I’ve always had a penchant
for Christopher Marlowe. In an age teeming with polymaths (Sidney, Jonson, Shakespeare, Spenser...), Marlowe stood out.
Poet, playwright, drunkard, spy—he covered the full spectrum. His short life—29
years old when he was fatally stabbed in a barroom brawl—encompassed only six
years of literary output, but he made those years count.
Today’s entry for
National Poetry Month is Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to his Love”. It’s
a pastoral poem, depicting an idealized countryside, and an idealized love. It’s
the sort of thing that Dorothy Parker twisted around a rapier of cynicism.
Contrast the whole rural
idyll thing with Sherlock Holmes’s view of country villages, stated most succinctly
in “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches”, which was, “They always fill me with
a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the
lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin
than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”
Well—whether you’re
thinking dark deeds or just a roll in the hay, Marlowe’s got you covered.
“The Passionate Shepherd
to his Love”
Come
live with me and be my love,
And we
will all the pleasures prove
That
valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods,
or steepy mountain yields.
And we
will sit upon rocks,
Seeing
the shepherds feed their flocks,
By
shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious
birds sing madrigals.
And I
will make thee beds of roses
And a
thousand fragrant poises,
A cap
of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered
all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown
made of the finest wool
Which
from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair
lined slippers for the cold,
With
buckles of the purest gold;
A belt
of straw and ivy buds,
With
coral clasps and amber studs;
And if
these pleasures may thee move,
Come
live with me, and be my love.
The
shepherds's swains shall dance and sing
For
thy delight each May morning:
If
these delights thy mind may move,
Then
live with me and be my love.
No comments:
Post a Comment