The springs glorie vindicating love by temperance against the tenent, Sine Cerere & Baccho friget Venus. Moralized in a Maske. With other Poems, Epigrams, Elegies, and Epithalamiums of the Authors Thomas Nabbes |
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 | The springs glorie |  |
Upon the losing of his way in a Forrest parting from his company to goe home, towards the evening.
You that have ever wander'd in the darke,And thinking to hit home, still mist the marke,
Listen, whilst to the world I doe relate
A sad disaster, which the will of Fate
Dispos'd me to through error. Gently blew
The murmuring winds, and where th'earths sweetnesse grew
It scatter'd choyce perfumes: which did invite
To satisfie our senses appetite
My selfe and others. Th'instrument of heate
Cloth'd in his glory, from his azure seate
Directed cheerefull beames. So forth we went
To suck the purer ayre, and Southward bent
Our wanton course: when spungie clowds began
(As if the Sunne had squeez'd them) to drop raine.
This made us to retire: by which we see
All things are subject to incertaintie.
The golden tressed ruler of the day
Had now for his bright beames made open way.
Our number then increast, and so together
We journied with delight; but knew not whether.
A house at length did entertaine us, where
We dranke no English Ale, nor German Beere,
Nor Welch Metheglin; having stay'd a while
A pleasant juyce was brought, made us beguile
Time with more words then matter. Weary now
And surfeited with pleasures, hast did blow
The sayles of my desires, nor would I stay
For any guide to teach me lose my way.
I that came in before went out behind.
Here Error first began the Tragick jest:
I tooke the North for South, the East for West.
Darknesse increast; and night the ayde to harmes
Hugg'd the worlds fabrick in her Ebon armes.
When (oh the fate of darknesse) 'cause 'twas night;
Or misled by that Error, or some sprite;
Or the conceited mischiefe which men call
The king of Fairies Poast; or whether all
Had met in counsaile to contrive my harme;
Or witcht to't by some other envious charme;
I mist the path, straying through unknowne places;
And alwayes backwards went with forward paces.
Oh thou that art my lifes commanding light
Th'ascendent in my birth, was it thy might
And powerfull influence did direct my will
To be the better meanes of a worse ill?
And Hermes thou whose understanding eye
Sees all the secrets of Phylosophie;
Thou cunning Moule that knowst to worke thy way
Through thickest mysteries to the cleerest day
Of radiant knowledge, was not this dayes fate
Writ in thy booke of Moones predestinate
For griefe and danger? Yes, thou knew'st 'twas writ;
And by prevention couldst have hindred it.
But 'twas my error onely: had she shone
I should have read it plainly in the Moone:
For such thy powerfull art is, it can bind
The starres in characters to speake thy mind.
Now being thus from loving friends divided
Into a desart Forrest was I guided,
Where horrour did present a thousand feares,
But none of meeting Lyons, Wolves; or Beares.
Yet there were divers beasts; and never a one
But I would have beene glad to feed upon.
Unlesse the divell there was ne're a cooke.
And here some thoughts of him made me suppose
That every tree I saw had cloven toes.
And when I spy'd the glimpses of a hill,
I durst have sworne that walkt, and I stood still.
A Salamander I did oft expect;
A Pigmie or a Sylvan to direct
My knowledge to some treasure: but my mind
Was vainly bent on what I ne're could find.
My friends that now had mist me, scatterdly
Were gone abroad with lights to search for me.
But all in vaine: their showtes I did mistake
For Owles; and thought each light a flaming Drake.
So that by shunning of their guidance thus
I prov'd my felfe the ignis fatuus.
Meeting a ragged colt, I fear'd the elfe;
And then I thought 'twas time to blesse my selfe.
But every thing I met with ranne away
As if I were a greater sprite then they.
Arm'd with a mighty staffe, but patience none,
In silent language I began to moane
My sad mishap; which could not answer'd be
By any there, but with like silencie.
But ow at length it wonne my cruell fate
To be a little more compassionate.
Hearing a dogge barke I lift up mine eye
When through the foggy ayre I could descrye
A ragged chimney, and a roofe that had
Two trusse of straw upon't: this made me glad.
He that this weather-beaten Mansion own'd
Being newly gone to bed, sweet slumbers crown'd
His labour with sound rest: the fire was then
Newly put out; for had it burning beene,
Mixt with the noyse of hammers, who can tell
But that I might have taken it for hell.
Was a shrill treble, not a hellish noyse
Like Cerberus. By this arriv'd, I heard
The people snorting: Then I greatly fear'd
A sharpe repulse. But using gentle words,
With, Friend I am a servant of my Lords,
I enter'd; where the rest of night I nested,
And m'almost tired spirits warmly rested.
And after Chantieloere had summond day
I payd some thankes, and homewards hit my way.
And sure 'twas left behind; else in this fit
'Twas ten to one but I had lost my wit.
| The springs glorie | |