News of a sonnet, discovered during recent plumbing work at the Bodleian Library, Oxford, is puzzling scholars of English Renaissance literature. Everything in the handwriting and paper indicates authenticity, but the use of the word “crust” to mean “cheek, brass neck, chutzpah” seems an anachronism.
You may read it here (spelling modernised) and make your own judgment.
Viewing the ashy desert of my lust
As I lie here abed, awaiting death,
I pray not. Tis a waste of noisome breath
To plead with unhearing gods. I put my trust
Rather in my unconquerable crust,
The steely corselet which sustained my joys
When I, like child besotted with its toys,
Pursued fair wenches, now long turned to dust.
As I lie here abed, awaiting death,
I pray not. Tis a waste of noisome breath
To plead with unhearing gods. I put my trust
Rather in my unconquerable crust,
The steely corselet which sustained my joys
When I, like child besotted with its toys,
Pursued fair wenches, now long turned to dust.
I had my times, gamesome and hot they were.
My bastard brood in every parish grew.
My quarry? Women, and my lust the spur,
A merry hunt! My friends, to me be true:
No “Dies Irae” sing, death’s path to ease.
But “I did it my way” – at my funeral, please.
My bastard brood in every parish grew.
My quarry? Women, and my lust the spur,
A merry hunt! My friends, to me be true:
No “Dies Irae” sing, death’s path to ease.
But “I did it my way” – at my funeral, please.
