Talk:Robert Southwell (priest)

Outdated?

This entry mainly comprises material from the 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica, which is rather outdated. Much has been learnt since then.

Well, the page is for editing. It is quite acceptable to copy edit the EB 1911, which tends to be verbose; to correct it; to add anything of importance; to build up contemporary references and so on. See it as an ongoing process, to upgrade the article. Charles Matthews 17:35, 13 February 2006 (UTC)

Quotes

"To my Worthy Good Cousin, Master W.S." The article makes it seem as though this title existed in 1595. The consensus seems to be that "Master W.S." was not added until 1616. The 1595 title seems to have been, "The author to his louing cozen." Fotoguzzi (talk) 15:52, 16 May 2011 (UTC)

Credited with the text of "This Little Babe"

Copyright by Boosey & Co LTD, ISMN M-060-01545-8 "This Little Babe" is a 3-part round cycle based on his four stanza poem of the Nativity. Text by Robert Southwell (1561? – 1559) and the composer is Benjamin Britten. Here is a YouTube recording that is very popular and very moving! [1] — This should be an 'External link' entry. FYI, Charles Edwin Shipp (talk) 00:06, 13 December 2013 (UTC)

Here are the words, much better than other short prose I read: This Little Babe; From A Ceremony of Carols; Benjamin Britten The words are by a Roman Catholic Jesuit martyr, Robert Southwell d.1595

This little Baby so few days old, 
  Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;	
    All hell doth at his presence quake,
      Though he himself for cold do shake;
For in this weak unarmed wise 
  The gates of hell he will surprise.

    With tears he fights and wins the field,
      His naked breast stands for a shield;
        His battering shot are babish cries,
          His arrows looks of weeping eyes;
    His martial ensigns Cold and Need,
      And feeble Flesh his warrior’s steed.

His camp is pitched in a stall, 
 His bulwark but a broken wall;
   The crib his trench, haystalks his stakes;
     Of shepherds he his muster makes;
And thus, as sure his foe to wound,
 The angels’ trumps alarum sound.

 My soul, with Christ join thou in fight;
   Stick to the tents that he hath pight.
     Within his crib is surest ward;
       This little Babe will be thy guard.
 If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,
   Then flit not from this heavenly Boy.

Thanks for a great article. — Charles Edwin Shipp (talk) 03:40, 13 December 2013 (UTC)