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    The Locusts: "Love's tongue is in the eyes"
    The Locusts: "Love's tongue is in the eyes"
    The Locusts: "Love's tongue is in the eyes"
    Ebook142 pages1 hour

    The Locusts: "Love's tongue is in the eyes"

    By Phineas Fletcher

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    James Shirley was born in London in September 1596. His education was through a collection of England’s finest establishments: Merchant Taylors' School, London, St John's College, Oxford, and St Catharine's College, Cambridge, where he took his B.A. degree in approximately 1618. He first published in 1618, a poem entitled Echo, or the Unfortunate Lovers. As with many artists of this period full details of his life and career are not recorded. Sources say that after graduating he became "a minister of God's word in or near St Albans." A conversion to the Catholic faith enabled him to become master of St Albans School from 1623–25. He wrote his first play, Love Tricks, or the School of Complement, which was licensed on February 10th, 1625. From the given date it would seem he wrote this whilst at St Albans but, after its production, he moved to London and to live in Gray’s Inn. For the next two decades, he would write prolifically and with great quality, across a spectrum of thirty plays; through tragedies and comedies to tragicomedies as well as several books of poetry. Unfortunately, his talents were left to wither when Parliament passed the Puritan edict in 1642, forbidding all stage plays and closing the theatres. Most of his early plays were performed by Queen Henrietta's Men, the acting company for which Shirley was engaged as house dramatist. Shirley's sympathies lay with the King in battles with Parliament and he received marks of special favor from the Queen. He made a bitter attack on William Prynne, who had attacked the stage in Histriomastix, and, when in 1634 a special masque was presented at Whitehall by the gentlemen of the Inns of Court as a practical reply to Prynne, Shirley wrote the text—The Triumph of Peace. Shirley spent the years 1636 to 1640 in Ireland, under the patronage of the Earl of Kildare. Several of his plays were produced by his friend John Ogilby in Dublin in the first ever constructed Irish theatre; The Werburgh Street Theatre. During his years in Dublin he wrote The Doubtful Heir, The Royal Master, The Constant Maid, and St. Patrick for Ireland. In his absence from London, Queen Henrietta's Men sold off a dozen of his plays to the stationers, who naturally, enough published them. When Shirley returned to London in 1640, he finished with the Queen Henrietta's company and his final plays in London were acted by the King's Men. On the outbreak of the English Civil War Shirley served with the Earl of Newcastle. However when the King's fortunes began to decline he returned to London. There his friend Thomas Stanley gave him help and thereafter Shirley supported himself in the main by teaching and publishing some educational works under the Commonwealth. In addition to these he published during the period of dramatic eclipse four small volumes of poems and plays, in 1646, 1653, 1655, and 1659. It is said that he was “a drudge” for John Ogilby in his translations of Homer’s Iliad and the Odyssey, and survived into the reign of Charles II, but, though some of his comedies were revived, his days as a playwright were over. His death, at age seventy, along with that of his wife, in 1666, is described as one of fright and exposure due to the Great Fire of London which had raged through parts of London from September 2nd to the 5th. He was buried at St Giles in the Fields, in London, on October 29th, 1666.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPortable Poetry
    Release dateJun 1, 2017
    ISBN9781787373594
    The Locusts: "Love's tongue is in the eyes"

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      Book preview

      The Locusts - Phineas Fletcher

      The Locusts by Phineas Fletcher

      Or, Apollyonists

      Includes his ECOLOGUES (I-VII) and VENUS AND ANCHISES

      Phineas Fletcher was a prolific English poet who was born on 8th April, 1582, the eldest son to Dr Giles Fletcher in Cranbrook, Kent who also sired another poet, his namesake, Giles. 

      Phineas was educated at Eton and from there went to University at King’s College, Cambridge from where he graduated with a B.A. in 1604, and M.A. in 1608. 

      After his ordination as a priest he became chaplain to Sir Henry Willoughby who was instrumental in securing him the rectory in Hilgay, Norfolk in 1621.  He retained this position and together with his wife, Elizabeth Vincent, remained there until his death. 

      Fletcher wrote an immense amount of poetry across a wide range of subjects. The two for which he garnered most admiration were Locustae, vel Pietas Jesuitica (The Locusts or Apollyonists) published in 1627 and Purple Island, also called the Isle of Man, in 1633. 

      The Locusts is essentially a furious poetical attack on the Jesuits. A brief epic, the English version was originally written around 1612 and was finally published with its Latin sibling in 1627. It was dedicated to Prince Henry, the great hope of the militant Protestant faction.

      The Purple Island or, the Isle of Man, is an allegory in twelve cantos that describe the human body in terms of it being an island. The bones are the foundation or mountains; the veins and arteries, rivers; the heart, liver, stomach, etc., goodly cities; the mouth, a cave; the teeth are twice sixteen porters, receivers of the customary rent; the tongue, a groom who delivers all unto neare officers. The liver is the arch-city, where two purple streams (two great rivers of blood) raise their boil-heads. The eyes are watch-towers; the sight, the warder. Taste and the tongue are man and wife. The island’s prince is the intellect; the five senses are his counselors. Disease and vice are his mortal foes, with whom he wages war. The virtues are his allies.

      Fletcher undoubtedly had a great understanding of anatomy and shares much of it in the minutest poetical detail.  Many have noted that its flowing style alludes to Edmund Spenser and it is suggested to have been an influence on John Milton.

      Phineas Fletcher died at his rectory in Hilgay on the 13th December, 1650 at the age of 68.

      Index of Contents

      THE LOCUSTS or, APOLLYONISTS

      CANTO I

      CANTO II

      CANTO III

      CANTO IV

      CANTO V

      ECLOGUE I - AMYNTAS

      ECLOGUE II - THIRSIL

      ECLOGUE III - MYRTILUS

      ECLOGUE IV - CHROMIS

      ECLOGUE V - NICAEA

      ECLOGUE VI - THOMALIN

      ECLOGUE VII – THE PRIZE

      VENUS AND ANCHISES

      CANTO I

      Of Men, nay Beasts: worse, Monsters: worst of all,

      Incarnate Fiends, English Italianat,

      Of Priests, O no, Masse-Priests, Priests-Cannibal,

      Who make their Maker, chewe, grinde, feede, grow fat

      With flesh divine: of that great Cities fall,

      Which borne, nurs't, growne with blood, th' Earth's Empresse sat,

      Clens'd, spous'd to Christ, yet backe to whoordome fel,

      None can enough, something I faine would tell.

      How black are quenched lights! Fa[l'n]e Heaven's a double hell.

      Great Lord, who grasp'st all creatures in thy hand,

      Who in thy lap lay'st downe proud Thetis head,

      And bind'st her white curl'd locks in caules of sand,

      Who gather'st in thy fist, and lay'st in bed

      The sturdy winds; who ground'st the floting land

      On fleeting seas, and over all hast spread

      Heaven's brooding wings, to foster all below;

      Who mak'st the Sun without all fire to glow,

      The spring of heat and light, the Moone to ebbe and flow:

      Thou world's sole Pilot, who in this poore Isle

      (So small a bottome) hast embark't thy light,

      And glorious selfe: and stear'st it safe, the while

      Hoarse drumming seas, and winds lowd trumpets fight,

      Who causest stormy heavens here onely smile:

      Steare me poore Ship-boy, steare my course aright;

      Breath gracious Spirit, breath gently on these layes,

      Be thou my Compasse, Needle to my wayes,

      Thy glorious work's my Fraught, my Haven is thy prayse.

      Thou purple Whore, mounted on scarlet beast,

      Gorg'd with the flesh, drunk with the blood of Saints,

      Whose amorous golden Cup, and charmed feast

      All earthly Kings, all earthly men attaints;

      See thy live pictures, see thine owne, thy best,

      Thy dearest sonnes, and cheere thy heart, that faints.

      Harke thou sav'd Island, harke, and never cease

      To prayse that hand which held thy head in peace.

      Else had'st thou swumme as deep in blood, as now in seas.

      The cloudy Night came whirling up the skie,

      And scatt'ring round the dewes, which first shee drew

      From milky poppies, loads the drousie eie:

      The watry Moone, cold Vesper, and his crew

      Light up their tapers: to the Sunne they fly,

      And at his blazing flame their sparks renew.

      Oh why should earthly lights then scorne to tine

      Their lamps alone at that first Sunne divine?

      Hence as false falling starres, as rotten wood they shine.

      Her sable mantle was embroydered gay

      With silver beames, with spangles round beset:

      Foure steedes her chariot drew, the first was gray,

      The second blue, third browne, fourth blacke as jet.

      The hollowing Owle her Post prepares the way,

      And winged dreames (as gnat-swarms) fluttring, let

      Sad sleep, who faine his eies in rest would steep.

      Why then at death doe weary mortals weep?

      Sleep's but a shorter death, death's but a longer sleep.

      And now the world, and dreames themselves were drown'd

      In deadly sleep; the Labourer snorteth fast,

      His brawny armes unbent, his limbs unbound,

      As dead, forget all toyle to come, or past,

      Onely sad Guilt, and troubled Greatnes crown'd

      With heavy gold and care, no rest can tast.

      Goe then vaine man, goe pill the live and dead,

      Buy, sell, fawne, flatter, rise, then couch thy head

      In proud, but dangerous gold: in silke, but restlesse bed.

      When loe a sudden noyse breakes th' empty aire;

      A dreadfull noyse, which every creature daunts,

      Frights home the blood, shoots up the limber haire.

      For through the silent heaven hells pursuivants

      Cutting their way, command foule spirits repaire

      With hast to Pluto, who their counsell wants.

      Their hoarse base-hornes like fenny Bittours sound;

      Th' earth shakes, dogs howle, and heaven it selfe astound

      Shuts all his eies; the stars in clouds their candles drown'd.

      Meane time Hels yron gates by fiends beneath

      Are open flung; which fram'd with wondrous art

      To every guilty soule yeelds entrance eath;

      But never wight, but He, could thence depart,

      Who dying once was death to endlesse death.

      So where the livers channell to the heart

      Payes purple tribute, with their three-fork't mace

      Three Tritons stand, and speed his flowing race,

      But stop the ebbing streame, if once it back would pace.

      The Porter to th' infernall gate is Sin,

      A shapelesse shape, a foule deformed thing,

      Nor nothing, nor a substance: as those thin

      And empty formes, which through the ayer fling

      Their wandring shapes, at length they'r fastned in

      The Chrystall sight. It serves, yet reignes as King:

      It lives, yet's death: it pleases, full of paine:

      Monster! ah who, who can thy beeing faigne?

      Thou shapelesse shape, live death, paine pleasing, servile raigne.

      Of that first woman, and th' old serpent bred,

      By lust and custome nurst; whom when her mother

      Saw so deform'd, how faine would she have fled

      Her birth, and selfe? But she her damme would smother,

      And all her brood, had not He rescued

      Who was his mothers sire, his childrens brother;

      Eternitie, who yet was borne and dy'de:

      His owne Creatour, earths scorne, heavens pride,

      Who th' Deitie inflesht, and mans flesh deifi'de.

      Her former parts her mother seemes resemble,

      Yet onely seemes to flesh and weaker sight;

      For she with art and paint could fine dissemble

      Her loathsome face: her back parts (blacke as night)

      Like to her horride Sire would force to tremble

      The boldest heart; to th' eye that meetes her right

      She seemes a lovely sweet, of beauty rare;

      But at the parting, he that shall compare,

      Hell will more lovely deeme, the divel's selfe more faire.

      Her rosie cheeke, quicke eye, her naked brest,

      And whatsoe're loose fancie might entice,

      She bare expos'd to sight, all lovely drest

      In beauties livery, and quaint devise:

      Thus she bewitches many a boy unblest,

      Who drench't in hell, dreames all of Paradise:

      Her brests his spheares, her armes his circling skie;

      Her pleasures heav'n, her love eternitie:

      For her he longs to live, with her he longs to die.

      But he, that gave a stone power to descry

      'Twixt natures hid, and checke that mettals pride,

      That dares aspire to golds faire puritie,

      Hath left a touch-stone, erring eyes to guide,

      Which cleares their sight, and strips hypocrisie.

      They see, they loath, they curse her painted hide;

      Her, as a crawling carrion, they esteeme:

      Her worst of ills, and worse then that they deeme;

      Yet know her worse, then they can think, or she can seem.

      Close by her sat Despaire, sad ghastly Spright,

      With staring lookes, unmoov'd, fast nayl'd to Sinne;

      Her body all of earth, her soule of fright,

      About her thousand deaths, but more within:

      Pale, pined cheeks, black hayre, torne, rudely dight;

      Short breath,

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