Cleopatra: His legs bestrid the ocean; his rear’d arm Crested the world. His voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in’t, an autumn t’was That grew the more from reaping. His delights Were dolphin-like: they show’d his back above The element they liv’d in. In his livery Walk’d crowns and crownet, realms and islands were As plates dropp’d from his pocket
The silver swan. who living had no note, When death approached unlocked her silent throat, Leaning her breast against the reedy shore, Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more: Farewell all joys, O death come close mine eyes, More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise
My soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skilful in the wars: There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious friend, And – O my soul, awake! – Did in pure love descend, To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of Peace, The Rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure, But ONE who never changes, Thy God, thy life, thy cure
Sweet Stream, that dost with equal Pace Both thyself fly, and thyself chace, Forbear awhile to flow, And listen to my Woe. Then go, and tell the Sea that all its Brine Is fresh compar’d to mine; Inform it that the gentler Dame, Who was the Life of all my Flame, In th’Glory of her Bud Has pass’d the fatal Flood, Death by this only Stroke triumphs above The greatest Power of Love: Alas, alas! I must give o’er, My sighs will let me add no more. Go on, sweet Stream, and henceforth rest More, more than does my troubled Breast; And if my sad Complaints have made thee stay, These Tears, these Tears shall mend thy Way
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks and gapes for drink again; The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair; The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks ten thousand rivers up, So filled that they o’erflow the cup. The busy Sun (and one would guess By’s drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and when he’s done, The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun: They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night: Nothing in Nature’s sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there – for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals, tell me why?
Francisco de Zurbarán Baroque Born: 7 November 1598, Fuente de Cantos, Spain Nationality: Spanish Died: 27 August 1664, Madrid, Spain
Zurbarán occupied the role of Seville’s official painter between Velázquez and Murillo, forming the trinity of Seville painters. Most of his paintings were of Spain’s devotional religious style to which he added elements borrowed from Caravaggio. His painting was a unique blend of a direct approach to religious subjects with a penetrating spiritual aura. In his later career, he painted mythological scenes commissioned for Philip IV’s Buen Retiro palace in Madrid. After decorating a ceremonial ship presented to the king on behalf of Seville he fell out of favour and spent his last years living in poverty in Madrid.
Zurbarán had a well-equipped style to tackle portraiture and still life but his true vocation was in religious subjects. His somber approach to monastic Spanish Baroque elevated his work above many of his contemporaries by the fact he embodied saints, apostles, and friars with a rigid figurative modeling and a naturalistic refined simplicity.
Saint Serapion, 1628. Oil on canvas. Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, Connecticut, USA
Zurbarán became renowned for creating emotional effects by creating sharp contrasts between dark backgrounds and light foregrounds. A technique revealing not only the influence of Caravaggio but also the dramatic technique of tenebrism, the technique of depicting human shapes and facial features in shadow. Zurbarán was unique amongst his contemporaries, however, his take on his subject matter was still in keeping with the Counter-Reformation theology of 17th-century Spain.
Zurbarán, in his later works, placed his religious and mythological figures within the landscape. He was not a landscapist per se; however, his mature works show an affinity with the natural environment and a talented hand at rendering nature as part of a narrative feature. This strategy confirmed Zurbarán’s Counter-Reformation worldview that where the spiritual exists in the corporeal so the divine finds its expression in the natural world.
Zurbarán carried the storytelling legacy of the Baroque into his devotional paintings, his figures becoming more idealized, more mythical, and less realistic. This change in his art was not universally well received with some historians suggesting Zurbarán’s later works sacrificed their palpable aura of spirituality for sentimentality.
The youngest of six children, Zurbarán was born in a small Spanish town where his father was a merchant. Historians suggest Zurbarán displayed a talent for drawing from an early age and his family was willing to support his artistic pursuits. In 1614, arranged by his father, he entered a three-year apprenticeship in Seville under the guidance of Diaz de Villanueva.
Saint Francis Contemplating a Skull, 1633-35. Oil on canvas. Saint Louis Art Museum, Saint Louis, Missouri, USA
His early training had a long-lasting impact on the direction of Zurbarán’s art. He learned his craft in the execution of religiously themed works commissioned to decorate new ecclesiastical buildings. He tackled religious themes throughout his career, however, it is unclear if Zurbarán was in fact a man of devoted to faith.
In 1617 Zurbarán refused the opportunity to enter Seville’s city guild of painters after he completed his apprenticeship, instead opting to return home where he established a business as a painter in the town of Llerena. His business was successful; however, his personal life was beset with tragedy. Is first marriage, in 1617, to Maria, nine years his senior lasted only six years due to her premature death, leaving Zurbarán with three young children. The artist married Beatriz in 1625. Sadly, their only child died in infancy.
From early in his career Zurbarán obtained various important commissions including in 1626 a request for fourteen pictures for the Dominican Order in Seville. He moved to Seville and lived in the monastery with his assistants while completing the commission., and on the promise of further work, he relocated his family to the city permanently. Once settled in Seville, Zurbarán’s independent streak began to reveal itself. In 1630 he refused to sit the exam for admittance to the Seville Guild of Painters. His reputation, however, was enough that the City Council continued to support him as it was advantageous to have a painter of Zurbarán’s skill and vision working in Seville.
In the years that followed Zurbarán secured important commissions. While mostly religious in nature, he was invited to Madrid to decorate the Great Hall of the royal palace and worked on mythological paintings analogous to the King’s glory. The ebb and flow of artistic success combined with personal tragedy continued to have an effect on Zurbarán. Political turmoil in Seville reduced local commissions. With the help of his son, Juan, Zurbarán looked to the Americas and Spanish colonies such as Argentina and Peri for new markets. This new enterprise proved prosperous; however, it was offset by further tragedy when Zurbarán’s second wife died in 16939. In 1644 he married Leonor de Tordera. They had six children, but only one survived infancy. Compounding Zurbarán’s personal loss, Juan lost his life to the plague which was ravaging Seville in 1649.
The Young Virgin, 1640-45. Oil on canvas. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, USA
In the final decade of Zurbarán’s life Seville became less receptive of his work. He relocated to Madrid in 1658 to seek a change of fortune and joined a circle of fellow artists including his friend Velázquez. Zurbarán received some royal commissions and requests from individual patrons who were looking for paintings for their private religious devotions. However, he failed to recapture his earlier success and his financial position declined. In his final years, Zurbarán’s health declined and he was forced to stop painting in 1662 putting a further strain on the family finances.
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are Thy returns! even as the flowers in Spring, To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring; Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there was no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivelled heart Could have recovered greenness? It was gone Quite underground; as flowers depart To see their mother-root, when they have blown, Where they together All the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing, O, my only Light, It cannot be That I am he On whom my tempests fell all night
No spring nor summer Beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one autumnall face. Young beauties force our love, and that’s a rape, This doth but counsel, yet you cannot ‘scape. If ’twere a shame to love, here ’twere no shame, Affection here takes Reverence’s name. Were her first years the Golden Age; that’s true, But now she’s gold oft tried, and ever new. That was her torrid and inflaming time, This is her tolerable Tropique clime. Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence, He in a fever wishes pestilence. Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were, They were Love’s graves; for else he is no where. Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit Vowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come, He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb. Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev’ry where, In progress, yet his standing house is here. Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night; Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight In all her words, unto all hearers fit, You may at revels, you at counsel, sit. This is Love’s timber, youth his under-wood; There he, as wine in June enrages blood, Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste And appetite to other things is past. Xerxes’ strange Lydian love, the Platane tree, Was loved for age, none being so large as she, Or else because, being young, nature did bless Her youth with age’s glory, Barrenness. If we love things long sought, Age is a thing Which we are fifty years in compassing; If transitory things, which soon decay, Age must be loveliest at the latest day. But name not winter-faces, whose skin’s slack; Lank, as an unthrift’s purse; but a soul’s sack; Whose eyes seek light within, for all here’s shade; Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made; Whose every tooth to a several place is gone, To vex their souls at Resurrection; Name not these living deaths-heads unto me, For these, not ancient, but antique be. I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day. Since such love’s natural lation is, may still My love descend, and journey down the hill, Not panting after growing beauties so, I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go
John Donne 1572-1631
John Donne Born: 22 January 1572, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 31 March 1631, London, UK
Donne was a poet, scholar, soldier, and secretary. Born to a recusant family, he later became a cleric in the Church of England. He was made Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London under royal patronage. Donne is considered a preeminent metaphysical poet with poetry renowned for their metaphysical and sensual style, including sonnets, religious poems, love poems, elegies, and satires. Donne is also renowned for his sermons
Once, and but once found in thy company, All thy supposed escapes are laid on me; And as a thief at bar is questioned there By all the men that have been robed that year, So am I (by this traiterous means surprized) By thy hydroptic father catechized. Though he had wont to search with glazed eyes, As though he came to kill a cockatrice, Though he hath oft sworn that he would remove Thy beauty’s beauty, and food of our love, Hope of his goods, if I with thee were seen, Yet close and secret, as our souls, we’ve been. Though thy immortal mother, which doth lie Still-buried in her bed, yet wiil not die, Takes this advantage to sleep out daylight, And watch thy entries and returns all night, And, when she takes thy hand, and would seem kind, Doth search what rings and armlets she can find, And kissing, notes the colour of thy face, And fearing lest thou’rt swol’n, doth thee embrace; To try if thou long, doth name strange meats, And notes thy paleness, blushing, sighs, and sweats; And politicly will to thee confess The sins of her own youth’s rank lustiness; Yet love these sorceries did remove, and move Thee to gull thine own mother for my love. Thy little brethren, which like faery sprites Oft skipped into our chamber, those sweet nights, And kissed, and ingled on thy father’s knee, Were bribed next day to tell what they did see: The grim eight-foot-high iron-bound servingman, That oft names God in oaths, and only then, He that to bar the first gate doth as wide As the great Rhodian Colossus stride, Which, if in hell no other pains there were, Makes me fear hell, because he must be there: Though by thy father he were hired to this, Could never witness any touch or kiss. But Oh, too common ill, I brought with me That which betrayed me to my enemy: A loud perfume, which at my entrance cried Even at thy father’s nose, so were we spied; When, like a tyran King, that in his bed Smelt gunpowder, the pale wretch shivered. Had it been some bad smell he would have thought That his own feet, or breath, that smell had wrought. But as we in our isle imprisoned, Where cattle only, and diverse dogs are bred, The precious Unicorns strange monsters call, So thought he good, strange, that had none at all. I taught my silks their whistling to forbear, Even my oppressed shoes dumb and speechless were, Only, thou bitter sweet, whom I had laid Next me, me traiterously hast betrayed, And unsuspected hast invisibly At once fled unto him, and stayed with me. Base excrement of earth, which dost confound Sense from distinguishing the sick from sound; By thee the seely amorous sucks his death By drawing in a leprous harlot’s breath; By thee the greatest stain to man’s estate Falls on us, to be called effeminate; Though you be much loved in the Prince’s hall, There, things that seem, exceed substantial. Gods, when ye fumed on altars, were pleased well, Because you were burnt, not that they liked your smell; You’re loathsome all, being taken simply alone, Shall we love ill things joined, and hate each one? If you were good, your good doth soon decay; And you are rare, that takes the good away. All my perfumes I give most willingly T’ embalm thy father’s corse; What? will he die?
John Donne 1572-1631
John Donne Born: 22 January 1572, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 31 March 1631, London, UK
Donne was a poet, scholar, soldier, and secretary. Born to a recusant family, he later became a cleric in the Church of England. He was made Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London under royal patronage. Donne is considered a preeminent metaphysical poet with poetry renowned for their metaphysical and sensual style, including sonnets, religious poems, love poems, elegies, and satires. Donne is also renowned for his sermons
Captain, or colonel, or knight in arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If deed of honour did the ever please, Guard them, and him within protect from harms: He can requite thee, for he knows the charms That call fame on such gentle acts as these, And he can spread thy name o’er lands and seas, Whatever clime the sun’s bright circle warms. Lift not thy spear against the Muses’ bower: The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground; and the repeated air Of sad Electra’s poet had the power To save th’ Athenian walls from ruin bare
My Soul, there is a country Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skillful in the wars; There, above noise and danger Sweet Peace sits, crown’d with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious friend And (O my Soul awake!) Did in pure love descend, To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flow’r of peace, The rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges, For none can thee secure, But One, who never changes, Thy God, thy life, thy cure
Henry Vaughan 1621-1695
Henry Vaughan Born: 17 April 1621, Brecknockshire, Wales Nationality: Welsh Died: 23 April 1695, Scethrog, Wales
Vaughan was a metaphysical poet, translator, author, and medical physician. His religious poetry appeared in Silex Scintillans in 1650 and in 1655. Vaughan was persuaded by the religious poet George Herbert to reject idle verse and in 1652 he showed his authenticity and dept of conviction in “Mount of Olives and Solitary Devotions.” It was also in the 1650s Vaughan began a lifelong career in medical practice.
Matsuo Basho Born: 1644, Iga Province, Japan Nationality: Japanese Died: 28 November 1694, Osaka, Japan
Matsuo Bashō was the most famous poet of the Edo period in Japan. He was recognized for his poetry in the hakai no renga form during his lifetime. Today he is considered the greatest hokku, haiku master. Bashō’s poetry is globally renowned and in Japan, his poems are reproduced on monuments and other traditional sites. Although justifiably famous for his hokku, he believed his best work was leading and participating in renku.
Introduced to poetry at an early age Bashō integrated himself into the intellectual scene of Edo (modern Tokyo) and quickly became well-known throughout Japan. He made a living as a teacher but renounced the social, urban life of literary circles to wander throughout Japan to gain inspiration for his poetry which was influenced by his own experiences of the world around him.
Born in the Iga Province, Japan, the Matsuo family were of Samurai descent and his father is thought to have been a musokunin, a class of landowner peasants granted privileges of Samurai. Very little is known of Bashō’s childhood, however, became a servant to Tōdō Yoshitada in his late teens, probably in some humble capacity, and was probably not promoted to the full samurai class.
Bashō shared Yoshitada’s love of the collaborative poetry composition, the haikai no renga. A sequence opened with a verse of 5-7- mora, the hokku, and centuries later it became the haiku presented as a stand-alone poem. The hokku would be followed by a related 7-7 mora verse by another poet. Both Bashō and Yoshitada used a haigō, a haikai pen name. Bashō’s was Sōbō, the Sino-Japanese reading of his adult name. In 1662 the first extant poem by Bashō was published.
In 1695, together with some acquaintances, Bashō and Yashitada composed a hyakuin, a one-hundred-verse renku. Yashitada’s death in 1666 brought an end to Bashōs peaceful life as a servant and it is believed Bashō gave up on the possibility of samurai status and left home. His poems continued to be published in anthologies in 1667, 1668, and 1671, and a compilation of his work and that by others, The Seashell Game in 1672. Also in 1672, Bashō moved to Edo to continue his study of poetry.
Quickly recognised in the fashionable literary circles of Nihonbashi, Bashõ’s poetry was acclaimed for its simple and natural style. He was inducted into the inner circles of the haikai professional in 1674 and received its secret teachings from Kitamura Kigin.
In 1675, Nishyama Sōin, leader of the Danrin School of Haiku, travelled to Edo from Osaka and Bashō was one of the poets invited to compose with him. Bashō gave himself the haigō of Tōsei and by 1680 he had a full-time job teaching his twenty disciples who went on to publish The Best Poems of Tōsei’s Twenty Disciples. That winter, Bashō moved across the river to Fukagawa and out of the public eye. His disciples built him a rustic hut and planted a Japanese banana tree in the grounds giving Bashō his first permanent home and a new haigō
Bashō grew lonely and dissatisfied despite his success and began to practice Zen meditation, however, it doesn’t seem that calmed his mind. In 1682 his hut burned down and early in 1683, his mother died. Following his mother’s death he travelled to Yamura to stay with a friend. Bashō’s disciples gave him a second hut in the winter of 1983, however, his spirits didn’t improve and in 1684 he left Edo on the first of four major wanderings.
Bashō travelled alone and off the beaten path of the Edo Five Routes which in medieval Japan were considered immensely dangerous. Initially, Bashō expected to die in the middle of nowhere or be murdered by bandits. His mood improved as his journey progressed and he began to enjoy being on the road. Bashō enjoyed the changing scenery and the seasons. His poetry became less introspective and more striking in his observations of the world around him. Bashō’s trip took him from Edo to Mount Fuji, Ueno, and Kyoto. He met poets who referred to themselves as his disciples and sought his advice. In the summer of 1685, he returned to Edo, writing more hokku and comments on his own life. On his return to Edo Bashō resumed his job as a teacher of poetry at his hut, however, he was already planning another journey.
The poets of Edo gathered at the bashō hut for a haiku no renga contest on the subject of frogs, which seems to have been a tribute to Bashō’s hokku which placed top of the compilation. Bashō stayed in Edo teaching and holding contests. In the autumn of 1687, he took an excursion to the countryside for moon watching, and in 1688 he made a longer trip, returning to Ueno for the Lunar New Year celebrations. By the time Bashō arrived in Ōgaki, Gifu Prefecture, he had finished the log of his journey. After editing and redacting it for three years, the final version, “The Narrow Road to the Interior,” was completed in 1694, and published, posthumously, in 1702. It is considered Bashō’s finest achievement, and was a great commercial success, with many poets following the path of his journey.
Bashō lived in his third bashō hut on his return to Edo in 1691, again provided by his followers. However, this time he was not alone; his nephew, Toin, and a female friend, Julei, both recovering from illness, lived with him. He also had many visitors. Bashō was uneasy and wrote to a friend that he had no peace of mind. He continued to earn a living from teaching and appearances at haikai gatherings until August 1693 when he shut the gate to his hut and refused to see anyone for a month. After adopting the principle of karumi he relented and regreeted the outside world instead of separating himself from it. He left Edo for the last time in the summer of 1694 spending time in Ueno and Kyoto before travelling to Osaka where he developed a stomach illness and died peacefully, surrounded by his followers.
falling sick on a journey my dreams go wandering over a field of dried grass Basho
Come, darkest night, becoming sorrow best; Light, leave thy light, fit for a lightsome soul; Darkness doth truly suit with me oppressed Whom absence’ power doth from mirth control. The very trees with hanging heads condole Sweet summer’s parting, and of leaves distressed In dying colours make a grief-ful role: So much, alas, to sorrow are they pressed. Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpet’s made: Their fall, their branches, all their mournings prove With leafless, naked bodies, whose hues vade From hopeful green, to wither in their love. If trees and leaves for absence mourners be, No marvel that I grieve, who like want see
Yonker Ramp and His Sweetheart 1623 Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Oil on canvas The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, USA
“Yonker Ramp and His Sweetheart” depicts a couple in a tavern, he is raising a glass with a smile while a dog is resting its head in his left hand. A half-opened curtain reveals another room. It is the only surviving Hals’ artwork that Is dated with an inscription on the canvas. The title was given to the piece in the 18th century with Yonker meaning young gentleman, however, the woman is more likely to have been a prostitute than his lover. The subject of long debates among art historians, the meaning of the painting is suggested to be a moral message on the perils of excess, as was common in genre pieces of the time. However, whatever the meaning behind the portrait it offers the viewer of today a peek into everyday life in 17th-century Haarlem
Franz Hals Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Born: 1582/83, Antwerp, Flanders Nationality: Dutch Died: 26 August 1666, Haarlem, Dutch Republic
Franz Hals 1582/3-1666
Hals was a painter of the Dutch Golden Age. Particularly known for his portraiture, he lived and worked in Haarlem, The Netherlands. Hals played a vital role in the evolution of 17th-century group portraiture and his known for his loose brushwork
A Couple 1622 Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Oil on canvas Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, The Netherlands
“A Couple” was probably painted to celebrate the marriage of Isaac Abrahamsz Massa and Beatrix van der Laen in 1622. Unusual for the time it portrays the couple in relaxed poses and an outdoor location which was at odds with usual commissioned works to celebrate marriages with their formal and carefully posed format. The couple is seated and laid back beneath a tree both smiling knowingly at the viewer. Their open body language and direct gazes give the painting a sense of intimacy rarely present in other works of the time.
Franz Hals 1582/3-1666
Franz Hals Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Born: 1582/83, Antwerp, Flanders Nationality: Dutch Died: 26 August 1666, Haarlem, Dutch Republic
Hals was a painter of the Dutch Golden Age. Particularly known for his portraiture, he lived and worked in Haarlem, The Netherlands. Hals played a vital role in the evolution of 17th-century group portraiture and is known for his loose brushwork
I that have been a lover, and could shew it, Though not in these, in rhymes not wholly dumb; Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become A better lover. and much better poet. Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it To those true numerous graces; whereof some But charm the senses, others overcome Both brains and hearts; and more now best do know it: For in your verse all Cupid’s armoury, His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow, His very eyes are yours to overthrow. But then his mother’s sweets you so apply, Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take For Venus’ ceston every line you make
The Banquet of the Officers of the St George Militia Company in 1616 by Franz Hals
The Banquet of the Officers of the St George Militia Company in 1616 1616 Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Oil on canvas Frans Hals Museum, Haarlem, The Netherlands
The first of three paintings for the St. George civic guard in Haarlem, “The Banquet of the Officers of the St. George Militia Company” is a large-scale work featuring the officers at their farewell banquet. Group portraits, known as shuttersstukken, were popular in the 17th century. The group would collectively decide on the format of painting then all sit separately for their likeness to be painted. Hals also demonstrates his abilities with still-life, especially the luxuriously decked table down to the detail of the figurative pattern of the tablecloth.
Franz Hals 1582/3-1666
Franz Hals Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Born: 1582/83, Antwerp, Flanders Nationality: Dutch Died: 26 August 1666, Haarlem, Dutch Republic
Hals was a painter of the Dutch Golden Age. Particularly known for his portraiture, he lived and worked in Haarlem, The Netherlands. Hals played a vital role in the evolution of 17th-century group portraiture and is known for his loose brushwork
Henry Purcell Baroque Born: 10 September 1659, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 21 November 1695, London, UK
Henry Purcell 1659-1695
Purcell was a composer of a uniquely English form of Baroque music which incorporated Italian and French elements. He is one of the greatest English composers and the most famous before the 20th century’s Elgar, Williams, and Britten
At the round earth’s imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go; All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o’erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death’s woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space; For if above all these my sins abound, ‘Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace When we are there: here on this lowly ground Teach me how to repent; for that’s as good As if thou hadst sealed my pardon with thy blood
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed. But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee
I walk’d the other day, to spend my hour, Into a field, Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield A gallant flow’r; But winter now had ruffled all the bow’r And curious store I knew there heretofore.
Yet I, whose search lov’d not to peep and peer I’ th’ face of things, Thought with my self, there might be other springs Besides this here, Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year; And so the flow’r Might have some other bow’r.
Then taking up what I could nearest spy, I digg’d about That place where I had seen him to grow out; And by and by I saw the warm recluse alone to lie, Where fresh and green He liv’d of us unseen.
Many a question intricate and rare Did I there strow; But all I could extort was, that he now Did there repair Such losses as befell him in this air, And would ere long Come forth most fair and young.
This past, I threw the clothes quite o’er his head; And stung with fear Of my own frailty dropp’d down many a tear Upon his bed; Then sighing whisper’d, “happy are the dead! What peace doth now Rock him asleep below!”
And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs From a poor root, Which all the winter sleeps here under foot, And hath no wings To raise it to the truth and light of things; But is still trod By ev’ry wand’ ring clod.
O Thou! whose spirit did at first inflame And warm the dead, And by a sacred incubation fed With life this frame, Which once had neither being, form, nor name; Grant I may so Thy steps track here below,
That in these masques and shadows I may see Thy sacred way; And by those hid ascents climb to that day, Which breaks from Thee, Who art in all things, though invisibly! Shew me thy peace, Thy mercy, love, and ease,
And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign, Lead me above, Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move Without all pain; There, hid in thee, shew me his life again, At whose dumb urn Thus all the year I mourn
Henry Vaughan 1621-1695
Henry Vaughan Born: 17 April 1621, Brecknockshire, Wales Nationality: Welsh Died: 23 April 1695, Scethrog, Wales
Vaughan was a metaphysical poet, translator, author, and medical physician. His religious poetry appeared in Silex Scintillans in 1650 and in 1655. The religious poet George Herbert persuaded Vaughan to reject idle verse and in 1652 he showed his authenticity and dept of conviction in “Mount of Olives and Solitary Devotions.” It was also in the 1650s Vaughan began a lifelong career in medical practice
The Night Watch 1642 Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Oil on Canvas – Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, Netherlands
Often referred to as a ‘corporation portrait’, “The Night Watch” is uniquely Dutch. Rembrandt painted this large canvas between 1640 and 1642 as a commission for the musketeer branch of a civic militia, a wealthy segment of Amsterdam’s society. Members could be assigned to put out fires, guard gates, police the streets, and maintain order. They were required to attend parades for visiting royalty and festive occasions. Rembrandt presented a bustling and somewhat confused scene of members preparing for an event.
Rembrandt 1606-1669
Rembrandt Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Born: 15 July 1606, Leiden, Netherlands Nationality: Dutch Died: 4 October 1669, Amsterdam, Netherlands
Rembrandt’s life and work were fuelled by an intense psychological study of people, objects, and their surroundings and a strong Christian devotion. Incredibly gifted, Rembrandt became a master of portraiture, historical, mythological, and biblical sense from a very young age. His techniques and use of materials were sensitive and spontaneous. His everchanging approach to colour, composition, and shadow produced powerfully moving and natural moments of human existence. His mastery of light and texture emphasized emotional depth and weaved a common theme through all his work confirming his status as one of art’s greatest and most innovative masters
Eternity, the womb of things created, The endless bottom of duration, Whose half was always past, yet unbegun, And half behind still coming unabated; Whose thread cojoined, both unseparated, Is time, which dated is by motion; Eternity, whose real thoughts are one With God, that is everness actuated: O tie my soul unto this endless clew, That I may overfathom fate and time In all my actions which I do pursue, And bound my thoughts in that unbounded clime: For soul and thoughts, designs and acts, are evil, That under compass of this life do level
Malle Babbe 1633-35 Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Oil on canvas Gemäldegalerie, Berlin, Germany
“Malle Babbe “ is an unusual portrait depicting a woman sitting at a table holding a beer jug in her right hand and perched on her left shoulder sits an owl. She is laughing with her head turned to her left. Plainly dressed in brown with white collar and cuffs. It is considered that the subject was a real citizen of Haarlem and, using the translation of the Dutch “Malle Babbe” (“Malle” being crazy and “Babbe” a diminutive of Barbara), who is likely to suffer from a mental illness.
Franz Hals 1582/3-1666
Franz Hals Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Born: 1582/83, Antwerp, Flanders Nationality: Dutch Died: 26 August 1666, Haarlem, Dutch Republic
Hals was a painter of the Dutch Golden Age. Particularly known for his portraiture, he lived and worked in Haarlem, The Netherlands. Hals played a vital role in the evolution of 17th-century group portraiture and his known for his loose brushwork
Consecrated to the Glorious Memory of His Most Serene and Renowned Highness, Oliver, Late Lord Protector of This Commonwealth, etc. (Oliver Cromwell) Written after the celebration of his funeral
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And now ’tis time; for their officious haste, Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans ere all rites were past Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly.
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Though our best notes are treason to his fame Join’d with the loud applause of public voice; Since Heav’n, what praise we offer to his name, Hath render’d too authentic by its choice;
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Though in his praise no arts can liberal be, Since they whose Muses have the highest flown Add not to his immortal memory, But do an act of friendship to their own;
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Yet ’tis our duty and our interest too Such monuments as we can build to raise, Lest all the world prevent what we should do And claim a title in him by their praise.
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How shall I then begin, or where conclude To draw a fame so truly circular? For in a round what order can be shew’d, Where all the parts so equal perfect are?
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His grandeur he deriv’d from Heav’n alone, For he was great ere fortune made him so, And wars like mists that rise against the sun Made him but greater seem, not greater grown.
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No borrow’d bays his temples did adorn, But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring. Nor was his virtue poison’d soon as born With the too early thoughts of being king.
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Fortune (that easy mistress of the young But to her ancient servant coy and hard) Him at that age her favorites rank’d among When she her best-lov’d Pompey did discard.
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He, private, mark’d the faults of others’ sway, And set as sea-marks for himself to shun, Not like rash monarchs who their youth betray By acts their age too late would wish undone.
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And yet dominion was not his design; We owe that blessing not to him but Heaven, Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join, Rewards that less to him than us were given.
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Our former chiefs like sticklers of the war First sought t’inflame the parties, then to poise, The quarrel lov’d, but did the cause abhor, And did not strike to hurt but make a noise.
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War, our consumption, was their gainfull trade; We inward bled whilst they prolong’d our pain; He fought to end our fighting and assay’d To stanch the blood by breathing of the vein.
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Swift and resistless through the land he pass’d Like that bold Greek who did the east subdue, And made to battles such heroic haste As if on wings of victory he flew.
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He fought secure of fortune as of fame, Till by new maps the island might be shown, Of conquests which he strew’d where’er he came Thick as a galaxy with stars is sown.
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His palms, though under weights they did not stand, Still thriv’d; no winter could his laurels fade; Heav’n in his portrait shew’d a workman’s hand And drew it perfect yet without a shade.
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Peace was the prize of all his toils and care, Which war had banish’d and did now restore; Bologna’s walls thus mounted in the air To seat themselves more surely than before.
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Her safety rescu’d Ireland to him owes, And treacherous Scotland, to no int’rest true, Yet bless’d that fate which did his arms dispose Her land to civilize as to subdue.
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Nor was he like those stars which only shine When to pale mariners they storms portend; He had his calmer influence, and his mien Did love and majesty together blend.
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‘Tis true, his count’nance did imprint an awe, And naturally all souls to his did bow, As wands of divination downward draw And points to beds where sov’reign gold doth grow.
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When past all offerings to Feretrian Jove, He Mars depos’d and arms to gowns made yield; Successful councils did him soon approve As fit for close intrigues as open field.
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To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf’d a peace, Our once bold rival in the British main, Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease And buy our friendship with her idol, gain.
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Fame of th’ asserted sea through Europe blown Made France and Spain ambitious of his love; Each knew that side must conquer he would own, And for him fiercely as for empire strove.
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No sooner was the Frenchman’s cause embrac’d Than the light monsieur the grave don outweigh’d; His fortune turn’d the scale where it was cast, Though Indian mines were in the other laid.
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When absent, yet we conquer’d in his right, For though some meaner artist’s skill were shown In mingling colours, or in placing light, Yet still the fair designment was his own.
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For from all tempers he could service draw; The worth of each with its alloy he knew, And as the confidant of Nature saw How she complexions did divide and brew.
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Or he their single virtues did survey By intuition in his own large breast, Where all the rich ideas of them lay, That were the rule and measure to the rest.
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When such heroic virtue Heav’n sets out, The stars like Commons sullenly obey, Because it drains them when it comes about, And therefore is a tax they seldom pay.
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From this high spring our foreign conquests flow, Which yet more glorious triumphs do portend, Since their commencement to his arms they owe, If springs as high as fountains may ascend.
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He made us freemen of the continent Whom Nature did like captives treat before, To nobler preys the English lion sent, And taught him first in Belgian walks to roar.
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That old unquestion’d pirate of the land, Proud Rome, with dread the fate of Dunkirk heard, And trembling wish’d behind more Alps to stand, Although an Alexander were here guard.
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By his command we boldly cross’d the line And bravely fought where southern stars arise, We trac’d the far-fetch’d gold unto the mine And that which brib’d our fathers made our prize.
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Such was our prince; yet own’d a soul above The highest acts it could produce to show: Thus poor mechanic arts in public move Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go.
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Nor di’d he when his ebbing fame went less, But when fresh laurels courted him to live; He seem’d but to prevent some new success, As if above what triumphs earth could give.
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His latest victories still thickest came, As near the center motion does increase, Till he, press’d down by his own weighty name, Did, like the vestal, under spoils decrease.
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But first the ocean as a tribute sent That giant prince of all her watery herd, And th’ isle when her protecting genius went Upon his obsequies loud sighs conferr’d.
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No civil broils have since his death arose, But faction now by habit does obey, And wars have that respect for his repose, As winds for halycons when they breed at sea.
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His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest; His name a great example stands to show How strangely high endeavours may be blest, Where piety and valour jointly go.
John Dryden 1631-1700
John Dryden Born: 9 August 1631, Aldwincle, Northamptonshire, UK Nationality: English Died: 12 May 1700, London, UK
Dryden was a poet, literary critic, playwright, and translator. He was appointed the first English Poet Laureate in 1668. Dryden is considered to have dominated literary life in Restoration England to such an extent that in some literary circles the period became known as the Age of Dryden
Mercury and Argus 1646 Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Oil on canvas Los Angeles County Museum of Art, California, USA
“Mercury and Argus” appears to be a pastoral genre scene of two relaxing male figures and a group of cattle and sheep. In fact, it depicts a mythical story of Jupiter falling in love with a woman, Io, and he turns her into a cow in order to hide her from Juno, his jealous wife. Juno on discovering the deception asks the shepherd Argus to guard the cow against Jupiter. Jupiter, in turn, sends Mercury to steal back the cow. In accordance with Juno’s orders, Argus gives Mercury wine until he falls asleep (the moment portrayed by Fabritius) then proceeds to sever his head with the sword shown laying to the left of Argus.
Carel Fabritius 1622-1664
Carel Fabritius Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Born: 27 February 1622, Middenbeemster, Dutch Republic Nationality: Dutch Died: 12 October 1654, Delft, Dutch Republic
Fabritius was a painter and a pupil of Rembrandt. He worked in Rembrandt’s studio in Amsterdam. A member of the Delft, Fabritius developed his own artistic style and experimented with perspective and light. His works include “A View of Delft” (1652), “The Sentry” (1654), and “The Goldfinch” (1654)
No man is an island, Entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manner of thine own Or of thine friends were. Each man’s death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know For whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee
John Donne 1572-1631
John Donne Born: 22 January 1572, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 31 March 1631, London, UK
Donne was a poet, scholar, soldier, and secretary. Born to a recusant family, he later became a cleric in the Church of England. He was made Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London under royal patronage. Donne is considered a preeminent metaphysical poet with poetry renowned for their metaphysical and sensual style, including sonnets, religious poems, love poems, elegies, and satires. Donne is also renowned for his sermons
Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world’s foundations first were laid, Come, visit ev’ry pious mind; Come, pour thy joys on human kind; From sin, and sorrow set us free; And make thy temples worthy Thee.
O, Source of uncreated Light, The Father’s promis’d Paraclete! Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire, Our hearts with heav’nly love inspire; Come, and thy Sacred Unction bring To sanctify us, while we sing!
Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy sev’n-fold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty Hand, Whose pow’r does heav’n and earth command: Proceeding Spirit, our Defence, Who do’st the gift of tongues dispence, And crown’st thy gift with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts! Our frailties help, our vice control; Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then, lay thy hand, and hold ’em down.
Chase from our minds th’ Infernal Foe; And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect, and guide us in the way.
Make us Eternal Truths receive, And practise, all that we believe: Give us thy self, that we may see The Father and the Son, by thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame, Attend th’ Almighty Father’s name: The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost Man’s redemption died: And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee
John Dryden 1631-1700
John Dryden Born: 9 August 1631, Aldwincle, Northamptonshire, UK Nationality: English Died: 12 May 1700, London, UK
Dryden was a poet, literary critic, playwright, and translator. He was appointed the first English Poet Laureate in 1668. Dryden is considered to have dominated literary life in Restoration England to such an extent that in some literary circles the period became known as the Age of Dryden.
Although thy hand and faith, and good works too, Have sealed thy love which nothing should undo, Yea though thou fall back, that apostasy Confirm thy love; yet much, much I fear thee. Women are like the Arts, forced unto to none, Open to all searchers, unprized if unknown. If I have caught a bird, and let him fly, Another fowler using these means, as I, May catch the same bird; and, as these things be, Women are made for men, not him, nor me. Foxes and goats, all beasts, change when they please, Shall women, more hot, wily, wild than these, Be bound to one man, and did Nature then Idly make tham apter t’ endure than men? They’re our clogs, not their own; if a man be Chained to a galley, yet the galley’s free; Who hath a plough-land casts all his seedcorn there, And yet allows his ground more corn should bear; Though Danuby into the sea must flow, The sea receives the Rhine, Volga, and Po. By Nature, which gave it, this liberty Thou lov’st, but Oh! canst thou love it and me? Likeness glues love: and if that thou so do, To make us like and love, must I change too? More than thy hate, I hate’t; rather let me Allow her change than change as oft as she, And so not teach, but force my opinion To love not any one, nor every one. To live in one land is captivity, To run all countries, a wild roguery; Waters stink soon if in one place they bide, And in the vast sea are more purified: But when they kiss one bank, and leaving this Never look back, but the next bank do kiss, Then are they purest. Change is the nursery Of music, joy, life, and eternity
John Donne 1572-1631
John Donne Born: 22 January 1572, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 31 March 1631, London, UK
Donne was a poet, scholar, soldier, and secretary. Born to a recusant family, he later became a cleric in the Church of England. He was made Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London under royal patronage. Donne is considered a preeminent metaphysical poet with poetry renowned for its metaphysical and sensual style, including sonnets, religious poems, love poems, elegies, and satires. Donne is also renowned for his sermons
The Ecstasy of St. Francis of Assisi 1600 Mannerism Oil on canvas
“The Ecstasy of St Francis of Assis” depicts a popular subject of classical art, of the scene from the life of Saint Francis of Assisi, the legendary 12th-century saint, who two years before his death in 1224, embarked on a journey to Mount la Verna for forty days of prayer and fasting. One morning while he was praying he went into a religious ecstasy and received the stigmata from an angel or seraph. El Greco depicts this moment of ecstasy, portraying St Francis with a face full of emotions of devotion, pain, and surrender. In front of him is a skull, a symbol of mortality. El Greco creates a dark and sombre atmosphere echoing the painful and dramatic experience of the saint.
El Greco 1541-1614
El Greco Mannerism Born: 1 October 1541, Crete, Greece Nationality: Greek-Spanish Died: 7 April 1614, Toledo, Spain
El Greco was a painter, sculptor and architect of the Spanish Renaissance. El Greco was a nickname giving reference to his Greek origins, but he normally signed his paintings in his birth name, Doménikos Theotokópoulos, in Greek (Δομήνικος Θεοτοκόπουλος). Born in Candia, now known as Crete, which as part of the Republic of Venice, Italy, and the centre of Post-Byzantine art, El Greco trained and became a master of that tradition before travelling to Venice at age 26. He moved to Rome in 1570, where he opened a workshop and produced a series of works whilst enriching his style and techniques with elements of Mannerism and Venetian Renaissance. He moved to Toledo, Spain in 1577 where he lived and worked until his death
Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone, That thee I shall not celebrate, When I remember, thou wast one. But yet thou canst not die, I know, To leave this world behind, is death, But when thou from this world wilt go, The whole world vapors with thy breath.
Or if, when thou, the world’s soul, goest, It stay, ’tis but thy carcass then, The fairest woman, but thy ghost, But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.
O wrangling schools, that search what fire Shall burn this world, had none the wit Unto this knowledge to aspire, That this her fever might be it?
And yet she cannot waste by this, Nor long bear this torturing wrong, For much corruption needful is To fuel such a fever long.
These burning fits but meteors be, Whose matter in thee is soon spent. Thy beauty, and all parts, which are thee, Are unchangeable firmament.
Yet ’twas of my mind, seizing thee, Though it in thee cannot persever. For I had rather owner be, Of thee one hour, than all else ever
John Donne 1572-1631
John Donne Born: 22 January 1572, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 31 March 1631, London, UK
Donne was a poet, scholar, soldier, and secretary. Born to a recusant family, he later became a cleric in the Church of England. He was made Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London under royal patronage. Donne is considered a preeminent metaphysical poet with poetry renowned for its metaphysical and sensual style, including sonnets, religious poems, love poems, elegies, and satires. Donne is also renowned for his sermons
Alessandro Scarlatti Opera Born: 6 May 1660, Sicily Nationality: Sicilian Died: 22 October 1725, Naples, Italy
Alessandro Scarlatti
Scarlatti was a composer, best known for his operas and chamber cantatas. He is considered to be one of the most important composers of the Neapolitan School of Opera. Scarlatti was also the father of the composers Domenico and Pietro Filippo Scarlatti
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing , my three and twentieth year! My hating days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endureth. Yet be it les or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean, or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great task-Master’s eye.
Prayer, the church’s banquet, angels’ age, God’s breath in man returning to his birth, The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage, The Christian plummet sounding heaven and earth; Engine against the Almighty, sinners’ tower, Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear, The six-days’ world transposing in an hour, A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear; Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss, Exalted manna, gladness pf the best, Heaven in ordinary, man well dressed, The milky way, the bird of Paradise, Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul’s blood, The land of spices, something understood.
When every one to pleasing pastime hies Some hunt, some hawk, some play, while some delight In sweet discourse, and music shows joy’s might; Yet I my thoughts do far above these prize. The joy which I take is that free from eyes I sit, and wonder at this day-like-night, So to dispose themselves, as void of right, And leave true pleasure for poor vanities. When others hunt, my thoughts I have in chase, If hawk, my mind at wished end doth fly, Discourse, I with my spirit talk and cry, While others music choose as greatest grace. O God, say I, can these fond pleasures move, Or music be but in sweet thoughts of love?
I am a little world made cunningly Of elements and an angelic sprite; But black sin hath betrayed to endless night My world’s both parts, and oh, both parts must die. You which beyond that heaven which was most high Have found new spheres and of new lads can write, Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drown my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it if it must be drowned no more. But oh, it must be burnt. Alas, the fire Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler. Let their flames retire, And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips’ red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love is rare As any she belied with false compare.
When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment, That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment, When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and checked even by the selfsame sky, Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay To change your day of youth to sullied night; And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you I engraft you anew
Let the bird of loudest lay, On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou, shrieking harbinger, Foul pre-currer of the fiend, Augur of the fever’s end, To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing, Save the eagle, feather’d king: Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice white, That defunctive music can, Be the death-defying swan, Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak’st With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st, ‘Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence: Love and constancy is dead; Phoenix and the turtle fled In a mutual flame from hence.
So they lov’d, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none: Number there in love was slain.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance, and no space was seen ‘Twixt the turtle and his queen; But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine, That the turtle saw his right Flaming in the phoenix’ sight: Either was the other’s mine.
Property was thus appall’d, That the self was not the same; Single nature’s double name Neither two nor one was call’d.
Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together; To themselves yet either-neither, Simple were so well compounded.
That it cried how true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, reason none If what parts can so remain.
Whereupon it made this threne To the phoenix and the dove, Co-supreme and stars of love; As chorus to their tragic scene.
THRENOS.
Beauty, truth, and rarity. Grace in all simplicity, Here enclos’d in cinders lie.
Death is now the phoenix’ nest; And the turtle’s loyal breast To eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity:– ‘Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be: Beauty brag, but ’tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer
William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare Born: April 1564, Stratford-upon-Avon, England Nationality: English Died: 23 April 1616, Stratford-upon-Avon, England
Shakespeare was a poet, playwright, and actor. He is regarded as one of the greatest writers in the English language. Referred to as ‘the Bard’ his works include 39 plays, 154 sonnets, narrative poems, and other verses. His plays have been translated into all major languages.
Over the brook of Cedron Christ is gone, To entertain the combat with his death, Where David fled beforetime void of breath To scape the treacheries of Absalon. Go, let us follow him in passion, Over this brook, this world that walloweth, A stream of cares that drown our thoughts beneath, And wash away all resolution. Beyond the world he must be passed clear, That in the world for Christ will trouble bear: Leave we, O leave we then this miry flood, Friends, pleasures, and unfaithful good. Now we are up, now down, but cannot stand, We sink, we reel; Jesu, stretch forth thy hand.
Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yes glad with all my heart That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes. Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thy mightst him yet recover
He that cannot choose but love, And strives against it still, Never shall my fancy move, For he loves ‘gainst his will; Nor he which is all his own, And can at pleasure choose, When I am caught he can be gone, And when he list refuse. Nor he that loves none but fair, For such by all are sought; Nor he that can for foul ones care, For his judgement then is nought; Nor he that hath wit, for he Will make me his jest or slave; Nor a fool, for when others…, He can neither….; Nor he that still his Mistress pays, For she is thralled therefore; Nor he that pays not, for he says Within She’s worth no more. Is there then no kind of men Whom I may freely prove? I will vent that humour then In mine own self-love
John Donne
John Donne Born: 22 January 1572, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 31 March 1631, London, UK
Donne was a poet, scholar, soldier and secretary. Born to a recusant family, he later became a cleric in the Church of England. He was made Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London under royal patronage. Donne is considered a preeminent metaphysical poet with poetry renowned for their metaphysical and sensual style, including sonnets, religious poems, love poems, elegies and satires. Donne is also renowned for his sermons
No Lover saith, I love, nor any other Can judge a perfect Lover; Hee thinkes that else none can, nor will agree That any loves but hee; I cannot say I’lov’d. for who can say Hee was kill’d yesterday? Lover withh excesse of heat, more yong than old, Death kills with too much cold; Wee dye but once, and who lov’d last did die, Hee that saith twice, doth lye: For though hee seeme to move, and stirre a while, It doth the sense beguile. Such life is like the light which bideth yet When the lights life is set, Or like the heat, which fire in solid matter Leave behinde, two houres after. Once I lov’s and dy’d; and am now become Mine Epitaph and Tombe. Here dead men speake their last, and so do I; Love-slaine, loe, here I lye
John Donne
John Donne Born: 22 January 1572, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 31 March 1631, London, UK
Donne was a poet, scholar, soldier, and secretary. Born to a recusant family, he later became a cleric in the Church of England. He was made Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London under royal patronage. Donne is considered a preeminent metaphysical poet with poetry renowned for its metaphysical and sensual style, including sonnets, religious poems, love poems, elegies, and satires. Donne is also renowned for his sermons
Samson and Delilah 1630 Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Oil on canvas Collection of Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria
“Samson and Delilah” depicts Old Testament mythology the moment after Samson has been betrayed. A barely clothed Samson struggles to resist the soldiers taking him to his death. Van Dyck captures the climax of the story with Samson’s agony racked on his face and the contortions of his body. Delilah is shown as a woman in conflict regretting her decision to betray her lover.
Anthony van Dyck
Anthony van Dyck Baroque, Dutch Golden Age, Grand Manner Portraiture Born: 22 March 1599, Antwerp, Belgium Nationality: Flemish Died: 9 December 1641, London, England
Van Dyck was a Baroque artist and was a leading painter in the court of England. He began painting at an early age and was a successful independent artist by his late teens becoming a master in the Antwerp guild in 1618. At this time Van Dyck was working with Peter Paul Rubens, a leading northern painter of the day.
The Jewish Bride 1667 Baroque, Golden Era Oil on Canvas Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, Netherlands Pic
From Rembrandt’s mature period “The Jewish Bride” was intended for a small and selective audience, appreciative of the artist as a painter of psychological expression in his paintings. The moderately sized canvas with no scenery as if completely focused on the intimacy within the moment. This depiction of Isaac and Rebekah Rembrandt shows one of the most serene, gentle, and thoughtful Biblical paintings. It is a perfect example of the portrait historie common during the Dutch Golden Age.
Rembrandt
Rembrandt Baroque, Dutch Golden Age Born: 15 July 1606, Leiden, Netherlands Nationality: Dutch Died: 4 October 1669, Amsterdam, Netherlands
Rembrandt’s life and work were fuelled by an intense psychological study of people, objects, and their surroundings and strong Christian devotion. Incredibly gifted, Rembrandt became a master of portraiture, historical, mythological, and biblical sense from a very young age. His techniques and use of materials were sensitive and spontaneous. His everchanging approach to colour, composition, and shadow produced powerfully moving and natural moments of the human existence. His mastery of light and texture emphasized emotional depth weaved a common theme through all his work confirming his status as one of art’s greatest and innovative masters
When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead, And that thou think’st thee free From all solicitation from me, Then shall my ghost come to thy bed, And thee, feigned vestal, in worse arms shall see; Then thy sick taper will begin to wink, And he, whose thou art then, being tired before, Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think Thou call’st for more, And in false sleep will from thee shrink, And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou Bathed in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie A verier ghost than I. What I will say I will not tell thee now, Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent, I’d rather thou shouldst painfully repent Than by my threat’nings rest still innocent
John Donne
John Donne Born: 22 January 1572, London, UK Nationality: English Died: 31 March 1631, London, UK
Donne was a poet, scholar, soldier, and secretary. Born to a recusant family, he later became a cleric in the Church of England. He was made Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, London under royal patronage. Donne is considered a preeminent metaphysical poet with poetry renowned for its metaphysical and sensual style, including sonnets, religious poems, love poems, elegies, and satires. Donne is also renowned for his sermons
Why should a foolish marriage vow, Which long ago was made, Oblige us to each other now When passion is decay’d? We lov’d, and we lov’d, as long as we could, Till our love was lov’d out in us both: But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled: ‘Twas pleasure first made it an oath.
If I have pleasures for a friend, And farther love in store, What wrong has he whose joys did end, And who could give no more? ‘Tis a madness that he should be jealous of me, Or that I should bar him of another: For all we can gain is to give ourselves pain, When neither can hinder the other
John Dryden
John Dryden Born: 9 August 1631, Aldwincle, Northamptonshire, UK Nationality: English Died: 12 May 1700, London, UK
Dryden was a poet, literary critic, playwright, and translator. He was appointed the first English Poet Laureate in 1668. Dryden is considered to have dominated literary life in Restoration England to such an extent that in some literary circles the period became known as the Age of Dryden
The Young Virgin 1640-45 Baroque Oil on canvas The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, USA
‘The Young Virgin’ features a young girl seated with her hands on her lap looking upwards. A barely visible semicircle of angels surrounds her head. In Mary’s lap is a piece of embroidery with a threaded needle awaiting the next stitch. The Baroque style provided Zarbarán the perfect means to create his religious scenes. More than the image of a young girl doing needlework, she is the embodiment of the Christian faith’s most holy female created by the artist’s use of soft light that reflects off her face and surrounds her head.
Francisco de Zurbaran
Francisco de Zurbaran Baroque Born: 17 November 1598, Fuente de Cantos, Spain Nationality: Spanish Died: 27 August 1664, Madrid, Spain
Zubarán was a painter, best known for his religious paintings of monks, nuns, and martyrs, and for his still-lifes. He earned the nickname the ‘Spanish Caravaggio’ with his forceful use of chiaroscuro. Zubarán is the father of the painter Juan de Zurbarán
Saint Serapion 1628 Baroque Oil on canvas Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art, Hartford, Connecticut, USA
Zubarán’s canvas is filled with the figure of a youthful friar dressed in a white robe in this dramatic painting. Above his head, his wrists are tethered by ropes and his head hangs lifelessly on his right shoulder. In the far right corner, a note reads ‘B Serapius’. Considered one of Zubarán’s best-known works ‘Saint Serapion’ lionizes a religious martyr who, according to history, died at the hands of pirates.
Francisco de Zurbarán
Francisco de Zurbarán Baroque Born: 17 November 1598, Fuente de Cantos, Spain Nationality: Spanish Died: 27 August 1664, Madrid, Spain
Zubarán was a painter, best known for his religious paintings of monks, nuns, and martyrs, and for his still-lifes. He earned the nickname the ‘Spanish Caravaggio’ with his forceful use of chiaroscuro. Zubarán is the father of the painter Juan de Zurbarán
Jezzie G 