Scillaes Metamorphosis: Enterlaced with the vnfortunate loue of Glaucus VVhereunto is annexed the delectable discourse of the discontented Satyre: with sundrie other most absolute Poems and Sonnets. Contayning the detestable tyrannie of Disdaine, and Comicall triumph of Constancie: Verie fit for young Courtiers to peruse, and coy Dames to remember. By Thomas Lodge |
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 | Scillaes Metamorphosis: Enterlaced with the vnfortunate loue of Glaucus |  |
Poems.
In commendation of a solitarie life.
Not yet forsaken (gentle Muse) draw neere,And helpe to wearie out these worldly thoughts;
Goe fit thy methode to my moodie cheere,
For why fond pleasure now preuaileth noughts:
Since where content and wealthie state declines,
The heart dooth droope, and dolefull be the lines.
For thy (fond man) why rest I not at last?
My wings of hope are clipte by foule disgrace:
The siluer downe of age now flocketh fast,
Like mosse on oake to dwell vpon my face:
And what with thoght & time, through want & ruth:
I challenge care for ioy, and age for youth.
What fruites of former labours doo I finde?
My studious pen dooth traffique for a scorne:
My due deserts are but repaid with winde;
And what I earne, is nought but bitter mourne:
In which accompt I reap but this aduise,
To cease to clime, and liue contented wise.
But gentle Muse, where boadeth this content?
The Princes Court is fraught with endlesse woes,
Corruptions flocke where honors doo frequent,
The Cities swarme with plagues, with sutes, with foes:
High climing wits doo catch a sodein fall,
With none of these Content list dwell withall.
Ah beautie of the double topped hill,
Thou saddest sister of the sacred nine,
What fruitfull pleasance followeth now my quill?
What wondrous beauties blesse my drooping eine?
Euen such as earst the shepheard in the shade
Beheld, when he a Poet once was made.
Me thinkes I see the deserts fresh arraid,
New mantled in their liueries of greene,
Whose frolicke pride makes smiling heauen apaid;
Wherein the Nymphs doo wearie out their teene,
Washing their iuorie in those murmuring springs,
At whose kinde fall, the birds with pleasure sings.
Vnder the shadow of Apollos tree,
That pleit their garlands fresh, and well apaid,
And breath foorth lines of daintie poecie:
Ah world farewell, the sight hereof dooth tell,
That true content dooth in the desert dwell.
See where a Caue presents it selfe to eie,
By Natures hand enforst in marble vaines;
Where climing Cedars with their shades denie,
The eye of day to see what there remaines:
A couch of mosse, a brooke of siluer cleere,
And more, for foode a flocke of sauage deere.
Then here (kinde Muse) vouchsafe to dwell with me,
My veluet robe shalbe a weede of gray
And least my heart by tongue betrayed be,
For idle talke I will goe fast and pray:
No sooner said and thought, but that my heart
His true supposde content gan thus impart.
Sweete solitarie life thou true repose,
Wherein the wise contemplate heauen aright,
In thee no dread of warre or worldly foes,
In thee no pompe seduceth mortall sight,
In thee no wanton eares to win with words,
Nor lurking toyes, which Citie life affoords.
At peepe of day when in her crimson pride,
The Morne bespreds with roses all the waie
Where Phœbus coach with radiant course must glide,
The Hermit bends his humble knees to pray:
Blessing that God, whose bountie did bestow
Such beauties on the earthly things below.
Whether with solace tripping on the trees
He sees the citizens of Forrest sport,
Or midst the withered oake beholds the Bees
Intend their labour with a kinde consort:
Downe drop his teares, to thinke how they agree,
Where men alone with hate inflamed be.
Or drinke he of the christall springs that flowes:
He thankes his God, and sighes their cursed doomb
That fondly wealth in surfetting bestowes:
And with Saint Hierom saith, The Desert is
A paradise of solace, ioy, and blis.
Father of light, thou maker of the heauen,
From whom my being well, and being springs:
Bring to effect this my desired steauen,
That I may leaue the thought of worldly things:
Then in my troubles will I blesse the time,
My Muse vouchsafde me such a luckie rime.
T. L.
Finis.
| Scillaes Metamorphosis: Enterlaced with the vnfortunate loue of Glaucus | |