work it is, of art untouch'd,      So strait indeed, so vast unto the eye, With such disorder'd order strangely couch'd,      And with such pleasing horror low and high, That who it views must needs remain aghast,      Much at the work, more at the Maker's might; And muse how nature such a plot could cast      Where nothing seemeth wrong, yet nothing right. A place for mated mindes, an only bower      Where everything do soothe a dumpish mood; Earth lies forlorn, the cloudy sky doth lower,      The wind here weeps, here sighs, here cries aloud. The struggling flood between the marble groans,      Then roaring beats upon the craggy sides; A little off, amidst the pebble stones,      With bubbling streams and purling noise it glides. The pines thick set, high grown and ever green,      Still clothe the place with sad and mourning veil; Here gaping cliff, there mossy plain is seen,      Here hope doth spring, and there again doth quail. Huge massy stones that hang by tickle stays,      Still threaten fall, and seem to hang in fear; Some wither'd trees, ashamed of their decays,      Bereft of green are forced gray coats to wear. Here crystal springs crept out of secret vein,      Straight find some envious hole that hides their grace; Here searèd tufts lament the want of rain,      There thunder-wrack gives terror to the place. All pangs and heavy passions here may find      A thousand motives suiting to their griefs, To feed the sorrows of their troubled mind,      And chase away dame Pleasure's vain reliefs. To plaining thoughts this vale a rest may be,      To which from worldly joys they may retire; Where sorrow springs from water, stone and tree;      Where everything with mourners doth conspire. Sit here, my soul, main streams of tears afloat,      Here all thy sinful foils alone recount; Of solemn tunes make thou the doleful note,      That, by thy ditties, dolour may amount. When echo shall repeat thy painful cries,      Think that the very stones thy sins bewray, And now accuse thee with their sad replies,      As heaven and earth shall in the latter day. Let former faults be fuel of thy fire,      For grief in limbeck of thy heart to still Thy pensive thoughts and dumps of thy desire,      And vapour tears up to thy eyes at will. Let tears to tunes, and pains to plaints be press'd,      And let this be the burden of thy song,— Come, deep remorse, possess my sinful breast;      Delights, adieu!  I harbour'd you too long.