Reason for stopping: Bedtime
I've started reading Coyote Wind by Peter Bowen, which is a very odd book. The style--intentionally ungrammatical, SoC, lots of comma splices and so forth--takes a while to get used to.
But boy, he's got some lovely salient things to say about life.
It's been a while since I quoted, so here's a long one:
A sight as banefull to their soules I think
As are Thessalian drugs or Mithradate.
But goe my Lords, put the rest tothe sword.
Exeunt. [Manet Tamburlaine.]
Ah faire Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate,
Faire is too foule an Epithite for thee,
That in thy passion for thy countries love,
And feare to see thy kingly Fathers harme,
With haire discheweld wip'st thy watery cheeks:
And like to Flora in her mornings pride,
Shaking her silver tresses in the aire,
Rain'st on the earth resolved pearle in showers,
And sprinklest Saphyrs on thy shining face,
Wher Beauty, mother tothe Muses sits,
And comments vollumes with her Ivory pen:
Taking instructions from thy flowing eies,
Eies when that Ebena steps to heaven,
In silence of thy solemn Evenings walk,
Making the mantle of the richest night,
The Moone, the Planets, and the Meteors light.
There Angels in their christal armours fight
A doubtfull battell with my tempted thoughtes,
For Egypts freedom and the Souldans life:
His life that so consumes Zenocrate,
Whose sorrowes lay more siege unto my soule,
Than all my Army to Damascus walles.
And neither Perseans Soveraign, nor the Turk
Troubled my sences with conceit of foile,
So much by much, as dooth Zenocrate
What is beauty, saith my sufferings then?
If all the pens that ever poets held,
Had fed the feeling of their maisters thoughts,
And every sweetnes that inspir'd their harts,
Their minds, and muses on admyred theames:
If all the heavenly Quintessence they still
From their immortall flowers of Poesy,
Wherein as in a myrrour we perceive
The highest reaches of a humaine wit:
If these had made one Poems period
And all combin'd in Beauties worthinesse,
Yet should ther hover in their restlesse heads,
One thought, one grace, one woonder at the least,
Which into words no vertue can digest:
But how unseemly is it for my Sex,
My discipline of armes and Chivalrie,
My nature and the terrour of my name,
To harbour thoughts effeminate and faint?
Save onely that in Beauties just applause,
With whose instinct the soule of man is toucht,
And every warriour that is rapt with love
Of fame, of valour, and of victory,
Must needs have beauty beat on his conceites.
I thus conceiving and subduing both:
That which hath stoopt the tempest of the Gods,
Even from the fiery spangled vaile of heaven,
To feele the lovely warmth of shepheards flames,
And martch in cottages of strowed weeds:
Shal give the world to note, for all my byrth,
That Vertue solely is the sum of glorie,
And fashions men with true nobility.
Who's within there?
-- Christopher Marlowe, Tamburlaine the Great, Act V, Scene i
Damn, that boy could really write pretty good, couldn't he?