Nicholas Grimald

Nicholas Grimald (or Grimoald; 1519–1562) was an English poet and dramatist.

Quotes

• What sweet releef the showers to thirstie plants we see:
  What diere delite, the blooms to beez: my true loue is to mee.
  As fresh, and lusty vere foule winter doth exceed:
  As morning bright, with scarlet fky, doth passe the euenings weed:
  As melow peares aboue the crabs esteemed be:
  So doth my loue surmount them all, whom yet I hap to se.
  The oke shall oliues bear: the lamb, the lion fray:
  The owle shall match the nightingale, in tuning of her lay:
  Or I my loue let slip out of mine entiere hert:
  So deep reposed in my brest is she, for her desert
  For many blessed giftes, O happy, happy land:
  Where Mars, and Pallas striue to make their glory most to stand
  Yet, land, more is thy blisse: that, in this cruell age,
  A Venus ymp, thou had brought forth, so stedfast, and so sage.
  Among the Muses nyne, a tenth yf loue would make:
  And to the Graces three, a fourth: her would Apollo take.
  Let some for honour hoont, and hourd the massy golde:
  With her so I may liue, and dye, my weal cannot be tolde.
  • "A True Loue" in Tottel’s Songes and Sonettes (1557), no. 128
  • Modernised:
    What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see,
    What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true love is to me!
    As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed—
    As morning bright, with scarlet sky, doth pass the evening’s weed—
    As mellow pears above the crabs esteemèd be—
    So doth my love surmount them all, whom yet I hap to see!
    The oak shall olives bear, the lamb the lion fray,
    The owl shall match the nightingale in tuning of her lay,
    Or I my love let slip out of mine entire heart,
    So deep reposèd in my breast is she for her desart!
    For many blessèd gifts, O happy, happy land!
    Where Mars and Pallas strive to make their glory most to stand!
    Yet, land, more is thy bliss that, in this cruel age,
    A Venus’ imp thou hast brought forth, so steadfast and so sage.
    Among the Muses Nine a tenth if Jove would make,
    And to the Graces Three a fourth, her would Apollo take.
    Let some for honour hunt, and hoard the massy gold:
    With her so I may live and die, my weal cannot be told.
    —Arthur Quiller-Couch, The Oxford Book of English Verse (1900), no. 42

• The issue of great Ioue, draw nere you, Muses nine:
  Help vs to praise the blisfull plott of garden ground so fine.
  The garden giues good food, and ayd for leaches cure:
  The garden, full of great delite, his master dothe allure.
  Sweet sallet herbs bee here, and herbs of euery kinde:
  The ruddy grapes, the seemly frutes bee here at hand to finde.
  Here pleasans wanteth not, to make a man full fayn:
  Here marueilous the mixture is of solace, and of gain.
  To water sondry seeds, the forow by the waye
  A ronning riuer, trilling downe with liquor, can conuay.
  Beholde, with liuely heew, fayr flowrs that shyne so bright:
  With riches, like the orient gems, they paynt the molde in sight.
  Beez, humming with soft sound, (their murmur is so small)
  Of blooms and blossoms suck the topps, on dewed leaues they fall
  The creping vine holds down her own bewedded elms:
  And, wadering out w branches thick, reeds folded ouerwhelms.
  Trees spred their couerts wyde, with shadows fresh and gaye:
  Full well their branched bowz defend the feruent sonne awaye.
  Birds chatter, and some chirp, and some sweet tunes doo yeeld:
  All mirthfull, w their songs so blithe, they make both ayre, & feeld.
  The garden, it allures, it feeds, it glads the sprite:
  Fro heauy harts all doolfull dumps the garden chaseth quite.
  Strength it restores to lims, drawes, and fulfils the sight:
  With chere reuiues the senses all, and maketh labour light.
  O, what delites to vs the garden ground dothe bring?
  Seed, leaf, flowr, frute, herb, bee, and tree, & more, then I may sing.
  • "The Garden" in Tottel’s Songes and Sonettes (1557), no. 155
  • Modernised:
    The issue of great Jove, draw near, you Muses nine!
    Help us to praise the blissful plot of garden ground so fine.
    The garden gives good food and aid for leech’s cure;
    The garden, full of great delight, his master doth allure.
    Sweet sallet herbs be here, and herbs of every kind;
    The ruddy grapes, the seemly fruits, be here at hand to find.
    Here pleasance wanteth not to make a man full fain;
    Here marvellous the mixture is of solace and of gain.
    To water sundry seeds, the furrow by the way
    A running river, trilling down with liquor, can convey.
    Behold, with lively hue fair flow’rs that shine so bright;
    With riches, like the orient gems, they paint the mould in sight.
    Bees, humming with soft sound (their murmur is so small),
    Of blooms and blossoms suck the tops; on dewed leaves they fall.
    The creeping vine holds down her own bewedded elms,
    And, wandering out with branches thick, reeds folded overwhelms.
    Trees spread their coverts wide with shadows fresh and gay;
    Full well their branched bows defend the fervent sun away.
    Birds chatter, and some chirp, and some sweet tunes do yield;
    All mirthful, with their songs so blithe, they make both air and field.
    The garden it allures, it feeds, it glads the sprite;
    From heavy hearts all doleful dumps the garden chaseth quite.
    Strength it restores to limbs, draws and fulfils the sight;
    With cheer revives the senses all and maketh labour light.
    O, what delights to us the garden ground doth bring!
    Seed, leaf, flow’r, fruit, herb, bee, and tree, and more than I may sing!
    —Hyder E. Rollins, The Renaissance in England (1954), p. 205