Madam, so may my verses pleasing be, So may you laugh at them and not at me, 'Tis something to you gladly I would say; But how to do't I cannot find the way.…
Francis Beaumont was an English poet and playwright of the Jacobean era who also had brief ambitions to be a lawyer, though these came to nothing in the end. He is probably best known for his collaborations with dramatists such as John Fletcher with whom he wrote a number of comedies and tragedies for the London stage. He was born sometime around the years 1584 or 1585 near the small Leicestershire village of Thringstone. His father, Sir Francis Beaumont, was a justice of the common pleas and owned the former monastery of Grace-Dieu, and young Francis spent his childhood there. He was educated at Pembroke College in Oxford although, at the time, it was known as Broadgates Hall. He did not stay long enough to complete his degree course though as, following the death of his father in 1598, he sought to follow in his legal footsteps. He was admitted to London’s Inner Temple in 1600. Beaumont did not apply himself diligently to his work as a trainee lawyer, choosing instead to pursue a writing career under the tutelage of the famous Ben Jonson. He moved in London’s lively literary circles for a while and, at the young age of 18, produced his first piece of work – Salmacis and Hermaphroditus. His only real success though, as a playwright, came when he teamed up with Fletcher. Notable among these was a play called Philaster which was staged at both Blackfriars and the Globe Theatre by the prestigious King’s Men players. It is believed that the two men shared a house on the south bank of the Thames and that was not all that they shared. Clothes, household accoutrements and “a wench” were all considered to be mutual property until Beaumont married heiress Ursula Isley in 1613. After this he didn’t feel the need to work as a dramatist any more, not needing to earn his living. During a seven-year association Fletcher’s was always the dominant hand in their dramatic collaborations but, of course, Beaumont penned a number of poems by himself. In 1607 he produced verses that were added to Ben Jonson’s work Volpone, Beaumont considering that these were “in honour of his good friend”. He also wrote a poem dedicated to Fletcher called To My Friend Mr John Fletcher, Upon His Faithful Shepherdess and he was also the author of elegies, a good example being A Funeral Elegy On The Death Of The Lady Penelope Clifton. Despite the clearly “bachelor” lifestyle that he had enjoyed with Fletcher, Beaumont also had a romantic streak in him, as evidenced by the following poem about the kind of girl that he would like to marry. It is called True Beauty and is reproduced here: Unusually for one so young, Beaumont had a stroke some time during the year 1613 and this effectively silenced him as writer. No more plays were written although he did manage a few lines of verse, including the elegy for Lady Penelope Clifton mentioned above. Francis Beaumont died on the 6th March 1616 at the age of 32 and was buried in Westminster Abbey.
Francis Beaumont şiirleri
Since thou art dead, Clifton, the world may see A certain end of flesh and blood in thee; Till then a way was left for man to cry, Flesh may be made so pure it cannot die;…
As unthrifts groan in straw for their pawn'd beds, As women weep for their lost maidenheads, When both are without hope or remedy, Such an untimely grief I have for thee.…
Flattering Hope, away and leave me, She'll not come, thou dost deceive me; Hark the cock crows, th' envious light Chides away the silent night;…
Now fie on foolish love, it not befits Or man or woman know it. Love was not meant for people in their wits, And they that fondly show it…
Like to the weake estate of a poore friend, To whom sweet fortune hath bene euer slow, VVhich dayly doth that happy howre attend, VVhen his poore state may his affection shew:…
Lay a garland on my hearse, Of the dismal yew, Maidens, willow branches bear, Say I died true.…
The sun, which doth the greatest comfort bring To absent friends (because the self-same thing They know they see, however absent), is Here our best hay-maker (forgive me this,…
Fondly, too curious Nature, to adorn Aurora with the blushes of the morn: Why do her rosy lips breath gums and spice; Unto the East, and sweet to Paradise?…
MORTALITY, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones:…
MY wanton lines doe treate of amorous loue, Such as would bow the hearts of gods aboue: Then Venus, thou great Citherean Queene, That hourely tript on the Idalian greene,…
I sing the fortune of a luckless pair, Whose spotless souls now in one body be; For beauty still is Prodromus to care, Crost by the sad stars of nativity:…
Sleep not too much; nor longer than asleep Within thy bed thy lazy body keep; For when thou, warm awake, shall feel it soft, Fond cogitations will assail thee oft:…
Stand still my happiness, and swelling heart No more, till I consider what thou art. Desire of knowledge was man's fatal vice, For when our parents were in paradise,…
Cold Virtue guard me, or I shall endure From the next glance a double calenture Of fire and lust! Two flames, two Semeles, Dwell in those eyes, whose looser glowing rays…
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