Cipher In The Hart Continued

CIPHER AT THE HEART OF THE PHOENIX/Continued

“My ashes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth a bird”

3 Henry, VI,  i 4 , Shakespeare

“Then of thy loue, let this the figure be,

If euer there were Phoenix, thou art he.” 

(stanzas, from “Love,” by Unknown One)

© Elwood LeRoy Miller, 22, 2016

Introductory Remarks:

Within the Very hart of the art  

of the mythic bird called Phoenix,

Last night I dreamed I saw him – betwix’t

Ashes and flame, A New Age’s start,

Rising to greet a New World’s day!

Rebirth of Live-Giving Beauty—Poetry!

And in my dream I wondered why, I,

Was being call’d to witness this amazing sight—l.

400 years is a long time to forget, and yet,

It’s as tho’ I did live then, and, indeed, we didn’t:

We didn’t forget, he became for us almost a God,

Not from magical ashes sprung but from the sod!

Yes, yes, we know him by his themes,

The Queen of Heaven, Desire’s Arraignment,

For he is guilty, and clearly tells us so;

And that his name is Unknown Flower,

“Harts-ease,” LOvE-in-Idleness, Sweet William,

St. William, too—all this (as well likes ciphers)!

The complex tuning of a two-note play,

Spells to him, his owne “Victory”: “Io! Io, Io.”

Not LO, LO, LO, for Lord Oxforde, Oh, No! No!

Here we mean “io, io, io” pronounced for EO!

At least that’s the Roman cry, they say.

(I ‘m myself not learned enough to know).

   

As said, one of the themes of OnE, that cipher,

Is to reveal, as well a cipher is surely intended,

And he reveals it, too, in his long poem “Love.”

Following stanzas from “Love” below here set,

Finds ALL THE THEMES ENUMERATED ABOVE

In “Love”—as well. With that we’ll rest a spell.

elm

From “LOVE” (called “Countess of Pembroke Love”)

ADDITIONAL EXCERPTS  (1592)

Some say sweete loue, there is a Phoenix birde,

Of which there was, is, nor will  be but one:

Which Phoenix sure, I thinke is but a worde,

For such a birde, I thinke is surely none:

But that it doeth, in figure onelie tuch,

Some heauenly thing; on earth was neuer such.

[Above we see “one”, he is “one” “OnE”

—he reminds us Phoenix is “but a word”

For a mythical bird, but as a “figure” a “cipher” 

if you will, which is what he means

here, and he goes through his, by long familiar, 

routine of the “one” and “none” and

“never” and “ever”—its really just to “touch” 

matters regarding “heauenly things.”]

For why the birde, is saied to bee alone,

And thou didst male, and femall all create:

And as for birdes were neuer two in one,

That euer trueth in reason did relate:

No, no, the figure surely doeth intende,

More then the world can easily comprehend.

[And again, the reader sees repetition of the same theme,  playing off his name, “ever” and trueth, “veritas” But, he tells us there is a “figure” surely intended that most people in the world will not easily comprehend. The “never” “two in one” and all that business is right here. We developed every detail before finding this poem “Love” and was shocked to see, all the elements brought together!]

And continues, after a few stanzas:

And didst thou die, to compasse thy desire?

And thy desire, but to preserue thy loue?

And, could in thee, loue, kindle such a fier?

To leaue thy life? Thy constant loue to proue?

Then of thy loue, let this the figure be,

If euer there were Phoenix, thou art he.

[Above he makes, yes, it is he, he is the PhoeNix. It was and is ever (euer) the Phoenix—and if there ever was one, he’s it. And he was right about that. Only a Phoenix would have known he was OnE, who else would?

 And since thou didst, the sweete example giue,

By theine owne death to show thy dearest loue:

That we might learne the onely way to liue,

Is, by the crosses comforts to approue:

O let my soule, seech her sacred rest,

But in the ashes of the Phoenix nest.

[He prays that he seek (“seech”) his sacred rest

“But in the ashses of the Phoenix nest.”

Only a Phoenix sleeps in the ashes of a Phoenix!

And nearer the very end of the poem, within a couple or so stanzas, this:

Condemed for His Offense

I must confesse my conscience did condemme me

Of such offence, as I could not denie:

And of such crime, as thou mightst  well contene me,

When by my due, I had deseru'd to die:

But when thy mercy did my sorrowe see,

How in the pity she did pleade for me.

[Indeed, he even goes through the horrors with QE again, and his being condemned, pleading for mercy, and all that, all a repetition of the exact words I used for Lord Oxfords speech before the Queen on these very matters with the exact same conclusion that history gives]

Behold, quod shee, the true repentant hart,

Which bleedes in teares with sorrowe of her sinne:

What passions haue perplexed eury part,

When penitence doth pitties suite beginne:

Where true confession, doth submission proue,

And true contrition, creis to me for loue.

CONTINUING. . . Then, of all things, we have a series of riddles, the first of which reads:

The First Riddle.

Within a gallant plot of ground,

There growes a flowre that hath no name,

The like whereof was neuer found,

And none but one can plucke the same:

Now where this ground or flowre doth growe,

Or who that one, tis hard to knowe.

The  Answere. And then another

The Second Riddle.

Within a field there growes a flowre,

That decks the ground where at it growes,

It springs and falls, both in an howre,

And but at certaine times it showers:

It neuer dies, and seldome seene,

And tis a Nosegay for a Queene.

[And there is our Unknown Flower business, and, again, the exact words I use my play of 2001, exact! Where “Anomos” (Lord Oxford”) is told he is now the Unknown Flower!  And it continues, in another mode, but as a continuation of the same story]:

Blest be the ground that first brought forth the flowre,

Whose name vntolde, but vertues not vnknowne:

Happie the hand, whom God shall giue the powre,

To plucke this flowre, and take it for his owne:

Oh heauenly stalke, that staines all where it growes:

From whom more sweet, than sweetest hony flowes.

Oh sweete of sweetes, the sweetest sweete that is:

Oh flowre of flowres, that yeelds so sweete a sent:

Oh sent so sweete, as when the head shall misse:

Oh heauens what hart but that will sore lament:

God let thee spring , and flourish so each howre,

As that our sweetes may neuer turne to sowre.

That we may wish that it may euer groe,

Amid delgihts where we desire to wait,

Vpon the flowre that pleaseth euerie eie,

And glads each hart; God let it neuer die.

Wherewith me thought alowde I cride, Amen:

And therewithall I started out of sleepe:

Now what became of these faire ladies then,

I cannot tell, in mine I onely keepe

These ridling toies which heere I do recite:

Ile tell ye more perhaps another night.

Same Here, “ile tell ye more perhaps another night.”

©ELM