Thomas Sackville, 1st Earl of Dorset
Thomas Sackville, 1st Earl of Dorset, 1st Baron Buckhurst, PC (c. 1536 – April 19 1608) was an English statesman, courtier, poet and playwright. In politics he is most notable as the Lord High Treasurer of England; in literature as the co-author of the first blank verse play in the English language, Gorboduc.
|This article on an author is a stub. You can help Wikiquote by expanding it.|
|This article about a political figure is a stub. You can help Wikiquote by expanding it.|
- Of justice yet must God in fine restore,
This noble crowne unto the lawful heire
For right will alwayes live, and rise at length,
But wrong can never take deepe roote to last.
- Gorboduc (1561), Act 5, sc. 2, last lines; the play was written in collaboration with Thomas Norton, though Acts 4 and 5 were apparently Sackville's work alone.
The Induction (1563)Edit
- "The Induction", first published in A Myrrour for Magistrates (1563), edited by William Baldwin et al.; cited here from Mirror for Magistrates (1815), edited by Joseph Haslewood, Vol. 2, Part 1 ; the page-numbers also refer to this edition.
- The wrathfull winter proching on apace,
With blustering blasts had all ybarde the treene,
And olde Saturnus, with his frosty face
With chilling cold had pearst the tender greene.
- Line 1, p. 309
- And sorrowing I to see the sommer flowers,
The lively greene, the lusty lease, forlorne,
The sturdy trees so shattred with the showers,
The fieldes so fade, that florisht so beforne:
It taught mee well, all earthly things be borne
To dye the death: for nought long time may last:
The sommer's beauty yeeldes to winter's blast.
- Line 50, p. 311
- His drinke, the running streame, his cup, the bare
Of his palme cloasde, his bed, the hard cold ground:
To this poore life was Misery ybound.
- Line 264, p. 320
- Crookebackt hee was, toothshaken, and blere eyed,
Went on three feete, and somtyme, crept on fowre,
With olde lame boanes, that ratled by his syde,
His scalpe all pild, and hee with eld forlore:
His withred fist still knocking at Death's dore,
Fumbling, and driveling, as hee drawes his breath,
For briefe, the shape and messenger of Death.
- Line 330, p. 322