The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney :: :: University of Virginia Library

In vaine, mine Eyes, you labour to amende
With flowing teares your fault of hasty sight:
Since to my hart her shape you so did sende;
That her I see, though you did lose your light.

In vaine, my Hart, now you with sight are burnd,
With sighes you seeke to coole your hotte desire:
Since sighes (into mine inward fornace turnd)
For bellowes serve to kindle more the fire.

Reason, in vaine (now you have lost my hart)
My head you seeke, as to your strongest forte:
Since there mine eyes have played so false a parte,
That to your strength your foes have sure resorte.
Then since in vaine I find were all my strife,
To this strange death I vainely yeeld my life.

149

[Let not old age disgrace my high desire]

[Zelmane.]

Let not old age disgrace my high desire,
O heavenly soule, in humaine shape conteind:
Old wood inflam'de, doth yeeld the bravest fire,
When yonger dooth in smoke his vertue spend.

Ne let white haires, which on my face doo grow,
Seeme to your eyes of a disgracefull hewe:
Since whitenesse doth present the sweetest show,
Which makes all eyes doo honour unto you.

Old age is wise and full of constant truth;
Old age well stayed from raunging humor lives:
Old age hath knowne what ever was in youth:
Old age orecome, the greater honour gives.
And to old age since you your selfe aspire,
Let not old age disgrace my high desire.

155

[Since so mine eyes are subject to your sight]

[Dorus.]

Since so mine eyes are subject to your sight,
That in your sight they fixed have my braine;
Since so my harte is filled with that light,
That onely light doth all my life maintaine;

Since in sweete you all goods so richly raigne,
That where you are no wished good can want;
Since so your living image lives in me,
That in my selfe your selfe true love doth plant;
How can you him unworthy then decree,
In whose chiefe parte your worthes implanted be?

163

[My sheepe are thoughts, which I both guide and serve]

[Dorus.]
My sheepe are thoughts, which I both guide and serve:
Their pasture is faire hilles of fruitlesse Love:
On barren sweetes they feede, and feeding sterve:
I waile their lotte, but will not other prove.

164

My sheepehooke is wanne hope, which all upholdes:
My weedes, Desire, cut out in endlesse foldes.
What wooll my sheepe shall beare, whiles thus they live,
In you it is, you must the judgement give.

172

[You living powres enclosed in stately shrine]

You living powres enclosed in stately shrine
Of growing trees; you rurall Gods that wield
Your scepters here, if to your eares divine
A voice may come, which troubled soule doth yeld:
This vowe receave, this vowe ô Gods maintaine;
My virgin life no spotted thought shall staine.

Thou purest stone, whose purenesse doth present
My purest minde; whose temper hard doth showe
My tempred hart; by thee my promise sent
Unto my selfe let after-livers know.
No fancy mine, nor others wronge suspect
Make me, ô vertuous Shame, thy lawes neglect.

O Chastitie, the chiefe of heavenly lightes,
Which makst us most immortall shape to weare,
Holde thou my hart, establish thou my sprights:
To onely thee my constant course I beare.
Till spotlesse soule unto thy bosome flye,
Such life to leade, such death I vow to dye.

173

[My words, in hope to blaze my stedfast minde]

My words, in hope to blaze my stedfast minde,
This marble chose, as of like temper knowne:
But loe, my words defaste, my fancies blinde,
Blots to the stone, shame to my selfe I finde:
And witnesse am, how ill agree in one,
A womans hand with constant marble stone.

My words full weake, the marble full of might;
My words in store, the marble all alone;
My words blacke inke, the marble kindly white;
My words unseene, the marble still in sight,
May witnesse beare, how ill agree in one,
A womans hand, with constant marble stone.

218

[What toong can her perfections tell]

[Zelmane.]

What toong can her perfections tell
In whose each part all pens may dwell?
Her haire fine threeds of finest gould
In curled knots mans thought to hold:
But that her fore-head sayes in me
A whiter beautie you may see.
Whiter indeed; more white then snow,
Which on cold winters face doth grow.

219

That doth present those even browes,
Whose equall line their angles bowes,
Like to the Moone when after chaunge
Her horned head abroad doth raunge:
And arches be to heavenly lids,
Whose winke ech bold attempt forbids.
For the blacke starres those Spheares containe,
The matchlesse paire, even praise doth staine.
No lampe, whose light by Art is got,
No Sunne, which shines, and seeth not,
Can liken them without all peere,
Save one as much as other cleere:
Which onely thus unhappie be,
Because themselves they cannot see.

Her cheekes with kindly claret spred.
Aurora like new out of bed,
Or like the fresh Queene-apples side,
Blushing at sight of Phœbus pride.

Her nose, her chinne pure ivorie weares:
No purer then the pretie eares.
So that therein appeares some blood,
Like wine and milke that mingled stood
In whose Incirclets if ye gaze,
Your eyes may tread a Lovers maze.
But with such turnes the voice to stray,
No talke untaught can finde the way.
The tippe no jewell needes to weare:
The tippe is jewell of the eare.

But who those ruddie lippes can misse?
Which blessed still themselves doo kisse.
Rubies, Cherries, and Roses new,
In worth, in taste, in perfitte hewe:
Which never part but that they showe
Of pretious pearle the double rowe,
The second sweetly-fenced warde,
Her heav'nly-dewed tongue to garde.
Whence never word in vaine did flowe.

Faire under these doth stately growe,
The handle of this pretious worke,
The neck, in which strange graces lurke.

220

Such be I thinke the sumptuous towers
Which skill dooth make in Princes bowers.
So good a say invites the eye,
A little downward to espie,
The livelie clusters of her brests,
Of Venus babe the wanton nests:
Like pomels round of Marble cleere:
Where azurde veines well mixt appeere.
With dearest tops of porphyrie.

Betwixt these two a way doth lie,
A way more worthie beauties fame,
Then that which beares the Milkie name.
This leades into the joyous field,
Which onely still doth Lillies yeeld:
But Lillies such whose native smell
The Indian odours doth excell.
Waste it is calde, for it doth waste
Mens lives, untill it be imbraste.

There may one see, and yet not see
Her ribbes in white all armed be.
More white then Neptunes fomie face,
When strugling rocks he would imbrace.

In those delights the wandring thought
Might of each side astray be brought,
But that her navel doth unite,
In curious circle, busie sight:
A daintie seale of virgin-waxe,
Where nothing but impression lackes.

Her bellie then gladde sight doth fill,
Justly entitled Cupids hill.
A hill most fitte for such a master,
A spotlesse mine of Alablaster.
Like Alablaster faire and sleeke,
But soft and supple satten like.
In that sweete seate the Boy doth sport:
Loath, I must leave his chiefe resort.
“For such a use the world hath gotten,
“The best things still must be forgotten.

Yet never shall my song omitte
Thighes, for Ovids song more fitte;

221

Which flanked with two sugred flankes,
Lift up their stately swelling bankes;
That Albion clives in whitenes passe:
With hanches smooth as looking glasse.

But bow all knees, now of her knees
My tongue doth tell what fancie sees.
The knottes of joy, the gemmes of love,
Whose motion makes all graces move.
Whose bought incav'd doth yeeld such sight,
Like cunning Painter shadowing white.
The gartring place with child-like signe,
Shewes easie print in mettall fine.
But then againe the flesh doth rise
In her brave calves, like christall skies.
Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
More white then whitest bone of all.

Thereout steales out that round cleane foote
This noble Cedars pretious roote:
In shewe and sent pale violets,
Whose steppe on earth all beautie sets.

But back unto her back, my Muse,
Where Ledas swanne his feathers mewes,
Along whose ridge such bones are met,
Like comfits round in marchpane set.

Her shoulders be like two white Doves,
Pearching within square royall rooves,
Which leaded are with silver skinne,
Passing the hate-sport Ermelin.
And thence those armes derived are;
The Phœnix wings are not so rare
For faultlesse length, and stainelesse hewe,

Ah woe is me, my woes renewe;
Now course doth leade me to her hand,
Of my first love the fatall band.
Where whitenes dooth for ever sitte:
Nature her selfe enameld it.
For there with strange compact dooth lie
Warme snow, moyst pearle, softe ivorie.
There fall those Saphir-coloured brookes,
Which conduit-like with curious crookes,

222

Sweete Ilands make in that sweete land.
As for the fingers of the hand,
The bloudy shaftes of Cupids warre,
With amatists they headed are.

Thus hath each part his beauties part,
But how the Graces doo impart
To all her limmes a spetiall grace,
Becomming every time and place.
Which doth even beautie beautifie,
And most bewitch the wretched eye.
How all this is but a faire Inne
Of fairer guestes, which dwell within.
Of whose high praise, and praisefull blisse,
Goodnes the penne, heaven paper is.
The inke immortall fame dooth lende:
As I began, so must I ende.
No tongue can her perfections tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell.

227

[Alas how long this pilgrimage doth last?]

Plangus. Basilius.
Plangus.
Alas how long this pilgrimage doth last?
What greater ills have now the heavens in store,
To couple comming harmes with sorrowes past?
Long since my voice is hoarce, and throte is sore,
With cries to skies, and curses to the ground,
But more I plaine, I feele my woes the more.
Ah where was first that cruell cunning found,
To frame of Earth a vessell of the minde,
Where it should be to selfe-destruction bound?
What needed so high sprites such mansions blind?
Or wrapt in flesh what do they here obtaine,
But glorious name of wretched humaine-kind?
Balles to the starres, and thralles to Fortunes raigne;
Turnd from themselves, infected with their cage,
Where death is feard, and life is held with paine.
Like players pla'st to fill a filthy stage,
Where chaunge of thoughts one foole to other shewes,
And all but jests, save onely sorrowes rage.
The child feeles that; the man that feeling knowes,
With cries first borne, the presage of his life,
Where wit but serves, to have true tast of woes.
A Shop of shame, a Booke where blots be rife
This bodie is: this bodie so composed,
As in it selfe to nourish mortall strife.
So divers be the Elements disposed
In this weake worke, that it can never be
Made uniforme to any state reposed.
Griefe onely makes his wretched state to see
(Even like a toppe which nought but whipping moves)
This man, this talking beast, this walking tree.
Griefe is the stone which finest judgement proves:
For who grieves not hath but a blockish braine,
Since cause of griefe no cause from life removes.

Basilius.
How long wilt thou with monefull musicke staine
The cheerefull notes these pleasant places yeeld,
Where all good haps a perfect state maintaine?

228

Plangus.
Curst be good haps, and curst be they that build
Their hopes on haps, and do not make despaire
For all these certaine blowes the surest shield.
Shall I that saw Eronaes shining haire
Torne with her hands, and those same hands of snow
With losse of purest blood themselves to teare?
Shall I that saw those brests, where beauties flow,
Swelling with sighes, made pale with mindes disease,
And saw those eyes (those Sonnes) such shoures to shew,
Shall I, whose eares her mournefull words did seaze,
Her words in syrup laid of sweetest breath,
Relent those thoughts, which then did so displease?
No, no: Despaire my dayly lesson saith,
And saith, although I seeke my life to flie,
Plangus must live to see Eronaes death.
Plangus must live some helpe for her to trie
Though in despaire, so Love enforceth me;
Plangus doth live, and must Erona dye?
Erona dye? O heaven (if heaven there be)
Hath all thy whirling course so small effect?
Serve all thy starrie eyes this shame to see?
Let doltes in haste some altars faire erect
To those high powers, which idly sit above,
And vertue do in greatest need neglect.

Basilius.
O man, take heed, how thou the Gods do move
To irefull wrath, which thou canst not resist.
Blasphemous words the speaker vaine do prove.
Alas while we are wrapt in foggie mist
Of our selfe-love (so passions do deceave)
We thinke they hurt, when most they do assist.
To harme us wormes should that high Justice leave
His nature? nay, himselfe? for so it is.
What glorie from our losse can he receave?
But still our dazeled eyes their way do misse,
While that we do at his sweete scourge repine,
The kindly way to beate us to our blisse.
If she must dye, then hath she past the line
Of lothsome dayes, whose losse how canst thou mone,
That doost so well their miseries define?

229

But such we are with inward tempest blowne
Of mindes quite contrarie in waves of will:
We mone that lost, which had we did bemone.

Plangus.
And shall shee dye? shall cruell fier spill
Those beames that set so many harts on fire?
Hath she not force even death with love to kill?
Nay even cold Death enflamde with hot desire
Her to enjoy, where joy it selfe is thrall,
Will spoile the earth of his most rich attire.
Thus Death becomes a rivall to us all,
And hopes with foule embracements her to get,
In whose decay Vertues faire shrine must fall.
O Vertue weake, shall death his triumph set
Upon thy spoiles, which never should lye waste?
Let Death first dye; be thou his worthy let.
By what eclipse shall that Sonne be defaste?
What myne hath erst throwne downe so faire a tower?
What sacriledge hath such a saint disgra'st?
The world the garden is, she is the flower
That sweetens all the place; she is the guest
Of rarest price, both heav'n and earth her bower.
And shall (ô me) all this in ashes rest?
Alas, if you a Phœnix new will have
Burnt by the Sunne, she first must build her nest.
But well you know, the gentle Sunne would save
Such beames so like his owne, which might have might
In him, the thoughts of Phaëtons damme to grave.
Therefore, alas, you use vile Vulcans spight,
Which nothing spares, to melt that Virgin-waxe
Which while it is, it is all Asias light.
O Mars, for what doth serve thy armed axe?
To let that wit-old beast consume in flame
Thy Venus child, whose beautie Venus lackes?
O Venus (if her praise no envy frames,
In thy high minde) get her thy husbands grace.
Sweete speaking oft a currish hart reclaimes.
O eyes of mine, where once she saw her face,
Her face which was more lively in my hart;
O braine, where thought of her hath onely place;

230

O hand, which toucht her hand when she did part;
O lippes, that kist her hand with my teares sprent;
O toonge, then dumbe, not daring tell my smart;
O soule, whose love in her is onely spent,
What ere you see, thinke, touch, kisse, speake, or love,
Let all for her, and unto her be bent.

Basilius.
Thy wailing words do much my spirits move,
They uttred are in such a feeling fashion,
That sorrowes worke against my will I prove.
Me-thinkes I am partaker of thy passion,
And in thy case do glasse mine owne debilitie:
Selfe-guiltie folke most prone to feele compassion.
Yet Reason saith, Reason should have abilitie,
To hold these worldly things in such proportion,
As let them come or go with even facilitie.
But our Desires tyrannicall extortion
Doth force us there to set our chiefe delightfulnes,
Where but a baiting place is all our portion.
But still, although we faile of perfect rightfulnes,
Seeke we to tame the childish superfluities:
Let us not winke though void of purest sightfulnes.
For what can breed more peevish incongruities,
Then man to yeeld to female lamentations?
Let us some grammar learne of more congruities.

Plangus.
If through mine eares pearce any consolation
By wise discourse, sweete tunes, or Poets fiction;
If ought I cease these hideous exclamations,
While that my soule, she, she lives in affliction;
Then let my life long time on earth maintained be,
To wretched me, the last worst malediction.
Can I, that know her sacred parts restrained be,
For any joy, know fortunes vile displacing her,
In morall rules let raging woes contained be?
Can I forget, when they in prison placing her,
With swelling hart in spite and due disdainfulnes
She lay for dead, till I helpt with unlasing her?
Can I forget, from how much mourning plainfulnes
With Diamond in window-glasse she graved,
Erona dye, and end thy ougly painefulnes?

231

Can I forget in how straunge phrase she craved
That quickly they would her burne, drowne, or smother,
As if by death she onely might be saved?
Then let me eke forget one hand from other:
Let me forget that Plangus I am called:
Let me forget I am sonne to my mother,
But if my memory must thus be thralled
To that strange stroke which conquer'd all my senses,
Can thoughts still thinking so rest unappalled?

Basilius.
Who still doth seeke against himselfe offences,
What pardon can availe? or who employes him
To hurt himselfe, what shields can be defenses?
Woe to poore man: ech outward thing annoyes him
In divers kinds; yet as he were not filled,
He heapes in inward griefe, which most destroyes him.
Thus is our thought with paine for thistles tilled:
Thus be our noblest parts dryed up with sorrow:
Thus is our mind with too much minding spilled.
One day layes up stuffe of griefe for the morrow:
And whose good haps do leave him unprovided,
Condoling cause of friendship he will borrow.
Betwixt the good and shade of good divided,
We pittie deeme that which but weakenes is:
So are we from our high creation slided.
But Plangus lest I may your sicknesse misse
Or rubbing hurt the sore, I here doo end.
The asse did hurt when he did thinke to kisse.

239

[Poore Painters oft with silly Poets joyne]

Poore Painters oft with silly Poets joyne,
To fill the world with strange but vaine conceits:
One brings the stuffe, the other stamps the coine,
Which breeds nought else but gloses of deceits.
Thus Painters Cupid paint, thus Poets do
A naked god, young blind, with arrowes two.
Is he a God, that ever flies the light?
Or naked he, disguis'd in all untruth?
If he be blind, how hitteth he so right?
How is he young, that tam'de old Phœbus youth?
But arrowes two, and tipt with gold or leade:
Some hurt accuse a third with horny head.
No, nothing so; an old false knave he is
By Argus got on Io, then a cow:
What time for her Juno her Jove did misse,
And charge of her to Argus did allow.
Mercury kill'd his false sire for this act,
His damme a beast was pardon'd beastly fact.
With fathers death, and mothers guiltie shame,
With Joves disdaine at such a rivals seed,
The wretch compell'd a runnagate became,
And learn'd what ill a miser state doth breed,
To lye, faine, gloze, to steale, pry, and accuse,
Naught in himselfe ech other to abuse.

240

Yet beares he still his parents stately gifts,
A horned head, cloven foote, and thousand eyes,
Some gazing still, some winking wilye shiftes,
With long large eares where never rumour dyes.
His horned head doth seeme the heaven to spight:
His cloven foote doth never treade aright.
Thus halfe a man, with man he dayly haunts,
Cloth'd in the shape which soonest may deceave:
Thus halfe a beast, ech beastly vice he plants,
In those weake harts that his advice receave.
He proules ech place stil in new colours deckt,
Sucking ones ill, another to infect.
To narrow brests he comes all wrapt in gaine:
To swelling harts he shines in honours fire:
To open eyes all beauties he doth raine;
Creeping to ech with flattering of desire.
But for that Loves desire most rules the eyes,
Therein his name, there his chiefe triumph lyes.
Millions of yeares this old drivell Cupid lives;
While still more wretch, more wicked he doth prove:
Till now at length that Jove him office gives,
(At Junos suite who much did Argus love)
In this our world a hang-man for to be,
Of all those fooles that will have all they see.

253

[Loved I am, and yet complaine of Love]

[Zelmane.]
Loved I am, and yet complaine of Love:
As loving not, accus'd, in Love I die.
When pittie most I crave, I cruell prove:
Still seeking Love, love found as much I flie.
Burnt in my selfe, I muse at others fire:
What I call wrong, I doo the same, and more:
Bard of my will, I have beyond desire:
I waile for want, and yet am chokte with store.
This is thy worke, thou God for ever blinde:
Though thousands old, a Boy entit'led still.
Thus children doo the silly birds they finde,
With stroking hurt, and too much cramming kill.
Yet thus much Love, O Love, I crave of thee:
Let me be lov'd, or els not loved be.

257

[Over these brookes trusting to ease mine eyes]

[Zelmane.]

Over these brookes trusting to ease mine eyes,
(Mine eyes even great in labour with their teares)
I layde my face; my face wherein there lyes
Clusters of clowdes, which no Sunne ever cleares.
In watry glasse my watrie eyes I see:
Sorrowes ill easde, where sorrowes painted be.

My thoughts imprisonde in my secreat woes,
With flamie breathes doo issue oft in sound:
The sound to this strange aier no sooner goes,
But that it dooth with Echoes force rebound.
And make me heare the plaints I would refraine:
Thus outward helps my inward griefes maintaine.

Now in this sande I would discharge my minde,
And cast from me part of my burdnous cares:
But in the sand my tales foretolde I finde,
And see therein how well the writer fares.
Since streame, aier, sand, mine eyes and eares conspire:
What hope to quench, where each thing blowes the fire?

285

[Me thought some staves he mist: if so, not much amisse]

[The Shepherds.]
Me thought some staves he mist: if so, not much amisse:
For where he most would hit, he ever yet did misse.
One said he brake acrosse; full well it so might be:
For never was there man more crossely crost then he.
But most cryed, O well broke: O foole full gaily blest:
Where failing is a shame, and breaking is his best.

310

[Wyth two strange fires of equall heate possest]

[Philoclea.]

Wyth two strange fires of equall heate possest,
The one of Love, the other Jealousie,
Both still do worke, in neither finde I rest:
For both, alas, their strengthes together tie:
The one aloft doth holde, the other hie.
Love wakes the jealous eye least thence it moves:
The jealous eye, the more it lookes, it loves.

These fires increase: in these I dayly burne:
They feede on me, and with my wings do flie:
My lovely joyes to dolefull ashes turne:
Their flames mount up, my powers prostrate lie:
They live in force, I quite consumed die.
One wonder yet farre passeth my conceate:
The fuell small: how be the fires so great?

325

[A hatefull cure with hate to heale]

A hatefull cure with hate to heale:
A blooddy helpe with blood to save:
A foolish thing with fooles to deale:
Let him be bold that bobs will have.
But who by meanes of wisdome hie
Hath sav'd his charge? it is even I.

Let other deck their pride with skarres,
And of their wounds make brave lame showes:
First let them die, then passe the starres,
When rotten Fame will tell their blowes.
But eye from blade, and eare from crie:
Who hath sav'd all? it is even I.

327

[Thy elder care shall from thy carefull face]

[Basilius.]
Thy elder care shall from thy carefull face
By princely meane be stolne, and yet not lost.
Thy yonger shall with Natures blisse embrace
An uncouth love, which Nature hateth most.
Both they themselves unto such two shall wed,
Who at thy beer, as at a barre, shall plead;
Why thee (a living man) they had made dead.
In thy owne seate a forraine state shall sit.
And ere that all these blowes thy head doo hit,
Thou, with thy wife, adultry shall commit.

328

[Apollo great, whose beames the greater world do light]

[Basilius.]
Apollo great, whose beames the greater world do light,
And in our little world do cleare our inward sight,
Which ever shine, though hid from earth by earthly shade,
Whose lights do ever live, but in our darkenesse fade;
Thou God, whose youth was deckt with spoiles of Pythōs skin:
“(So humble knowledge can throw downe the snakish kinne)
Latonas sonne, whose birth in paine and travaile long
Doth teach, to learne the good what travailes do belong:
“In travaile of our life (a short but tedious space)
While brickle houreglas runnes, guide thou our panting pace:
Give us foresightfull mindes: give us minds to obaye
What foresight tels; our thoughts upon thy knowledge staye.
Let so our fruites grow up, that nature be maintainde:
But so our hartes keepe downe, with vice they be not stainde.
Let this assured holde our judgements overtake,
“That nothing winnes the heaven, but what doth earth forsake.

339

The second Eclogues.

[Thou Rebell vile, come, to thy master yelde]

R.
Thou Rebell vile, come, to thy master yelde.

P.
No, Tyrant, no: mine, mine shall be the fielde.

Reason.
Can Reason then a Tyraunt counted be?

Passion.
If Reason will, that Passions be not free.

R.
But Reason will, that Reason governe most.

P.
And Passion will, that Passion rule the rost.

R.
Your will is will; but Reason reason is.

P.
Will hath his will, when Reasons will doth misse.

R.
Whom Passion leades unto his death is bent.

P.
And let him die, so that he die content.

R.
By nature you to Reason faith have sworne.

P.
Not so, but fellowlike together borne.

R.
Who Passion doth ensue, lives in annoy.

P.
Who Passion doth forsake, lives void of joy.

R.
Passion is blinde, and treades an unknowne trace.

P.
Reason hath eyes to see his owne ill case.

R.
Dare Passions then abide in Reasons light?

P.
And is not Reason dimde with Passions might?

R.
O foolish thing, which glory doth destroye.

P.
O glorious title of a foolish toye.

R.
Weakenes you are, dare you with our strength fight?

P.
Because our weaknes weakeneth all your might.

340

R.
O sacred Reason, helpe our vertuous toiles.

P.
O Passion, passe on feeble Reasons spoiles.

R.
We with ourselves abide a daily strife.

P.
We gladly use the sweetnes of our life.

R.
But yet our strife sure peace in end doth breede.

P.
We now have peace, your peace we doo not neede.

R.
We are too strong: but Reason seekes no blood.

P.
Who be too weake, do feigne they be too good.

R.
Though we cannot orecome, our cause is just.

P.
Let us orecome, and let us be unjust.

R.
Yet Passion, yeeld at length to Reasons stroke.

P.
What shall we winne by taking Reasons yoke?

R.
The joyes you have shall be made permanent.

P.
But so we shall with griefe learne to repent.

R.
Repent indeed, but that shall be your blisse.

P.
How know we that, since present joyes we misse?

R.
You know it not: of Reason therefore know it.

P.
No Reason yet had ever skill to show it.

R. P.
Then let us both to heavenly rules give place,
Which Passions skill, and Reason do deface.

[Dorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion]

Dicus. Dorus
Dicus.
Dorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion
To make these woods resounde thy lamentation?
Thy sainte is dead, or dead is thy devotion.

341

For who doth holde his love in estimation,
To witnes, that he thinkes his thoughts delicious,
Thinks to make ech thing badge of his sweet passion.

Dorus.
But what doth make thee Dicus so suspicious
Of my due faith, which needs must be immutable?
Who others vertue doubt, themselves are vicious.
Not so; although my mettall were most mutable,
Her beames have wrought therin most faire impression:
To such a force some chaunge were nothing sutable.

Dicus.
The harte well set doth never shunne confession:
If noble be thy bandes, make them notorious:
Silence doth seeme the maske of base oppression.
Who glories in his love, doth make Love glorious:
But who doth feare, or bideth muet wilfully,
Showes, guilty harte doth deeme his state opprobrious.
Thou then, that framste both words & voice most skilfully,
Yeeld to our eares a sweet and sound relation,
If Love tooke thee by force, or caught thee guilefully.

Dorus.
If Sunnie beames shame heav'nly habitation;
If three-leav'd grasse seeme to the sheepe unsavorie,
Then base and sower is Loves most high vocation.
Or if sheepes cries can helpe the Sunnes owne braverie,
Then may I hope, my pipe may have abilitie,
To helpe her praise, who decks me in her slaverie.
No, no: no wordes ennoble selfe-nobilitie.
As for your doubts; her voice was it deceaved me,
Her eye the force beyond all possibilitie.

Dicus.
Thy words well voic'd, well gra'ste had almost heaved me
Quite from my selfe to love Loves contemplation;
Till of these thoughts thy sodaine ende bereaved me.
Goe on therefore, and tell us, by what fashion
In thy owne proofe he gets so straunge possession,
And how possest he strengthens his invasion?

Dorus.
Sight is his roote, in thought is his progression,
His childhood woonder, prenticeship attention,
His youth delight, his age the soules oppression:

342

Doubte is his sleepe, he waketh in invention;
Fancie his foode, his clothing is of carefulnes;
Beautie his boote, his play lovers dissention:
His eyes are curious search, but vailde with warefulnesse:
His wings desire oft clipt with desperation:
Largesse his hands could never skill of sparefulnesse.
But how he doth by might, or by persuasion
To conquere, and his conquest how to ratifie,
Experience doubts, and schooles holde disputation.

Dicus.
But so thy sheepe may thy good wishes satisfie
With large encrease, and wooll of fine perfection,
So she thy love, her eyes thy eyes may gratifie,
As thou wilt give our soules a deare refection,
By telling how she was, how now she framed is
To helpe, or hurt in thee her owne infection.

Dorus.
Blest be the name, wherewith my mistres named is:
Whose wounds are salves, whose yokes please more then pleasure doth:
Her staines are beames; vertue the fault she blamed is.
The hart, eye, eare here onely find his treasure doth:
All numbring artes her endlesse graces number not:
Time, place, life, wit scarcely her rare gifts measure doth.
Is she in rage? so is the Sunne in sommer hot,
Yet harvest brings. Doth she alas absent herselfe?
The Sunne is hid; his kindly shadows cumber not.
But when to give some grace she doth content herselfe,
O then it shines; then are the heav'ns distributed,
And Venus seemes, to make up her, she spent herselfe.
Thus then (I say) my mischiefes have contributed
A greater good by her divine reflection;
My harmes to me, my blisse to her attributed,
Thus she is framde: her eyes are my direction;
Her love my life; her anger my destruction.
Lastly what so she is, that's my protection.

Dicus.
Thy safetie sure is wrapped in destruction:
For that construction thine owne wordes do beare.
A man to feare a womans moodie eye,
Makes Reason lie a slave to servile Sense.
A weake defence where weakenesse is thy force:
So is remorse in follie dearely bought.

343

Dorus.
If I had thought to heare blasphemous wordes,
My brest to swords, my soule to hell have solde
I rather would, then thus mine eares defile
With words so vile, which viler breath doth breed.
O heards take heed; for I a woolfe have found;
Who hunting round the strongest for to kill,
His breast doth fill with earth of others joyes,
And loden so puls downe, puld downe destroyes.
O sheepheards boyes, eschue these tongues of venome,
Which do envenome both the soule and senses.
Our best defenses are to flie these adders.
O tongues like ladders made to clime dishonour,
Who judge that honour, which hath scope to slander.

Dicus.
Dorus you wander farre in great reproches;
So love encroches on your charmed reason,
But it is season for to end our singing.
Such anger bringing: as for me, my fancie
In sicke-mans frenzie rather takes compassion,
Then rage for rage: rather my wish I send to thee,
Thou soone may have some helpe, or change of passion.
She oft her lookes, the starres her favour bend to thee:
Fortune store, Nature health, Love grant perswasion.
A quiet mind none but thy selfe can lend to thee,
Thus I commend to thee all our former love,

Dorus.
Well do I prove, errour lies oft in zeale,
Yet it is seale, though errour, of true hart.
Nought could impart such heates to friendly mind.
But for to find thy words did her disgrace,
Whose onely face the little heaven is,
Which who doth misse his eyes are but delusions,
Barr'd from their chiefest object of delightfulnesse,
Throwne on this earth the Chaos of confusions.
As for thy wish to my enraged spitefulnesse,
The lovely blowne with rare reward, my prayer is
Thou mayest love her that I may see thy sightfulnesse.
The quiet mind (whereof my selfe empairer is,
As thou doest thinke) should most of all disquiet me
Without her love, then any mind who fairer is.
Her onely cure from surfet-woes can diet me:

344

She holdes the ballance of my contentation:
Her cleared eyes, nought els, in stormes can quiet me.
Nay rather then my ease discontentation
Should breed to her, let me for aye dejected be
From any joy, which might her griefe occasion.
With so sweete plagues my happie harmes infected be:
Paine willes me die, yet will of death I mortifie:
For though life irkes, in life my loves protected be.
Thus for ech change my changelesse hart I fortifie.

[And are you there old Pas? in troth I ever thought]

Nico. Dorus.
Nico.
And are you there old Pas? in troth I ever thought,
Among us all we should find out some thing of nought.

Pas.
And I am here the same, so mote I thrive and thee,
Despairde in all this flocke to find a knave, but thee.

Nico.
Ah now I see, why thou art in thy selfe so blind:
Thy gray-hood hides the thing, that thou despairst to find.

Pas.
My gray-hood is mine owne, all be it be but gray,
Not like the scrippe thou stol'ste, while Dorcas sleeping lay.

Nico.
Mine was the scrippe: but thou, that seeming raid with love,
Didst snatch from Cosmas hand her greeny wroughtē glove.

Pas.
Ah foole; so Courtiers do. But who did lively skippe,
When for a treene-dish stolne, thy father did thee whippe?

Nico.
In deed the witch thy dam her crouch from shoulder spred,
For pilfring Lalus lambe, with crouch to blesse thy head.

345

Pas.
My voice the lambe did winne, Menalcas was our judge:
Of singing match was made, whence he with shame did trudge.

Nico.
Couldst thou make Lalus flie? so nightingales avoide,
When with the kawing crowes their musicke is annoide.

Pas.
Nay like to nightingales the other birds give eare:
My pipe and song made him both pipe and song forsweare.

Nico.
I thinke it well: such voice would make one musicke hate:
But if I had bene there, th'adst met another mate.

Pas.
Another sure as is a gander from a goose:
But still when thou dost sing, me thinkes a colt is loose.

Nico.
Well aimed by my hat: for as thou sangst last day;
The neighbours all did crie, alas what asse doth bray?

Pas.
But here is Dicus old; let him then speake the woord,
To whether with best cause the Nymphes faire flowers affoord.

Nico.
Content: but I will lay a wager hereunto,
That profit may ensue to him that best can do.
I have (and long shall have) a white great nimble cat,
A king upon a mouse, a strong foe to the rat,
Fine eares, long taile he hath, with Lions curbed clawe,
Which oft he lifteth up, and stayes his lifted pawe,
Deepe musing to himselfe, which after-mewing showes,
Till with lickt beard, his eye of fire espie his foes.
If thou (alas poore if) do winne, then winne thou this,
And if I better sing, let me thy Cosma kisse.

Pas.
Kisse her? now mayst thou kisse. I have a better match;
A prettie curre it is; his name iwis is Catch,
No eare nor taile he hath, least they should him disgrace,
A ruddie haire his cote, with fine long spectled face:
He never musing standes, but with himselfe will play
Leaping at every flie, and angrie with a flea:
He eft would kill a mouse, but he disdaines to fight,
And makes our home good sport with dauncing bolt upright.
This is my pawne; the price let Dicus judgement show:
Such oddes I willing lay; for him and you I know.

Dicus.
Sing then my lads, but sing with better vaine then yet,
Or else who singeth worst, my skill will hardly hit.

346

Nico.
Who doubts but Pas fine pipe againe will bring
The auncient prayse to Arcad shepheards skill?
Pan is not dead, since Pas beginnes to sing.

Pas.
Who evermore will love Apollos quill,
Since Nico doth to sing so widely gape?
Nico his place farre better furnish will.

Nico.
Was not this he, who did for Syrinx scape
Raging in woes teach pastors first to plaine?
Do you not heare his voice, and see his shape?

Pas.
This is not he that failed her to gaine,
Which made a Bay, made Bay a holy tree:
But this is one that doth his musicke staine.

Nico.
O Faunes, O Fairies all, and do you see,
And suffer such a wrong? a wrong I trowe,
That Nico must with Pas compared be?

Pas.
O Nymphes, I tell you newes, for Pas you knowe:
While I was warbling out your woonted praise,
Nico would needes with Pas his bagpipe blowe.

Nico.
If never I did faile your holy-dayes,
With daunces, carols, or with barlybreake:
Let Pas now know, how Nico makes the layes.

Pas.
If each day hath bene holy for your sake,
Unto my pipe, O Nimphes, helpe now my pipe,
For Pas well knowes what layes can Nico make.

Nico.
Alas how oft I looke on cherries ripe,
Me thinkes I see the lippes my Leuca hath,
And wanting her, my weeping eyes I wipe.

Pas.
Alas, when I in spring meete roses rathe,
And thinke from Cosmas sweet red lips I live,
I leave mine eyes unwipte my cheekes to bathe.

Nico.
As I of late, neer bushes usde my sive,
I spied a thrush where she did make her nest,
That will I take, and to my Leuca give.

Pas.
But long have I a sparrow gailie drest,
As white as milke, and comming to the call,
To put it with my hand in Cosmas brest.

347

Nico.
I oft doo sue, and Leuca saith, I shall,
But when I did come neere with heate and hope,
She ranne away, and threw at me a ball.

Pas.
Cosma once said, she left the wicket ope,
For me to come, and so she did: I came,
But in the place found nothing but a rope.

Nico.
When Leuca dooth appeare, the Sunne for shame
Dooth hide himselfe: for to himselfe he sayes,
If Leuca live, she darken will my fame.

Pas.
When Cosma doth come forth, the Sun displaies
His utmost light: for well his witte doth know,
Cosmas faire beames emblemish much his raies.

Nico.
Leuca to me did yester-morning showe
In perfect light, which could not me deceave,
Her naked legge, more white then whitest snowe.

Pas.
But yesternight by light I did receave
From Cosmas eyes, which full in darkenes shine,
I sawe her arme, where purest Lillies cleave.

Nico.
She once starke nak'd did bathe a little tine;
But still (me thought) with beauties from her fell,
She did the waters wash, and make more fine.

Pas.
She once, to coole her selfe, stood in a well,
But ever since that well is well besought,
And for Rose-water sould of rarest smell.

Nico.
To rivers banke, being on walking brought,
She bad me spie her babie in the brooke,
Alas (said I) this babe dooth nurce my thought.

Pas.
As in a glasse I held she once did looke,
I said, my hands well paide her for mine eyes,
Since in my hands selfe goodly sight she tooke.

Nico.
O if I had a ladder for the skies,
I would climbe up, and bring a prettie starre,
To weare upon her neck, that open lies.

Pas.
O if I had Apollos golden carre,
I would come downe, and yeeld to her my place,
That (shining now) she then might shine more farre.

348

Nico.
Nothing (O Leuca) shall thy fame deface,
While shepheards tunes be heard, or rimes be read,
Or while that shepheards love a lovely face.

Pas.
Thy name (O Cosma) shall with praise be spread,
As farre as any shepheards piping be:
As farre as Love possesseth any head.

Nico.
Thy monument is layd in many a tree,
With name engrav'd: so though thy bodie die,
The after-folkes shall wonder still at thee.

Pas.
So oft these woods have heard me Cosma crie,
That after death, to heav'n in woods resound,
With Echoes help, shall Cosma, Cosma flie.

Nico.
Peace, peace good Pas, thou weeriest even the ground
With sluttish song: I pray thee learne to blea,
For good thou mayst yet proove in sheepish sound.

Pas.
My father hath at home a prettie Jay,
Goe winne of him (for chattering) praise or shame:
For so yet of a conquest speake thou may.

Nico.
Tell me (and be my Pan) the monsters name,
That hath foure legs, and with two onely goes,
That hath foure eyes, and onely two can frame.

Pas.
Tell me (and Phœbus be) what monster growes
With so strong lives, that bodie cannot rest
In ease, untill that bodie life forgoes.

Dicus.
Enough, enough: so ill hath done the best,
That since the having them to neither's due,
Let cat and dog fight which shall have both you.

349

[I joye in griefe, and doo detest all joyes]

Strephon. Klaius.
Strephon.
I joye in griefe, and doo detest all joyes:
Despise delight, and tyrde with thought of ease
I turne my minde to all formes of annoyes,
And with the chaunge of them my fancie please.
I studie that which may me most displease,
And in despite of that displeasures might,
Embrace that most, that most my soule destroyes.
Blinded with beames, fell darkenes is my sight:
Dole on my ruine feedes, with sucking smarte,
I thinke from me, not from my woes to parte.

Klaius.
I thinke from me, not from my woes to parte,
And loth this time, calld life, nay thinke, that life
Nature to me for torment did emparte;
Thinke, my harde haps have blunted deaths sharpe knife,
Not sparing me, in whom his workes be rife:
And thinking this, thinke Nature, Life, and Death
Place Sorrowes triumph on my conquered brest:
Whereto I yeeld, and seeke none other breath,
But from the sent of some infectious grave:
Nor of my fortune ought, but mischieve crave.

Strephon.
Nor of my fortune ought but mischiefe crave,
And seeke to nourish that, which now contaynes
All what I am: if I my selfe will save,
Then must I save, what in me chiefly raignes,
Which is the hatefull web of Sorowes paines.
Sorow then cherish me, for I am sorowe:
No being now, but sorowe I can have:
Then decke me as thine owne; thy helpe I borowe,
Since thou my riches arte, and that thou haste
Enough to make a fertill minde lie waste.

Klaius.
Enough to make a fertill minde lie waste
Is that huge storme, which powres it selfe on me:
Hailestones of teares, of sighes a monstrous blast,

350

Thunders of cries; lightnings my wilde lookes be,
The darkened heav'n my soule which nought can see;
The flying sprites which trees by rootes up teare
Be those despaires, which have my hopes quite wast.
The diffrence is; all folkes those stormes forbeare:
But I cannot; who then my selfe should flie
So close unto my selfe my wrackes doo lie.

Strephon.
So close unto my selfe my wrackes doo lie;
Both cause, effect, beginning, and the ende
Are all in me: what helpe then can I trie?
My ship, my selfe; whose course to love doth bende,
Sore beaten doth her mast of Comforte spende:
Her cable, Reason, breakes from anchor, Hope:
Fancie, her tackling, torne away doth flie:
Ruine, the winde, hath blowne her from her scope:
Brused with waves of Cares, but broken is
On rocke, Despaire, the buriall of my blisse.

Klaius.
On rocke, Despaire, the buriall of my blisse
I long doo plowe with plough of deepe Desire:
The seed Fast-meaning is, no truth to misse:
I harowe it with Thoughts, which all conspire
Favour to make my chiefe and onely hire.
But, woe is me, the yeare is gone about,
And now I faine would reape, I reape but this,
Hate fully growne, Absence new sprongen out.
So that I see, although my sight empaire,
Vaine is their paine, who labour in Despaire.

Strephon.
Vaine is their paine, who labour in Despaire.
For so did I, when with my angle, Will,
I sought to catch the fish Torpedo faire.
Ev'n then Despaire did Hope already kill:
Yet Fancie would perforce employ his skill,
And this hath got; the catcher now is caught,
Lamde with the angle, which it selfe did beare,
And unto death, quite drownde in Dolours, brought
To death, as then disguisde in her faire face.
Thus, thus I had, alas, my losse in chase.

351

Klaius
Thus, thus I had, alas, my losse in chase,
When first that crowned Basiliske I knewe,
Whose footesteps I with kisses oft did trace,
Till by such hap, as I must ever rewe,
Mine eyes did light upon her shining hewe,
And hers on me, astonisht with that sight.
Since then my harte did loose his wonted place,
Infected so with her sweet poysons might,
That, leaving me for dead, to her it went:
But ah her flight hath my dead reliques spent.

Strephon.
But ah her flight hath my dead reliques spent,
Her flight from me, from me, though dead to me,
Yet living still in her, while her beames lent
Such vitall sparke, that her mine eyes might see.
But now those living lights absented be,
Full dead before, I now to dust should fall,
But that eternall paines my soule should hent,
And keepe it still within this body thrall:
That thus I must, while in this death I dwell,
In earthly fetters feele a lasting hell.

Klaius.

In earthly fetters feele a lasting hell
Alas I doo; from which to finde release,
I would the earth, I would the heavens fell.
But vaine it is to thinke these paines should cease,
Where life is death, and death cannot breed peace.
O faire, ô onely faire, from thee, alas,
These foule, most foule, distresses to me fell;
Since thou from me (ô me) ô Sunne didst passe.
Therefore esteeming all good blessings toyes
I joy in griefe, and doo detest all joyes.

Strephon
I joye in griefe, and doo detest all joyes.
And now an ende, (ô Claius) now an ende
For even the hearbes our mournefull musique stroyes,
And from our burning breath the trees doo bende.

352

[Faire rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace?]

[Basilius.]
Faire rocks, goodly rivers, sweet woods, when shall I see peace?

Echo. Peace.

Peace? who debars me my tongue? who is it that comes me so nie?

I.

O I doo know what guest I doo meete: it is Echo.

T'is Echo.

Well mett Echo; aproch, and tell me thy will too.

I will too.

Echo, what doo I get yeelding my sprite to my grieves?

Grieves.

What medicine may I finde for a paine that drawes me to death?

Death.

O pois'nous medicine: what worse to me can be then it?

It.

In what state was I then, when I tooke this deadly disease?

Ease.

And what maner a minde, which had to that humor a vaine?

Vaine.

Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove?

Prove.

Oft prove I: but what salve, when Reason seeks to be gone?

One.

O what is it? what is it, that may be a salve to my love?

Love.

What doo lovers seeke for, long seeking for t'enjoye?

Joye.

What be the joyes, for which t'enjoye they went to the paines?

Paines.

Then to an earnest love what doth best victorie lende?

Ende.

Ende? but I can never ende: Love will not give me the leave.

Leave.

How be the mindes disposde, that cannot taste the Physicke?

Sicke.

Yet say againe th'advice for th'ils that I tolde thee.

I told thee.

Doth th'infected wretch of his ill th'extremitie know?

No.

But if he know not his harmes, what guids hath he whilst he be blind?

Blinde.

What blinde guides can he have that leades to a fancie?

A fancie.

Can fancies wante eyes? or he fall that steppeth aloft?

Oft.

What causes first made these torments on me to light?

Light.

Can then a cause be so light, that forceth a man to goe die?

I.

Yet tell, what light thing I had in me to drawe me to die?

Eye.

Eie-sight made me to yeeld: but what first pearst to my eyes?

Eyes.

353

Eyes hurters? eyes hurte? but what from them to me falls?

Falls.

But when I first did fall, what brought most fall to my harte?

Arte.

Arte? what can be that arte, which thou doost meane by thy speach?

Speach.

What be the fruites of speaking arte, what growes by the wordes?

Wordes.

O much more then wordes: those wordes serv'd more me to blesse.

Lesse.

O when shall I be knowne, where most to be known I doo long?

Longe.

Long be thy woes for such bad newes: how recks she my thoughts?

Oughts.

Then, then what doo I gayne, since unt' her will I doo winde?

Winde.

Winde, tempests, and stormes: yet in ende what gives she desire?

Ire.

Silly rewarde: yet above women hath she a title.

A tittle.

What great name may I give to so heav'nly a woman?

A wo-man.

Woe, but seems to me joye, that agrees to my thought so.

I thought so.

Thinke so: for of my desired blisse it is onely the course.

Course.

Curst be thy selfe for cursing that, which leades me to joyes.

Toyes.

What be the sweete creatures where lowly demaundes be not harde?

Harde.

Harde to be gott, but got constant, to be helde very steeles.

Eeles.

How be they helde unkinde? speake, for th'hast narrowly pry'de.

Pride.

How can pride come there since springs of beautie be thence?

Thence.

Horrible is this blasphemie unto the most holie.

O lye.

Thou li'st, false Echo; their mindes, as vertue, be juste.

Juste.

Mockst thou those Diamonds, which onely be matcht by the Godds?

Odds.

Odds? what an odds is there, since them to the heav'ns I preferre?

Erre.

Tell yet againe, how name ye the goodly made evill?

A devill.

Devill? in hell where such Devill is, to that hell I doo goe.

Goe.

The end of the second Booke.