The Purple Island: "The way to God is by our selves"

The Purple Island by Phineas Fletcher

Phineas Fletcher was a prolific English poet who was born on 8th April, 1582, the eldest son to Dr Giles Fletcher in Cranbrook, Kent who also sired another poet, his namesake, Giles. 

Phineas was educated at Eton and from there went to University at King’s College, Cambridge from where he graduated with a B.A. in 1604, and M.A. in 1608. 

After his ordination as a priest he became chaplain to Sir Henry Willoughby who was instrumental in securing him the rectory in Hilgay, Norfolk in 1621.  He retained this position and together with his wife, Elizabeth Vincent, remained there until his death. 

Fletcher wrote an immense amount of poetry across a wide range of subjects. The two for which he garnered most admiration were Locustae, vel Pietas Jesuitica (The Locusts or Apollyonists) published in 1627 and Purple Island, also called the Isle of Man, in 1633. 

The Locusts is essentially a furious poetical attack on the Jesuits. A brief epic, the English version was originally written around 1612 and was finally published with its Latin sibling in 1627. It was dedicated to Prince Henry, the great hope of the militant Protestant faction.

The Purple Island or, the Isle of Man, is an allegory in twelve cantos that describe the human body in terms of it being an island. The bones are the foundation or mountains; the veins and arteries, rivers; the heart, liver, stomach, etc., goodly cities; the mouth, a cave; the teeth are twice sixteen porters, receivers of the customary rent; the tongue, a groom who delivers all unto neare officers. The liver is the arch-city, where two purple streams (two great rivers of blood) raise their boil-heads. The eyes are watch-towers; the sight, the warder. Taste and the tongue are man and wife. The island’s prince is the intellect; the five senses are his counselors. Disease and vice are his mortal foes, with whom he wages war. The virtues are his allies.

Fletcher undoubtedly had a great understanding of anatomy and shares much of it in the minutest poetical detail.  Many have noted that its flowing style alludes to Edmund Spenser and it is suggested to have been an influence on John Milton.

Phineas Fletcher died at his rectory in Hilgay on the 13th December, 1650 at the age of 68.

Index of Contents

Canto I

Canto II

Canto III

Canto IV

Canto V

Canto VI

Canto VII

Canto VIII

Canto IX

Canto X

Canto XI

Canto XII

CANTO I

The warmer Sun the golden Bull outran,

And with the Twins made haste to inne and play:

Scatt'ring ten thousand flowres, he new began

To paint the world, and piece the length'ning day:

(The world more aged by new youths accrewing)

Ah wretched man this wretched world pursuing,

Which still grows worse by age, and older by renewing!

The shepherd-boyes, who with the Muses dwell,

Met in the plain their May-lords new to chuse,

(For two they yearely chuse) to order well

Their rurall sports, and yeare that next ensues:

Now were they sat, where by the orchyard walls

The learned Chame with stealing water crawls,

And lowly down before that royall temple falls.

Among the rout they take two gentle swains,

Whose sprouting youth did now but greenly bud:

Well could they pipe and sing; but yet their strains

Were onely known unto the silent wood:

Their nearest bloud from self-same fountains flow,

Their souls self-same in nearer love did grow:

So seem'd two joyn'd in one, or one disjoyn'd in two.

Now when the shepherd-lads with common voice

Their first consent had firmly ratifi'd,

A gentle boy thus 'gan to wave their choice;

Thirsil, (said he) though yet thy Muse untri'd

Hath onely learn'd in private shades to feigne

Soft sighs of love unto a looser strain,

Or thy poore Thelgons wrong in mournfull verse to plain;

Yet since the shepherd-swains do all consent

To make thee lord of them, and of their art;

And that choice lad (to give a full content)

Hath joyn'd with thee in office, as in heart;

Wake, wake thy long- (thy too long) sleeping Muse,

And thank them with a song, as is the use:

Such honour thus conferr'd thou mayst not well refuse.

Sing what thou list, be it of Cupids spite,

(Ah lovely spite, and spitefull lovelinesse!)

Or Gemma's grief, if sadder be thy sprite:

Begin, thou loved swain, with good successe.

Ah, (said the bashfull boy) such wanton toyes

A better minde and sacred vow destroyes,

Since in a higher love I setled all my joyes.

New light new love, new love new life hath bred;

A life that lives by love, and loves by light:

A love to him, to whom all loves are wed;

A light, to whom the Sunne is darkest night:

Eyes light, hearts love, souls onely life he is:

Life, soul, love, heart, light, eye, and all are his:

He eye, light, heart, love, soul; he all my joy, and blisse.

But if you deigne my ruder pipe to heare,

(Rude pipe, unus'd, untun'd, unworthy hearing)

These infantine beginnings gently bear,

Whose best desert and hope must be your bearing.

But you, O Muses, by soft Chamus sitting,

(Your daintie songs unto his murmures fitting,

Which bears the under-song unto your chearfull dittying;)

Tell me, ye Muses, what our father-ages

Have left succeeding times to play upon:

What now remains unthought on by those Sages,

Where a new Muse may trie her pineon?

What lightning Heroes, like great Peleus heir,

(Darting his beams through our hard-frozen aire)

May stirre up gentle heat, and vertues wane repair?

Who knows not Jason? or bold Tiphys hand,

That durst unite what Natures self would part?

He makes Isles continent, and all one land;

O're seas, as earth, he march'd with dangerous art:

He rides the white-mouth'd waves, and scorneth all

Those thousand deaths wide gaping for his fall:

He death defies, fenc't with a thin, low, wooden wall.

Who ha's not often read Troyes twice-sung fires,

And at the second time twice better sung?

Who ha's not heard th' Arcadian shepherds quires,

Which now have gladly chang'd their native tongue;

And sitting by slow Mincius, sport their fill,

With sweeter voice and never-equall'd skill,

Chaunting their amorous layes unto a Romane quill?

And thou, choice wit, Loves scholar, and Loves master,

Art known to all, where Love himself is known:

Whether thou bidd'st Ulysses hie him faster,

Or dost thy fault and distant exile moan.

Who ha's not seen upon the mourning stage

Dire Atreus feast, and wrong'd Medea's rage,

Marching in tragick state, and buskin'd equipage?

And now of late th' Italian fisher-swain

Sits on the shore to watch his trembling line;

There teaches rocks and prouder seas to plain

By Nesis fair, and fairer Mergiline:

While his thinne net, upon his oars twin'd,

With wanton strife catches the Sunne, and winde,

Which still do slip away, and still remain behinde.

And that French Muses eagle eye and wing

Hath soar'd to heav'n, and there hath learn'd the art

To frame Angelick strains, and canzons sing

Too high and deep for every shallow heart.

Ah blessed soul! in those celestiall rayes,

Which gave thee light these lower works to blaze,

Thou sitt'st emparadis'd, and chaunt'st eternall layes.

Thrice happy wits, which in your springing May

(Warm'd with the Sunne of well deserved favours)

Disclose your buds, and your fair blooms display,

Perfume the aire with your rich fragrant savours!

Nor may, nor ever shall those honour'd flowers

Be spoil'd by summers heat, or winters showers;

But last when eating time shal gnaw the proudest towers.

Happy, thrice happy times in silver age!

When generous plants advanc't their lofty crest;

When honour stoopt to be learn'd wisdomes page;

When baser weeds starv'd in their frozen nest;

When th' highest flying Muse still highest climbes;

And vertues rise keeps down all rising crimes.

Happy, thrice happy age! happy, thrice happy times!

But wretched we, to whom these iron daies

(Hard daies) afford nor matter, nor reward!

Sings Maro? men deride high Maro's layes;

Their hearts with lead, with steel their sense is barr'd:

Sing Linus, or his father, as he uses,

Our Midas eares their well tun'd verse refuses.

What cares an asse for arts? he brayes at sacred Muses.

But if fond Bavius vent his clowted song,

Or Maevius chaunt his thoughts in brothell charm;

The witlesse vulgar, in a numerous throng,

Like summer flies about their dunghills swarm:

They sneer, they grinne. Like to his like will move.

Yet never let them greater mischief prove

Then this, Who hates not one, may he the other love.

Witnesse our Colin; whom though all the Graces,

And all the Muses nurst; whose well taught song

Parnassus self, and Glorian embraces,

And all the learn'd, and all the shepherds throng;

Yet all his hopes were crost, all suits deni'd;

Discourag'd, scorn'd, his writings vilifi'd:

Poorly (poore man) he liv'd; poorly (poore man) he di'd.

And had not that great Hart, (whose honour'd head

Ah lies full low) piti'd thy wofull plight;

There hadst thou lien unwept, unburied,

Unblest, nor grac't with any common rite:

Yet shalt thou live, when thy great foe shall sink

Beneath his mountain tombe, whose fame shall stink;

And time his blacker name shall blurre with blackest ink.

O let th' Iambick Muse revenge that wrong,

Which cannot slumber in thy sheets of lead:

Let thy abused honour crie as long

As there be quills to write, or eyes to reade:

On his rank name let thine own votes be turn'd,

Oh may that man that hath the Muses scorn'd,

Alive, nor dead, be ever of a Muse adorn'd!

Oft therefore have I chid my tender Muse;

Oft my chill breast beats off her fluttering wing:

Yet when new spring her gentle rayes infuse,

All storms are laid, I 'gin to chirp and sing:

At length soft fires disperst in every vein,

Yeeld open passage to the thronging train,

And swelling numbers tide rolls like the surging main.

So where fair Thames, and crooked Isis sonne

Payes tribute to his King, the mantling stream

Encounter'd by the tides (now rushing on

With equall force) of's way doth doubtfull seem;

At length the full-grown sea, and waters King

Chide the bold waves with hollow murmuring:

Back flie the streams to shroud them in their mother spring.

Yet thou sweet numerous Muse, why should'st thou droop

That every vulgar eare thy musick scorns?

Nor can they rise, nor thou so low canst stoop;

No seed of heav'n takes root in mud or thorns.

When owls or crows, imping their flaggy wing

With thy stoln plumes, their notes through th' ayer fling;

Oh shame! They howl and croke, while fond they strain to sing.

Enough for thee in heav'n to build thy nest;

(Farre be dull thoughts of winning dunghill praise)

Enough, if Kings enthrone thee in their breast,

And crown their golden crowns with higher baies:

Enough that those who weare the crown of Kings

(Great Israels Princes) strike thy sweetest strings:

Heav'ns Dove when high'st he flies, flies with thy heav'nly wings.

Let others trust the seas, dare death and hell,

Search either Inde, vaunt of their scarres and wounds;

Let others their deare breath (nay silence) sell

To fools, and (swoln, not rich) stretch out their bounds

By spoiling those that live, and wronging dead;

That they may drink in pearl, and couch their head

In soft, but sleeplesse down; in rich, but restlesse bed.

Oh let them in their gold quaffe dropsies down;

Oh let them surfets feast in silver bright:

While sugar hires the taste the brain to drown,

And bribes of sauce corrupt false appetite,

His masters rest, health, heart, life, soul to sell.

Thus plentie, fulnesse, sicknesse, ring their knell:

Death weds and beds them; first