Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CAELICA: 37 by FULKE GREVILLE

Poet Analysis

First Line: A THIEF, RISEN EARLY UP TO SEEK HIS PREY
Last Line: LOVE IS NOT HIS THAT RAVES; HOPE IS UNTRUE.
A thief, risen early up to seek his prey,
Spieth a pretty boy, whereas he lay,
Crying fast by a well.
He wills him why to tell,
And swears to make him well, if that he may.

The pretty boy smileth, and thanketh the man,
Told him, that he hath fal'n his father's can,
All of gold, in the deep,
Which loss did make him weep;
Prayeth him counsel keep; help if he can.

The man not for conscience, but only for hope,
Puts off his clothes, goes down by the rope,
Meaning to have the cup,
If he can get it up;
He spills that steals a sup; haste loseth hope.

For while in the water the false fellow sought,
The pretty boy steals his cloak, well was he taught;
Wet comes the fellow up,
He cannot find the cup;
His cloak is taken up; falsehood is naught.

Little lad Cupid, by night and by day,
Wonted in beauty's face wanton to play,
Fast bound and prisoned lies,
In Myra's stealing eyes,
Woefully whence he cries, to run away.

I asked the boy, the boy telleth his case;
He saith, that virtue seeks beauty's disgrace,
Virtue that grieves to find
With what an humble mind
Men are to beauty kind and her deface.

Virtue thinks all this is long of my bow,
Which hiding her beauties do counterfeits show,
And beauty virtues arm
With such a modest charm
As my shafts do no harm; she can say, no.

I that was wont to make wisdom a toy,
Virtue a pastime, am now made a boy;
I am thrown from the heart,
Banished is passion's art,
Neither may I depart, nor yet enjoy.

This was the cause, he said, made him complain,
He swears, if I help him, to help me again;
And straightways offers me,
If virtue conquered be,
Beauty and pleasure free, joy without pain.

I glad, not for pity, but hope of the prize,
And proud of this language from Caelica's eyes,
Threw off my liberty,
Hoping that blessed I
Shall with sweet Cupid fly in beauty's skies.

But when in my heart I had peaced his bow,
And on the air of my thoughts made his wings go,
The little lad fears the rod,
He is not there a god,
I and delight are odd; Myra says, no.

The flint keepeth fire, the lad he says true,
But bellows, it will not be kindled by you;
He that takes stars with staves,
Yet hath not all he craves;
Love is not his that raves; hope is untrue.



Home: PoetryExplorer.net