University of Virginia Library

Sonettes.

To Mayster Alexander Nowell.

The Muses ioye,
and well they may to se,
So well theyr la-
boure com to good successe,
That they sustay-
ned long agoe in the,
Minerua smyles,
Phebus can do no lesse,
But ouer all,
they chyefly do reioyse,
That leauyng thyngs,
which are but fond and vayne,
Thou dyddest chuse,
(O good and happy choyse)
In sacred Scoles,
thy luckye yeares to trayne,
By whiche thou hast
obtaynde (O happy thyng)
To learne to lyue,
whyle other wander wyde,
And by thy lyfe,
to please the unmortall kyng,
Then whiche so good,
nothyng can be applyed,
Lawe gyues the gayne,
and Physycke fyls the Purse,
Promotions hye,
gyues Artes to many one,
But this is it,
by whiche we scape the Curse,
And haue the blys
of God, when we be gone.
Is this but one-
ly Scriptures for to reade?
No, no. Not talke,
but lyfe gyues this in deade.

To Doctor Bale.

Good aged Bale:
that with thy hoary heares
Doste yet persyste,
to turne the paynefull Booke,
O happye man,
that hast obtaynde suche yeares,
And leavst not yet,
on Papers pale to looke,
Gyue ouer now
to beate thy weryed brayns,
And rest thy Pen
that long hath laboured soore
For aged men
vnfyt sure is suche paine,
And the beseems
to laboure now no more,
But thou I thynke
Don Platoes part will playe
With Booke in hand,
to haue thy dyeng daye.

To M. Edwarde Cobham.

Olde Socrates,
whose wysdome dyd excell,
And past the reache,
of wysest in his tyme,
Surmounted all,
that on the earth dyd dwell,
That Craggye Hyls,
of vertue hye dyd clyme,
That Socrates,
my Cobham dyd allowe,
Eche man in youth,
hym selfe in Glasse to vew,
And wyld them oft,
to vse the same, but how?
Not to delyght,
in forme of fadyng hew.
Nor to be proude
therof, as many be,
But for to stryue,
by beautie of the mynde,
For to adourne,
the beautie he doth se.
If warlyke forme,
Dame Nature hym assygnde,
By vertuous lyfe,
than coūtenaūce for to get,
That shall deface,
the fayrest of them all,
Suche Beautie as
no age nor yeares wyll fret:
That flyes with fame,
whan fyckle forme doth fayle,
Thus muche I saye,
that here to the present,
My wordes a Glasse
for the to looke vpon.
To the whom God,
in tender yeares hath lent,
A towardenes,
that maye be mused vpon,
Suche towardenes,
as in more grauer yeares,
Doth sure a hope,
of greater thyngs pretende,
Thy noble mynde,
that to thy frendes appeare,
Doth showe the blud,
wherof thou doste descende,
The gentlenes,
thou vsest vnto all suche,
As smallye haue
deserued good wyll of the,
Doth showe the grace,
thou hast that sure is muche,
As euer yet,
in any I dyd se,
Thy wyt as rype,
as Nature well can gyue,
Declares a grea-
ter hope than all the rest,
That shall remayne,
to the whilst thou doste lyue,
In desperate yls,
a Medycyne euer prest.
The good behauyour,
of thy selfe in place
Whersoeuer that
thou chauncest for to lyght,
So much both beautie,
mynde and wyt doth grace
As well can be
requyred of any wyght.
What resteth now?
but onely God to prayse,
Of whom thou hast
receaued these Gyftes of thyne,
So shalt thou long,
lyue heare with happye dayes,
And after Death,
the starrye Skyes shalt clyme,
Let noughtye men,
saye what they lyst to the,
Trade thou thy selfe,
in seruyng hym about,
No sweter ser-
uyce can deuysed be,
Whom yf thou fearst,
and faythfully doste loue,
Be sure no thyng,
on earth shall the annoye,
Be sure he wyll,
the from eche harme defende,
Be sure thou shalt,
long tyme thy lyfe enioye,
And after ma-
ny yeares to haue a blessed ende.

Of Edwardes of the Chappell.

Deuyne Camenes
that wt your sacred food,
Haue fed and fo-
sterde vp from tender yeares,
A happye man,
that in your fauour stoode
Edvvards in Courte
that can not fynde his feares
Your names be blest,
that in this present age
So fyne a head,
by Arte haue framed out
Whom some hereaf-
ter helpt by Poets rage,
Perchaunce maye matche,
but none shall passe (no doubt)
O Plautus yf
thou wert alyue agayne,
That Comedies
so fynely dydste endyte.
Or Terence thou
that with thy plesaunt brayne,
The hearers mynde
on stage dydst much delyght.
What wold you say
syrs if you should beholde,
As I haue done
the doyngs of this man?
No word at all,
to sweare I durst be bolde,
But burne with teares,
that which with myrth began,
I meane your bookes,
by which you gate your name,
To be forgot,
you wolde commit to flame.
Alas I wolde
Edvvards more tell thy prayse,
But at thy name
my muse amased stayes.

To L. Blundeston.

Some men be coun-
ted wyse that well can talke:
And some because
they can eche man begyle.
Some for because
they know well-chese from chalke,
And can be sure,
weepe who so lyst to smyle.
But (Blundston) hym
I call the wysest wyght,
Whom God gyues grace
to rule affections ryght

The Aunswere of L. Blundeston to the same.

Affections seekes
hygh honours frayle estate,
Affections doth
the golden meane reproue,
Affections tourns
the frendly hart to hate,
Affections breede
without discretion Loue,
Both wyse and hap-
pye (Googe) he maye be hyght,
Whom God gyues grace,
to rule affections ryght.

To Alexander Neuell.

The lytell Fysh,
that in the streme doth fleet
With brode forth stret-
ched Fyns for his disporte
When as he spyes,
the Fysshes bayte so swete,
In haste he hyes,
fearynge to com to shorte,
But all to soone
(alas) his gredy mynde,
By rash attempt,
doth bryng hym to his bane,
for where he thought
a great relyefe to fynde,
By hydden hooke,
the symple fole is tane.
So fareth man,
that wanders here and theare,
Thynkyng no hurt
to happen hym therbye,
He ronnes amayne,
to gase on Beauties cheare,
Takes all for golde
that glysters in the eye,
And neuer leaues
to feade by lookyng long,
On Beauties Bayte,
where Bondage lyes enwrapt,
Bondage that makes
hym synge an other song,
And makes hym curse
the bayte that hym entrapte.
Neuell to the,
that louest their wanton lookes,
Feade on the bayte,
but yet beware the Hookes.

Alexander Neuells Answere to the same.

It is not cursed Cupids Dart:
Nor Venus cancred Spyght,
It is not vengeance of the Gods
That wretched harts doth smyght,
With restlesse rage of carefull Loue.
No, No, thy Force alone
Affection fond, doth styr these flames.
Thou causest vs to mone
And waile, & curs our wretched stats.
Our thryse vnhappy plights,
Our sighes, & powdred sobs wt tears,
Our greuous gronyng Sprights,
Thy hateful Malice doth procure:
O Fancye flamyng Feend
Of Hel. For thou in outwarde shape,
And colour of a frende
Dost by thy Snares & slymed Hooks
entrap the wounded Harts:
From whence these Hellike torments spryng,
& euer greauyng Smarts.
Whence Gripe of minde, wt chaunged chere
Whēce face besmeard wt teares.
Whēce thousād mischiefs more, wherwt
suche Mysers liues outweares.
Our gasyng eyes on Bewties bayt
do worke our endles bane.
Our eyes I say doo woorke our woo,
Our eyes procure our paine.
These are the Traps to vexed mynds
Here Gyns and Snares do lye.
Here fyre & flames by Fancie framde,
In brest doo broyle and frye.
O Googe the Bayte sone spyed is,
Soone vewd their wanton lookes.
Wheron to feede, and yet to shun,
The priuy lurkyng hookes,
Their pain, Their toile, Their labour is
There There lyes endles strife.
O happye than that Man account,
Whose well directed Lyfe
Can fly those yls, which fancy stirs,
And lyue from Bondage free.
A Phœnix ryght on yearth (no doubte)
A Byrde full rare to see.

To M. Henrye Cobham of the most blessed state of Lyfe.

The happyest lyfe
that here we haue,
My Cobham yf
I shall desyne,
The goodlyest state,
twyrte byrth and graue,
Most gracious
dayes and swetest tyme.
The fayrest face,
of fadynge Lyfe,
Race ryghtlyest ronne,
in ruthfull wayes,
The safest meanes
to shun all stryfe:
The surest Staffe,
in fyckle Dayes:
I take not I
as some do take,
To gape and gawne,
for Honoures hye,
But Court and
Cayser to forsake,
And lyue at home,
full quyetlye,
I well do mynde,
what he once sayde,
Who bad, Courte not
in any case,
For Uertue is,
in Courtes decayed,
And Uyce with States,
hath chyefest place,
Not Courte but Countreye
I do iudge,
Is it wheare lyes,
the happyest lyfe,
In Countreye growes,
no gratynge grudge,
In Countreye standes
not sturdye stryfe,
In Countreye,
Bacchus hath no place,
In Countreye
Venus hath defecte,
In Countreye
Thraso hath no grace,
In Countreye
fewe of Gnatoes Secte.
But these same foure
and many moe,
In Courte,
thou shalt be sure to fynde,
For they haue vowed,
not thence to goe,
Bycause in Courte,
dwels ydle mynde.
In Countreye
mayste thou safelye rest,
And flye all these,
yf that thou lyste,
The Countrey therfore,
iudge I best,
Where godly lyfe,
doth vyce resyste,
Where vertuous
exercyse with ioye,
Doth spende the yeares
that are to run,
Where Uyces fewe,
maye the annoye,
This lyfe is best
whan all is done.

To Alexander Neuell of the blessed Sate of him that feeles not the force of Cupids flames.

As ofte as I
remembre with my self,
The Fancies fonde,
that flame by foolysh Loue,
And marke the Furyes
fell, the blynded elfe
And Uenus she
that raynes so sore aboue,
As ofte as I
do se the wofull state,
Of Louers all,
and eake their myserye,
The ones desy-
ryng mynde the others hate,
Trothe with the one,
with the other Trecherye,
So ofte saye I,
that blessed is the wyght,
Yea Neuell blest,
and double blest agayne,
That can by rea-
son rule his mynde a ryght,
And take suche foo-
lysh fadynge toyes for vayne.

Alexander Neuells Awnswere to the same.

The plūged mind in fluds of griefs
The Sences drowned quyght,
The Hart opprest. The flesh consumed
The chaūged state outright.
The Body dryed by broylyng blase,
Of preuy schorchyng Flame.
The doulfull Face. The coutnaūce sad
The drowping Courage tame.
The Scaldyng syghes. The greuous groones
The burning rage of fyre
The ernest sute, The fruitles Toyle.
The deepe and hot Desyre,
The Braynes quight brusd & crusht wt Cares.
The euer duryng soore.
The very paynes of Hell it self,
with thousande mischyefes moore,
Which wounded Harts enflamd with Loue
with Gryefe do ouerflow,
And works theyr endles plage & spight
Tyll Death from thence do growe.
All these conclude him blest (my Googe)
and trible blest agayne,
That taught bi tract of Time can take
Such fadyng Toyes for vayne.

To Maystresse A.

Synce I so long haue lyved in pain
and burnt for loue of the,
(O cruel hart) doste thou no more
esteame the Loue of me,
Regardst thou not, the health of hym?
that the, aboue the rest
Of Creatures all, and next to God,
hath dearest in his brest.
Is pytie placed from the so farre
is gentlenes exylde?
Hast thou ben fostred in the Caues,
of Wolues or Lyons wylde?
Hast thou ben so? why then no force,
the lesse I meruayle I,
Suche as the Dāme, suche is the yong
experyence trewe doth trye.
Syth thou art of so fyerce a mynde,
why dyd not God then place
In the, with suche a Tygers Harte,
a fowle yll fauerde face?
Sure for no other ende but that,
he lykes no Louers trade,
And the therfore a ragynge Fende,
an Angels face hathe made.
Suche one as thou, was Gorgon ones
as auncient Poets tell,
Who with her Beautie mazed men,
and nowe doth raygne in Hell.
But mercye yet, of the I craue,
yf ought in the remayne,
And let me not so long the force,
of flamyng fyre sustayne,
Let pytie ioynde with beautie be,
so shall I not dysdayne.
My blud, my hart, my lyfe to spende
with toyle, with stryfe, and payne,
To do the good, my breath to loose,
yf nede shall so requyre,
But for my seruyce and my paynes
thou gyuest me hate for hyre.
Well now take this for ende of all,
I loue and thou doste hate,
Thou lyuest in pleasures happely.
and I in wretched state.
Paynes can not last for euermore,
but tyme and ende wyll trye,
And tyme shall tell me in my age,
How youth led me awrye.
Thy face that me tormented so,
in tyme shall sure decaye,
And all that I do lyke or loue,
shall vanysh quyte awaye,
Thy face in tyme shall wrynckled be,
at whiche I shall be glad,
To see thy forme transformed thus,
that made me once so sad,
Than shall I blame my foly moch
and thanke the mightyest kyng
That hath me saued tyll such a daye,
to se so fonde a thyng.
And tyll that tyme I wyll keepe close
my flames and let them blase,
All secretly within my brest,
no man on me shall gase.
I wyll not trespasse synfully,
for God shall geue me grace
To se the tyme wherin I shall
neglecte thy folysh face,
And tyll that tyme adieu to thee,
God keepe thee far from me,
And sende thee in that place to dwell,
that I shall neuer see.

To George Holmeden of a ronnynge Heade.

The greatest vyce
that happens vnto men,
And yet a vyce,
that many comon haue,
As auncient Wryters
waye with sobre Pen,
Who gaue theyr doome,
by force of wysdom graue,
The sorest mayme,
the greatest euyll sure,
The vylest plague
that Students can sustayne,
And that whiche moste
doth ygnoraunce procure.
My Holmeden is
to haue a ronnyng Brayne,
For who is he
that leades more restles lyfe,
Or who can euer
lyue more yll bestead?
In fyne who lyues,
in greater Care and stryfe,
Then he that hath,
suche an vnstedfast hedde:
But what is this?
me thynkes I heare the say,
Physition take,
thyne owne disease away.

To the Translation of Pallingen.

The labour swete,
that I sustaynde in the,
(O Pallingen)
when I tooke Pen in hande,
Doth greue me now,
as ofte as I the se,
But halfe hewd out,
before myne eyes to stande,
For I must needes
(no helpe) a whyle go toyle,
In Studyes, that
no kynde of muse delyght.
And put my Plow,
in grosse vntylled soyle,
And labour thus,
with ouer weryed Spryght,
But yf that God,
do graunt me greater yeares.
And take me not
from hence, before my tyme,
The Muses nyne,
the pleasaunt synging feares
Shall so enflame
my mynde with lust to ryme,
That Palingen
I wyll not leaue the so,
But fynysh the
accordyng to my mynd.
And yf it be
my chaunce away to go,
Let some the ende,
that heare remayne behynde.

The Harte absent.

Swete muse tell me,
wher is my hart becom.
For well I feele,
it is from hence a way,
My Sences all,
doth sorrow so benumme:
That absent thus,
I can not lyue a Day.
I know for troth,
there is a specyall Place.
Wher as it most,
desyreth for to bee:
For Oft it leaues,
me thus in Dolfull case,
And hether cōmes,
at length a gayne to me?
Woldest thou so fayne,
be tolde where is thy Harte
Sir Foole in place,
wher as it shuld not be:
Tyed vp so fast,
that it can neuer starte?
Tyll Wysdom get,
agayne thy Lybertye:
In place wher thou,
as safe maist dwel swet daw?
As may the harte,
ly by the Lyons paw:
And wher for thee,
as much be sure they passe:
As dyd the master,
ons for Esops Asse.

To Alexander Neuell.

If thou canst banish Idle nes,
Cupidoes Bowe is broke,

Ouid.

And well thou mayst dyspyse hys bronds
clean void of flame & smoke
What moued the kynge Agistus ons,
to Loue with vyle excesse:
The cause at hād doth streight apeare
he lyued in Idlenes.

The Aunswere of A. Neuell to the same.

The lack of labour mayms ye mind,
And wyt & Reason quyght exiles,
And Reason fled. Flames Fancy blind.
And Fancy she forthwith beguyles
The Sensles wighte that swiftly sails
Through deepest fluds of vyle exces.
Thus vice aboūds. Thus vertu quails
By meanes of drowsy Idlenes.

To Maystresse D.

Not from the hye Cytherion Hyll
nor from that Ladies throne
Frō whēs flies forth ye winged boy
ye makes some sore to grone.
But nearer hence this token coms,
from out the Dongeon deepe,
Where neuer Plutto yet dyd raygne
nor Proserpyne dyd sleepe.
Wheras thy faithful Seruaunt liues.
whom duetie moues aryght,
To wayle that he so long doth lacke,
his owne deare Maystres syght.

Out of an olde Poet.

Fye Fye, I lothe
to speake wylt thou my lust,
Compell me nowe,
to doo so foule an acte.
Nay rather God,
with Flame consume to dust.
My carryon vyle,
then I perfourme this facte
Let rather thoughtes,
that long, haue weryed me:
Or sycknes suche
as Fancy fonde hath brought,
O gapyng Hell,
dryue me now downe to the,
Let boylyng sygbes,
consume me all to nought.

[Ons musynge as I sat]

[When I do heare thy name]

When I do heare thy name,
alas my hart doth ryse:
And seekes fourthwith to se the salue
that most contētes myne eys.
But when I se thy Face,
that hath procured my payne,
Then boyles my blud in euery part,
and beates in euery vayne?
Thy voice when I do heare,
then collour comes and goes,
Some tyme as pale as Earth I looke,
some tyme as red as Rose.
If thy sweete Face do smyle,
then who so well as I?
If thou but cast a scornefull looke,
then out alas I dye.
But styll I lyue in payne,
my fortune wylleth so,
That I shuld burne & thou yet know,
no whytt of all my wo.

[Vnhappye tonge]

Vnhappye tonge,
why dydste thou not cōsent
When fyrst myne eyes
dyd vewe that Princely face,
To show good wyll,
that hart opprest than ment.
And whylst tyme was,
to sewe for present grace.
O fayntyng Hart,
why dydst thou then conceale?
Thyne inwarde Fyers,
that flamde in euery vayne,
Whan pytie and
gentlenes, were bent to heale.
Why dydst thou not,
declare thy ragyng payne?
When well thou mightst
haue moued her gentle mynde,
Why dydste thou than,
kepe backe thy wofull playn?
Thou knewste full well,
redres is hard to fynde,
Whan in thy owne
affayres, thy corage faynts.
But synce she is
gon, bewaile thy grief no moore
Synce thou thy selfe,
wart Causer of the Soore.

Oculi augent dolorem.

Out of syght, out of mynd.

[Accuse not God, yf fancie fond]

Accuse not God, yf fancie fond,
do moue thy foolysh brayne,
To wayle for loue, for thou thy selfe,
art cause of all thy payne.

[Two Lynes shall tell the Gryefs]

Two Lynes shall tell the Gryefs
that I by Loue sustayne.
I burne, I flame, I faynt, I fryse,
of Hell I feele the payne.

Of the vnfortunate choyse of his Ualentyne.

The Paynes that all the Furyes fell
can cast frō Lymbo lake,
Eche Torment of those Hellish brains
wher crawleth mani a snake,
Eche mischiefe that therrin doth lye
eche smart that may be founde,
Flye frō those feendish clawes a whyle
with flames breake vp the grounde,
Lyght here vpon this cursed hand,
make here your dwellyng place,
And plague the part, yt durst presume
his Mayster to disgrace.
Whiche thrust amongst a nombre of:
so many princely names,
And wher thy Maistres had her place
amongst the chiefest Dames,
Durste thus presume to leue her there
and drawe a straunger wyght,
And by thyne owne vnhappy draught
torment my pauled Spryght.

The vncertayntie of Lyfe.

No vayner thing ther can be foūd
amyd this vale of stryfe,
As Auncient men reporte haue made
then truste vncertayne lyfe.
This trwe we dayly fynde,
by proofes of many yeares,
And many tymes the trothe is tryed,
by losse of frendly fears,
Hope who so lyst in lyfe
hath but vncertayne stay.
As tayle of Ele that harder held,
doth sooner slyde away.
When least we thynk therof,
most neare approcheth it.
And sodaynly posses the place,
wher lyfe before did sytt:
How many haue byn seen,
in Helth to go to rest,
And yet eare mornyng tyde haue ben,
with Cruell Death opprest,
How many in their meales,
Haue Ioyfully ben sett,
That sodaynly in all their Feaste,
hath yealded Earth theyr dett.
Syth thus the lyfe is nought,
that in this world we trust,
And that for all the pompe & Pryde,
the Bodie tournes to dust:
Hope for the lyfe aboue,
whiche far surmounteth all.
With vertuous mind await the time,
when God, for vs doth call.

A Refusall.

Syth Fortune fauoures not,
and al thynges backward go,
And sith your mynd hath so decreed,
to make an end of woe.
Syth now is no redresse,
but hence I must a way,
Farewell I wast no vayner wordes,
I Hope for better day.

Of Maistres. D S.

Thy fyled wordes,
yt from thy mouth did flow
Thy modest looke,
wyth gesture of Drane.
Thy curteous mynde,
and althynges framed so.
As answered well,
vnto thy vertuous fame,
The gentlenes
that at thy handes I founde
In staungers house,
all vnaquaynted I,
Good S. hath
my Hart to the so bounde,
That from the can
it not be forced to flye,
In pledge wherof,
my seruyce here I gyue
Yf thou so wylte,
to serue the whylst I lyue.

Of Money.

Gyue Money me, take
Frendshyp who so lyst,
For Frends are gon
come once Aduersytie,
When Money yet
remayneth safe in Chest,
That quickely can the
bryng from myserye,
Fayre face showe frendes,
when ryches do habounde,
Come tyme of proofe,
farewell they must awaye,
Beleue me well,
they are not to be founde.
If God but sende
the once a lowrynge daye.
Golde neuer starts
asyde, but in dystres,
Fyndes wayes enoughe,
to ease thyne heuynes.

Goyng towardes Spayne.

Farewell thou fertyll soyle,
that Brutus fyrst out founde,
Whē he poore soule, was driuen clean
frō out his Coūtrey groūd.
That Northward layst thy lusty sides
amyd the ragyng Seas.
Whose welthy Land doth foster vpp,
thy people all in ease,
While others scrape & carke abroad,
theyr symple foode to gett,
And selye Soules take all for good,
that cōmeth to the Net.
Which they with painfull paynes do pych,
in barrain burning Realmes:
While we haue all with out restreint
among thy welthy streames.
O blest of God thou Pleasaunt Ile,
where welth her self doth dwell:
Wherin my tender yeares I past,
I byd thee now farewell.
For Fancy dryues me forth abrode,
and byds me take delyght,
In leuyng thee and raungyng far,
to se some straunger syght.
And sayth I was not framed heare,
to lyue at home with eas:
But passynge foorth for knowledge sake
to cut the fomyng seas.

At Bonyuall in Fraunce.

O fond affectyon,
wounder of my Hart,
When wylt thou Cease,
to breed thy restles payne,
When comes the end,
of this my Cruell smart:
When shall my force,
beate backe thy force agayne.
When shall I saye,
this restles rage of myne:
By Reason ruld,
is banysht quyte a way,
And I escaped,
these cruell bondes of thyne:
O flamynge feend,
that seakest my decaye.
Safe thynkyng I,
Charibdis Rage to flye,
On Scylla Rocke,
In Bonyuall I dye.

Commynge home warde out of Spayne.

O ragyng Seas,
and myghty Neptunes rayne
In monstrous Hylles,
that throwest thy selfe so hye,
That wyth thy fludes,
doest beate the shores of Spayne:
And breake the Clyues,
that dare thy force enuie.
Cease now thy rage,
and laye thyne Ire a syde,
And thou that hast,
the goueruaunce of all,
O myghty God,
graunt Wether Wynd and Tyde,
Tyll on my Coun-
treye Coast, our Anker fall.

To L. Blundeston of Ingratitude.

The lytell Byrde,
the tender Marlyon,
That vseth ofte
vpon the Larke to praye,
With great reproche,
doth stayne the mynde of man
If all be true,
that Wryter of her saye.
For she a Creature,
maymde of Reasons parte,
And framde to lyue
accordynge to her kynde,
Doth seme to foster
Reason in her Hart
And to aspyre
vnto Deuyner mynde.
When Hungers rage
she hath exyled quyte,
And supped well
as falleth for her state.
The selye Larke,
doth take by force of flyght,
And hyes to tree,
where as she lodged late,
And on the trem-
blyng Byrde all nyght she stondes,
To keepe her feete,
from force of nyppynge colde,
The amazed Wretche,
within her ēnemyes handes,
And closed fast,
within the claspyng holde.
Awayteth Death,
with drowsye drowpyng Hart,
And all the nyght
with feare drawes on her lyfe,
The gentle Byrde,
whan darkenes doth departe
Doth not depryue,
the selye soule of lyfe,
Nor fylles with her
her hungred egre brest
But wayeng well,
the seruyce she hath done.
To spyll the Blud,
her Nature doth detest,
And from so great
a Cryme, her selfe doth shun.
She lets her go
and more with stedfast eyes.
Beholds whiche way
she takes with mazed flyght,
And in those partes
that Daye she neuer flyes
Leaste on that Byrde
agayne she chaunce to lyght.
Loe, Blundston heare
how kyndenes doth habounde,
In selye Soules
where Reason is exylde,
This Byrde alone
suffyseth to confounde,
The Brutysh myndes
of men that are defyled,
With that great Uice,
that vyle and haynous Cryme
Ingratitude
(whiche some vnkyndenes call.)
That Poyson strong
that spryngeth styll with tyme,
Tyll at the length,
it hath infected all.

The Aunswere of L. Blundeston to the same.

This Mirrour left
of this thy Byrde I fynde,
Hath not suche force,
to enter in the Hert,
To roote away,
Unthankefulnes of minde,
As others haue,
the Uertues to peruert,
(so prone we are to Uice:)
The Tenche by kynd,
hath Salue for euery Soore,
And heales the may-
med Pike in his dystresse,
The Churlysh Pike
for Gentlenes therfore,
In his rewarde,
doth cruellye expresse.
His murdring mynde,
his fylthy spotted fayth,
When hungre prickes
to fyll his gredye Iawes,
He grypes his poore
Chyrurgion vnto death.
Who late to hym
of lyfe was onely cause.
Thy Merlians haue
fewe Ayryes in our ground
But Pikes haue Spawnes
good stoore in euery Pound

To the Tune of Appelles.

Cupido Conquered.

The sweetest time of al the yeare
it was when as the Sonne,
Had newly entred Gemini,
and warmynge heate begun:
Whan euery tre was clothed greene,
and flowers fayre dyd show,
And when the whyt and blowmynge May
on Hawthorns thicke did grow,
Whan sore I longd to seeke a broade,
to se some Pleasaunt syght,
A mid my woes and heauye happes,
that myght my Mynde delyght,
Care wold not let me byde within,
but forst me foorth to go:
And bad me seeke sume present helpe,
for to relyue my wo.
Than forward went I foorth in haste,
to vew the garnysht trees?
What tyme the Son was moūted vp,
twirt nyne and ten degrees.
From Flowers flew sweete ayers abroad,
delighting much my brayn,
With syght & smels gan sorow fade,
and Ioy returne agayne.
So that in mynde I much reioyce.
to feele my self so lyght:
For gorgyous syghtes & odours sweet
had new reuyued my spryght.
Besyde the pleasaunt Harmonye,
that syngyng Byrdes did make:
Bad me pul vpp my Hart agayne,
and sorrow sone forsake.
For though (quoth Reason.) she be gon
on whom thy Lyfe dependes,
Yet fond it is to carke and care
where there is none amendes.
Thus foorth I went, & in the grooues
I raunged heare and theare,
Wheras I hard suche pleasaūt tunes
as Heauen had ben neare.
I thynke that if Amphion hadde,
ben present ther to playe,
Or if Sir Orpheus myght haue held,
his Harp, that present day.
Or if Apollo with his Lute,
had stryuen to excell,
None of them all, by Musycke sholde,
haue borne away the Bell.
I rather iudge the thracian wold,
his Harpe wherwith he played,
Haue cast away as one whom Ire,
had vtterly dismayed.
Such passyng tunes of sundry Byrds,
I neuer herd before,
The further I went in the Woods.
the noyse resounded more.
O happy Byrdes quoth I what lyfe,
is this that you do leade,
How far from Care and mysery,
how far from Feare and dread:
With what reioysynge melodie,
passe you this fadyng Lyfe,
While Man vnhappiest creatur liues
In wretched toyle and stryfe.
Styll foorth I went and wonderd at,
this plesaunt Harmony.
And gased at these lytle Fooles,
that made suche Melody:
Tyll at the length I gan to spye,
a stately Lawrell tree,
So plast and sett in such a guyse,
That as it seamed to me,
Dame Nature stroue to shew her self
in plantyng such a thyng,
For Euen out besyde the rocke,
a fountayne cleane did spryng,
Where in the water I beheld,
resembled wonderous trew,
The Whyte & Greene of al the trees,
adourned late of new.
And how in order eake they stood,
a goodly syght to se,
And there I might discerne the Byrds
that songe in euery tree.
To moue the Byll & shake the wings
in vteryng Musicke sweete
And heare and thear, to flye to feade,
and eftesones theare to meete.
Great pleasure had I there to byde,
and stare vpon the Spryng,
For why me thought it dyd surmount,
eache other kynde of thyng.
Now was the Son got vp aloft,
and raught the mydle Lyne,
And in the Well, the Golden Gloobe,
with flamyng Beames dyd shyne,
Wherof the Bryghtnes was so great
that I might not endure,
Lenger to looke within the Spryng,
whose waters were so pure.
Unwyllyng went I thence away,
and vnderneth the tree,
I laid me down whose braūches brode
dyd keepe the Son from me.
Thynkyng to rest me there a whyle,
tyll fallyng some degrees
Syr Phebus shuld haue hyd hym self,
behynde the shadowyng trees,
And thē for to haue vewd the Spring,
and marked euery place,
And seene yf there I could haue spied
the weepyng Biblis face.
For sure I thynke, it was the place,
wherein Narcissus dyed,
Or els the Well, to which was turnd
poore Biblis whyle she cryed.
But whether it was werynes,
with labour that I tooke,
Or Fume yt frō the Spryng dyd ryse,
wherin I late dyd looke.
Or yf it were the sweete accorde
that syngyng Byrdes dyd keepe,
Or what it was, I knowe no whit
but I fell fast a sleepe.
I thynke the woddy Nimphes agreed
that I shuld haue this chaūce,
And that it was theyr pleasure so,
to showe me thyngs in traunce.
Whilste I lay thus in slumbre deepe.
I myght perceyue to stande,
A Person clothed all in whyte,
that held a Rod in hande.
Whiche was me thought of Massey Gold,
I knew it very weale,
For that was it, made Argos sleepe,
whyle he dyd Io steale.
When I perceaued by his attyre,
that it was Mercuri.
My Hart at fyrst began to faynt,
yet at the length quoth I
Thou Goddesse Son, why standste yu there
what busines now wt thee,
What meanest yu in thy flying weed,
For to appeare to me,
And therwithall my thought I staied,
and could no farther speake,
For Feare did force my spech to fayle,
and Courage waxed weake.
Which whan the sone of Maia sawe,
he tooke me by the hand,
Looke vp quoth he be not affrayed:
but boldly by me stand.
The Muses all of Helicon,
haue sent me now to thee:
Whō thou doest serue & whose yu sekst
For euer more to be.
And thankes to the by me they sende,
Bycause thou tookest payne,
In theyr Affaires (a thankeles thyng)
to occupie thy Brayne.
Desyring thee not for to staye,
for Momus ill report,
But endyng that thou hast begun,
to spyte the Canckred sorte.
And thynk not thou, that thou art he,
that canst escape Disdayne,
The day shall come when thankfull men,
shall well accept thy Paine,
But rather lay before thyne eyes,
the hie attemptes of those,
Whose statly style wt painfull proofe,
theyr worthy wytes disclose,
Marke him that thundred out ye deeds
Of olde Anchises sun,
Whose English verse gyues Maroes grace,
In all that he hath done,
Whose death the Muses sorrow much,
that lacke of aged dayes,
Amongest the cōmon Brytons old,
should hynder Virgils prayse.
Mark him yt hath wel framde a Glasse,
for states to looke vpon,
Whose labour shews the ends of thē,
that lyued long a gone.
Marke hym that showes ye Tragedies
thyne owne famylyar Frende,
By whom ye Spaniards hawty Style
in Englysh Uerse is pende.
Marke these same three, & other moe,
whose doyngs well are knowne,
Whose fayre attempts in euery place
The flying fame hath blowne,
Hast thou not harde, thy selfe in place
full ofte and many a tyme,
Lo here the Auctor loseth grace,
Loe here a doltysh Ryme,
Now syth that they haue this reward
who passe the euen as farre,
As in the nyght Diana doth,
Excell the dimmest Starre.
Take thou no scorne at euyll tongs,
what neadst thou to disdayne?
Syth they whō none can well amend
haue lyke fruyte of theyr payne.
Moreouer yet the Ladyes nyne,
haue all cōmaunded me,
Bycause they know, the blynded God
hath somethyng pearced the.
To leade the foorth, a thyng to see,
yf all thyngs happen ryght,
Whiche shall gyue the occasion good,
with ioyfull mynde to wryght.
To this, I wold haue answered fayne
and theare began to speake,
But as my words were cōmyng forth
my purpose he dyd breake.
Come on (quoth he,) none Aunswere now
we may no lenger staye.
But frame thy selfe, to flye abroade,
for hence we must awaye.
And here withall, on both my sydes,
two wyngs me thought dyd growe,
Of mighty breadth, away went he,
and after hym I flowe.
And euer as we mounted vp,
I lookte vp on my wyngs,
And prowde I was, me thought to see
suche vnacquaynted thyngs.
Tyll foorth we flewe, my Guyde & I,
with mowntyng flyght apace,
Beholdyng Ryuers, woods, & Hylles
and many a goodly place.
Till at the length methought I might
a Gorgyous Castell spye,
Thear downe began my guyd to fall,
and downward eake fell I,
Lo heare the place where yu must light
Gan Mercury to saye,
Farwell and note what thou doost se,
for I must hence away.
And with this same a way flewe he,
and left me there alone,
Wher as with Feare a masde I stood,
and thus began to mone.
Alas where am I now become,
what Cursed Chaunce hath blown,
Me from the place where I was bred,
to Countreis heare vnknown.
What ment that fell vnhappy Feend,
that Maia brought to lyght,
To bring me from my Hartes desyre,
to see thys dolefull syght.
Unhappy Wretche, I wolde I hadde,
his Person heare in hand,
Then shuld I wreak mine Ire of him,
that brought me to this Land.
But all to late alas I wysh,
for words auayle not nowe,
Tis best to learne, what place it is,
and yet I knowe not howe.
Alas that here were Ptholome,
with Compasse Globe in hande,
Whose Arte shuld showe me true the place
& Clymate where I stande,
Well yet what soeuer chaūce theron
what soeuer Realme it be,
Yon Castell wyll I vysyte sure,
hap what hap wyll to me.
Thus much me thought alone I spoke
and then I forewarde went,
And cursed eke an hundred folde,
them that me thyther sent.
Thus to the Castell, strayght I came,
whiche when I vewde aboute,
And sawe the workmanshyp therof
full gorgeouslye set oute,
I entred in, with fearefull Harte,
muche dautyng howe to speede,
But euer hope of happye chaunce,
my heauye Hart dyd feede.
Wyde was the Courte & large within
the walles were raysed hye,
And all engraued with Storyes fayre
of costlye Imagrye.
There myght I se, wt wondrous Arte,
the Picture porturde playne,
Of olde Orion Hunter good,
whom Scorpions vyle had slayne.
And by hym stoode his Borspeare and
his other Instruments,
His Net, his Darte, his Coursar, and
his Hunters restyng Tents.
And vnder hym was wrytten fayre,
in Letters all of Golde,
Here lies he slain, wt Scorpions sting,
vnhappy wretche that wolde,
Haue forced the Ladye of this forte
with stayne of Royaltie.
To haue consented to his wyll,
in fylthye Lecherye.
Wherfore beware that enters here,
what soeuer man thou art?
Accounte thy selfe but lost, yf that
thou bearste a lecherous Hart.
Whē I had vewd these wrytten lines
and markde the Storye well,
I ioyed muche, for why I knew,
Diana there dyd dwell.
Diana she that Goddesse is,
of Uirgyns sacred mynde,
By whom Orion Hunter wylde,
his Fatall ende dyd fynde.
Next vnto hym, I myght beholde,
Acteon wofull wyght,
In what a maner, all to torne,
his cruell Dogs hym dyght.
There might be seene, theyr gredye mouths
wt Maisters blud embrued,
And all his owne vnhappye men,
that fast theyr Lorde pursued.
And many Storyes more there war
engraued: to long to tell.
What fearefull haps to many men,
for lust vncleane befell.
Thus as I stoode with musyng mind
beholdyng all thyngs theare,
In rush ech at the Gate behynde
a Post with heauy cheare.
Into the Hall with haste he hyes
and after folowed I,
To here what kynde of Newes he brought
or what he ment therby.
He passyng through the Hall in haste,
at entraunce neuer stayed,
But blowyng fast for want of breath,
as one almoste dismayed.
Approcht in Presence to the syght
of chaste Dianaes face,
That all encompaste rounde aboute
with Uirgyns in that place,
In loftye Chayre of hye estate
dyd syt, all clothde in whyte,
Of Syluer hewe, that shynyg gaue,
me thought, a gorgeous syght.
There dyd I se, fayre Dido Queene
and fayre Hisiphile,
And next to them Lucretia sat,
and chaste Penelope.
But these same foure, no Bowes dyd beare
for Uirgyns sacred state,
They had forsaken long ago,
and ioynde with faythfull Mate.
On the other syde, sat all the sorte
of fayre Dianaes trayne,
Whose trade with toyle amongst the woods
was euer bent to payne.
Whose sacred minds, were ner defyld
with any wanton lust,
Whiche neuer could the fyckle state,
of Louers fancye truste.
The chyefe of them was Ismenis,
whom best Diana loued,
And next in place sat Hyale,
whom neuer Fancye moued,
Next vnto them sat Nipha fayre,
a Gemme of Chastyte.
And next to her sat Phyale,
not basest in degree,
Behynde them all, of passyng forme,
fayre Rhanis held her place,
And nye to her I myght discerne
Dame Piccas shynyng face,
These Pryncely Nymphes accompaned
Diana in her Baynes,
Whyle as in shape of Stagge poore wretche
Acteon had his paynes.
Aboue them all I myght beholde,
as placed before the rest,
Hipolitus whom Phedraes spyte?
most Cruelly had drest.
Hipolitus the vnspotted Pearle:
of pure Uirginitie,
Whose noble Hart culd not agre,
to stepdames vyllany.
Next vnto hym sat Continence,
and next was Labour placed?
Of bodie bygge and strong he was,
and somwhat Crabtre faced.
Next hym was placed Abstinence,
a leane vnwyldy wyght,
Whose Diet thyn had banisht cleane,
all fond and vayne delyght.
A Thousād more me thought ther war
whose names I did not know,
And yf I did to longe it were,
in Uerses them to show.
Down of his knees the messenger,
before them al doth fall,
And vnto chast Diana thear,
for succour thus doth call.
O Goddesse chiefe of Chastitie,
and Sacred Uirgins mynd:
Let Pitie from your noble Hart:
redresse for Misers fynd.
Let not our weryed Hartes sustaine,
suche wrongfull Tyranye?
Quench quickly now the fyrie flames
of open Iniurye.
This sayd for Feare he staied awhyle,
and than began agayne,
A myghty Prynce (quoth he) is com,
with great vnruly trayne.
All armed well at euery poynt,
(a dredefull syght to se:)
And euery man in feates of armes,
ryght skylfull all they be.
The Captaine chyfe in Charyot ryde
with pompe and stately Pryde:
With Bow in hand of glistring gold,
and Quyuer by his syde.
Wher many a shaft full sharp doth ly:
and many a mortall Darte,
That hath wt poysoned force destroid,
Full many a yealdyng Harte.
He entred hath within your Realme,
and taken many a Forte,
Hath sakte them all, and spoylde them quyte
& slayne a wondrous sorte.
In straungest guyse, for where he shoots
the woūde doth fester styll
And all the Surgians that we haue
can not remoue the yll,
In lytell tyme the gryefe so sore,
doth growe in euery parte,
Distraynyng through the venomed vaines
doth so torment the Hart.
That some to ryd themselues therof
in fluds full deepe they leape,
And drown thē selues som downward falles
from Houses hye by heape,
Some Anker cast on crossed Beames
to ryd them selues from stryfe,
And hang them selues full thycke on trees
to ende a wretched lyfe.
And they whose fearefull mynds dare not
thus make an ende of wo,
With greuous flames, consumynge long
theyr lyfe at length forgo.
Loe here the Sōme of all I haue,
this Tygre vs anoyes,
And cruellye hath spoyled vs,
of all our wonted ioyes.
Whom yf your Grace, do not repuls,
and fynde some present staye,
Undoubtedly he wyll wyn this Realme,
and take vs all awaye.
At this, the Ladyes all amazde
for feare dyd looke full pale,
And all beheld with mazed eyes,
the Wretche that tolde the tale.
Tyll at the length Hipolitus
of Hart and courage hye,
Nothyng abashde, with sodain newes
began thus to replye.
Caste fere away, fayre Dames (quoth he)
dismaye your selues no more,
I know by whō this mischief spryngs
and know a helpe therfore.
It is not suche a dredefull Wyght,
as he doth here reporte,
That entred is within these partes,
and plagues the symple sorte.
Nor is his force so great to feare,
I know it I full well:
It is the scornfull blynded Boy,
that neare to vs doth dwell.
Whom Mars long tyme a go begatt,
of that Lasciuious dame:
That Linckt in Chaines for Lechery,
receaued an open shame.
A disobedient blynded Foole,
that durst presume to turne:
His dartes agaynst his mother ons,
and causd her sore to burne.
An auncient foo: to all this Court,
Of long tyme he hath ben:
And hath attempted euermore,
by this: Renowne to wyn.
His cruell Hart, of Pitie voyed,
doth spare no kynd of age:
But tender youth and dotyng age,
he strykes in furyous rage.
And laughes to scorne the sely soules
that he hath wounded so,
No fine appoynted of theyr ils,
no end of al theyr wo.
But syns he hath presumed thus,
to entre heare in Place,
And heare to threten Conquests thus,
agaynst Dianaes Grace,
Let him besure his loftie Mynde,
this deade shall soone repent,
If that your grace do here agre,
with Fre and full concent.
To make me Cheftain of this Charge
and whom I lyst to chose,
If Prisoner heare I bryng hym not,
Let me myne Honour lose.
And there he ceasde with ioyfull looks
the Ladyes smyled all,
And thorough his wordes they hoaped soone
to se Cupidoes fall.
With heauenly voice Diana thear,
as chyefe aboue the rest:
This wise her words began to frame,
From out her sacred brest.
My good Hipolitus quoth she,
whose true and faythfull mynd:
In doubtfull daunger often I,
do alwayes redy fynd.
For to reuenge the cankred rage,
of all my spytfull foes,
Thou be frō whose vnspotted hart,
the fluddes of vertue flowes.
whose seruise long hath ben aproued,
within this court of myne,
Restrayne this boyes vnruly rage,
by valyant means of thyne,
I geue the leaue & thee appoint,
my cheyf Lieutenant here,
Chuse whom yu wilt take whom yu lyst,
thou nedest no whit to feare.
With this he rose from out his place,
and lokynge round a bout:
Chose Abstinence and Continence,
with Labour Captayne stout.
And with these thre he tooke his leaue
of all the Ladyes there,
Who doubtyng of his safe returne,
let fall full many a teare.
He lefte them theare in heauynes,
and made no more delaye,
But outward went & toward ye Cāpe,
he tooke the nearest way.
With this the Queenes commyssion straight
was sent abroad in haste,
To rayse vp souldiars round about,
and with theyr Captayne plaste.
To bring them foorth & marching on,
Hipolitus to meet,
Than sounded Trumpetes al abroad,
and Drumes in euery streat.
And souldiears good lyke swarmes of Bees
theyr Captains prease about
All armed braue in Corsletes white,
they march with courage stout.
And forwarde shoue, till at the length
where as theyr marshall lyes,
They fynd the place the ioifull soūds,
Do mount aboue the skyes.
Hipolitus receaued them all,
with woordes of plesaunt cheare,
And placith them in good aray,
bycause the camp was neare.
Three Battails big of them he frams,
and of the Rereward strong,
Hath Labour charge who steppeth foorth,
before the statlye thronge:
And Captayn of the reare ward next,
was placed abstinens.
And Ioind to him for Policie,
was Captayne Continence:
The Battayle mayne Hipolitus,
him selfe did chuse to guyd.
And in the formest front therof,
on Courser fayre doth ryde:
The Trumpets sound march on apace,
and Dromes the same do stryke.
Then forward moues ye Army great,
In order Martiall lyke.
I cam behynde (me thought) and best,
it seamed then to me:
To vew the dynt of dreedfull sword,
and feyghter none to be.
Thie Spies were sent abroad to vew,
the place where Cupide lay:
A longest a Ryuer fayre and broad,
they spye a pleasaunt way,
Which waye they tooke and passynge foorth,
at length apeares a plaine:
Both large & vast wher lyes ye rowt,
of Cruell Cupides trayne.
Thus told the spyes we onward hye,
and strayght in syght we haue,
The ferfull show of all our Foes,
and dredfull army braue,
The first yt marched frō Cupides Camp
was drowsy Idlenes.
The chyefest frend that loue had then,
the next was vyle Exces.
A Lubbour great, mishapen most,
of all that thear I saw,
As much I thynk in quantitie,
as Horses syre can draw.
A myghty face both broad and flat,
and all with Rubies set:
Muche nosed lyke a Turky Cocke,
with teth as blacke as Get.
A Belye byg, full trust with guts,
and Pestels two, lyke Postes,
A knaue full square in euery poynt,
a Prynce of dronken Dostes.
Upon a Camell couched hye,
for Horse coulde none hym beare,
A mighty Staffe in hande he had,
his Foes a farre to feare.
Behynde them all, the blynded God,
doth com in Charyot fayre,
With ragyng flames flong rounde about
he pestres all the ayre.
And after hym, for tryumphe leades
a thousande wounded Harts,
That gush abrode hot streams of blud
new persed with his Dartes,
The army redy for to meete
and all at poynt to fyght,
Hipolitus with lusty cheare
and with a noble Spryght.
His Souldiers to encourage. Thus
his wordes begyns to place.
My valyaunt frends and Subiects all
of Chast Dianaes Grace.
whose noble Harts were neuer staind
with spot of Dastards mynd,
Behold our enemyes here at hande,
behold yon coward blynd.
Of lytle force, comparde with you
howe in a fond araye,
They stragle out no ordre dewe,
obserued in theyr waye.
Behold what goodly Guyds they haue
to gouerne them withall,
That neuer knew what fighting ment
but lyue to Uenus thrall.
Marke hym that guyds the rerewarde there
that vyle deformed Churle,
Whose foggy Mates, with paunches syde
do thycke aboute him whurle.
And he that formost hether coms
loe what a handsome Squyre,
Sure full vnapt to kepe the felde,
more fyt to syt by the fyre.
In fyne lo Uictorye at hande
with hye tryumphant Crowne,
Bent for to spoyle our Foes of Fame,
and cast theyr Glorye downe.
Fyght therfore now courageouslye,
and ryd your frendes of feare,
Declare your Manhod valyauntly,
and let your Harts appeare.
With this the sounde begyns to moūt
and noyse hye to ryse,
And warlyke tunes begyn to dash,
them selues agaynst the Skyes.
The Canons Cracke, begins to roore
and Darts full thycke they flye
And couerd thycke, the armyes both,
and framde a Counter Skye.
And now the Battayls both be ioynde
with stroke of Hande to trye.
The quarell iust and for to fynde,
where Victory doth lye,
The Souldyers all of Idlenes,
where Labour coms, do fall,
And wounded sore, by force of hym,
all bathde in blud, they sprall.
Hym selfe alone with Idlenes
nowe hande to hande doth fyght
And after many a mortall wounde,
destroyes the selye wyght.
Then ioynes with him Syr Abstinence
with ayde & succours newe,
And both vpon the gresye Hoaste,
of Glottonye they flewe.
The Captayn doth aduaunce hymself
with Abstinence to meete,
The vnweldy Creature smitten there
is tombled vnder feete.
Than Fancie flyes Incontinence
and all Cupidoes frendes.
Beholdynge Fortune thus to frowne,
by flyght them selfe defendes.
Cupido whan he sees hymselfe,
thus spoylde of all his ayde,
The chyef Supporters of his Courte,
so sodaynly decayde.
Bad turne his Charyottes than with haste
and fast away he flyes,
Amongst the chaste Hipolitus
on swyftye Courser hyes,
Than all with Ioye they after run,
downe thycke the enemyes fall,
The blinded boy, for succour straight
to Venus hye doth call,
But all his cryes auayleth not,
his Foes hym fast pursewe,
The dryuer of his Charyot soone,
Hipolitus there slewe.
And down frō Horse, the wretche doth fall.
The horses spoyld of guyde,
A Souldier stoute of Reasons bande,
is wylled there to ryde.
Who turyng Raynes another waye
restrayns hym of his flyght,
His Honours lost and taken thus,
Cupide in dolfull plyght.
These wordes with tremblyng voyce began
syth Fortune thus quoth he,
Hath giuen her doome from doubtfull brest
& turnd her Grace from me.
Syth that the most misfortune nowe,
that euer I could fynd,
Hath chaunced to me and Myser I,
by Destenyes assygnde,
Am Captyue heare, consydre yet,
what Fortune myght haue wrought
And made a Canquerer of me,
and you in Bondage brought.
Consydre yet the wofull plyght,
wherin you had remaynd,
If that the Gods my happy state,
had not so sore disdaynd,
And by your Gryef, than mesure mine
showe mercye in this case,
That Conquerour cōmended is,
who gyues to pytie place.
The cruell mynd dispraysed is,
In euery kynd of state,
No man so hauty lyues on earth,
but one may fynd his mate,
These wordes Hipolitus I speake,
to bread no farther stryfe,
I speake not this of malyce heare,
my sute is for my lyfe.
Syth Fortune thus hath fauord you,
graunt thus my small request,
And let me lyue yf mercy dwell,
within your Noble brest,
By this tyme Morpheus had disperst
the drowsy Clowd of sleape,
And frō my braynes the quyet traūce,
began full fast to Creape.
And dounward fell. I wakd therwith
and lokyng round a bout,
Long tyme I mused where I was,
my mynd was styl in doubt.
Tyll at the length I vewde the tree,
and place where as I sat,
And well beheld the pleasaūt Spryng
that late I wondred at.
that late I wondred at,
I sawe besyde the Golden Globe,
of Phebus shynyng bryght,
That Westwarde halfe, dyd hyde his face
approchyng fast the nyght.
Eche Byrde began to shrowd hymself
in tree to take his rest
And ceaste the pleasaunt tunes yt late
proceaded from theyr Breaste.
I homewarde went, and left them all,
and restles all that nyght,
I musynge laye, tormented thus,
with fond lamentyng spryght.
When Phebus rose to passe the tyme,
and passe my gryefe awaye
I toke my Pen and pend the Dreame
that made my Muses staye.