The Purple Island: "The way to God is by our selves"
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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.
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The Purple Island - Phineas Fletcher
The Purple Island by Phineas Fletcher
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
Canto I
Canto II
Canto III
Canto IV
Canto V
Canto VI
Canto VII
Canto VIII
Canto IX
Canto X
Canto XI
Canto XII
CANTO I
The warmer Sun the golden Bull outran,
And with the Twins made haste to inne and play:
Scatt'ring ten thousand flowres, he new began
To paint the world, and piece the length'ning day:
(The world more aged by new youths accrewing)
Ah wretched man this wretched world pursuing,
Which still grows worse by age, and older by renewing!
The shepherd-boyes, who with the Muses dwell,
Met in the plain their May-lords new to chuse,
(For two they yearely chuse) to order well
Their rurall sports, and yeare that next ensues:
Now were they sat, where by the orchyard walls
The learned Chame with stealing water crawls,
And lowly down before that royall temple falls.
Among the rout they take two gentle swains,
Whose sprouting youth did now but greenly bud:
Well could they pipe and sing; but yet their strains
Were onely known unto the silent wood:
Their nearest bloud from self-same fountains flow,
Their souls self-same in nearer love did grow:
So seem'd two joyn'd in one, or one disjoyn'd in two.
Now when the shepherd-lads with common voice
Their first consent had firmly ratifi'd,
A gentle boy thus 'gan to wave their choice;
Thirsil, (said he) though yet thy Muse untri'd
Hath onely learn'd in private shades to feigne
Soft sighs of love unto a looser strain,
Or thy poore Thelgons wrong in mournfull verse to plain;
Yet since the shepherd-swains do all consent
To make thee lord of them, and of their art;
And that choice lad (to give a full content)
Hath joyn'd with thee in office, as in heart;
Wake, wake thy long- (thy too long) sleeping Muse,
And thank them with a song, as is the use:
Such honour thus conferr'd thou mayst not well refuse.
Sing what thou list, be it of Cupids spite,
(Ah lovely spite, and spitefull lovelinesse!)
Or Gemma's grief, if sadder be thy sprite:
Begin, thou loved swain, with good successe.
Ah, (said the bashfull boy) such wanton toyes
A better minde and sacred vow destroyes,
Since in a higher love I setled all my joyes.
New light new love, new love new life hath bred;
A life that lives by love, and loves by light:
A love to him, to whom all loves are wed;
A light, to whom the Sunne is darkest night:
Eyes light, hearts love, souls onely life he is:
Life, soul, love, heart, light, eye, and all are his:
He eye, light, heart, love, soul; he all my joy, and blisse.
But if you deigne my ruder pipe to heare,
(Rude pipe, unus'd, untun'd, unworthy hearing)
These infantine beginnings gently bear,
Whose best desert and hope must be your bearing.
But you, O Muses, by soft Chamus sitting,
(Your daintie songs unto his murmures fitting,
Which bears the under-song unto your chearfull dittying;)
Tell me, ye Muses, what our father-ages
Have left succeeding times to play upon:
What now remains unthought on by those Sages,
Where a new Muse may trie her pineon?
What lightning Heroes, like great Peleus heir,
(Darting his beams through our hard-frozen aire)
May stirre up gentle heat, and vertues wane repair?
Who knows not Jason? or bold Tiphys hand,
That durst unite what Natures self would part?
He makes Isles continent, and all one land;
O're seas, as earth, he march'd with dangerous art:
He rides the white-mouth'd waves, and scorneth all
Those thousand deaths wide gaping for his fall:
He death defies, fenc't with a thin, low, wooden wall.
Who ha's not often read Troyes twice-sung fires,
And at the second time twice better sung?
Who ha's not heard th' Arcadian shepherds quires,
Which now have gladly chang'd their native tongue;
And sitting by slow Mincius, sport their fill,
With sweeter voice and never-equall'd skill,
Chaunting their amorous layes unto a Romane quill?
And thou, choice wit, Loves scholar, and Loves master,
Art known to all, where Love himself is known:
Whether thou bidd'st Ulysses hie him faster,
Or dost thy fault and distant exile moan.
Who ha's not seen upon the mourning stage
Dire Atreus feast, and wrong'd Medea's rage,
Marching in tragick state, and buskin'd equipage?
And now of late th' Italian fisher-swain
Sits on the shore to watch his trembling line;
There teaches rocks and prouder seas to plain
By Nesis fair, and fairer Mergiline:
While his thinne net, upon his oars twin'd,
With wanton strife catches the Sunne, and winde,
Which still do slip away, and still remain behinde.
And that French Muses eagle eye and wing
Hath soar'd to heav'n, and there hath learn'd the art
To frame Angelick strains, and canzons sing
Too high and deep for every shallow heart.
Ah blessed soul! in those celestiall rayes,
Which gave thee light these lower works to blaze,
Thou sitt'st emparadis'd, and chaunt'st eternall layes.
Thrice happy wits, which in your springing May
(Warm'd with the Sunne of well deserved favours)
Disclose your buds, and your fair blooms display,
Perfume the aire with your rich fragrant savours!
Nor may, nor ever shall those honour'd flowers
Be spoil'd by summers heat, or winters showers;
But last when eating time shal gnaw the proudest towers.
Happy, thrice happy times in silver age!
When generous plants advanc't their lofty crest;
When honour stoopt to be learn'd wisdomes page;
When baser weeds starv'd in their frozen nest;
When th' highest flying Muse still highest climbes;
And vertues rise keeps down all rising crimes.
Happy, thrice happy age! happy, thrice happy times!
But wretched we, to whom these iron daies
(Hard daies) afford nor matter, nor reward!
Sings Maro? men deride high Maro's layes;
Their hearts with lead, with steel their sense is barr'd:
Sing Linus, or his father, as he uses,
Our Midas eares their well tun'd verse refuses.
What cares an asse for arts? he brayes at sacred Muses.
But if fond Bavius vent his clowted song,
Or Maevius chaunt his thoughts in brothell charm;
The witlesse vulgar, in a numerous throng,
Like summer flies about their dunghills swarm:
They sneer, they grinne. Like to his like will move.
Yet never let them greater mischief prove
Then this, Who hates not one, may he the other love.
Witnesse our Colin; whom though all the Graces,
And all the Muses nurst; whose well taught song
Parnassus self, and Glorian embraces,
And all the learn'd, and all the shepherds throng;
Yet all his hopes were crost, all suits deni'd;
Discourag'd, scorn'd, his writings vilifi'd:
Poorly (poore man) he liv'd; poorly (poore man) he di'd.
And had not that great Hart, (whose honour'd head
Ah lies full low) piti'd thy wofull plight;
There hadst thou lien unwept, unburied,
Unblest, nor grac't with any common rite:
Yet shalt thou live, when thy great foe shall sink
Beneath his mountain tombe, whose fame shall stink;
And time his blacker name shall blurre with blackest ink.
O let th' Iambick Muse revenge that wrong,
Which cannot slumber in thy sheets of lead:
Let thy abused honour crie as long
As there be quills to write, or eyes to reade:
On his rank name let thine own votes be turn'd,
Oh may that man that hath the Muses scorn'd,
Alive, nor dead, be ever of a Muse adorn'd!
Oft therefore have I chid my tender Muse;
Oft my chill breast beats off her fluttering wing:
Yet when new spring her gentle rayes infuse,
All storms are laid, I 'gin to chirp and sing:
At length soft fires disperst in every vein,
Yeeld open passage to the thronging train,
And swelling numbers tide rolls like the surging main.
So where fair Thames, and crooked Isis sonne
Payes tribute to his King, the mantling stream
Encounter'd by the tides (now rushing on
With equall force) of's way doth doubtfull seem;
At length the full-grown sea, and waters King
Chide the bold waves with hollow murmuring:
Back flie the streams to shroud them in their mother spring.
Yet thou sweet numerous Muse, why should'st thou droop
That every vulgar eare thy musick scorns?
Nor can they rise, nor thou so low canst stoop;
No seed of heav'n takes root in mud or thorns.
When owls or crows, imping their flaggy wing
With thy stoln plumes, their notes through th' ayer fling;
Oh shame! They howl and croke, while fond they strain to sing.
Enough for thee in heav'n to build thy nest;
(Farre be dull thoughts of winning dunghill praise)
Enough, if Kings enthrone thee in their breast,
And crown their golden crowns with higher baies:
Enough that those who weare the crown of Kings
(Great Israels Princes) strike thy sweetest strings:
Heav'ns Dove when high'st he flies, flies with thy heav'nly wings.
Let others trust the seas, dare death and hell,
Search either Inde, vaunt of their scarres and wounds;
Let others their deare breath (nay silence) sell
To fools, and (swoln, not rich) stretch out their bounds
By spoiling those that live, and wronging dead;
That they may drink in pearl, and couch their head
In soft, but sleeplesse down; in rich, but restlesse bed.
Oh let them in their gold quaffe dropsies down;
Oh let them surfets feast in silver bright:
While sugar hires the taste the brain to drown,
And bribes of sauce corrupt false appetite,
His masters rest, health, heart, life, soul to sell.
Thus plentie, fulnesse, sicknesse, ring their knell:
Death weds and beds them; first