The Countess Of Pembroke's Arcadia Quotes

If it is true that there are books written to escape from the present moment, and its meanness and its sordidity, it is certainly true that readers are familiar with a corresponding mood. To draw the blinds and shut the door, to muffle the noises of the street and shade the glare and flicker of its lights—that is our desire. There is then a charm even in the look of the great volumes that have sunk, like the “Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia”, as if by their own weight down to the very bottom of the shelf. We like to feel that the present is not all; that other hands have been before us, smoothing the leather until the corners are rounded and blunt, turning the pages until they are yellow and dog’s-eared. We like to summon before us the ghosts of those old readers who have read their Arcadia from this very copy—Richard Porter, reading with the splendours of the Elizabethans in his eyes; Lucy Baxter, reading in the licentious days of the Restoration; Thos. Hake, still reading, though now the eighteenth century has dawned with a distinction that shows itself in the upright elegance of his signature. Each has read differently, with the insight and the blindness of his own generation. Our reading will be equally partial. In 1930 we shall miss a great deal that was obvious to 1655; we shall see some things that the eighteenth century ignored. But let us keep up the long succession of readers; let us in our turn bring the insight and the blindness of our own generation to bear upon the “Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia”, and so pass it on to our successors.

who builds not upon hope shall fear no earthquake of despair.

Sorrow then cherish me, for I am sorrow; No being now but sorrow I can have; Then deck me as thine own; thy help I borrow, Since thou my riches art, and that thou hast Enough to make a fertile mind lie waste.

Vain is their pain who labour in despair.

We last short while, and build long-lasting places.

There is nothing more desirous of novelties than a man that fears his present fortune.

For to those persons who have vomitted out of their souls all remnants of goodness there rests a certain pride in evil, and having else no shadow of glory left them, they glory to be constant in iniquity

commonly they use their feet for their defence, whose tongue is their weapon.

laws are not made like lime twigs or nets to catch everything that toucheth them, but rather like sea marks to avoid the shipwrack of ignorant passengers

I joy in grief, and do detest all joys; Despise delight, am tired with thoughts of ease. I turn my mind to all forms of annoys, And with the change of them my fancy please. I study that which most may me displease, And in despite of that most my soul destroys; Blinded with beams, fell darkness is my sight; Dwell in my ruins, feed with sucking smart, I think from me, not from my woes, to part. I think from me, not from my woes, to part, And loathe this time called life, nay think that life Nature to me for torment did impart; Think my hard haps have blunted death's sharp knife, Not sparing me in whom his works be rife; And thinking this, think nature, life, and death Place sorrow's triumph on my conquered heart. Whereto I yield, and seek no other breath But from the scent of some infectious grave; Nor of my fortune aught but mischief crave.

What hope to quench where each things blows the fire?

barbarous opinion, to think with vice to do honour, or with activity in beastliness to show abundance of love.

Let no man lay confidence there where company takes away shame, and each may lay the fault in his fellow.

Who others' virtue doubt, themselves are vicious.

For who grieves not hath but a blockish brain, Since cause of grief no cause from life removes.

Who still doth seek against himself offences, What pardon can avail? Or who employs him To hurt himself, what shields can be defences? Woe to poor man: each outward thing annoys him In diverse kinds; yet as he were not filled, He heaps in inward grief that most destroys him.

Thus tossed in my ship of huge desire, Thus toiled in my work of raging love, Now that I spy the hav'n my thoughts require, Now that some flow'r of fruit my pains do prove, My dreads augment the more in passion's might, Since love with care, and hope with fear do fight.

I go blindfold wither the course of my ill-hap carries me

Come cave, become my grave; come death, and lend Receipt to me within thy bosom dark! For what is life to daily dying mind Where, drawing breath, I suck the air of woe; Where too much sight makes all the body blind, And highest thoughts downward most headlong throw? Thus then my form, and thus my state I find: Death wrapped in flesh, to living grave assigned.

Come, cloudy fears, close up my dazzled sight; Sorrow, suck up the marrow of my might; Due sighs, blow out all sparks of joyful light; Tire on, despair, upon my tired sprite!