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1, 2. THE FIRST VOLUME, THE SECOND VOLUME.


1

Britannia's PASTORALS.

The first Booke.

Carmine Dij superi placantur, carmine Manes.
Horat.


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TO THE NO LESSE ENOBLED BY VERTVE, THEN ANCIENT In Nobilitie, the Right Honorable Edvvard Lord Zouch, Saint-Maure, and Cantelupe, and one of his Maiesties most Honourable Privie Covncell.

Honors bright Ray,
More highly crown'd with Vertue thē with yeares,
Pardon a Rusticke Muse that thus appeares
In Shepheards gray,
Intreating your attention to a Lay
Fitting a Siluan Bowre, not Courtly Traines;
Such choiser eares,
Should haue Apollo's Priests, not Pans rude Swaines:
But if the Musick of contented Plaines
A thought vpreares
For your approuement of that part she beares,
When time (that Embrions to perfection brings)
Hath taught her straines,
May better boast their being from the Spring
Where braue Heroës worths the Sisters sing:
(In Lines whose raignes
In spight of Enuy and her restlesse paines:

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Be vnconfin'd as blest eternitie:)
The Vales shall ring
Thy Honor'd Name; and euery Song shall be
A Pyramis built to thy Memorie.
Your Honors: W. Brovvne.

To the Reader.

The times are swolne so big with nicer wits,
That nought sounds good but what Opinion strikes.
Censure with Iudgement seld together sits;
And now the Man more then the Matter likes.
The great Rewardresse of a Poets Pen,
Fame, is by those so clogg'd shee seldome flyes,
The Muses sitting on the graues of men,
Singing that Vertue liues and neuer dyes,
Are chas'd away by the malignant Tongues
Of such, by whom Detraction is ador'd:
Hence growes the want of euer-liuing Songs,
With which our Ile was whilome brauely stor'd.
If such a Basiliske dart downe his Eye,
(Impoyson'd with the dregs of vtmost hate)
To kill the first Bloomes of my Poesie,
It is his worst, and makes me fortunate.
Kinde wits I vaile to, but to fooles precise
I am as confident as they are nice.
W. B. From the Inner Temple, Iune the 18. 1613.

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[Commendatory Verses.]


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By the Same.

So much a Stranger my Seuerer Muse
Is not to Loue-straines, or a Shepwards Reed,
But that She knowes some Rites of Phœbus dues,
Of Pan, of Pallas, and hir Sisters meed.
Reade and Commend She durst these tun'd essaies

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Of Him that loues her (She hath euer found
Hir studies as one circle.) Next She prayes
His Readers be with Rose and Myrtle crown'd!
No Willow touch them! As His

Baies (faire Readers) being the materials of Poets Girlands, (as Myrtle and Roses are for enioying Louers, and the fruitlesse Willow for them which your vnconstancy, too oft, makes most vnhappy) are supposed not subiect to any hurt of Jupiters thunderbolts, as other Trees are.

Baies are free

From wrong of Bolts, so may their Chaplets bee.
I. Selden Iuris C.

To his Friend the Avthor.

Driue forth thy Flock, young Pastor, to that Plaine,
Where our old Shepheards wont their flocks to feed;
To those cleare walkes, where many a skilfull Swaine
To'ards the calme eu'ning, tun'd his pleasant Reed.
Those, to the Muses once so sacred, Downes,
As no rude foot might there presume to stand:
(Now made the way of the vnworthiest Clownes,
Dig'd and plow'd vp with each vnhallowed hand)
If possible thou canst, redeeme those places,
Where, by the brim of many a Siluer Spring,
The learned Maidens, and delightfull Graces
Often haue sate to heare our Shepheards sing:
Where on those Pines the neighb'ring Groues among,
(Now vtterly neglected in these daies)
Our Garlands, Pipes, and Cornamutes were hung
The monuments of our deserued praise.
So may thy Sheepe like, so thy Lambs increase,
And from the Wolfe feed euer safe and free!
So maist thou thriue, among the learned prease,
As thou young Shepheard art belou'd of mee!
Michael Draiton.

To his Ingenious and worthy Friend the Avthor.

He that will tune his Oaten-pipe aright,
To great Apollo's Harp: he that will write
A liuing Poem; must haue many yeeres,

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And setled iudgement 'mongst his equall peeres,
In well-rig'd Barke to steere his doubtfull course;
Lest secret, rocky Enuy, or the source
Of froathy, but sky-towring Arrogance;
Or fleeting, sandy vulgar-censure chance
To leaue him ship-wrackt, on the desert Maine
Imploring aged Neptunes help in vaine.
The younger Cygnet, euen at best doth teare,
With his harsh squealings, the melodious eare:
It is the old, and dying Swan that sings
Notes worthy life, worthy the Thespian Springs.
But thou art young; and yet thy voice as sweet,
Thy Verse as smooth, Composure as discreet
As any Swans, whose tunefull Notes are spent
On Thames his bancks; which makes me confident,
He knowes no Musick, hath nor eares, nor tongue,
That not commends a voice so sweet, so young.

On him; a Pastorall Ode to his fairest Shepheardesse.

Syren more then earthly faire,
Sweetly breake the yeelding Ayre:
Sing on Albions whitest Rocks:
Sing; whilst Willy to his Flocks,
Deftly tunes his various Reed.
Sing; and hee, whilst younglings feed,
Answer shall thy best of singing,
With his Rurall Musicke, bringing
Equall pleasure; and requite
Musickes sweets with like delight.
What though Willyes Songs be plaine?
Sweet they be: for hee's a Swaine
Made of purer mould then earth,
Him did Nature from his birth,

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And the Muses single out,
For a second Colin Clout.
Tityrus made him a Singer:
Pan him taught his Pipe to finger:
Numbers, curious eares to please,
Learn'd he of Philisides.
Kala loues him: and the Lasses
Point at him, as by he passes,
Wishing neuer tongue that's bad
Censure may so blithe a Lad.
Therefore well can he requite
Musicks sweets with like delight:
Sing then; breake the yeelding ayre,
Syren more then earthly faire.
Edvvard Heyward, è So. Int. Templ.

To his Friend the Avthor vpon his Poem.

This Plant is knotlesse that puts forth these leaues,
Vpon whose Branches I his praise doe sing:
Fruitfull the Ground, whose verdure it receiues
From fertile Nature, and the learned Spring.
In zeale to Good; knowne, but vnpractiz'd Ill,
Chast in his thoughts, though in his youthfull Prime,
He writes of Past'rall Loue, with Nectar'd Quill,
And offers vp his first Fruits vnto Time.
Receiue them (Time) and in thy Border place them
Among thy various Flowers of Poesie;
No Enuy blast, nor Ignorance deface them,
But keepe them fresh in fairest Memorie!
And, when from Daphne's tree he plucks more Baies,
His Shepheards Pipe may chant more heau'nly laies.
Christopher Brooke.

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To his Friend the Author.

On (Iolly Lad) and hye thee to the Field
Among the best Swains that the Vallies yeeld;
Goe boldly, and in presence of them all,
Proceed a Shepheard with this Pastorall.
Let Pan, and all his rurall Traine attending,
From stately Mountaines to the Plaines descending,
Salute this Pastor with their kinde embraces;
And entertaine him to their holy places.
Let all the Nymphes of Hills and Dales together
Kisse him for earnest of his welcome thither:
Crowne him with Garlands of the choicest flowres,
And make him euer dwell within their Bowres:
For well I wote in all the Plaines around,
There are but few such Shepheards to be found,
That can such learned Layes and Ditties frame,
Or aptly fit their tunes vnto the same.
And let them all (if this young Swaine should die)
Tune all their Reeds to sing his Memorie.
Tho. Gardiner, è So. Int. Templ.

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To the Avthor.

Had I beheld thy Muse vpon the Stage,
A Poesie in fashion with this age;
Or had I seene, when first I view'd thy taske,
An actiue wit dance in a Satyres Maske,
I should in those haue prais'd thy Wit and Art,
But not thy ground, A Poems better part:
Which being the perfect'st Image of the Braine,
Not fram'd to any base end, but to gaine
True approbation of the Artists worth,
When to an open view he sets it forth,
Iudiciously, he striues; no lesse t'adorne
By a choise Subiect, then a curious Forme:
Well hast thou then past o'er all other rhime,
And in a Pastorall spent thy leasures time:
Where fruit so faire, and field so fruitfull is,
That hard it is to iudge whether in This
The Substance or the fashion more excell,
So precious is the Iem, and wrought so well.
Thus rest thou prais'd of me, Fruit, Field, Iem, Art,
Doe claime much praise to equall such Desart.
W. Ferrar, è So. Med. Templ.

To the Avthor.

Friend, Ile not erre in blazing of thy Worth;
This Worke in truest termes will set it forth:
In these few lines the all I doe intend,
Is but to shew that I haue such a Friend.
Fr. Ovide. è S. In. Templ.

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[Euterpe to her deerest Darling W. B.

Thy lines, thy worth, thy wit to prayse,
Were mine owne honor to upraise,
And those same gifts commend in thee
Which thou received hast of me;
Yet may I boast that by mine aide
All eares to thee are captive made,
And thy (amazed) country-men
Admire, extoll thy golden pen:
Hearing such madrigalls as these
Astonisht is Philisides,
And vanquisht by thy sweeter layes
Forsweares his pipe; yeilds thee the bayes:
Resigns his pipe; yeilds thee the bayes:
And Colyn Clout his oaten reede,
Which did to us such pleasure breede,
Resignes to thee; grieved because his
Mulla by Tavy, vanquisht is.
Marina fayns though in her neede
The storme did helpe; yet shee indeede
Was ravisht, but (tis her excuse)
Twas only with thy sweete-tongu'd muse;
That though the Robin Red-breast fed
Her body, yet sh' ad suffered
Death, hadst not thou with lines refind
As with ambrosia fed her minde,
Doridon weepes (although for who
He trows not) if t'be not for you;
Since thee to write he could not move
One Canto more on his true love:
See how each swaine yt should this day
Before Dame Thetis sing his lay,
Sighing gives backe, for he doth feare
Willy their Captaine won't be there.

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All say thou art the elme (they know)
Wheerby the muses vine doth grow,
And that if Cœlia merit death,
All they must with her loose their breath,
That fairer boughs have pul'd from thee
Than ere grew on Pans golden tree.
Lastly thy Alatheia sayes,
That future times shall sing thy praise,
And th'-after ages strive in vaine,
As thou hast done, to do againe.—
Phil. Papillon, E. Coll. Exon.

Carmina amo, mihi Wille placet tua fistula: fælix! En re sonant laudes illa, vel illa tuas.

But stop my muse, listen to Willys lays,
Harke whiles the Eccho doth resound his praise,
Let others speak, forbid not, but let mee
Thou charminge sweetly, listen unto thee.
P. S. Coll. Ex.

On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.

I'll take thy judgment golden Mydas now,
Nor will of Phœbus harmony allow,
Since Pan hath such a shepheard, whose sweet layes
May claim deservedly the Delphique bayes.
Thrice happy Syrinx, onely great in this,
Thou kissest him in metamorphosis.
Flocke hither satires, learne a roundelay
Of him to grace Sylvanus holyday.
Come hither shepheardes, let your bleating flockes
Of bearded goates browze on the mossy rockes.
Come from Arcadia, banisht shepheardes, come,
Let flourishing Britannia bee your home.

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Crown'd with your anadems and chaplets trim,
And invocate no other Pan but him:
'Tis he can keepe you safe from all your flockes,
From greedy wolfe, or oft beguiling fox:
Let him but tune his notes, and you shall see
The wolfe abandon his rapacity,
And innocently trip and frisk among
Your wanton lambkins at his swanlike song;
Yea had the Thracian sung but half so well,
Hee had not left Euridice in hell,
Then rally swaine, astonish humane eyes,
And let thy Tavy high as Tyber rise.

On the Same.

AN ODE.

Feare not Willy, but goe on
With thy song of Dorydon,
Which will neer surpassed bee
By the best pipe in Arcady.
What though Roger of the plaines,
Hobinoll and other swaynes,
Joynd with Colin of the glen,
Perigot and other men,
Warble sweetly, thou when they
Sung on Pan's last holyday,
Wonst the chaplet which was made,
Hard by Tavy in a glade,
Walla, Marina, Fida too,
Doe thy lasting favour wooe:
The fountains god will rising bee,
From his waters to heare thee;
Hungring for thee makes us rave,
All shut up in Limos cave;

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O bee thou the Redbreast, cherish
Those who but for thee would perish,
Or bee Triton who alone
Mayst remove the mighty stone,
Then in thine honour every shepheard shall
Keepe the day stricter than Pans festivall.
Edw. Hall, e Coll. Exon.

On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.

Cease skilfull Orpheus, whose mellifluous straynes
Have earst made stones and trees skip ore the playnes,
A sweeter harmonye invites our eares
Than ere was sent from the celestiall spheeres:
Cleare Tavy now his silver head may rayse,
A shephearde of his owne can singe his prayse.
Sweet toung'd Arion strive not with such odds,
Thy song moved but the dolphins: his the godds.
O hadst thou daignd to move thy sweeter toung,
The wolfe had stayd to hearken to thy songe;
Had Pans eares suckt the nectar of thy breath,
For thy sake Cælia had beene free from death,
But that the Fates denyde, as who should say
By Willys pen her fame shall live for aye:
Walla a garland will compose noe more,
To crowne her Tavyes temples as before;
But as to them that best deserve the prayse,
She'll give to thee the garland and the bayes,
And if a verse thy glorye may confine,
Thou sing'st Brittannias prayse, Brittannia thine.
Jo. Dynham, e Coll. Exon.

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Uppon the occasion of Readinge this compleet Poem.

TO THE AUTHOR W. BROWNE.

αυτοχεδιαστικον:

1

Cease, cease Pierian dames,
Be henceforth mute,
Leave of your wanton games,
Apollos lute
Hath crackt a stringe: it grates my eares,
'Tis harsh, as are the heavenly spheares:
List Willie sings and tunes his oaten reed,
To whom all hearts, all eares doe yield themsess: as meed.

2

Hearke, hearke, the joylly lad
So sweetly sings,
The vales as proude, as glad
The murmuring springes:
Both joyne to tell the neighbour hills
That theres no musicke like to Willes.
Eccho enamoured one the pipinge swaine
Recovers (sylly wretch!) her voice, repeats each straine.

3

The bucksome sheepheardesse
Hearke! ha! no more?
Ah! what unhappinesse
Wast left us poore,
Bereft by thy neglected songs
Of life, of joy! tell tell wt wrongs
What sad disaster (Willie) is betide,
That we thy laies (not yet half done) should be denyed?

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4

What has some satyre rude,
Wode to those groves
His wily snares bestrewd
To catch your loves?
To tempt a credlous sheepheardesse,
Who crying out in her distresse,
Have made you breake or flinge your pipe away,
Oh no! your charmes would erst have made the monster stay.

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Or is your pipe ybroke,
And 'twill not sounde?
Goe, goe unto the oake
By yonder mounde:
Take Colins pipe (there't hangs) in hand,
Or if not that you may command
The whillome jolly swaine's Philicides,
But ah your broken pipe will sound as well as these.

6

Has subtell Reynard caught
A friskinge lambe,
Or the fearce woolfe distraught
The bleatinge dam?
And you by riffling of their folds,
Which to regaine your sport witholds,
Or has your lagginge ewe a lambkin yean'd,
Which makes you cease your notes, and midwifrie attend.

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Or did some sheepheards boy
(Thy layes are good,)
Nod's head or pause and coy,
He understood,

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Not that it which he did soe taunt
(If there were such) dull ignorant,
Or else despairinge ere to rise so high,
Would worke thee swaine from thy deserved supremacy.

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Did the round yesterday,
Which thou beganst
Soe merriely to play,
Thou them entraunct'st?
O did they rayse thy worth soe high,
And made thee blush for modestie:
Did they with garlands girt thy curled locks,
Cald thee fine piper while thou lookest all griefe for mocks.

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And wd th' had wood thee too,
A second part,
Cause from their promisd vow
They gan to start:
In which th' hadst bound their seely swaine,
Nor to commend nor praise thy veine,
Yet when they did begin, and who could spare?
Thou cruell tor'st thy chaplets, and wouldst willow weare.

10

See cruell faire, see, see
Each sheapheards brow,
That wont to smile with glee,
Is tearswolne now;
And prisninge up their pearly wealth,
The straglinge drops get out by stealth,
Yet could they hope to win thee for their prize,
To finish up thy song theyde bankerupt all their eyes.

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The pretty birds were mute
To heare thee singe,
And see the shepheard youth
All wantonninge;
When having ceast thy noates all fitty,
They all reservd there mournful dittye:
Philomel fearinge tis her fate denyes,
Thy sweeter accents falls into thy breast and dyes.

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The winds that erst were whist
Beginne to roare,
Each tree yr songes beinge mist,
Skreeks as before:
Each sproutinge pauncie in the meade
For greife begins to hang a head,
The weepinge brooke in grumblinge tones glide[s] doune,
Dimples its once sleeke cheeks, and thanks you with a frowne.

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Come, come lets heare your skill,
Here say you can't,
Wt are you angrie still,
By Pan you sha'nt.
Nere let your modestie deprive
Y' of what will keepe your name alive,
Whilst ore the curld-haird-Tavies flowery side
There does on[e] shepheard lodge or seely sheepe abide.

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Oh let not nice conceit,
You are too younge,
That there are lads more feete
Ith shepheards thronge,

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Who better able are to distill
There soule in sonnets at their will,
If still to me you be obdurate then,
Let sheepe, birds, trees, winds, flowers, brooks, teach thee melt again.
Sam. Hardinge, E. Coll. Exon.

To the now unparelleled Sydney of his time, W. B., the ingenuous Author of Brittannia's Pastorals.

Play on thy pipe new lessons, Willy strike
More such as these which may each shepheard like,
And if it chaunce Thetys doe once againe
Visit our coasts, bee thou the elected swayne,
To greet her with thy layes, let her admire
The varying accents of thy matchlesse lyre,
And so affect thee for thy poems sake,
Adopt thee hers, and thee her usher make,
But leave us not, blithe swayne, let Tavys streame
Leave of to murmurre listning to thy theame,
Lest thy sweet layes so great effect obtayne,
As here on land, so there upon the mayne,
As lasses here admired thy matchlesse verse,
So there the sea-nimphs still thy praise rehearse,
Twixt both a great contention it will breed,
Who hath most interest in thyne oaten reed,
Which harder will appeased bee than theires
Who strove to bee esteemed the blind bards heires:
Those claime thee theires in that thou dost forsake
Thy native cotes, and there thy mansion make:
The lambkins heere did friske to heare thee play,
Lesse nourished by theire grasse than with thy lay;
So would the dolphins then attend thy song,
And none left Triton whom to ride upon,

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Which might incense him seeing one the frye,
And vaster sholes pressing to come most nye,
To heare thy melody, and to refuse
His trumpets sounds, to which they still did use
Before to thronge, to pry thee do not come,
But sweetly pipen at thy native home,
Continue still with us, and let our vales
Reverberate in eccho thy sweet tales.
Chr. Gewen, e Coll. Exon.

An Ode entreating him to proceed in the continuation of his Brittannias Pastorals.

Willy see but how the swaines
Mourne thy silence on the plaines,
And do sadly pace along,
Cause they cannot heare thy song;
Roget grieves: these notes would heare,
Faine which ravishd earst his eare,
And to hear thy song alway
In his prison would he stay,
With most willingness then bee
Deprived thereof, though set free.
He and Cuddy, that blith swayne,
Whose flockes feed on yonder playne,
Would bee glad their skill to trye
At your opportunitye,
And though sent to bee one tome,
They would undergoe thy doome,
And bee glad to yeeld to thee,
To whom is due all victorye,
Tis their wish each place could tell,
Thy conquests like Saint Dunstanes well,
And that thy pipe would sound so well,
As't whilome did in thicke same dell;

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Dorydon mourns 'cause his sweet
Guided is not by thy feet,
To her haven of wisht joy,
But is left to all annoy
By thy crueltye, he feares
Least by this shee's drownd in teares:
Old swaines would dye, could they have
Thee but write upon theire grave
Sith affoored thou wilt not all
Once to heare thy pastorall.
Each shepheardesse doth lament,
Cause thou art theire discontent,
And had it been another lad
Which theire wakes thus hindred had,
Theyd reveng it, and with speed
Discard his silent oaten reed,
But thy former layes have got
Thee praises neer to bee forgot,
Therefore they forbeare to spoyle
Thy pipe which hath given the foyle
To opposers: nor would bee
Cruell to thy pipe or thee.
All the swaines are yonder sate
On the hillocke, and are mete,
To celebrate Pans festivall
With some pleasing madrigall,
But theyre dumb, and so will bee,
Lesse that thou augment their glee,
For their custome's at this feast,
Here mongst shepheards that the best
Must begin, and then each one
Follows till they all have done.
Why dost then thy musique linger,
And suppresse theires? they would finger
Willingly their pipes, they stay
But till thou thy lesson play.

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Hye thee, Willye, hye apace,
With all speed to the place
Where the shepheards are set round,
Wayting there till thy pipe sound,
At thy tuning, when thy lay
Thou hast ended, they will play,
For which art brave Thetys shall
Crowne with praise thy madrigall,
And Pan himselfe shall always bee
A patron to thy muse and thee,
When that he knowes in this her matchlesse lay,
Thy muse keepes his, not her own holyday.
B. N.

To the Authour, W. B.

Rivers be silent, peace you muses nine,
Orpheus be dumbe, for now no praise is thine;
Bend all your eares unto Britannia's peere,
Ever be praising, nere to praise him feare;
Right as the painters garnish with theire sable
Their brighter colours in a curious table.
Time so will place thee in the shield of fame,
As chiefe of men t'immortalize thy name;
Yet why should I with rude rimes seeke to raise thee,
Let every sonnet in thy pastorals praise thee;
O dasht Apollo, hide thy face for shame,
Render to shepheards henceforth all the fame.
E. Coll. Exon.

On the Author, W. B.

Shall I implore the muses nine,
To grace with sweetes my ruder line,
When all the art the muses cann
Are sweetely sung within this spann?

24

Or shal I invocate great Pann
To tune the song thy pipe best cann?
Pann swore to me the other day
He broke his pipe, and ran to heare thy lay.
Apollo lend thy sacred quill,
That I may chant a note more shrill.
Alas! Apollos drownd in teares,
To see a god oer rule his spheares;
Lets see what golden Spenser cann,
Hees dead, and thou the living mann:
The godde I see can weare no bayes
But what is pluckt from thy bright layes;
If Pann a song more smoother sings,
Tis cause twas dipt in Tavies springs.
Ro. Tayler, Exon. Coll.

To the unparalleled Author of the sequent Poems, W. B.

Haile Albions swaine, whose worthy brow those bayes
G'en to the victor in Pans pastoral playes,
Ere since thy pipes first birth have bound, whose toungue
Our loves on once lovd Syrinx freely sounge,
When mountains heads and storm wrongd shrubs did cast
Theyre long shades westward, and when shepheards hast,
To 'nbed their pended flocks, how ofte amonge
The various sonnets of a neighbouring thronge
Hast thou enchanted with a strong desire,
To learne thy accents great Sylvanus quire,
Who like younge infants willing to obtaine
Their nurses dialect and perfect straine,
Labored a repetition; heare the thrush
Stroove with his whistell; in next bordring bush,
Shrouded about, was the small redbreast set,
With listning eares, and unwiling to lett

25

Nought passe turned eccho to thy tunes, above
The soring larke did meditating move
Her gutling tounge, but each in vaine, at last
Though out of tune, proud Philomels distast,
To heare a rivall did dispose the choice
Of natrall notes into an artlike voice,
Thy heavenly harmonie sounding below
Among the vales, the river gods did draw
Above theyre streames shaking their silver haire,
Then lifted up the anthumes seemed more rare,
Rap'd with such musicke theire cold monarchie
Abandoned straight, they mounted up on hie,
There stood attentive all, as if uppon
Parnassus topp, Apollos station,
Hee harping lay, and with smooth Mercurie
Had shared the spheares by better melodie;
Thus long in admiration of both layes,
They gave the sentence, thou obtainest the praise,
And with insinuation did entreat
That Tavies banckes myght be thy frequent seat:
They had theire will, thou yealdst a loth consent,
Thy windes must calme theire swelling element,
And heare the water nymphes eer since that time,
Wee hindes remembering thy mellifluous rime,
Covett to drive our cheretie flockes alonge
That crystall lake to heare thy wonted songe,
That song which metamorphosed raping bares,
And trained the crafty fox into her snares,
The happier fates had favoured faire Marine,
Had thy lipps wood for her her Celadine,
If Rennard could persuade as thou canst move,
Had changd to hate that beauties disdaind love,
Nor had the labor of a deity
Needed to quicken her mortality,
Thy charming voice had don't, for thy songs sake
Caron had wherried from the Stygian lake

26

Againe her ghost, nor hath thy peerlesse verse
Don lesse, thou must immortalize thy herse,
Thoust quite forsook Pans sports, the more the griefe,
His joy the more, thou absent, he's the chiefe;
Weeve lost thy fellowship, not lost thy fame,
We'll teach our children to adore thy name.
When as our Cornish or Devonian swaines
Still sport among their lamkins on the plaines,
Or celebrate their festivalls, wee'll raise
Our old reed once to Pans, twice to thy praise;
And when great Jove thy soul angelicall
Shall summon us to singe thy madrigall,
Our [OMITTED] shall want their tallow, but we'll burn
Continual candels on thy lasting urne.
Nich. Downey, Coll. Exon.

Idem ad Eundem.

AN ODE.

I hearde the mountaine gods complaine,
Sweet Willy thou neglects thy straine,
And that thou wouldst not blesse againe
Thy fellow swaine.
The sisters did bewaile,
That hee whose notes did oft assaile
Apollos skill, yea did prevaile,
Their art disdaines.
What if some forward stub-chind boy
Takes upp a reed, and dos employ
His artlesse lipps, can this annoy
Thy sweeter song?

27

Could thy exactnesse brooke a foile,
Without disparagement; their soile
Commends thy toungue more smoothe than oile,
Our sports amonge.
Great Pan eer since thou wentst away,
Has mist the glories of his day,
No shepheard dares begin a lay
To honor him.
Behold how all our joyes do turne
To sadnesse, see hot sighs which burne
Our brests, look how our swolne eyes mourne
And weepe till drie.
Our crooks are trailed along the ground,
Our pipes grow dumb, or sadly sound,
No flowrie chaplets eer hath crownd,
Since thine a browe.
Each shepheardesse as in despaire,
Mean more to be proclaimed faire,
T'fitt time to trim her fluent haire
Doth scarce allow.
Our lambs doe leave to skipp about,
And ape their dames sad pace throughout,
The hills with woes, as if they doubt
Securitie.
Now thou art absent, whose smooth reed
Did in the woulfs and tigers breed
A nature tame, and thus them freed
From crueltie.

28

Each muse, godd, sheep, and shepheards all,
Joyn in the art thy madrigall,
For Pans sake at thy festivall
Renew thy straines.
Why should that spright which sored so hie
Above the ken of emulous eye,
Eer Doridon be finishd die,
And shun our playnes.
N. D. Ex. Coll.

On the Author of Brittanias Matchlesse (though unfinisht) Pastorals.

1

Looke how the dying swan on Tagus shore,
Singing a lullaby to her last sleepe,
Tyes to her golden tongue the leaping ore,
And bindes th' ashamed water nymphs to keepe
Eternall silence, whilst the dumbe waves stay,
And dare not with their murmuring pebles play,
Or through the whistling rushes take their wonted way.

2

Looke how the gentle breath of southerne gales,
Buzzing their tunes amongst the querulous reedes,
Or whispering musicke to the sounding vales,
In all the aery nation envy breedes,
And into sleepe the lazy groomes doth rocke,
Or calls th' amazed sheapheard from his flocke,
And prompts the strayning eccho of the neighbouring rocke.

29

3

So sate our noble Willy, happy swayne,
With peerelesse songs incroaching sorrow drowning,
And Tavyes curled locks (who danc't amaine
Unto his pipe) with bayes immortall crowning,
The whilst the woods their leafy heads inclined,
In listening wise, and mixt their envious winde
With those more heavenly aires which in his voyce they finde.

4

Once when the jolly lad began a lay,
Of his Marina's fate, the wondring route
Of neighbouring swaynes, leaving their wonted play,
Ran to incircle their new Pan about,
Where growne forgetful of theire former care,
Although they fed on nought but his sweet ayre,
Vowd that the quintessence of nectar was their fare.

5

And as their captive soules were chained unto
The charming pipe; when they it least suspected,
The smiles and winkes which forth did steale, would show
How much that loved sound they all respected,
And all amased in a deep extasy
Would sweare he was some chorister of the sky,
Or (though their eyes sayd no) Phœbus owne deity.

6

Each peerelesse nymph that baths her dewy curls
In too too happy Tavyes chrystall waves,
Into the singing ecchoing champion hurles,
And there our Willyes head with flowers embraves,
Robs her own bankes, and decks a coronet
With blushing roses and the violet,
Which on the head of her admired swayne is set.

30

7

The merry emulous songsters of the wood
In silence listened to his better song,
And the soft murmurs of the bubbling flood
(Which seemed to laugh as he did ride along)
Presumed to beare the burthen of his lay,
The whilst the jocund satyres all would say
They were not half so blest even on Pan's holyday.

8

But midst these thankful shouts and signes of joy,
Whilst all expect to see a happy close,
Upon the sudden starts the peevish boy,
And runs away in haste as from his foes:
Nor can our speaking sighs, and begging teares,
Nor all our prayers and plaints he daily heares,
Or melt his stubborn heart, or banish his vain feares.

9

So, when as Philomel her haplesse fate
Unto the tell-tale eccho doth bemoane,
The whilst some envious bough presents in hate
A dagger to her breast, and there is none
That praises not her musicks heavenly grace,
The bashful bird with leaves doth vaile her face,
Or to her shrowd and tombe some thicket, flyes apace.

10

And now he hauntes the woodes and silent groves,
(Poore lad) and teaches silence to the windes,
H'as now forgot our sports and harmlesse loves,
Ah can such deeds agree with heavenly mindes;
Great flakes of moss, bred in some silent cave,
Stop his pipes mouth, and now his spirit leave,
Now a dead soule entombed within a living grave.

31

11

But Willy boy, let not eternall sleepe
Captive thy sprightly muse; so shall we all
Rejoice at her new life, and henceforth keepe
Unto thy name a yearly festivall;
May shee but impe her wings with thy blest pen,
And take her wonted flight, heaven says Amen,
The musicke of the spheares shall nere be heard agen.

12

So may a sun shine day smile on our sports,
So may the pretty lambs live free from harme,
So may the tender lasse that here resorts,
Nere feele the clownish winds cold boisterous arm.
As we do love thee Willy, as we all
Do wistly for thy peereless musick call,
And as we plat for thee a matchlesse coronall.
Perigot.]

33

The First Song.

The Argvment.

Marina's Loue ycleep'd the faire,
Celand's disdaine, and her despaire,
Are the first wings my Muse puts on
To reach the sacred Helicon.
I that whileare neere Tauies

Tauie is a riuer, hauing his head in Dertmore in Deuon, some few miles from Marie Tauie, and falls Southward into Tamar: out of the same Moore riseth, running Northward, another called Tau: which by the way the rather I speake of, because in the printed Malmesburie de gest. Pontific. lib. 2, fol. 146. you reade, Est in Domnonia cænobium Monachorum iuxta Tau fluuium, quod Tauistock vocatur: whereas vpon Tau stands (neere the North-side of the Shire) Taustoke, being no remnants of a Monasterie: so that you must there reade, Juxta Taui Fluuium, as in a manuscript Copie of Malmesbury (the forme of the hand assuring Malmesburies time) belonging to the Abbey of S. Augustine in Canterburie I haue seene, in the hands of my very learned Friend Mr. Selden.

stragling spring,

Vnto my seely Sheepe did vse to sing,
And plaid to please my selfe, on rusticke Reed,
Nor sought for Bay, (the learned Shepheards meed,)
But as a Swaine vnkent fed on the plaines,
And made the Eccho vmpire of my straines:

34

Am drawne by time (although the weak'st of many)
To sing those Laies as yet vnsung of any.
What need I tune the Swaines of Thessaly?
Or, bootlesse, adde to them of Arcadie?
No: faire Arcadia cannot be compleater,
My praise may lessen, but not make thee greater.
My Muse for lofty pitches shall not rome,
But homely pipen of her natiue home:
And to the Swaines, Loue rurall Minstralsie,
Thus deare Britannia will I sing of thee.
High on the plaines of that renowned Ile,
Which all men Beauties Garden-plot enstile;
A Shepherd dwelt, whom Fortune had made rich
With all the gifts that silly men bewitch.
Neere him a Shepherdesse for beauties store
Vnparalell'd of any Age before.
Within those Brests her face a flame did moue,
Which neuer knew before what twas to loue,
Dazeling each Shepherds sight that viewd her eies.
And as the Persians did Idolatrise
Vnto the Sunne: they thought that Cinthia's light
Might well be spar'd, where she appear'd in night.
And as when many to the goale doe runne,
The prize is giuen neuer but to one;
So first, and onely Celandine was led,
Of Destinies and Heauen much fauoured,
To gaine this Beauty, which I here doe offer
To memory: his paines (who would not proffer
Paines for such pleasures?) were not great nor much,
But that his labours recompence was such
As counteruailed all: for she whose passion,
(And passion oft is loue) whose inclination
Bent all her course to him-wards, let him know
He was the Elme whereby her Vine did grow:
Yea, told him, when his tongue began this taske,
She knew not to deny when he would aske.

35

Finding his suit as quickly got as mou'd,
Celandine, in his thoughts not well approu'd
What none could disallow, his loue grew fained,
And what he once affected now disdained.
But faire Marina (for so was she call'd)
Hauing in Celandine her loue install'd,
Affected so this faithlesse Shepherds Boy,
That she was rapt beyond degree of ioy.
Briefly, shee could not liue one houre without him,
And thought no ioy like theirs that liu'd about him.
This variable Shepherd for a while
Did Natures Iewell by his craft beguile:
And still the perfecter her loue did grow,
His did appeare more counterfeit in show.
Which she perceiuing that his flame did slake,
And lou'd her onely for his Trophies sake:
“For hee that's stuffed with a faithlesse rumour,
“Loues only for his lust and for his humour:
And that he often in his merry fit
Would say, his good came, ere he hop'd for it:
His thoughts for other subiects being prest,
Esteeming that as nought which he possest:
“For what is gotten but with little paine,
“As little griefe we take to lose againe:
Well-minded Marine grieuing, thought it strange
That her ingratefull Swaine did seeke for change.
Still by degrees her cares grew to the full,
Ioyes to the wane, heart-rending griefe did pull
Her from her selfe, and she abandon'd all
To cries and teares, fruits of a funerall:
Running, the mountaines, fields, by watry springs,
Filling each caue with wofull ecchoings;
Making in thousand places her complaint,
And vttering to the trees what her teares meant.
“For griefes conceal'd (proceeding from desire)
“Consume the more, as doth a close pent fire.

36

Whilst that the daies sole Eye doth guild the Seas,
In his daies iourney to th' Antipodes:
And all the time the Ietty-Chariotere
Hurles her blacke mantle through our Hemisphere,
Vnder the couert of a sprouting Pine
She sits and grieues for faithlesse Celandine.
Beginning thus: Alas! and must it be
That Loue which thus torments and troubles me
In setling it, so small aduice hath lent
To make me captiue, where enfranchisement
Cannot be gotten? nor where, like a slaue,
The office due to faithfull Prisoners, haue?
Oh cruell Celandine, why shouldst thou hate
Her, who to loue thee, was ordain'd by Fate!
Should I not follow thee, and sacrifice
My wretched life to thy betraying eies?
Aye me! of all my most vnhappy lot;
What others would, thou maist, and yet wilt not.
Haue I reiected those that me ador'd,
To be of him, whom I adore, abhor'd?
And pass'd by others teares, to make election
Of one, that should so passe-by my affection?
I haue: and see the heau'nly powers intend,
“To punish sinners in what they offend.
May be he takes delight to see in me
The burning rage of hellish Iealousie;
Tries if in fury any loue appeares;
And bathes his ioy within my floud of teares.
But if he lou'd to soile my spotlesse soule,
And me amongst deceiued Maids enroule,
To publish to the world my open shame:
Then, heart, take freedome; hence, accursed flame;
And, as Queene regent, in my heart shall moue
Disdaine, that only ouer-ruleth Loue:
By this infranchiz'd sure my thoughts shall be,
And in the same sort loue, as thou lou'st me.

37

But what? or can I cancell or vnbinde
That which my heart hath seal'd & loue hath sign'd?
No, no, griefe doth deceiue me more each houre;
“For, who so truly loues, hath not that power.
I wrong to say so, since of all 'tis knowne,
“Who yeelds to loue doth leaue to be her owne.
But what auailes my liuing thus apart?
Can I forget him? or out of my heart
Can teares expulse his Image? surely no.
“We well may flie the place, but not the woe:
“Loues fire is of a nature which by turnes
“Consumes in presence, and in absence burnes.
And knowing this: aye me! vnhappy wight!
What meanes is left to helpe me in this plight?
And from that peeuish shooting, hood-winckt elfe,
To repossesse my Loue, my heart, my selfe?
Onely this helpe I finde, which I elect:
Since what my life nor can nor will effect,
My ruine shall: and by it, I shall finde,
“Death cures (when all helps faile) the grieued mind.
And welcome here, (then Loue, a better guest)
That of all labours are the onely rest:
Whilst thus I liue, all things discomfort giue,
The life is sure a death wherein I liue:
Saue life and death doe differ in this one,
That life hath euer cares, and death hath none.
But if that he (disdainfull Swaine) should know
That for his loue I wrought my ouerthrow;
Will he not glory in't? and from my death
Draw more delights, & giue new ioyes their breath?
Admit he doe, yet better 'tis that I
Render my selfe to Death then Misery.
I cannot liue, thus barred from his sight,
Nor yet endure, in presence, any wight
Should loue him but my selfe. O reasons eye,
How art thou blinded with vilde Iealousie!

38

And is it thus? Then which shall haue my blood,
Or certaine ruine, or vncertaine good?
Why do I doubt? Are we not still aduiz'd
“That certaintie in all things best is priz'd?
Then, if a certaine end can helpe my mone,
“Know Death hath certaintie, but Life hath none.
Here is a Mount, whose top seemes to despise
The farre inferiour Vale that vnder lies:
Who like a great man raisd aloft by Fate,
Measures his height by others meane estate:
Neere to whose foot there glides a siluer-flood,
Falling from hence, Ile climb vnto my good:
And by it finish Loue and Reasons strife,
And end my misery as well as life.
But as a Cowards hartener in warre,
The stirring Drum, keepes lesser noyse from farre:
So seeme the murmuring waues, tell in mine eare,
That guiltlesse bloud was neuer spilled there.
Then stay a while; the Beasts that haunt those springs,
Of whom I heare the fearefull bellowings,
May doe that deed, (as moued by my cry)
Whereby my soule, as spotlesse Iuory,
May turn from whence it came, and, freed from hence,
Be vnpolluted of that foule offence.
But why protract I time? Death is no stranger:
“And generous spirits neuer feare for danger:
“Death is a thing most naturall to vs,
“And Feare doth onely make it odious.
As when to seeke her food abroad doth roue
The Nuncius of peace, the seely Doue,
Two sharpe-set hawkes doe her on each side hem,
And she knowes not which way to flie from them:
Or like a ship that tossed to and fro
With wind and tide; the wind doth sternly blow,
And driues her to the Maine, the tide comes sore
And hurles her backe again towards the shore.

39

And since her balast, and her sailes doe lacke,
One brings her out, the other beats her backe:
Till one of them increasing more his shockes,
Hurles her to shore, and rends her on the Rockes:
So stood she long, twixt Loue and Reason tost,
Vntill Despaire (who where it comes rules most)
Wonne her to throw her selfe, to meet with Death,
From off the Rocke into the floud beneath.
The waues that were aboue when as she fell,
For feare flew backe againe into their Well;
Doubting ensuing times on them would frowne,
That they so rare a beauty helpt to drowne.
Her fall, in griefe, did make the streame so rore,
That sullen murmurings fill'd all the shore.
A Shepheard (neere this floud that fed his sheepe,
Who at this chance left grazing and did weepe)
Hauing so sad an obiect for his eyes,
Left Pipe and Flocke, and in the water flyes,
To saue a Iewell, which was neuer sent
To be possest by one sole Element:
But such a worke Nature disposde and gaue,
Where all the Elements concordance haue.
He tooke her in his armes, for pittie cride,
And brought her to the Riuers further side:
Yea, and he sought by all his Art and paine,
To bring her likewise to her selfe againe:
While she that by her fall was senselesse left,
And almost in the waues had life bereft,
Lay long, as if her sweet immortall spirit
Was fled some other Palace to inherit.
But as cleere Phœbus, when some foggy cloud
His brightnesse from the world a while doth shrowd,
Doth by degrees begin to shew his light
Vnto the view: Or, as the Queene of night,
In her increasing hornes, doth rounder grow,
Till full and perfect she appeare in show:

40

Such order in this Maid the Shepheard spies,
When she began to shew the world her eyes.
Who (thinking now that she had past Deaths dreame,
Occasion'd by her fall into the streame,
And that Hells Ferriman did then deliuer
Her to the other side th' infernall Riuer)
Said to the Swaine: O Charon, I am bound
More to thy kindnesse, then all else, that round
Come thronging to thy Boat: thou hast past ouer
The wofulst Maid that ere these shades did couer:
But prithee Ferriman direct my Spright
Where that blacke Riuer runs that Lethe hight,
That I of it (as other Ghosts) may drinke,
And neuer of the world, or Loue, more thinke,
The Swaine perceiuing by her words ill sorted,
That she was wholly from her selfe transported:
And fearing left those often idle fits
Might cleane expell her vncollected wits:
Faire Nymph, (said he) the powers aboue deny
So faire a Beauty should so quickly die.
The Heauens vnto the World haue made a loane,
And must for you haue interest, Three for One:
Call backe your thoughts ore-cast with dolours night;
Do you not see the day, the heauens, the light?
Doe you not know in Plutoes darksome place
The light of heauen did neuer shew his face?
Do not your pulses beat, y'are warme, haue breath,
Your sense is rapt with feare, but not with death?
I am not Charon, nor of Plutoes host;
Nor is there flesh and bloud found in a Ghost:
But as you see, a seely Shepheards swaine,
Who though my meere reuenues be the traine
Of milk-white sheepe, yet am I ioyd as much,
In sauing you, (O, who would not saue such?)
As euer was the wandring youth of Greece,
That brought, from Colchos, home, the golden Fleece.

41

The neuer-too-much-praised faire Marine,
Hearing those words, beleeu'd her eares and eyne:
And knew how she escaped had the flood
By meanes of this young Swaine that neere her stood.
Whereat for griefe she gan againe to faint,
Redoubling thus her cryes and sad complaint:
Alas! and is that likewise barr'd from me,
Which for all persons else lies euer free?
Will life, nor death, nor ought abridge my paine?
But liue still dying, dye to liue againe?
Then most vnhappy I! which finde most sure,
The wound of Loue neglected is past cure.
Most cruell God of Loue (if such there be),
That still to my desires art contrarie!
Why should I not in reason this obtaine,
That as I loue, I may be lou'd againe?
Alas! with thee too, Nature playes her parts,
That fram'd so great a discord tweene two harts:
One flyes, and alwayes doth in hate perseuer;
The other followes, and in loue growes euer.
Why dost thou not extinguish cleane this flame,
And plac't on him that best deserues the same?
Why had not I affected some kinde youth,
Whose euery word had beene the word of Truth?
Who might haue had to loue, and lou'd to haue,
So true a Heart as I to Celand gaue.
For Psyches loue! if beautie gaue thee birth,
Or if thou hast attractiue power on earth,
Dame Venus sweetest Childe, requite this loue.
Or Fate yeeld meanes my soule may hence remoue!
Once seeing in a spring her drowned eyes,
O cruell beautie, cause of this, (she cryes,)
Mother of Loue, (my ioyes most fatall knife)
That workst her death, by whom thy selfe hast life!
The youthfull Swaine that heard this louing Saint
So oftentimes to poure forth such complaint,

42

Within his heart such true affection prais'd,
And did perceiue kinde loue and pittie rais'd
His minde to sighs; yea, beautie forced this,
That all her griefe he thought was likewise his.
And hauing brought her what his lodge affords,
Sometime he wept with her, sometime with words
Would seeke to comfort; when alas poore elfe
He needed then a comforter himselfe.
Daily whole troopes of griefe vnto him came,
For her who languish'd of another flame.
If that she sigh'd, he thought him lou'd of her,
When 'twas another saile her wind did stirre:
But had her sighs and teares beene for this Boy,
Her sorrow had beene lesse, and more her ioy.
Long time in griefe he hid his loue-made paines,
And did attend her walkes in woods and plaines:
Bearing a fuell, which her Sun-like eies
Enflam'd, and made his heart the sacrifice.
Yet he, sad Swaine, to shew it did not dare;
And she, lest he should loue, nie dy'd for feare.
She, euer-wailing, blam'd the powers aboue,
That night nor day giue any rest to Loue.
He prais'd the Heauens in silence, oft was mute,
And thought with teares and sighs to winne his sute.
Once in the shade, when she by sleepe repos'd,
And her cleere eies twixt her faire lids enclos'd;
The Shepheard Swaine began to hate and curse
That day vnfortunate, which was the nurse
Of all his sorrowes. He had giuen breath
And life to her which was his cause of death.
O Æsops Snake, that thirstest for his bloud,
From whom thy selfe receiu'dst a certaine good.
Thus oftentimes vnto himselfe alone
Would he recount his griefe, vtter his mone;
And after much debating, did resolue
Rather his Grandame earth should cleane inuolue

43

His pining bodie, ere he would make knowne
To her, what Tares Loue in his breast had sowne.
Yea, he would say when griefe for speech hath cride;
“Tis better neuer aske than be denide.
But as the Queene of Riuers, fairest Thames,
That for her buildings other flouds enflames
With greatest enuie: Or the Nymph of Kent,
That stateliest Ships to Sea hath euer sent;
Some baser groome, for lucres hellish course,
Her channell hauing stopt, kept backe her sourse,
(Fill'd with disdaine) doth swell aboue her mounds,
And ouerfloweth all the neighb'ring grounds,
Angry she teares vp all that stops her way,
And with more violence runnes to the Sea:
So the kinde Shepheards griefe (which long vppent
Grew more in power, and longer in extent)
Forth of his heart more violently thrust,
And all his vow'd intentions quickly burst.
Marina hearing sighs, to him drew neere,
And did intreat his cause of griefe to heare:
But had she knowne her beautie was the sting
That caused all that instant sorrowing;
Silence in bands her tongue had stronger kept,
And sh'ad not ask'd for what the Shepheard wept.
The Swaine first, of all times, this best did thinke,
To shew his loue, whilst on the Riuers brinke
They sate alone, then thought, hee next would moue her
With sighs and teares, (true tokens of a Louer:)
And since she knew what helpe from him she found
When in the Riuer she had else beene drown'd,
He thinketh sure she cannot but grant this,
To giue reliefe to him, by whom she is:
By this incited, said; Whom I adore,
Sole Mistresse of my heart, I thee implore,
Doe not in bondage hold my freedome long.
And since I life or death hold from your tongue,

44

Suffer my heart to loue; yea, dare to hope
To get that good of loues intended scope.
Grant I may praise that light in you I see,
And dying to my selfe, may liue in thee.
Faire Nymph, surcease this death-alluring languish,
So rare a beautie was not borne for anguish.
Why shouldst thou care for him that cares not for thee?
Yea, most vnworthy wight, seemes to abhorre thee.
And if he be as you doe here paint forth him,
He thinkes you, best of beauties, are not worth him;
That all the ioies of Loue will not quite cost
For all lou'd-freedome which by it is lost.
Within his heart such selfe-opinion dwels,
That his conceit in this he thinkes excels;
Accounting womens beauties sugred baits,
That neuer catch, but fooles, with their deceits:
“Who of himselfe harbours so vaine a thought,
“Truly to loue could neuer yet be brought.
Then loue that heart where lies no faithlesse seed,
That neuer wore dissimulations weed:
Who doth account all beauties of the Spring,
That iocund Summer-daies are vshering,
As foiles to yours. But if this cannot moue
Your minde to pittie, nor your heart to loue;
Yet sweetest grant me loue to quench that flame,
Which burnes you now. Expell his worthlesse name,
Cleane root him out by me, and in his place
Let him inhabit, that will runne a race
More true in loue. It may be for your rest.
And when he sees her, who did loue him best,
Possessed by another, he will rate
The much of good he lost, when 'tis too late:
“For what is in our powers, we little deeme,
“And things possest by others, best esteeme.
If all this gaine you not a Shepherds wife,
Yet giue not death to him which gaue you life.

45

Marine the faire, hearing his wooing tale,
Perceiued well what wall his thoughts did scale.
And answer'd thus: I pray sir Swaine, what boot
Is it to me to plucke vp by the root
My former loue, and in his place to sow
As ill a seed, for any thing I know?
Rather gainst thee I mortall hate retaine,
That seek'st to plant in me new cares, new paine:
Alas! th' hast kept my soule from deaths sweet bands,
To giue me ouer to a Tyrants hands;
Who on his racks will torture by his power,
This weakned, harmelesse body, euery howre.
Be you the Iudge, and see if reasons lawes
Giue recompence of fauour for this cause:
You from the streames of death, brought life on shore;
Releas'd one paine, to giue me ten times more.
For loues sake, let my thoughts in this be free;
Obiect no more your haplesse sauing mee:
That Obligation which you thinke should binde;
Doth still increase more hatred in my minde;
Yea, I doe thinke more thankes to him were due
That would bereaue my life, than vnto you.
The Thunder-stroken Swaine lean'd to a tree,
As void of sense as weeping Niobe:
Making his teares the instruments to wooe her,
The Sea wherein his loue should swimme vnto her:
And, could there flow from his two-headed font,
As great a floud as is the Hellespont;
Within that deepe he would as willing wander,
To meet his Hero, as did ere Leander.
Meane while the Nymph with-drew her selfe aside,
And to a Groue at hand her steps applide.
With that sad sigh (O! had he neuer seene,
His heart in better case had euer beene)
Against his heart, against the streame he went,
With this resolue, and with a full intent,

46

When of that streame he had discouered
The fount, the well-spring, or the bubling head,
He there would sit, and with the Well drop vie,
That it before his eies would first runne drie:
But then he thought the

Dea fanè, i. Nymphæ, pierumque fontibus & fluuijs præfunt apud poetas, quæ, Ephydriades, & Naiades dictæ: verum & nobis tamen deum præficere (sic Alpheum Tyberinum, & Rhenum, & idegnus alios divos legimus) haud illicitum.

god that haunts that Lake,

The spoiling of his Spring would not well take.
And therefore leauing soone the Crystall flood,
Did take his way vnto the neerest Wood:
Seating himselfe within a darksome Caue,
(Such places heauie Saturnists doe craue,)
Where yet the gladsome day was neuer seene,
Nor Phœbus peircing beames had euer beene.
Fit for the Synode house of those fell Legions,
That walke the Mountaines, and Siluanus regions.
Where Tragedie might haue her full scope giuen,
From men aspects, and from the view of heauen.
Within the same some crannies did deliuer
Into the midst thereof a pretty Riuer;
The Nymph whereof came by out of the veines
Of our first mother, hauing late tane paines
In scouring of her channell all the way,
From where it first began to leaue the Sea.
And in her labour thus farre now had gone,
When cōming through the Caue, she heard that one
Spake thus: If I doe in my death perseuer,
Pittie may that effect, which Loue could neuer.
By this she can coniecture 'twas some Swaine,
Who ouerladen by a Maids disdaine,
Had here (as fittest) chosen out a place,
Where he might giue a period to the race
Of his loath'd life: which she (sor pitties sake)
Minding to hinder, diu'd into her Lake,
And hastned where the euer-teeming Earth
Vnto her Current giues a wished birth;
And by her new-deliuered Riuers side,
Vpon a Banke of flow'rs, had soone espide

47

Remond, young Remond, that full well could sing,
And tune his Pipe at Pans-birth carolling:
Who for his nimble leaping, sweetest layes,
A Lawrell garland wore on Holy-dayes;
In framing of whose hand Dame Nature swore
There neuer was his like, nor should be more:
Whose locks (insnaring nets) were like the rayes,
Wherewith the Sunne doth diaper the Seas:
Which if they had been cut, and hung vpon
The snow-white Cliffes of fertile Albion,
Would haue allured more, to be, their winner,
Then all the

Iulium Cæsarem, spe Margaritarū Britanniam petisse, scribit Sueton. in Iul. cap. 47. & ex ijs Thoracem factum Veneri genetrici dicâsse. Plin. Hist. Nat. 9, ca. 35. De Margartiis verò nostris consulas Camden. in Cornub. & Somerset.

Diamonds that are hidden in her.

Him she accosted thus: Swaine of the Wreathe,
Thou art not placed, onely here to breathe;
But Nature in thy framing shewes to mee,
Thou shouldst to others, as she did to thee,
Doe good; and surely I my selfe perswade,
Thou neuer wert for euill action made.
In heauens Consistory 'twas decreed,
That choycest fruit should come from choycest seed;
In baser vessels we doe euer put
Basest materials, doe neuer shut
Those Iewels most in estimation set,
But in some curious costly Cabinet.
If I may iudge by th' outward shape alone,
Within, all vertues haue conuention:
“For't giues most lustre vnto Vertues feature,
“When she appeares cloth'd in a goodly creature.
Halfe way the hill, neere to those aged trees,
Whose insides are as Hiues for labring Bees,
(As who should say (before their roots were dead)
For good workes sake and almes, they harboured
Those whom nought else did couer but the Skies:)
A path (vntroden but of Beasts) there lies,
Directing to a Caue in yonder glade,
Where all this Forrests Citizens, for shade

48

At noone-time come, and are the first, I thinke,
That (running through that Caue) my waters drinke:
Within this Rocke there sits a wofull wight,
As void of comfort as that Caue of light;
And as I wot, occasioned by the frownes
Of some coy Shepheardesse that haunts these Downes.
This I doe know (whos'euer wrought his care)
He is a man nye treading to despaire.
Then hie thee thither, since 'tis charitie
To saue a man; leaue here thy flocke with me:
For whilst thou sau'st him from the Stygian Bay,
Ile keepe thy Lambkins from all beasts of prey.
The neernesse of the danger (in his thought)
As it doth euer, more compassion wrought:
So that with reuerence to the Nymph, he went
With winged speed, and hast'ned to preuent
Th' vntimely seisure of the greedy graue:
Breathlesse, at last, he came into the Caue;
Where, by a sigh directed to the man,
To comfort him he in this sort began:
Shepheard all haile, what meane these plaints? this Caue
(Th' image of death, true portrait of the graue)
Why dost frequent? and waile thee vnder ground,
From whence there neuer yet was pitty found?
Come forth, and shew thy selfe vnto the light,
Thy griefe to me. If there be ought that might
Giue any ease vnto thy troubled minde,
We ioy as much to giue, as thou to finde.
The Loue-sicke Swaine replide: Remond, thou art
The man alone to whom I would impart
My woes, more willing then to any Swaine,
That liues and feeds his sheepe vpon the plaine.
But vaine it is, and 'twould increase my woes
By their relation, or to thee or those
That cannot remedy. Let it suffise,
No fond distrust of thee makes me precise

49

To shew my griefe. Leaue me then, and forgo
This Caue more sad, fince I haue made it so.
Here teares broke forth, and Remond gan anew
With such intreaties, earnest to pursue
His former suit, that he (though hardly) wan
The Shepherd to disclose; and thus began:
Know briefly Remond then, heauenly face,
Natures Idea, and perfections grace,
Within my breast hath kindled such a fire,
That doth consume all things, except desire;
Which daily doth increase, though alwaies burning,
And I want teares, but lacke no cause of mourning:
“For he whome Loue vnder his colours drawes,
“May often want th' effect, but ne're the cause.
Quoth th' other, haue thy starres maligne been such,
That their predominations sway so much
Ouer the rest, that with a milde aspect
The Liues and loues of Shepherds doe affect?
Then doe I thinke there is some greater hand,
Which thy endeuours still doth countermand:
Wherfore I wish thee quench the flame, thus mou'd,
“And neuer loue except thou be belou'd:
“For such an humour euery woman seiseth,
“She loues not him that plaineth, but that pleaseth.
“Whē much thou louest, most disdain coms on thee;
“And whē thou thinkst to hold her, she flies frō thee:
“She follow'd, flies; she fled from followes post,
“And loueth best where she is hated most.
“'Tis euer noted both in Maids and Wiues,
“Their hearts and tongues are neuer Relatiues.
“Hearts full of holes, (so elder Shepherds saine)
“As apter to receiue then [to] retaine.
Whose crafts and wiles did I intend to show,
This day would not permit me time I know:
The dayes swift horses would their course haue run,
And diu'd themselues within the Ocean,

50

Ere I should haue performed halfe my taske,
Striuing their craftie subtilties t'vnmaske.
And gentle Swaine some counsell take of me;
Loue not still where thou maist; loue, who loues thee;
Draw to the courteous, flie thy loues abhorror,
“And if she be not for thee, be not for her.
If that she still be wauering, will away,
Why shouldst thou striue to hold that will not stay?
This Maxime, Reason neuer can confute,
“Better to liue by losse then die by sute.
If to some other Loue she is inclinde,
Time will at length cleane root that from her minde.
Time will extinct Loues flames, his hell-like flashes,
And like a burning brand consum'd to ashes.
Yet maist thou still attend, but not importune:
“Who seekes oft misseth, sleepers light on fortune,
Yea and on women too. “Thus doltish sots
“Haue Fate and fairest women for their lots.
“Fauour and pittie wait on Patience:
And hatred oft attendeth violence.
If thou wilt get desire, whence Loue hath pawn'd it,
Beleeue me, take thy time, but ne'r demand it.
Women, as well as men, retaine desire;
But can dissemble, more then men, their fire.
Be neuer caught with looks, nor selfe-wrought rumor;
Nor by a quaint disguise, nor singing humor.
Those out-side shewes are toies, which outwards snare:
But vertue lodg'd within, is onely faire.
If thou hast seene the beautie of our Nation,
And find'st her haue no loue, haue thou no passion:
But seeke thou further; other places sure
May yeeld a face as faire, a Loue more pure:
Leaue (ô then leaue) fond Swaine this idle course,
For Loue's a God no mortall wight can force.
Thus Remond said, and saw the faire Marine
Plac'd neere a Spring, whose waters Crystalline

51

Did in their murmurings beare a part, and plained
That one so true, so faire, should be disdained:
Whilst in her cries, that fild the vale along,
Still Celand was the burthen of her song.
The stranger Shepherd left the other Swaine,
To giue attendance to his fleecy traine;
Who in departing from him, let him know,
That yonder was his freedomes ouerthrow,
Who sate bewailing (as he late had done)
That loue by true affection was not wonne.
This fully knowne: Remond came to the Maid
And after some few words (her teares allaid)
Began to blame her rigour, call'd her cruell,
To follow hate, and flie loues chiefest Iewell.
Faire, doe not blame him that he thus is moued;
For women sure were made to be beloued.
If beautie wanting louers long should stay,
It like an house vndwelt in would decay:
When in the heart if it haue taken place
Time cannot blot, nor crooked age deface.
The Adamant and Beauty we discouer
To be alike; for Beauty drawes a Louer,
The Adamant his Iron. Doe not blame
His louing then, but that which caus'd the same.
Who so is lou'd, doth glory so to be:
The more your Louers, more your victorie.
Know, if you stand on faith, most womens lothing,
Tis but a word, a character of nothing.
Admit it somewhat, if what we call constance,
Within a heart hath long time residence,
And in a woman, she becomes alone
Faire to her selfe, but foule to euery one.
If in a man it once haue taken place,
He is a foole, or dotes, or wants a face
To win a woman, and I thinke it be
No vertue, but a meere necessitie.

52

Heauens powers deny it Swain (quoth she) haue done,
Striue not to bring that in derision,
Which whosoe'er detracts in setting forth,
Doth truly derogate from his owne worth.
It is a thing which heauen to all hath lent
To be their vertues chiefest ornament:
Which who so wants, is well compar'd to these
False tables, wrought by Alcibiades;
Which noted well of all, were found t'haue bin
Most faire without, but most deform'd within.
Then Shepherd know, that I intend to be
As true to one, as he is false to me.
To one? (quoth he) why so? Maids pleasure take
To see a thousand languish for their sake:
Women desire for Louers of each sort,
And why not you? Th' amorous Swaine for sport;
The Lad that driues the greatest flocke to field,
Will Buskins, Gloues, and other fancies yeeld;
The gallant Swaine will saue you from the iawes
Of rauenous Beares, and from the Lions pawes.
Beleeue what I propound; doe many chuse,
“The least Herbe in the field serues for some vse.
Nothing perswaded, nor asswag'd by this,
Was fairest Marine, or her heauinesse:
But prai'd the Shepherd as he ere did hope
His silly sheepe should fearlesse haue the scope
Of all the shadowes that the trees doe lend,
From Raynards stealth, when Titan doth ascend,
And runne his mid-way course: to leaue her there,
And to his bleating charge againe repaire.
He condescended; left her by the brooke,
And to the Swaine and 's sheepe himselfe betooke.
He gone: she with her selfe thus gan to saine;
Alas poore Marine, think'st thou to attaine
His loue by sitting here? or can the fire
Be quencht with wood? can we allay desire

53

By wanting what's desired? O that breath,
The cause of life, should be the cause of death!
That who is shipwrackt on loues hidden shelfe,
Doth liue to others, dies vnto her selfe.
Why might not I attempt by Death as yet
To gaine that freedome, which I could not get,
Being hind'red heretofore, a time as free:
A place as fit offers it selfe to me,
Whose seed of ill is growne to such a height,
That makes the earth groane to support his weight.
Who so is lull'd asleepe with Midas' treasures,
And onely feares by death to lose lifes pleasures;
Let them feare death: but since my fault is such,
And onely fault, that I haue lou'd too much,
On ioyes of life, why should I stand! for those
Which I neere had, I surely cannot lose.
Admit a while I to these thoughts consented,
“Death can be but deferred, not preuented.
Then raging with delay, her teares that fell
Vsher'd her way, and she into a Well
Straight-waies leapt after: “O! how desperation
“Attends vpon the minde enthral'd to passion!
The fall of her did make the God below,
Starting, to wonder whence that noise should grow:
Whether some ruder Clowne in spight did fling
A Lambe, vntimely falne, into his Spring:
And if it were, he solemnly then swore
His Spring should flow some other way: no more
Should it in wanton manner ere be seene
To writhe in knots, or giue a gowne of greene
Vnto their Meadowes, nor be seene to play,
Nor driue the Rushy-mils, that in his way
The Shepherds made: but rather for their lot,
Send them red waters that their sheepe should rot.
And with such Moorish Springs embrace their field,
That it should nought but Mosse and Rushes yeeld.

54

Vpon each hillocke, where the merry Boy
Sits piping in the shades his Notes of ioy,
Hee'd shew his anger, by some floud at hand,
And turne the same into a running sand.
Vpon the Oake, the Plumbe-tree, and the Holme,
The Stock-doue and the Blackbird should not come,
Whose muting on those trees doe make to grow
Rots curing

Hyphear ad saginanda Pecora vtilimus: nino autem satum nullo modo nascitur, nec nisiper aluum [alvum] auium redditum maximè Palumbis & Turdis. Plin. Hist. Nat. 16. cap. 44. Hinc illud vetus verbum Turdus sibi malum cacat.

Hyphear, and the Misseltoe.

Nor shall this helpe their sheep, whose stomacks failes,
By tying knots of wooll neere to their tailes:
But as the place next to the knot doth die,
So shall it all the body mortifie.
Thus spake the God: but when as in the water
The corps came sinking downe, he spide the matter,
And catching softly in his armes the Maid,
He brought her vp, and hauing gently laid
Her on his banke, did presently command
Those waters in her to come forth: at hand
They straight came gushing out, and did contest
Which chiefly should obey their Gods behest.
This done, her then pale lips he straight held ope,
And from his siluer haire let fall a drop
Into her mouth, of such an excellence,
That call'd backe life, which grieu'd to part from thence,
Being for troth assur'd, that, then this one,
She ne'er possest a fairer mansion.
Then did the God her body forwards steepe,
And cast her for a while into a sleepe;
Sitting still by her did his full view take
Of Natures Master-peece. Here for her sake,
My Pipe in silence as of right shall mourne,
Till from the watring we againe returne.

55

The Second Song.

The Argvment.

Obliuions Spring, and Dory's loue,
With faire Marina's rape, first moue
Mine Oaten Pipe, which after sings
The birth of two renowned Springs.
Now till the Sunne shall leave vs to our rest,
And Cynthia haue her Brothers place possest,
I shall goe on: and first in diffring stripe,
The floud-Gods speech thus tune on Oaten Pipe.
Or mortall, or a power aboue,
Inrag'd by Fury, or by Loue,
Or both, I know not; such a deed
Thou would'st effected, that I bleed
To thinke thereon: alas poore else,
What growne a traitour to thy selfe?
This face, this haire, this hand so pure
Were not ordain'd for nothing sure.
Nor was it meant so sweet a breath
Should be expos'd by such a death;

56

But rather in some louers brest
Be giuen vp, the place that best
Befits a louer yeeld his soule.
Nor should those mortals ere controule
The Gods, that in their wisdome sage
Appointed haue what Pilgrimage
Each one should runne: and why should men
Abridge the iourney set for them?
But much I wonder any wight
If he did turne his outward sight
Into his inward, dar'd to act
Her death, whose body is compact
Of all the beauties euer Nature
Laid vp in store for earthly creature.
No sauage beast can be so cruell
To rob the earth of such a Iewell.
Rather the stately Vnicorne
Would in his breast enraged scorne,
That Maids committed to his charge
By any beast in Forrest large
Should so be wronged. Satyres rude
Durst not attempt, or ere intrude
With such a minde the flowry balkes
Where harmlesse Virgins haue their walkes.
Would she be won with me to stay,
My waters should bring from the Sea
The Corrall red, as tribute due,
And roundest pearles of Orient hue:
Or in the richer veines of ground
Should seeke for her the Diamond.
And whereas now vnto my Spring
They nothing else but grauell bring,
They should within a Mine of Gold
In piercing manner long time hold,
And hauing it to dust well wrought,
By them it hither should be brought;

57

With which Ile paue and ouer-spread
My bottome, where her foot shall tread.
The best of Fishes in my flood
Shall giue themselues to be her food.
The Trout, the Dace, the Pike, the Breame,
The Eele, that loues the troubled streame,
The Millers thombe, the hiding Loach,
The Perch, the euer-nibbling Roach,
The Shoats with whom is Tauie fraught,
The foolish Gudgeon, quickly caught,
And last the little Minnow-fish,
Whose chiefe delight in grauell is.
In right she cannot me despise
Because so low mine Empire lies.
For I could tell how Natures store
Of Maiesty appeareth more
In waters, then in all the rest
Of Elements. It seem'd her best
To giue the waues most strength and power:
For they doe swallow and deuoure
The earth; the waters quench and kill
The flames of fire: and mounting still
Vp in the aire, are seene to be,
As challenging a Seignorie
Within the heauens, and to be one
That should haue like dominion.
They be a seeling and a floore
Of clouds, caus'd by the vapours store
Arising from them, vitall spirit
By which all things their life inherit
From them is stopped, kept asunder.
And what's the reason else of Thunder,
Of lightnings flashes all about,
That with such violence breake out,
Causing such troubles and such iarres,
As with it selfe the world had warres?

58

And can there any thing appeare
More wonderfull, then in the aire
Congealed waters oft to spie
Continuing pendant in the Skie?
Till falling downe in haile or snow,
They make those mortall wights below
To runne, and euer helpe desire
From his foe Element the fire,
Which fearing then to come abroad,
Within doores maketh his aboad.
Or falling downe oft time in raine,
Doth giue greene Liueries to the plaine,
Make[s] Shepheards Lambs fit for the dish,
And giueth nutriment to fish.
Which nourisheth all things of worth
The earth produceth and brings forth;
And therefore well considering
The nature of it in each thing:
As when the teeming earth doth grow
So hard, that none can plow nor sow,
Her breast it doth so mollifie,
That it not onely comes to be
More easie for the share and Oxe,
But that in Haruest times the shocks
Of Ceres hanging eared corne
Doth fill the Houell and the Barne.
To Trees and Plants I comfort giue,
By me they fructifie and liue:
For first ascending from beneath
Into the Skie, with liuely breath,
I thence am furnish'd, and bestow
The same on Herbs that are below.
So that by this each one may see
I cause them spring and multiply.
Who seeth this, can doe no lesse,
Then of his owne accord confesse,

59

That notwithstanding all the strength
The earth enioyes in breadth and length,
She is beholding to each streame,
And hath receiued all from them.
Her loue to him she then must giue
By whom her selfe doth chiefly liue.
This being spoken by this waters God,
He straight-way in his hand did take his rod,
And stroke it on his banke, wherewith the flood
Did such a roaring make within the wood,
That straight the

The watry Nymph that spoke to Remond.

Nimph who then sate on her shore,

Knew there was somewhat do be done in store:
And therefore hasting to her Brothers Spring
She spide what caus'd the waters ecchoing.
Saw where faire Marine fast asleepe did lie,
Whilst that the God still viewing her sate by:
Who when he saw his Sister Nymph draw neare,
He thus gane tune his voice vnto her eare.
My fairest Sister (for we come
Both from the swelling Thetis wombe)
The reason why of late I strooke
My ruling wand vpon my Brooke
Was for this purpose; Late this Maid
Which on my banke asleepe is laid,
Was by her selfe or other wight,
Cast in my spring, and did affright
With her late fall, the fish that take
Their chiefest pleasure in my Lake:
Of all the Fry within my deepe,
None durst out of their dwellings peepe.
The Trout within the weeds did scud,
The Eele him hid within the mud.
Yea, from this feare I was not free:
For as I musing sate to see
How that the prettie Pibbles round
Came with my Spring from vnder ground,

60

And how the waters issuing
Did make them dance about my Spring;
The noise thereof did me appall:
That starting vpward therewithall,
I in my armes her bodie caught,
And both to light and life her brought:
Then cast her in a sleepe you see.
But Brother, to the cause (quoth she)
Why by your raging waters wilde
Am I here called? Thetis childe,
Replide the God, for thee I sent,
That when her time of sleepe is spent,
I may commit her to thy gage,
Since women best know womens rage.
Meanewhile, faire Nymph, accompanie
My Spring with thy sweet harmonie;
And we will make her soule to take
Some pleasure, which is said to wake,
Although the body hath his rest.
She gaue consent, and each of them addrest
Vnto their part. The watrie Nymph did sing
In manner of a prettie questioning:
The God made answer to what she propounded,
Whilst from the Spring a pleasant musicke sounded,
(Making each shrub in silence to adore them)
Taking their subiect from what lay before them.
Nymph.
Whats that, compact of earth, infus'd with aire;
A certaine, made full with vncertainties;
Sway'd by the motion of each seuerall Spheare;
Who's fed with nought but infelicities;
Endures nor heat nor cold; is like a Swan,
That this houre sings, next dies?

God.
It is a Man.


61

Nymph.
Whats he, borne to be sicke, so alwaies dying,
That's guided by ineuitable Fate;
That comes in weeping, and that goes out crying;
Whose Kalender of woes is still in date;
Whose life's a bubble, and in length a span;
A consort still in discords?

God.
Tis a man.

Nymph.
What's hee, whose thoughts are still quell'd in th' euent,
Though ne'r so lawfull, by an opposite,
Hath all things fleeting, nothing permanent:
And at his eares weares still a Parasite:
Hath friends in wealth, or wealthie friends, who can
In want proue meere illusions?

God.
Tis a Man.

Nymph.
What's he, that what he is not, striues to seeme,
That doth support an Atlas-weight of care:
That of an outward good doth best esteeme:
And looketh not within how solid they are:
That doth not vertuous, but the richest scan;
Learning and worth by wealth?

God.
It is a Man.

Nymph.
What's that possessor, which of good makes bad;
And what is worst, makes choice still for the best;
That grieueth most to thinke of what he had;
And of his chiefest losse accounteth least;
That doth not what he ought, but what he can;
Whose fancie's euer boundlesse?

God.
Tis a man.

Nymph.
But what is it wherein Dame Nature wrought

The first woman is fained to be named Pandora, i. a creature framed of the concurrence of the gifts and ornaments of all the Gods. As Hesiod, οτι παντης ολυμπια δωματ' εχοντες Δωρον εδορησαν.


The best of works, the onely frame of Heauen;
And hauing long to finde a present sought,
Wherein the worlds whole beautie might be giuen;

62

She did resolue in it all arts to summon,
To ioine with Natures framing?

God.
Tis this Woman.

Nymph.
If beautie be a thing to be admired;
And if admiring draw to it affection;
And what we doe affect is most desired;
What wight is he to loue denies subiection?
And can his thoughts within himselfe confine?

Marine that waking lay, said: Celandine.
He is the man that hates which some admire;
He is the wight that loathes whom most desire:
'Tis onely he to loue denies subiecting,
And but himselfe, thinkes none is worth affecting.
Vnhappy me the while, accurst my Fate,
That Nature giues no loue where she gaue hate.
The watrie Rulers then perceiued plaine,
Nipt with the Winter of loues frost, Disdaine;
This Non-par-el of beautie had beene led
To doe an act which Enuie pitied:
Therefore in pitie did conferre together,
What Physicke best might cure this burning Feuer.
At last found out that in a Groue below,
Where shadowing Sicamours past number grow,
A Fountaine takes his iourney to the Maine,
Whose liquors nature was so soueraigne,
(Like to the wondrous Well and famous Spring,
Which in

Plinie writes of two Springs rising in Boe[o]tia, the first helping memory, called μνημη: The latter causing obliuion, called ληθη.

Boe[o]tia hath his issuing)

That whoso of it doth but onely taste,
All former memorie from him doth waste.
Not changing any other worke of Nature,
But doth endow the drinker with a feature
More louely, faire Medea tooke from hence
Some of this water, by whose quintessence,
Æson from age came backe to youth. This knowne,

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The God thus spake:
Nymph, be thine owne,
And after mine. This Goddesse here
(For shees no lesse) will bring thee where
Thou shalt acknowledge Springs haue do[n]e
As much for thee as any one.
Which ended, and thou gotten free,
If thou wilt come and liue with me,
No Shepherds daughter, nor his wife,
Shall boast them of a better life.
Meane while I leaue thy thoughts at large,
Thy body to my sisters charge;
Whilst I into my Spring doe diue,
To see that they doe not depriue
The Meadowes neere, which much doe thirst,
Thus heated by the Sunne. May first
(Quoth Marine) Swaines giue Lambs to thee;
And may thy Floud haue seignorie
Of all Flouds else, and to thy fame
Meet greater Springs, yet keepe thy name.
May neuer Euet nor the Tode,
Within thy bankes make their abode!
Taking thy iourney from the Sea,
Maist thou ne'er happen in thy way
On Niter or on Brimstone Mine,
To spoile thy taste! this Spring of thine
Let it of nothing taste but earth,
And salt conceiued, in their birth
Be euer fresh! Let no man dare
To spoile thy Fish, make locke or ware,
But on thy Margent still let dwell
Those flowers which haue the sweetest smell.
And let the dust vpon thy strand
Become like Tagus golden sand.
Let as much good betide to thee,
As thou hast fauour shew'd to mee.

64

Thus said, in gentle paces they remoue,
And hastned onward to the shadie Groue:
Where both arriu'd; and hauing found the Rocke,
Saw how this precious water it did locke.
As he whom Auarice possesseth most,
Drawne by necessitie vnto his cost,
Doth drop by peece-meale downe his prison'd gold,
And seemes vnwilling to let goe his hold:
So the strong rocke the water long time stops,
And by degrees lets it fall downe in drops.
Like hoording huswiues that doe mold their food,
And keepe from others, what doth them no good.
The drops within a Cesterne, fell of stone,
Which fram'd by Nature, Art had neuer one
Halfe part so curious. Many spells then vsing,
The waters Nymph twixt Marines lips infusing
Part of this water, she might straight perceiue
How soone her troubled thoughts began to leaue
Her Loue-swolne-breast; and that her inward flame
Was cleane asswaged, and the very name
Of Celandine forgotten; did scarce know
If there were such a thing as Loue or no.
And sighing, therewithall threw in the aire
All former loue, all sorrow, all despaire;
And all the former causes of her mone
Did therewith burie in obliuion.
Then mustring vp her thoughts, growne vagabonds
Prest to releeue her inward bleeding wounds,
She had as quickly all things past forgotten,
As men doe Monarchs that in earth lie rotten.
As one new borne she seem'd, so al discerning,
“Though things long learned are the longst vnlearning.
Then walk'd they to a Groue but neere at hand,
Where fierie Titan had but small command,
Because the leaues conspiring kept his beames,
For feare of hurting (when hee's in extreames)

65

The vnder-flowers, which did enrich the ground
With sweeter sents than in Arabia found.
The earth doth yeeld (which they through pores exhale)
Earths best of odours, th' Aromaticall:
Like to that smell which oft our sense descries
Within a field which long vnplowed lies,
Somewhat before the setting of the Sunne;
And where the Raine-bow in the Horizon
Doth pitch her tips: or as when in the prime,
The earth being troubled with a drought long time,
The hand of Heauen his spungie Clouds doth straine,
And throwes into her lap a showre of raine;
She sendeth vp (conceiued from the Sunne)
A sweet perfume and exhalation.
Not all the Ointments brought from Delos Ile;
Nor from the confines of seuen-headed Nile;
Nor that brought whence Phœnicians haue abodes;
Nor Cyprus wilde Vine-flowers, nor that of Rhodes,
Nor Roses-oile from Naples, Capua,
Saffron confected in Cilicia;
Nor that of Quinces, nor of Marioram,
That euer from the Ile of Coos came.
Nor these, nor any else, though ne'er so rare,
Could with this place for sweetest smels compare.
There stood the Elme, whose shade so mildly dim
Doth nourish all that groweth vnder him.
Cypresse that like Piramides runne topping,
And hurt the least of any by their dropping.
The Alder, whose fat shadow nourisheth,
Each Plant set neere to him long flourisheth.
The heauie-headed Plane-tree, by whose shade
The grasse growes thickest, men are fresher made.
The Oake, that best endures the Thunder-shocks
The euerlasting Ebene, Cedar, Box.
The Oliue that in Wainscot neuer cleaues.
The amorous Vine which in the Elme still weaues.

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The Lotus, Iuniper, where wormes ne'er enter:
The Pyne, with whom men through the Ocean venter.
The warlike Yewgh, by which (more then the Lance)
The strong-arm'd English spirits conquer'd France.
Amongst the rest the Tamariske there stood,
For Huswiues bosomes onely knowne most good.
The cold-place-louing Birch, and Seruis tree:
The Walnut louing vales, and Mulbury.
The Maple, Ashe; that doe delight in Fountaines,
Which haue their currents by the sides of Mountains.
The Laurell, Mirtle, Iuy, Date, which hold
Their leaues all Winter, be it ne'er so cold.
The Firre, that oftentimes doth Rosin drop:
The Beech that scales the Welkin with his top:
All these, and thousand more within this Groue,
By all the industry of Nature stroue
To frame an Harbour that might keepe within it
The best of beauties that the world hath in it.
Here entring, at the entrance of which shroud,
The Sunne halfe angry hid him in a cloud,
As raging that a Groue should from his sight
Locke vp a beauty whence himselfe had light.
The flowers pull'd in their heads as being sham'd
Their beauties by the others were defam'd.
Neere to this Wood there lay a pleasant Mead,
Where Fairies often did their Measures tread,
Which in the Meadow made such circles g[r]eene,
As if with Garlands it had crowned beene,
Or like the Circle where the Signes we tracke,
And learned Shepherds call't the Zodiacke:
Within one of these rounds was to be seene
A Hillocke rise, where oft the Fairy-Queene
At twy-light sate, and did command her Elues,
To pinch those Maids that had not swept their shelues:
And further if by Maidens ouer-sight,
Within doores water were not brought at night:

67

Or if they spread no Table, set no Bread,
They should haue nips from toe vnto the head:
And for the Maid that had perform'd each thing,
She in the Water-paile bade leaue a Ring.
Vpon this Hill there sat a louely Swaine,
As if that Nature thought it great disdaine
That he should (so through her his Genius told him)
Take equall place with Swaines, since she did hold him
Her chiefest worke, and therefore thought it fit,
That with inferiours he should neuer sit.
Narcissus change, sure Ouid cleane mistooke,
He dy'd not looking in a Crystall brooke,
But (as those which in emulation gaze)
He pinde to death by looking on this face.
When he stood fishing by some Riuers brim,
The fish would leape, more for a sight of him
Then for the flie. The Eagle highest bred,
Was taking him once vp for Ganimed.
The shag-haird Satyres, and the tripping Fawnes,
With all the troope that frolicke on the Lawnes,
Would come and gaze on him, as who should say
They had not seene his like this many a day.
Yea Venus knew no difference twixt these twaine,
Saue Adon was a Hunter, this a Swaine.
The woods sweet Queristers from spray to spray
Would hop them neerer him, and then there stay:
Each ioying greatly from his little hart,
That they with his sweet Reed might beare a part:
This was the Boy, (the Poets did mistake)
To whom bright Cynthia so much loue did make;
And promis'd for his loue no scornfull eyes
Should euer see her more in horned guize:
But she at his command would as of dutie
Become as full of light as he of beautie.
Lucina at his birth for Mid-wife stucke:
And Citherea nurc'd and gaue him sucke,

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Who to that end, once Doue-drawne from the Sea,
Her full Paps dropt, whence came the Milkie-way.
And as when Plato did i'th' Cradle thriue,
Bees to his lips brought honey from their Hiue:
So to this Boy they came, I know not whether
They brought, or from his lips did honey gather.
The Wood-Nymphs oftentimes would busied be,
And plucke for him the blushing Strawberie:
Making of them a Bracelet on a Bent,
Which for a fauour to this Swaine they sent.
Sitting in shades, the Sunne would oft by skips
Steale through the boughes, and seize vpon his lips.
The chiefest cause the Sunne did condescend
To Phaetons request, was to this end,
That whilst the other did his Horses reyne,
He might slide from his Spheare, & court this Swaine;
Whose sparkling eyes vi'd lustre with the Starres,
The truest Center of all Circulars.
In briefe, if any man in skill were able
To finish vp Apelles halfe-done Table,
This Boy (the man left out) were fittest sure
To be the patterne of that portraiture.
Piping he sate, as merry as his looke,
And by him lay his Bottle and his Hooke.
His buskins (edg'd with siluer) were of silke,
Which held a legge more white then mornings milk.
Those Buskins he had got and brought away
For dancing best vpon the Reuell day:
His Oaten Reede did yeeld forth such sweet Notes,
Ioyned in consort with the Birds shrill throtes,
That equaliz'd the Harmony of Spheares,
A Musicke that would rauish choicest eares.
Long look'd they on (who would not long looke on,
That such an obiect had to looke vpon?)
Till at the last the Nymph did Marine send,
To aske the neerest way, whereby to wend

69

To those faire walkes where sprung Marina's ill
Whilst she would stay: Marine obey'd her will,
And hastned towards him (who would not doe so,
That such a pretty iourney had to goe?)
Sweetly she came, and with a modest blush,
Gaue him the day, and then accosted thus:
Fairest of men, that (whilst thy flocke doth feed)
Sitt'st sweetly piping on thine Oaten Reed
Vpon this Little berry (some ycleep
A Hillocke) void of care, as are thy sheepe
Deuoid of spots, and sure on all this greene
A fairer flocke as yet was neuer seene:
Doe me this fauour (men should fauour Maids)
That whatsoeuer path directly leads,
And void of danger, thou to me doe show,
That by it to the Marish I might goe.
Mariage! (quoth he) mistaking what she said,
Natures perfection: thou most fairest Maid,
(If any fairer then the fairest may be)
Come sit thee downe by me; know louely Ladie,
Loue is the readiest way: if tane aright
You may attaine thereto full long ere night.
The Maiden thinking he of Marish spoke,
And not of Mariage, straight-way did inuoke,
And praid the Shepheards God might alwaies keepe
Him from all danger, and from Wolues his sheepe.
Wishing withall that in the prime of Spring
Each sheepe he had, two Lambs might yeerely bring.
But yet (quoth she) arede good gentle Swaine,
If in the Dale below, or on yond Plaine;
Or is the Village situate in a Groue,
Through which my way lies, and ycleeped loue?
Nor on yond Plaine, nor in this neighbouring wood;
Nor in the Dale where glides the siluer flood;
But like a Beacon on a hill so hie,
That euery one may see't which passeth by,

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Is Loue yplac'd: ther's nothing can it hide,
Although of you as yet 'tis vnespide.
But on which hill (quoth she) pray tell me true?
Why here (quoth he) it sits and talkes to you.
And are you Loue (quoth she?) fond Swaine adue,
You guide me wrong, my way lies not by you.
Though not your way, yet you may lye by me:
Nymph, with a Shepherd thou as merrily
Maist loue and liue, as with the greatest Lord.
“Greatnesse doth neuer most content afford.
I loue thee onely, not affect worlds pelfe,
“She is not lou'd, that's lou'd not for her selfe.
How many Shepherds daughters, who in dutie
To griping fathers haue inthral'd their beautie,
To wait vpon the Gout, to walke when pleases
Old Ianuary halt. O that diseases
Should linke with youth: She that hath such a mate
Is like two twins borne both incorporate:
Th' one liuing, th' other dead: the liuing twin
Must needs be slaine through noysomnesse of him
He carrieth with him: such are their estates,
Who meerely marry wealth and not their mates.
As ebbing waters freely slide away,
To pay their tribute to the raging Sea;
When meeting with the floud they iustle stout,
Whether the one shall in, or th' other out:
Till the strong floud new power of waues doth bring,
And driues the Riuer backe into his Spring:
So Marine's words offring to take their course,
By Loue then entring, were kept backe, and force
To it, his sweet face, eyes, and tongue assign'd,
And threw them backe againe into her minde.
“How hard it is to leaue and not to do
“That which by nature we are prone vnto?
“We hardly can (alas why not?) discusse,
“When Nature hath decreed it must be thus.
“It is a Maxime held of all, knowne plaine,

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“Thrust Nature off with forkes, she'll turne againe.
Blithe Doridon (so men this Shepherd hight)
Seeing his Goddesse in a silent plight,
(“Loue often makes the speeches organs mute,)
Began againe thus to renue his sute:
If by my words your silence hath beene such,
Faith I am sorry I haue spoke so much.
Barre I those lips? fit to be th' vttrers, when
The heauens would parly with the chiefe of men.
Fit to direct (a tongue all hearts conuinces)
When best of Scribes writes to the best of Princes,
Were mine like yours, of choicest words compleatest,
“Ide shew how grief's a thing weighs down the greatest
“The best of formes (who knows not) grief doth taint it,
“The skilfull'st Pēcil neuer yet could paint it.
And reason good, since no man yet could finde
What figure represents a grieued minde.
Me thinkes a troubled thought is thus exprest,
To be a Chaos rude and indigest:
Where all doe rule, and yet none beares chiefe sway:
Checkt onely by a power that's more then they.
This doe I speake, since to this euery louer
That thus doth loue, is thus still giuen ouer.
If that you say you will not, cannot loue:
Oh Heauens! for what cause then do you here moue?
Are you not fram'd of that expertest mold,
For whom all in this Round concordance hold?
Or are you framed of some other fashion,
And haue a forme and heart, but yet no passion?
It cannot be: for then vnto what end
Did the best worke-man this great worke intend?
Not that by minds commerce, and ioynt estate,
The worlds continuers still should propagate?
Yea, if that Reason (Regent of the Senses)
Haue but a part amongst your excellences,

72

Shee'll tell you what you call Virginitie,
Is fitly lik'ned to a barren tree;
Which when the Gardner on it paines bestowes,
To graffe an Impe thereon, in time it growes
To such perfection, that it yeerely brings
As goodly fruit, as any tree that springs.
Beleeue me Maiden, vow no chastitie:
For maidens but imperfect creatures be.
Alas poore Boy (quoth Marine) haue the Fates
Exempted no degrees? are no estates
Free from Loues rage? Be rul'd: vnhappy Swaine,
Call backe thy spirits, and recollect againe
Thy vagrant wits. I tell thee for a truth
“Loue is a Syren that doth shipwracke youth.
Be well aduis'd, thou entertainst a guest
That is the Harbinger of all vnrest:
VVhich like the Vipers young, that licke the earth,
Eat out the breeders wombe to get a birth.
Faith (quoth the Boy) I know there cannot be,
Danger in louing or inioying thee.
For what cause were things made and called good,
But to be loued? If you vnderstood
The Birds that prattle here, you would know then,
As birds wooe birds, maids should be woo'd of men.
But I want power to wooe, since what was mine
Is fled, and lye as vassals at your shrine:
And since what's mine is yours, let that same moue,
Although in me you see nought worthy Loue.
Marine about to speake, forth of a sling
(Fortune to all misfortunes plyes her wing
More quicke and speedy) came a sharpned flint,
VVhich in the faire boyes necke made such a dint,
That crimson bloud came streaming from the wound,
And he fell downe into a deadly swound.
The bloud ran all along where it did fall,
And could not finde a place of buriall:

73

But where it came, it there congealed stood,
As if the Earth loath'd to drinke guiltlesse blood.
Gold-haird Apollo, Muses sacred King,
VVhose praise in Delphos He doth euer ring:
Physickes first founder, whose Arts excellence
Extracted Natures chiefest quintessence,
Vnwilling that a thing of such a worth
Should so be lost; straight sent a Dragon forth
To fetch his bloud, and he perform'd the same:
And now Apothecaries giue it name,
From him that fetcht it: (Doctors know it good
In Physicks vse) and call it Dragons bloud.
Some of the bloud by chance did down-ward fall,
And by a veine got to a Minerall,
VVhence came a Red, decayed Dames infuse it
VVith Venice Ceruse, and for painting vse it.
Marine astonisht (most vnhappy Maid)
O'er-come with feare, and at the view afraid,
Fell downe into a trance, eyes lost their sight,
VVhich being open, made all darknesse light.
Her bloud ran to her heart, of life to feed,
Or lothing to behold so vile a deed.
And as when VVinter doth the Earth array
In siluer sute, and when the night and day
Are in dissention, Night locks vp the ground,
VVhich by the helpe of day is oft vnbound:
A shepherds boy with bow and shafts addrest,
Ranging the fields, hauing once pierc'd the brest
Of some poore fowle, doth with the blow straight rush
To catch the Bird lyes panting in the Bush:

An expression of the natures of two Riuers rising neere together, and differing in their tastes and manner of running.


So rusht this striker in, vp Marine tooke,
And hastned with her to a neare-hand Brooke.
Old Shepherds saine (old shepherds sooth haue saine)
Two Riuers tooke their issue from the Maine,
Both neere together, and each bent his race,
VVhich of them both should first behold the face

74

Of Radiant Phœbus: One of them in gliding
Chanc'd on a Veine where Niter had abiding:
The other loathing that her purer Waue
Should be defil'd with that the Niter gaue,
Fled fast away, the other follow'd fast,
Till both beene in a Rocke ymet at last.
As seemed best, the Rocke did first deliuer
Out of his hollow sides the purer Riuer:
(As if it taught those men in honour clad,
To helpe the vertuous and suppresse the bad.)
Which gotten loose, did softly glide away.
As men from earth, to earth; from sea to sea;
So Riuers run: and that from whence both came
Takes what she gaue: Waues, Earth: but leaues a name.
As waters haue their course, & in their place
Succeeding streames will out, so is mans race:
The Name doth still suruiue, and cannot die,
Vntill the Channels stop, or Spring grow dry.
As I haue seene vpon a Bridall day
Full many Maids clad in their best array,
In honour of the Bride come with their Flaskets
Fill'd full with flowers: others in wicker-baskets
Bring from the Marish Rushes, to o'er-spread
The ground, whereon to Church the Louers tread;
Whilst that the quaintest youth of all the Plaine
Vshers their way with many a piping straine:
So, as in ioy, at this faire Riuers birth,
Triton came vp a Channell with his mirth,
And call'd the neighb'ring Nymphs each in her turne
To poure their pretty Riuilets from their Vrne;
To wait vpon this new-deliuered Spring.
Some running through the Meadowes, with them bring
Cowslip and Mint: and 'tis anothers lot
To light vpon some Gardeners curious knot,
Whence she vpon her brest (loues sweet repose)
Doth bring the Queene of flowers, the English Rose.

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Some from the Fenne bring Reeds, Wilde-tyme from Downs;
Some frō a Groue the Bay that Poets crowns;
Some from an aged Rocke the Mosse hath torne,
And leaues him naked vnto winters storme:
Another from her bankes (in meere good will)
Brings nutriment for fish, the Camomill.
Thus all bring somewhat, and doe ouer-spread
The way the Spring vnto the Sea doth tread.
This while the Floud which yet the Rocke vp pent,
And suffered not with iocund merriment
To tread rounds in his Spring, came rushing forth,
As angry that his waues (he thought) of worth
Should not haue libertie, nor helpe the pryme.
And as some ruder Swaine composing ryme,
Spends many a gray Goose quill vnto the handle,
Buries within his socket many a Candle;
Blots Paper by the quire, and dries vp Inke,
As Xerxes Armie did whole Riuers drinke,
Hoping thereby his name his worke should raise
That it should liue vntill the last of dayes:
Which finished, he boldly doth addresse
Him and his workes to vnder-goe the Presse;
When loe (O Fate!) his worke not seeming fit
To walke in equipage with better wit,
Is kept from light, there gnawne by Moathes and wormes,
At which he frets: Right so this Riuer stormes:
But broken forth; As Tauy creepes vpon
The Westerne vales of fertile Albion,
Here dashes roughly on an aged Rocke,
That his entended passage doth vp locke;
There intricately mongst the Woods doth wander,
Losing himselfe in many a wry Meander:
Here amorously bent, clips some faire Mead;
And then disperst in rils, doth measures tread
Vpon her bosome 'mongst her flowry ranks:
There in another place beares downe the banks,

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Of some day-labouring wretch: here meets a rill,
And with their forces ioyn'd cuts out a Mill
Into an Iland, then in iocund guise
Suruayes his conquest, lauds his enterprise:
Here digs a Caue at some high Mountaines foot:
There vndermines an Oake, teares vp his root:
Thence rushing to some Country-farme at hand,
Breaks o'er the Yeomans mounds, sweepes from his land
His Haruest hope of Wheat, of Rye, or Pease:
And makes that channell which was Shepherds lease:
Here, as our wicked age doth sacriledge,
Helpes downe an Abbey, then a naturall bridge
By creeping vnder ground he frameth out,
As who should say he either went about
To right the wrong he did, or hid his face,
For hauing done a deed so vile and base:
So ran this Riuer on, and did bestirre
Himselfe, to finde his fellow-Traueller.
But th' other fearing least her noyse might show
What path she took, which way her streams did flow:
As some way-faring man strayes th' row a wood,
Where beasts of prey thirsting for humane bloud
Lurke in their dens, he softly listning goes,
Not trusting to his heeles, treads on his toes:
Dreads euery noise he heares, thinks each small bush
To be a beast that would vpon him rush:
Feareth to dye, and yet his winde doth smother;
Now leaues this path, takes that, then to another:
Such was her course. This feared to be found,
The other not to finde, swels o'er each mound,
Roares, rages, foames, against a mountaine dashes,
And in recoile, makes Meadowes standing plashes:
Yet findes not what he seekes in all his way,
But in despaire runs headlong to the Sea.
This was the cause them by tradition taught,
Why one floud ran so fast, th' other so soft,

77

Both from one head. Vnto the rougher streame,
(Crown'd by that Meadowes flowry Diadem,
Where Doridon lay hurt) the cruell Swaine
Hurries the Shepherdesse, where hauing laine
Her in a Boat like the Cannowes of Inde,
Some silly trough of wood, or some trees rinde;
Puts from the shoare, and leaues the weeping strand,
Intends an act by water, which the land
Abhorr'd to boulster; yea, the guiltlesse earth
Loath'd to be Mid-wife to so vile a birth.
Which to relate I am inforc'd to wrong
The modest blushes of my Maiden-song.
Then each faire Nymph whom Nature doth endow
With beauties cheeke, crown'd with a shamefast brow;
Whose well-tun'd eares, chast-obiect-louing eyne
Ne'er heard nor saw the workes of

An obscene Italian Poet.

Aretine;

Who ne'er came on the Citherean shelfe,
But is as true as Chastitie it selfe;
Where hated Impudence ne'er set her seed;
Where lust lies not vail'd in a virgins weed:
Let her with-draw. Let each young Shepherdling
Walke by, or stop his eare, the whilst I sing.
But yee, whose bloud, like Kids vpon a plaine,
Doth skip, and dance Lauoltoes in each veine;
Whose brests are swolne with the Venerean game,
And warme your selues at lusts alluring flame;
Who dare to act as much as men dare thinke,
And wallowing lye within a sensuall sinke;
Whose fained gestures doe entrap our youth
With an apparancie of simple truth;
Insatiate gulphs, in your defectiue part
By Art helpe Nature, and by Nature, Art:
Lend me your eares, and I will touch a string
Shall lull your sense asleepe the while I sing.
But stay: me thinkes I heare something in me
That bids me keepe the bounds of modestie;

78

Sayes, “Each mans voice to that is quickly moued
“Which of himselfe is best of all beloued;
“By vttring what thou knowst lesse glory's got,
“Then by concealing what thou knowest not.
If so, I yeeld to it, and set my rest
Rather to lose the bad, then wrong the best.
My Maiden-Muse flies the lasciuious Swaines,
And scornes to soyle her lines with lustfull straines:
Will not dilate (nor on her fore-head beare
Immodesties abhorred Character)
His shamelesse pryings, his vndecent doings;
His curious searches, his respectlesse wooings:
How that he saw. But what? I dare not breake it,
You safer may conceiue then I dare speake it.
Yet verily had he not thought her dead,
Sh'ad lost, ne'er to be found, her Maiden-head.
The rougher streame loathing a thing compacted
Of so great shame, should on his Floud be acted;
(According to our times not well allow'd
In others, what he in himselfe auow'd)
Bent hard his fore-head, furrow'd vp his face,
And danger led the way the boat did trace.
And as within a Landskip that doth stand
Wrought by the Pencill of some curious hand,
We may discry, here meadow, there a wood:
Here standing ponds, and there a running floud:
Here on some mount a house of pleasure vanted,
Where once the roaring Cannon had beene planted:
There on a hill a Swaine pipes out the day,
Out-brauing all the Quiristers of May.
A Hunts-man here followes his cry of hounds,
Driuing the Hare along the fallow grounds:
Whilst one at hand seeming the sport t'allow,
Followes the hounds, and carelesse leaues the Plow.
There in another place some high-rais'd land,
In pride beares out her breasts vnto the strand.

79

Here stands a bridge, and there a conduit head:
Here round a May-pole some the measures tread:
There boyes the truant play and leaue their booke:
Here stands an Angler with a baited hooke.
There for a Stagge one lurkes within a bough:
Here sits a Maiden milking of her Cow.
There on a goodly plaine (by time throwne downe)
Lies buried in his dust some ancient Towne;
Who now inuillaged, there's onely seene
In his vaste ruines what his state had beene:
And all of these in shadowes so exprest
Make the beholders eyes to take no rest.
So for the Swaine the Floud did meane to him
To shew in Nature (not by Art to limbe)
A Tempests rage, his furious waters threat,
Some on this shoare, some on the other beat.
Here stands a Mountaine, where was once a Dale;
There where a Mountaine stood is now a Vale.
Here flowes a billow, there another meets:
Each, on each side the skiffe, vnkindly greets.
The waters vnderneath gan vpward moue,
Wondring what stratagems were wrought aboue:
Billowes that mist the boat, still onward thrust,
And on the Cliffes, as swolne with anger, burst.
All these, and more, in substance so exprest,
Made the beholders thoughts to take no rest.
Horror in triumph rid vpon the waues;
And all the Furies from their gloomy caues
Came houering o're the Boat, summond each sence
Before the fearefull barre of Conscience;
Were guilty all, and all condemned were
To vnder-goe their horrors with despaire.
What Muse? what Powre? or what thrice sacred Herse,
That liues immortall in a well-tun'd Verse,
Can lend me such a sight that I might see
A guilty conscience true Anatomie;

80

That well-kept Register wherein is writ
All ils men doe, all goodnesse they omit?
His pallid feares, his sorrowes, his affrightings;
His late wisht had-I-wists, remorcefull bitings:
His many tortures, his heart-renting paine:
How were his griefes composed in one chaine,
And he by it let downe into the Seas,
Or th' row the Center to th' Antipodes?
He might change Climates, or be barr'd Heauens face;
Yet finde no salue, nor euer change his case.
Feares, sorrowes, tortures, sad affrights, nor any,
Like to the Conscience sting, though thrice as many;
Yet all these torments by the Swaine were borne.
Whilst Deaths grim visage lay vpon the storme.
But as when some kinde Nurse doth long time keep
Her pretty babe at sucke, whom falne asleepe
She layes downe in his Cradle, stints his cry
With many a sweet and pleasing Lullaby;
Whilst the sweet childe, not troubled with the shock,
As sweetly slumbers, as his Nurse doth rocke:
So lay the Maid, th' amazed Swaine sate weeping,
And death in her was dispossest by sleeping.
The roaring voyce of winds, the billowes raues;
Nor all the muttring of the sullen waues
Could once disquiet, or her slumber stirre:
But lull'd her more asleepe then wakened her.
Such are their states, whose soules from foule offence
Enthroned sit in spotlesse Innocence.
Where rest my Muse; till (iolly Shepheards Swaines)
Next morne with Pearles of dew bedecks our plaines
Wee'll fold our flockes, then in fit time goe on
To tune mine Oaten pipe for Doridon.

81

The Third Song.

The Argvment.

The Shepheards Swaine here singing on,
Tels of the cure of Doridon:
And then vnto the waters fals
Chanteth the rusticke Pastorals.
Now had the Sunne, in golden chariot hurl'd,
Twice bid good-morrow to the nether world:
And Cynthia, in her orbe and perfect round,
Twice view'd the shadowes of the vpper ground.
Twice had the Day-starre vsher'd forth the light;
And twice the Euening-starre proclaim'd the night;
Ere once the sweet-fac'd Boy (now all forlorne)
Came with his Pipe to resalute the Morne.
When grac'd by time (vnhappy time the while)
The cruell Swaine (who ere knew Swaine so vile?)
Had stroke the Lad, in came the watry Nymph,
To raise from sound poore Doridon (the Impe,
Whom Nature seem'd to haue selected forth
To be ingraffed on some stocke of worth;)

82

And the Maids helpe, but since “to doomes of Fate
“Succour, though ne'er so soone, comes still too late.”
She rais'd the youth, then with her armes inrings him,
And so with words of hope she home-wards brings him.
At doore expecting him his Mother sate,
Wondring her Boy should stay from her so late;
Framing for him vnto her selfe excuses,
And with such thoughts gladly her selfe abuses:
As that her sonne, since day grew old and weake,
Staid with the Maids to runne at Barlibreake:
Or that he cours'd a Parke with females fraught,
Which would not run except they might be caught.
Or in the thickets layd some wily snare
To take the Rabbet, or the pourblinde Hare.
Or taught his Dogge to catch the climbing Kid:
Thus Shepheards doe; and thus she thought he did.
“In things expected meeting with delay,
“Though there be none, we frame some cause of stay.
And so did she, (as she who doth not so?)
Coniecture Time vnwing'd he came so slow.
But Doridon drew neere, so did her griefe:
“Ill lucke, for speed, of all things else is chiefe.

Homer.

For as the Blinde-man sung, Time so prouides,

That Ioy goes still on foot, and sorrow rides.
Now when she saw (a wofull sight) her sonne,
Her hopes then fail'd her, and her cries begun
To vtter such a plaint, that scarce another,
Like this, ere came from any loue-sicke mother.
If man hath done this, heauen why mad'st thou men?
Not to deface thee in thy children;
But by the worke the Worke-man to adore;
Framing that something, which was nought before.
Aye me vnhappy wretch! if that in things
Which are as we (saue title) men feare Kings,
That be their Postures to the life limb'd on
Some wood as fraile as they, or cut in stone,

83

“Tis death to stab: why then should earthly things
Dare to deface his forme who formed Kings?
When the world was but in his infancy,
Reuenge, Desires vniust, vile Iealousie,
Hate, Enuy, Murther, all these six then raigned,
When but their halfe of men the world contained:
Yet but in part of these, those ruled then,
When now as many vices liue as men.
Liue they? yes liue I feare to kill my Sonne,
With whom my ioyes, my loue, my hopes are done.
Cease, quoth the Waters Nymph, that led the Swain;
Though 'tis each mothers cause thus to complaine:
Yet “abstinence in things we must professe
“Which Nature fram'd for need, not for excesse.
Since the least bloud, drawne from the lesser part
Of any childe, comes from the Mothers hart,
We cannot chuse but grieue, except that wee
Should be more senslesse than the senslesse tree,
Reply'd his Mother. Doe but cut the limbe
Of any Tree, the trunke will weepe for him:
Rend the cold

Alluding to our English pronunciation and indifferent Orthographie.

Sicamor's thin barke in two,

His Name and Teares, would say, So Loue should do.
“That Mother is all flint (then beasts lesse good)
“Which drops no water when her childe streames blood.
At this the wounded Boy fell on his knee,
Mother, kinde Mother (said) weepe not for mee,
Why, I am well? Indeed I am: If you
Cease not to weepe, my wound will bleed anew.
When I was promist first the lights fruition,
You oft haue told me, 'twas on this condition,
That I should hold it with like rent and paine
As others doe, and one time leaue't againe.
Then deerest mother leaue, oh leaue to waile,
“Time will effect, where teares can nought auaile.
Herewith Marinda taking vp her sonne,
Her hope, her loue, her ioy, her Doridon;

84

She thank'd the Nymph, for her kinde succour lent,
Who strait tript to her watry Regiment.
Downe in a dell (where in that

Iuly tooke his name from Iulius Cæsar.

Month whose fame

Growes greater by the man who gaue it name,
Stands many a well-pil'd cocke of short sweet hay
That feeds the husbands Neat each Winters day)
A mountaine had his foot, and gan to rise
In stately height to parlee with the Skies.
And yet as blaming his owne lofty gate,
Waighing the fickle props in things of state,
His head began to droope, and down-wards bending,
Knockt on that brest which gaue it birth and ending:
And lyes so with an hollow hanging vaut,
As when some boy trying the Somersaut,
Stands on his head, and feet, as hee did lie
To kicke against earths spangled Canopie;
When seeing that his heeles are of such weight,
That he cannot obtaine their purpos'd height,
Leaues any more to striue; and thus doth say,
What now I cannot doe, another day
May well effect: it cannot be denide
I shew'd a will to act, because I tride:
The Scornefull-hill men call'd him, who did scorne
So to be call'd, by reason he had borne
No hate to greatnesse, but a minde to be
The slaue of greatnesse, through Humilitie:
For had his Mother Nature thought it meet
He meekly bowing would haue kist her feet.
Vnder the hollow hanging of this hill
There was a Caue cut out by Natures skill:
Or else it seem'd the Mount did open's brest,
That all might see what thoughts he there possest.
Whose gloomy entrance was enuiron'd round
With shrubs that cloy ill husbands Meadow-ground:
The thick-growne Haw-thorne & the binding Bryer,
The Holly that out-dares cold Winters ire:

85

Who all intwinde, each limbe with limbe did deale,
That scarse a glympse of light could inward steale.
An vncouth place, fit for an vncouth minde,
That is as heauy as that caue is blinde;
Here liu'd a man his hoary haires call'd old,
Vpon whose front time many yeares had told.
Who, since Dame Nature in him feeble grew,
And he vnapt to giue the world ought new,
The secret power of Hearbes that grow on mold,
Sought ought, to cherish and relieue the old.
Hither Marinda all in haste came running,
And with her teares desir'd the old mans cunning.
When this good man (as goodnesse still is prest
At all assayes to helpe a wight distrest)
As glad and willing was to ease her sonne,
As she would euer ioy to see it done.
And giuing her a salue in leaues vp bound;
And she directed how to cure the wound,
With thanks, made home-wards, (longing still to see
Th' effect of this good Hermits Surgerie)
There carefully, her sonne laid on a bed,
(Enriched with the bloud he on it shed)
She washes, dresses, bindes his wound (yet sore)
That grieu'd, it could weepe bloud for him no more.
Now had the glorious Sunne tane vp his Inne,
And all the lamps of heau'n inlightned bin,
Within the gloomy shades of some thicke Spring,
Sad Philomel gan on the Haw-thorne sing,
(Whilst euery beast at rest was lowly laid)
The outrage done vpon a silly Maid.
All things were husht, each bird slept on his bough;
And night gaue rest to him, day tyr'd at plough;
Each beast, each bird, and each day-toyling wight,
Receiu'd the comfort of the silent night:
Free from the gripes of sorrow euery one,
Except poore Philomel and Doridon;

86

She on a Thorne sings sweet though sighing straines;
He on a couch more soft, more sad complaines:
Whose in-pent thoughts him long time hauing pained,
He sighing wept, & weeping thus complained.
Sweet Philomela (then he heard her sing)
I doe not enuy thy sweet carolling,
But doe admire thee, that each euen and morrow,
Canst carelesly thus sing away thy sorrow.
Would I could doe so too! and euer be
In all my woes still imitating thee:
But I may not attaine to that; for then
Such most vnhappy, miserable men
Would striue with Heauen, and imitate the Sunne,
Whose golden beames in exhalation,
Though drawn from Fens, or other grounds impure,
Turne all to fructifying nouriture.
When we draw nothing by our Sun-like eyes,
That euer turnes to mirth, but miseries:
Would I had neuer seene, except that she
Who made me wish so, loue to looke on me.
Had Colin Clout yet liu'd, (but he is gone)
That best on earth could tune a louers mone,
Whose sadder Tones inforc'd the Rocks to weepe,
And laid the greatest griefes in quiet sleepe:
Who when he sung (as I would doe to mine)
His truest loues to his faire Rosaline,
Entic'd each Shepherds eare to heare him play,
And rapt with wonder, thus admiring say:
Thrice happy plaines (if plaines thrice happy may be)
Where such a Shepherd pipes to such a Lady.
Who made the Lasses long to sit downe neere him;
And woo'd the Riuers frō their Springs to heare him.
Heauen rest thy Soule (if so a Swaine may pray)
And as thy workes liue here, liue there for aye.
Meane while (vnhappy) I shall still complaine
Loues cruell wounding of a seely Swaine.

87

Two nights thus past: the Lilly-handed Morne
Saw Phœbus stealing dewe from Ceres Corne.
The mounting Larke (daies herauld) got on wing
Bidding each bird chuse out his bough and sing.

A description of a Musicall Consort of Birds.

The lofty Treble sung the little Wren;

Robin the Meane, that best of all loues men;
The Nightingale the Tenor; and the Thrush
The Counter-tenor sweetly in a bush:
And that the Musicke might be full in parts,
Birds from the groues flew with right willing hearts:
But (as it seem'd) they thought (as doe the Swaines,
Which tune their Pipes on sack'd Hibernia's plaines)
There should some droaning part be, therefore will'd
Some bird to flie into a neighb'ring field,
In Embassie vnto the King of Bees,
To aid his partners on the flowres and trees:
Who condiscending gladly flew along
To beare the Base to his well-tuned song.
The Crow was willing they should be beholding
For his deepe voyce, but being hoarse with skolding,
He thus lends aide; vpon an Oake doth climbe,
And nodding with his head, so keepeth time.
O true delight, enharboring the brests
Of those sweet creatures with the plumy crests.
Had Nature vnto man such simpl'esse giuen,
He would like Birds be farre more neere to heauen.
But Doridon well knew (who knowes no lesse?)
“Mans compounds haue o'er thrown his simplenesse.
Noone-tide the Morne had woo'd, and she gan yeeld,
When Doridon (made ready for the field)
Goes sadly forth (a wofull Shepherds Lad)
Drowned in teares, his minde with griefe yclad,
To ope his fold and let his Lamkins out,
(Full iolly flocke they seem'd, a well fleec'd rout)
Which gently walk'd before, he sadly pacing,
Both guides and followes them towards their grazing.

88

When from a Groue the Wood-Nymphs held full deare,
Two heauenly voyces did intreat his eare,
And did compell his longing eyes to see
What happy wight enioy'd such harmonie.
Which ioyned with fiue more, and so made seauen,
Would parallel in mirth the Spheares of heauen.
To haue a sight at first he would not presse,
For feare to interrupt such happinesse:
But kept aloofe the thicke growne shrubs among,
Yet so as he might heare this wooing Song.
F.
Fie Shepherds Swaine, why sitst thou all alone,
Whil'st other Lads are sporting on the leyes?

R.
Ioy may haue company, but Griefe hath none:
Where pleasure neuer came, sports cannot please.

F.
Yet may you please to grace our this daies sport,
Though not an actor, yet a looker on.

R.
A looker on indeede, so Swaines of sort,
Cast low, take ioy to looke whence they are thrown?

F.
Seeke ioy and finde it.

R.
Griefe doth not minde it.

BOTH.
Then both agree in one,
Sorrow doth hate
To haue a mate;
“True griefe is still alone.

F.
Sad Swaine areade, (if that a Maid may aske)
What cause so great effects of griefe hath wrought?)

R.
Alas, Loue is not hid, it weares no maske;
To view 'tis by the face conceiu'd and brought.

F.
The cause I grant: the causer is not learned:
Your speech I doe entreat about this taske.

R.
If that my heart were seene, 'twould be discerned;
And Fida's name found grauen on the caske.


89

F.
Hath Loue young Remond moued?

R.
'Tis Fida that is loued.

BOTH.
Although 'tis said that no men
Will with their hearts,
Or goods chiefe parts
Trust either Seas or Women.

F.
How may a Maiden be assur'd of loue,
Since falshood late in euerie Swaine excelleth?

R.
When protestations faile, time may approue
Where true affection liues, where falshood dwelleth.

F.
The truest cause elects a Iudge as true:
Fie, how my sighing, my much louing telleth.

R.
Your loue is fixt in one whose heart to you
Shall be as constancy, which ne'er rebelleth.

F.
None other shall haue grace.

R.
None else in my heart place.

BOTH.
Goe Shepherds Swaines and wiue all,
For Loue and Kings
Are two like things
Admitting no Corriuall.

As when some Malefactor iudg'd to die
For his offence, his Execution nye,
Casteth his sight on states vnlike to his,
And weighs his ill by others happinesse:
So Doridon thought euery state to be
Further from him, more neere felicitie.
O blessed sight, where such concordance meets,
Where truth with truth, and loue with liking greets.
Had (quoth the Swain) the Fates giuen me some measure
Of true delights inestimable treasure,
I had beene fortunate: but now so weake
My bankrupt heart will be inforc'd to breake.

90

Sweet Loue that drawes on earth a yoake so euen;
Sweet life that imitates the blisse of heauen;
Sweet death they needs must haue, who so vnite
That two distinct make one Hermaphrodite:
Sweet loue, sweet life, sweet death, that so doe meet
On earth; in death, in heauen be euer sweet!
Let all good wishes euer wait vpon you,
And happinesse as hand-maid tending on you.
Your loues within one centre meeting haue!
One houre your deaths, your corps possesse one graue!
Your names still greene, (thus doth a Swaine implore)
Till time and memory shall be no more!
Herewith the couple hand in hand arose,
And tooke the way which to the sheep-walke goes.
And whil'st that Doridon their gate look'd on,
His dogge disclos'd him, rushing forth vpon
A well-fed Deere, that trips it o'er the Meade,
As nimbly as the wench did whilome tread
On Ceres dangling eares, or Shaft let goe
By some faire Nymph that beares Diana's Bowe.
When turning head, he not a foot would sturre,
Scorning the barking of a Shepheards curre:
So should all Swaines as little weigh their spite,
VVho at their songs doe bawle, but dare not bite.
Remond, that by the dogge the Master knew,
Came backe, and angry bade him to pursue;
Dory (quoth he) if your ill-tuter'd dogge
Haue nought of awe, then let him haue a clogge.
Doe you not know this seely timorous Deere,
(As vsuall to his kinde) hunted whileare,
The Sunne not ten degrees got in the Signes,
Since to our Maides, here gathering Columbines,
She weeping came, and with her head low laid
In Fida's lap, did humbly begge for aide.
VVhereat vnto the hounds they gaue a checke,
And sauing her, might spie about her necke

91

A Coller hanging, and (as yet is seene)
These words in gold wrought on a ground of greene:
Maidens: since 'tis decreed a Maid shall haue me,
Keepe me till he shall kill me that must saue me.
But whence she came, or who the words concerne,
VVe neither know nor can of any learne.
Vpon a pallat she doth lie at night,
Neere Fida's bed, nor will she from her sight:
Vpon her walkes she all the day attends,
And by her side she trips where ere she wends.
Remond (replide the Swaine) if I haue wrong'd
Fida in ought which vnto her belong'd:
I sorrow for't, and truelie doe protest,
As yet I neuer heard speech of this Beast:
Nor was it with my will; or if it were,
Is it not lawfull we should chase the Deere,
That breaking our inclosures euery morne
Are found at feed vpon our crop of corne?
Yet had I knowne this Deere, I had not wrong'd
Fida in ought which vnto her belong'd.
I thinke no lesse, quoth Remond; but I pray,
Whither walkes Doridon this Holy-day?
Come driue your sheepe to their appointed feeding,
And make you one at this our merry meeting.
Full many a Shepherd with his louely Lasse,
Sit telling tales vpon the clouer grasse:
There is the merry Shepherd of the hole;
Thenot, Piers, Nilkin, Duddy, Hobbinoll,
Alexis, Siluan, Teddy of the Glen,
Rowly and Perigot here by the Fen,
With many more, I cannot reckon all
That meet to solemnize this festiuall.
I grieue not at their mirth, said Doridon:
Yet had there beene of Feasts not any one
Appointed or commanded, you will say,
“Where there's Content 'tis euer Holy-day.

92

Leaue further talke (quoth Remond) let's be gone,
Ile helpe you with your sheepe, the time drawes on.
Fida will call the Hinde, and come with vs.
Thus went they on, and Remond did discusse
Their cause of meeting, till they won with pacing
The circuit chosen for the Maidens tracing.
It was a Roundell seated on a plaine,
That stood as Sentinell vnto the Maine,
Enuiron'd round with Trees and many an Arbour,
Wherein melodious birds did nightly harbour:
And on a bough within the quickning Spring,
Would be a teaching of their young to sing;
Whose pleasing Noates the tyred Swaine haue made
To steale a nap at noone-tide in the shade.
Nature her selfe did there in triumph ride,
And made that place the ground of all her pride.
Whose various flowres deceiu'd the rasher eye
In taking them for curious Tapistrie.
A siluer Spring forth of a rocke did fall,
That in a drought did serue to water all.
Vpon the edges of a grassie banke,
A tuft of Trees grew circling in a ranke,
As if they seem'd their sports to gaze vpon,
Or stood as guard against the winde and Sunne:
So faire, so fresh, so greene, so sweet a ground
The piercing eyes of heauen yet neuer found.
Here Doridon all ready met doth see,
(Oh who would not at such a meeting be?)
Where he might doubt, who gaue to other grace,
Whether the place the Maids, or Maids the place.
Here gan the Reede, and merry Bag-pipe play,
Shrill as a Thrush vpon a Morne of May,
(A rurall Musicke for an heauenly traine)
And euery Shepherdesse danc'd with her Swaine.
As when some gale of winde doth nimbly take
A faire white locke of wooll, and with it make

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Some prettie driuing; here it sweepes the plaine:
There staies, here hops, there mounts, and turns again:
Yet all so quicke, that none so soone can say
That now it stops, or leapes, or turnes away:
So was their dancing, none look'd thereupon,
But thought their seuerall motions to be one.
A crooked measure was their first election,
Because all crooked tends to best perfection.
And as I weene this often bowing measure,
Was chiefly framed for the women's pleasure.
Though like the rib, they crooked are and bending,
Yet to the best of formes they aime their ending:
Next in an (I) their measure made a rest,
Shewing when Loue is plainest it is best.
Then in a (Y) which thus doth Loue commend,
Making of two at first, one in the end.
And lastly closing in a round do enter,
Placing the lusty Shepherds in the center:
About the Swaines they dancing seem'd to roule,
As other Planets round the Heauenly Pole.
Who by their sweet aspect or chiding frowne,
Could raise a Shepherd vp, or cast him downe.
Thus were they circled till a Swaine came neere,
And sent this song vnto each Shepherds eare:
The Note and voyce so sweet, that for such mirth
The Gods would leaue the heauens, & dwell on earth.
Happy are you so enclosed,
May the Maids be still disposed
In their gestures and their dances,
So to grace you with intwining,
That Enuy wish in such combining,
Fortunes smile with happy chances.
Here it seemes as if the Graces
Measur'd out the Plaine in traces,

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In a Shepherdesse disguising.
Are the Spheares so nimbly turning?
Wandring Lamps in heauen burning,
To the eye so much intising?
Yes, Heauen meanes to take these thither,
And adde one ioy to see both dance together.
Gentle Nymphes be not refusing,
Loues neglect is times abusing,
They and beauty are but lent you,
Take the one and keepe the other:
Loue keepes fresh, what age doth smother.
Beauty gone you will repent you.
'Twill be said when yee haue proued,
Neuer Swaines more truly loued:
O then flye all nice behauiour.
Pitty faine would (as her dutie)
Be attending still on beautie,
Let her not be out of fauour.
Disdaine is now so much rewarded,
That Pitty weepes since she is vnregarded.
The measure and the Song here being ended:
Each Swain his thoughts thus to his Loue cōmended.

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The first presents his Dogge, with these:

When I my flocke neere you doe keepe,
And bid my Dogge goe take a Sheepe,
He cleane mistakes what I bid doe,
And bends his pace still towards you.
Poore wretch, he knowes more care I keepe
To get you, then a seely Sheep.

The second, his Pipe, with these:

Bid me to sing (faire Maid) my Song shal proue
There ne'er was truer Pipe sung truer Loue.

The third, a paire of Gloues, thus:

These will keepe your hands from burning,
Whilst the Sunne is swiftly turning:
But who can any veile deuise
To shield my Heart from your faire Eyes?

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The fourth, an Anagram. Maiden aid Men.

Maidens should be ayding Men,
And for loue giue loue agen:
Learne this lesson from your Mother,
One good wish requires another.
They deserue their names best, when
Maids most willingly aid Men.

The fift, a Ring, with a Picture in a Iewell on it.

Nature hath fram'd a Iemme beyond compare,
The world's the Ring, but you the Iewell are.

The sixt, a Nosegay of Roses, with a Nettle in it.

Such is the Posie, Loue composes;
A stinging Nettle mixt with Roses.

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The seuenth, a Girdle.

This during light I giue to clip your Wast,
Faire, grant mine armes that place when day is past.

The Eight

You haue the substance, and I liue
But by the shadowe which you giue,
Substance and shadowe, both are due,
And giuen of me to none but you,
Then whence is life but from that part,
Which is possessor of the hart.

The Nynth

The Hooke of right belongs to you.
for when I take but seelie Sheepe, yoll still take Men

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The Tenth

illustration
Louelie maiden best of any
Of our plaines though thrice as many:
Vaile to loue and leaue denyeing.
Endles knotts lett fates be tyeing.
Such a face, so fyne a feature
(Kindest fairest sweetest creature)
Neuer yet was found, but louing:
O then lett my plaintes be mouing:
Trust a shepheard though ye meanest.
Truth is best when shee is plainest:
I loue, not, with vowes contesting,
Fayth is fayth without protesting.
Time yt all thinges doth inheritt
Renders each desert his merritt.
If yt faile in me, as noe man.
Doubtles tyme nere wonne a woeman
Maidens still should be relentinge.
And once flinty still repentinge.
Youth with youth is best combyned.
Each one with his like is twyned
Beauty should haue beautious meanīg
Euer yt hope easeth playninge
Vnto you whome Nature dresses
Needs no combe to smooth yro tresses
This way yt may doe his dutie
In yro locks to shade your beautie
Doe soe, and to loue be turninge.
Elce each hart it will be burninge.

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The Eleauenth

illustration
This is loue and worth commending,
Still beginning neuer ending,
Like a wilie nett insnaring,
In a round shuts up all squaring,
In and out, whose euerie angle.
More and more doth still intangle,
Keepes a measure still in mouing,
And is neuer light but louinge,
Twyning armes, exchanging kisses,
Each partaking others blisses,
Laughing weepinge still togeather,
Blisse in one is myrth in either,
Neuer breaking euer bending,
This is loue & worth con̄ending.

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The Twelfth

Loe Cupid leaues his bowe, his reason is,
Because your eyes wounde when his shasts doe misse
Whilst euery one was offring at the shrine
Of such rare beauties might be stil'd diuine:
This lamentable voyce towards them flyes:
O Heauen send aid, or else a Maiden dies!
Herewith some ran the way the voyce them led;
Some with the Maiden staid which shooke for dread;
What was the cause time serues not now to tell.
Harke; for my iolly Wether rings his bell,
And almost all our flocks haue left to graze,
Shepherds 'tis almost night, hie home apace,
When next we meet (as we shall meet ere long)
Ile tell the rest in some ensuing Song.

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The Fovrth Song.

The Argvment.

Fida's distresse, the Hinde is slaine,
Yet from her ruines liues againe.
Riots description next I rime;
Then Aletheia, and old Time:
And lastly, from this Song I goe,
Hauing describ'd the Vale of Woe.
Happy yee dayes of old, when euery waste
VVas like a Sanctvarie to the chaste:
VVhen Incests, Rapes, Adulteries, were not knowne;
All pure as blossomes, which are newly blowne.
Maids were as free from spots, and soiles within,
As most vnblemisht in the outward skin.
Men euery Plaine and Cottage did afford,
As smooth in deeds, as they were faire of word.
Maidens with Men as sisters with their brothers;
And Men with Maids conuers'd as with their Mothers;
Free from suspition, or the rage of blood.
Strife onely raign'd, for all striu'd to be good.

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But then as little Wrens but newly fledge,
First, by their nests hop vp and downe the hedge;
Then one from bough to bough gets vp a tree:
His fellow noting his agilitie,
Thinkes he as well may venter as the other,
So flushing from one spray vnto another,
Gets to the top, and then enbold'ned flies,
Vnto an height past ken of humane eyes:
So time brought worse, men first desir'd to talke;
Then came suspect; and then a priuate walke;
Then by consent appointed times of meeting,
Where most securely each might kisse his sweeting;
Lastly, with lusts their panting brests so swell,
They came to. But to what I blush to tell,
And entred thus, Rapes vsed were of all,
Incest, Adultery, held as Veniall:
The certainty in doubtfull ballance rests,
If beasts did learne of men, or men of beasts.
Had they not learn'd of man who was their King,
So to insult vpon an vnderling,
They ciuilly had spent their liues gradation,
As meeke and milde as in their first creation;
Nor had th' infections of infected minds
So alter'd nature, and disorder'd kinds,
Fida had beene lesse wretched, I more glad,
That so true loue so true a progresse had.
When Remond left her (Remond then vnkinde)
Fida went downe the dale to seeke the Hinde;
And found her taking soyle within a flood:
Whom when she call'd straight follow'd to the wood.
Fida then wearied, sought the cooling shade,
And found an arbour by the Shepherds made
To frolike in (when Sol did hottest shine)
With cates which were farre cleanlier then fine.
For in those dayes men neuer vs'd to feed
So much for pleasure as they did for need.

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Enriching then the arbour downe she sate her;
Where many a busie Bee came flying at her:
Thinking when she for ayre her brests discloses,
That there had growne some tuft of Damaske-Roses,
And that her azure veines which then did swell,
Were Conduit-pipes brought from a liuing Well.
Whose liquor might the world enioy for money,
Bees would be bank-rupt, none would care for honey.
The Hinde lay still without (poore silly creature,
How like a woman art thou fram'd by nature?
Timerous, apt to teares, wilie in running,
Caught best when force is intermixt with cunning)
Lying thus distant, different chances meet them,
And with a fearfull obiect Fate doth greet them.
Something appear'd, which seem'd farre off, a man,

Description of Riot.


In stature, habit, gate, proportion:
But when their eyes their obiects Masters were,
And it for stricter censure came more neere,
By all his properties one well might ghesse,
Than of a man, he sure had nothing lesse.
For verily since old Deucalions flood
Earths slime did ne'er produce a viler brood.
Vpon the various earths embrodered gowne
There is a weed vpon whose head growes Downe;
Sow-thistle 'tis ycleep'd, whose downy wreath,
If any one can blow off at a breath,
We deeme her for a Maid: such was his haire,
Ready to shed at any stirring ayre.
His eares were strucken deafe when he came nie,
To heare the Widowes or the Orphans crie.
His eyes encircled with a bloody chaine,
With poaring in the blood of bodies slaine.
His mouth exceeding wide, from whence did flie
Vollies of execrable blasphemie;
Banning the Heauens, and he that rideth on them,
Dar'd vengeance to the teeth to fall vpon him:

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Like Scythian Wolues, or

Men of Scirum shoot against the Starres.

men of wit bereauen,

Which howle and shoot against the lights of Heauen.
His hands (if hands they were) like some dead corse,
With digging vp his buried ancestors;
Making his Fathers tombe and sacred shrine
The trough wherein the Hog-heard fed his Swine.
And as that Beast hath legs (which shepherds feare,
Ycleep'd a Badger, which our Lambs doth teare)
One long, the other short, that when he runs
Vpon the plaines, he halts; but when he wons
On craggy Rocks, or steepy stils, we see
None runs more swift, nor easier then he:
Such legs the Monster had, one sinew shrunke,
That in the plaines he reel'd, as being drunke;
And halted in the paths to Vertue tending:
And therefore neuer durst be that way bending:
But when he came on carued Monuments,
Spiring Colosses, and high raised rents,
He past them o're, quicke, as the Easterne winde
Sweepes through a Meadow; or a nimble Hinde,
Or Satyre on a Lawne; or skipping Roe;
Or well-wing'd Shaft forth of a Parthian bow.
His body made (still in consumptions rife)
A miserable prison for a life.
Riot he hight; whom some curs'd Fiend did raise,
When like a Chaos were the nights and daies:
Got and brought vp in the Cymerian Clime,
Where Sun nor Moon, nor daies, nor nights do time:
As who should say, they scorn'd to shew their faces
To such a Fiend should seeke to spoile the Graces.
At sight whereof, Fida nigh drown'd in feare,
Was cleane dismaid when he approched neare;
Nor durst she call the Deere, nor whistling winde her,
Fearing her noise might make the Monster finde her;
Who slily came, for he had cunning learn'd him,
And seiz'd vpon the Hinde, ere she discern'd him.

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Oh how she striu'd and strugled; euery nerue
Is prest at all assaies a life to serue:
Yet soone we lose, what we might longer keepe
Were not Preuention commonly a sleepe.
Maids, of this Monsters brood be fearefull all,
What to the Hinde may hap to you befall.
Who with her feet held vp in stead of hands,
And teares which pittie from the Rocke commands,
She sighes, and shrikes, & weeps, and looks vpon him:
Alas she sobs, and many a groane throwes on him;
With plaints which might abate a Tyrants knife;
She begs for pardon, and entreats for life.
The hollow caues resound her moanings neere it,
That heart was flint which did not grieue to heare it:
The high topt Firres which on that mountaine keep,
Haue euer since that time beene seene to weepe.
The Owle till then, 'tis thought full well could sing,
And tune her voyce to euery bubling Spring:
But when she heard those plaints, then forth she yode
Out of the couert of an Iuy rod,
And hollowing for aide, so strain'd her throat,
That since she cleane forgot her former noat.
A little Robin sitting on a tree,
In dolefull noats bewail'd her Tragedie.
An Aspe, who thought him stout, could not dissemble,
But shew'd his feare, and yet is seene to tremble.
Yet Cruelty was deafe, and had no sight
In ought which might gain-say the appetite:
But with his teeth rending her throat asunder,
Besprinkl'd with her blood the greene grasse vnder
And gurmundizing on her flesh and blood,
He vomiting returned to the Wood.
Ryot but newly gone, as strange a vision
Though farre more heauenly, came in apparition.
As that Arabian bird (whom all admire)
Her exequies prepar'd and funerall fire,

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Burnt in a flame conceiued from the Sun,
And nourished with slips of Cynamon,
Out of her ashes hath a second birth,
And flies abroad, a wonderment on earth:
So from the ruines of this mangled Creature
Arose so faire and so diuine a feature,

Description of Truth.

That Enuy for her heart would doat vpon her;

Heauen could not chuse but be enamour'd on her:
Were I a Starre, and she a second Spheare,
Ide leaue the other, and be fixed there.
Had faire Arachne wrought this Maidens haire,
When she with Pallas did for skill compare,
Minerua's worke had neuer beene esteem'd,
But this had beene more rare and highly deem'd.
Yet gladly now she would reuerse her doome,
Weauing this haire within a Spiders Loome.
Vpon her fore-head, as in glory sate
Mercy and Maiesty, for wondring at,
As pure and simple as Albania's snow,
Or milke-white Swans which stem the streams of Poe:
Like to some goodly fore-land, bearing out
Her haire, the tufts which fring'd the shoare about.
And lest the man which sought those coasts might slip,
Her eyes like Stars, did serue to guide the ship.
Vpon her front (heauens fairest Promontory)
Delineated was, th' Authentique Story
Of those Elect, whose sheepe at first began
To nibble by the springs of Canaan:
Out of whose sacred loynes (brought by the stem
Of that sweet Singer of Ierusalem)
Came the best Shepherd euer flocks did keepe,
Who yeelded vp his life to saue his sheepe.
O thou Eterne! by whom all beings moue,
Giuing the Springs beneath, and Springs aboue:
Whose Finger doth this Vniuerse sustaine,
Bringing the former and the latter raine:

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Who dost with plenty Meads and Pastures fill,
By drops distill'd like dew on Hermon Hill:
Pardon a silly Swaine, who (farre vnable
In that which is so rare, so admirable)
Dares on an Oaten-pipe, thus meanly sing
Her praise immense, worthy a siluer string.
And thou which through the Desart and the Deepe,
Didst lead thy Chosen like a flocke of sheepe:
As sometime by a Starre thou guidedst them,
Which fed vpon the plaines of Bethelem;
So by thy sacred Spirit direct my quill,
When I shall sing ought of thy Holy hill,
That times to come, when they my rymes rehearse,
May wonder at me, and admire my Verse:
For who but one rapt in Cœlestiall fire,
Can by his Muse to such a pitch aspire;
That from aloft he might behold and tell
Her worth, whereon an iron Pen might dwell.
When she was borne, Nature in sport began,
To learne the cunning of an Artizan,
And did Vermilion with a white compose,
To mocke her selfe, and paint a Damaske Rose.
But scorning Nature vnto Art should seeke,
She spilt her colours on this Maidens cheeke.
Her mouth the gate from whence all goodnesse came,
Of power to giue the dead a liuing name.
Her words embalmed in so sweet a breath,
That made them triumph both on Time and Death,
Whose fragrant sweets, since the Camelion knew,
And tasted of, he to this humor grew:
Left other Elements, held this so rare,
That since he neuer feeds on ought but Ayre.
O had I Virgils verse, or Tullies Tongue!
Or raping numbers like the Thracian's Song,
I haue a Theame would make the Rocks to dance,
And surly Beasts that through the Desart prance,

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Hie from their Caues, and euery gloomy den,
To wonder at the excellence of men.
Nay, they would thinke their states for euer raised,
But once to looke on one, so highly praised.
Out of whose Maiden brests (which sweetly rise)
The Seers suckt their hidden Prophecies:
And told that for her loue in times to come,
Many should seeke the Crowne of Martyrdome,
By fire, by sword, by tortures, dungeons, chaines,
By stripes, by famine, and a world of paines;
Yet constant still remaine (to her they loued)
Like Syon Mount, that cannot be remoued.
Proportion on her armes and hands recorded,
The world for her no fitter place afforded.
Praise her who list, he still shall be her debter:
For Art ne'er fain'd, nor Nature fram'd a better.
As when a holy Father hath began
To offer sacrifice to mighty Pan,
Doth the request of euery Swaine assume,
To scale the Welkin in a sacred fume,
Made by a widow'd Turtles louing mate,
Or Lamkin, or some Kid immaculate,
The offring heaues aloft, with both his hands;
Which all adore, that neere the Altar stands:
So was her heauenly body comely rais'd
On two faire columnes; those that Ouid prais'd
In Iulia's borrowed name, compar'd with these,
Were Crabs to Apples of th' Hespherides;
Or stumpe-foot Vulcan in comparison,
With all the height of true perfection.
Nature was here so lauish of her store,
That she bestow'd vntill she had no more.
VVhose Treasure being weakned (by this Dame)
She thrusts into the world so many lame.
The highest Synode of the glorious Skie,
(I heard a VVood-Nymph sing) sent Mercurie

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To take a suruay of the fairest faces,
And to describe to them all womens graces;
VVho long time wandring in a serious quest,
Noting what parts by Beauty were possest:
At last he saw this Maid, then thinking fit
To end his iourney, here, Nil-vltra, writ.
Fida in adoration kiss'd her knee,
And thus bespake; Haile glorious Deitie!
(If such thou art, and who can deeme you lesse?)
VVhether thou raign'st Queene of the Wildernesse,
Or art that Goddesse ('tis vnknowne to me)
Which from the Ocean drawes her pettigree:
Or one of those, who by the mossie bankes
Of drisling Hellicon, in airie rankes
Tread Roundelayes vpon the siluer sands,
Whilst shaggy Satyres tripping o're the strands,
Stand still at gaze, and yeeld their senses thrals
To the sweet cadence of your Madrigals:
Or of the Faiery troope which nimbly play,
And by the Springs dance out the Summers day;
Teaching the little birds to build their nests,
And in their singing how to keepen rests:
Or one of those, who watching where a Spring
Out of our Grandame Earth hath issuing,
With your attractiue Musicke wooe the streame
(As men by Faieries led, falne in a dreame)
To follow you, which sweetly trilling wanders
In many Mazes, intricate Meanders;
Till at the last, to mocke th' enamour'd rill,
Ye bend your traces vp some shady hill;
And laugh to see the waue no further tread;
But in a chafe run foaming on his head,
Being enforc'd a channell new to frame,
Leauing the other destitute of name.
If thou be one of these, or all, or more,
Succour a seely Maid, that doth implore

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Aid, on a bended heart, vnfain'd and meeke,
As true as blushes of a Maiden cheeke.
Maiden, arise, repli'd the new-borne Maid:
“Pure Innocence the senslesse stones will aide.
Nor of the Fairie troope, nor Muses nine;
Nor am I Venus, nor of Proserpine:
But daughter to a lusty aged Swaine,
That cuts the greene tufts off th' enamel'd plaine;
And with his Sythe hath many a Summer shorne
The plow'd-lands lab'ring with a crop of corne;

Description of Time.

Who from the cloud-clipt mountaine by his stroake

Fels downe the lofty Pine, the Cedar, Oake:
He opes the flood-gates as occasion is
Sometimes on that mans land, sometimes on this.
When Verolame, a stately Nymph of yore
Did vse to decke her selfe on Isis shore,
One morne (among the rest) as there she stood,
Saw the pure Channell all besmear'd with blood;
Inquiring for the cause, one did impart,
Those drops came from her holy Albans hart;
Herewith in griefe she gan intreat my Syre,
That Isis streame, which yeerely did attire
Those gallant fields in changeable array,
Might turne her course and run some other way.
Lest that her waues might wash away the guilt
From off their hands which Albans blood had spilt:
He condescended, and the nimble waue
Her Fish no more within that channell draue:
But as a witnesse left the crimson gore
To staine the earth, as they their hands before.
He had a being ere there was a birth,
And shall not cease vntill the Sea and Earth,
And what they both containe, shall cease to be,
Nothing confines him but Eternitie.
By him the names of good men euer liue,
Which short liu'd men vnto Obliuion giue:

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And in forgetfulnesse he lets him fall,
That is no other man then naturall:
'Tis he alone that rightly can discouer,
Who is the true, and who the fained Louer.
In Summers heat when any Swaine to sleepe
Doth more addict himselfe then to his sheepe;
And whilst the Leaden God sits on his eyes,
If any of his Fold or strayes or dyes,
And to the waking Swaine it be vnknowne,
Whether his sheepe be dead, or straid, or stolne;
To meet my Syre he bends his course in paine,
Either where some high hill suruaies the plaine;
Or takes his step toward the flowrie vallies,
Where Zephyre with the Cowslip hourely dallies;
Or to the groues, where birds from heat or weather,
Sit sweetly tuning of their noates together:
Or to a Mead a wanton Riuer dresses
With richest Collers of her turning Esses;
Or where the Shepherds sit old stories telling,
Chronos my Syre hath no set place of dwelling;
But if the Shepherd meet the aged Swaine,
He tels him of his sheepe, or shewes them slaine.
So great a gift the sacred Powers of heauen
(Aboue all others) to my Syre haue giuen,
That the abhorred Stratagems of night,
Lurking in cauernes from the glorious light,
By him (perforce) are from their dungeons hurl'd,
And shew'd as monsters to the wondring World.
What Mariner is he sailing vpon
The watry Desart clipping Albion,
Heares not the billowes in their dances roare
Answer'd by Eccoes from the neighbour shoare?
To whose accord the Maids trip from the Downes,
And Riuers dancing come, ycrown'd with Townes,
All singing forth the victories of Time,
Vpon the Monsters of the Westerne Clime,

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VVhose horrid, damned, bloody, plots would bring
Confusion on the Laureate Poets King,
VVhose Hell-fed hearts deuis'd how neuer more
A Swan might singing sit on Isis shore:
But croaking Rauens, and the Scrich-owles crie,
The fit Musitians for a Tragedie,
Should euermore be heard about her strand,
To fright all Passengers from that sad Land.
Long Summers dayes I on his worth might spend,
And yet begin againe when I would end.
All Ages since the first age first begun,
Ere they could know his worth their age was done:
VVhose absence all the Treasury of earth
Cannot buy out. From farre-fam'd Tagus birth,
Not all the golden grauell he treads ouer,
One minute past, that minute can recouer.
I am his onely Childe (he hath no other)
Cleep'd Aletheia, borne without a Mother.
Poore Aletheia long despis'd of all,
Scarce Charitie would lend an Hospitall
To giue my Months cold watching one nights rest,
But in my roome tooke in the Misers Chest.
In winters time when hardly fed the flocks,
And Isicles hung dangling on the Rocks;
When Hyems bound the floods in siluer chaines,
And hoary Frosts had candy'd all the Plaines;
When euery Barne rung with the threshing Flailes,
And Shepherds Boyes for cold gan blow their nailes:
(Wearied with toyle in seeking out some one
That had a sparke of true deuotion;)
It was my chance (chance onely helpeth need)
To finde an house ybuilt for holy deed,
With goodly Architect, and Cloisters wide,
With groues and walkes along a Riuers side;
The place it selfe afforded admiration,
And euery spray a Theame of contemplation.

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But (woe is me) when knocking at the gate,

Aletheia seeks reliefe at an Abbey, and is denide.


I gan intreat an enterance thereat:
The Porter askt my name: I told; He swell'd,
And bade me thence: wherewith in griefe repell'd,
I sought for shelter to a ruin'd house,
Harb'ring the Weasell, and the dust-bred Mouse;
And others none, except the two-kinde Bat,
Which all the day there melancholy sate:
Here sate I downe with winde and raine ybeat;
Griefe fed my minde, and did my body eat.
Yet Idlenesse I saw (lam'd with the Gout)
Had entrance when poore Truth was kept without.
There saw I Drunkennesse with Dropsies swolne;
And pamper'd Lust that many a night had stolne
Ouer the Abby-wall when Gates were lock'd,
To be in Venus wanton bosome rock'd:
And Gluttony that surfetting had bin,
Knocke at the gate and straight-way taken in:
Sadly I sate, and sighing grieu'd to see,
Their happinesse, my infelicitie.
At last came Enuy by, who hauing spide
Where I was sadly seated, inward hide,
And to the Conuent eagerly she cries,
Why sit you here, when with these eares and eyes
I heard and saw a strumpet dares to say,
She is the true faire Aletheia,
Which you haue boasted long to liue among you,
Yet suffer not a peeuish Girle to wrong you?
With this prouok'd, all rose, and in a rout
Ran to the gate, stroue who should first get out,
Bade me be gone, and then (in tearmes vnciuill)
Did call me counterfait, witch, hag, whore, deuill;
Then like a strumpet droue me from their cels,
With tinkling pans, and with the noise of bels.
And he that lou'd me, or but moan'd my case,
Had heapes of fire-brands banded at his face.

114

Thus beaten thence (distrest, forsaken wight)
Inforc'd in fields to sleepe, or wake all night;
A silly sheepe seeing me straying by,
Forsooke the shrub where once she meant to lye;
As if she in her kinde (vnhurting elfe)
Did bid me take such lodging as her selfe:
Gladly I tooke the place the sheepe had giuen,
Vncanopy'd of any thing but heauen.
Where nigh benumb'd with cold, with grief frequented,
Vnto the silent night I thus lamented:
Faire Cynthia, if from thy siluer Throne,
Thou euer lentst an eare to Virgins mone!
Or in thy Monthly course, one minute staid
Thy Palfrayes trot, to heare a wretched Maid!
Pull in their reynes, and lend thine eare to me,
Forlorne, forsaken, cloath'd in miserie:
But if a woe hath neuer woo'd thine eare,
To stop those Coursers in their full Cariere;
But as stone-hearted men, vncharitable,
Passe carelesse by the poore, when men lesse able
Hold not the needed helpe in long suspence,
But in their hands poure their beneuolence.
O! if thou be so hard to stop thine eares!
When stars in pitty drop downe from their Spheares,
Yet for a while in gloomy vaile of night,
Inshrowd the pale beames of thy borrowed light:
O! neuer once discourage goodnesse (lending
One glimpse of light) to see misfortune spending
Her vtmost rage on Truth, despis'd, distressed,
Vnhappy, vnrelieued, yet vndressed.
Where is the heart at vertues suffring grieueth?
Where is the eye that pittying relieueth?
Where is the hand that still the hungry feedeth?
Where is the eare that the decrepit steedeth?
That heart, that hand, that eare, or else that eye,
Giueth, relieueth, feeds, steeds misery?

115

O earth produce me one (of all thy store)
Enioyes; and be vaine-glorious no more.
By this had Chanticlere, the village-clocke,
Bidden the good-wife for her Maids to knocke:
And the swart plow man for his breakfast staid,
That he might till those lands were fallow laid:
The hils and vallies here and there resound
With the re-ecchoes of the deepe-mouth'd hound.
Each Shepherds daughter with her cleanly Peale,
Was come a field to milke the Mornings meale,
And ere the Sunne had clymb'd the Easterne hils,
To guild the muttring bournes, and pritty rils,
Before the lab'ring Bee had left the Hiue,
And nimble Fishes which in Riuers diue,
Began to leape, and catch the drowned Flie,
I rose from rest, not in felicitie.
Seeking the place of Charities resort,
Vnware I hapned on a Princes Court;
Where meeting Greatnesse, I requir'd reliefe,
(O happy vndelay'd) she said in briefe,
To small effect thine oratorie tends,
How can I keepe thee and so many friends?
If of my houshold I should make thee one,
Farewell my seruant Adulation:
I know she will not stay when thou art there:
But seeke some Great mans seruice other-where.
Darknesse and light, summer and winters weather
May be at once, ere you two liue together.
Thus with a nod she left me cloath'd in woe.
Thence to the Citie once I thought to goe,
But somewhat in my mind this thought had thrown,
It was a place wherein I was not knowne.
And therefore went vnto these homely townes,
Sweetly enuiron'd with the Dazied Downes.
Vpon a streame washing a village end
A Mill is plac'd, that neuer difference kend

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Twixt dayes for worke, and holy-tides for rest,

Truth entreats succor from a Miller, a Tayler & a Weauer.

But alwaies wrought & ground the neighbors grest.

Before the doore I saw the Miller walking,
And other two (his neighbours) with him talking:
One of them was a Weauer, and the other
The Village Tayler, and his trusty brother;
To them I came, and thus my suit began:
Content, the riches of a Country-man,
Attend your Actions, be more happy still,
Then I am haplesse! and as yonder Mill,
Though in his turning it obey the streame,
Yet by the head-strong torrent from his beame
Is vnremou'd, and till the wheele be tore,
It daily toyles; then rests, and workes no more:
So in lifes motion may you neuer be
(Though swayd with griefes) o'er-borne with misery.
With that the Miller laughing, brush'd his cloathes,
Then swore by Cocke and other dung-hill oathes,
I greatly was to blame, that durst so wade
Into the knowledge of the Wheel-wrights trade.
I, neighbour, quoth the Tayler (then he bent
His pace to me, spruce like a Iacke of Lent)
Your iudgement is not seame-rent when you spend it,
Nor is it botching, for I cannot mend it.
And Maiden, let me tell you in displeasure,
You must not presse the cloth you cannot measure:
But let your steps be stitcht to wisdomes chalking,
And cast presumptuous shreds out of your walking.
The Weauer said, Fie wench, your selfe you wrong,
Thus to let slip the shuttle of your rong:
For marke me well, yea, marke me well, I say,
I see you worke your speeches Web astray.
Sad to the Soule, o'er laid with idle words,
O heauen, quoth I, where is the place affords
A friend to helpe, or any heart that ruth
The most deiected hopes of wronged Truth?

117

Truth! quoth the Miller, plainly for our parts,
I and the Weauer hate thee with our hearts:
The strifes you raise I will not now discusse,
Betweene our honest Customers and vs:
But get you gone, for sure you may despaire
Of comfort here, seeke it some other-where.
Maid (quoth the Tayler) we no succour owe you,
For as I guesse her's none of vs doth know you:
Nor my remembrance any thought can seize
That I haue euer seene you in my dayes.
Seene you? nay, therein confident I am;
Nay, till this time I neuer heard your name,
Excepting once, and by this token chiefe,
My neighbour at that instant cald me thiefe,
By this you see you are vnknowne among vs,
We cannot help you, though your stay may wrong vs.
Thus went I on, and further went in woe:
For as shrill sounding Fame, that's neuer slow,
Growes in her going, and increaseth more,
Where she is now, then where she was before:
So Griefe (that neuer healthy, euer sicke,
That froward Scholler to Arethmeticke,
Who doth Diuision and Substraction flie,
And chiefly learnes to adde and multiply)
In longest iourneys hath the strongest strength,
And is at hand, supprest, vnquaild at length.

Description of a solitarie Vale.


Betweene two hils, the highest Phœbus sees
Gallantly crownd with large Skie-kissing trees,
Vnder whose shade the humble vallies lay;
And Wilde-Bores from their dens their gambols play:
There lay a graueld walke ore-growne with greene,
Where neither tract of man nor beast was seene.
And as the Plow-man when the land he tils,
Throwes vp the fruitfull earth in ridged hils,
Betweene whose Cheuron forme he leaues a balke;
So twixt those hils had Nature fram'd this walke,

118

Not ouer-darke, nor light, in angles bending,
And like the gliding of a Snake descending:
All husht and silent as the mid of night:
No chattring Pie, nor Crow appear'd in sight;
But further in I heard the Turtle-Doue,
Singing sad Dirges on her lifelesse Loue.
Birds that compassion from the rocks could bring,
Had onely license in that place to sing:
Whose dolefull noates the melancholly Cat
Close in a hollow tree sate wondring at.
And Trees that on the hill-side comely grew,
When any little blast of Æol blew,
Did nod their curled heads, as they would be
The Iudges to approue their melody.
Iust halfe the way this solitary Groue,
A Crystall Spring from either hill-side stroue,
Which of them first should wooe the meeker ground,
And make the Pibbles dance vnto their sound.
But as when children hauing leaue to play,
And neare their Masters eye sport out the day,
(Beyond condition) in their childish toyes
Oft vex their Tutor with too great a noyse,
And make him send some seruant out of doore,
To cease their clamour, lest they play no more:
So when the prettie Rill a place espies,
Where with the Pibbles she would wantonize;
And that her vpper streame so much doth wrong her
To driue her thence, and let her play no longer;
If she with too loud mutt'ring ran away,
As being [too] much incens'd to leaue her play;
A westerne milde, and pretty whispering gale,
Came dallying with the leaues along the dale,
And seem'd as with the water it did chide,
Because it ran so long vnpacifide:
Yea, and me thought it bade her leaue that coyle,
Or he would choake her vp with leaues and soyle:

119

Whereat the riuelet in my minde did weepe,
And hurl'd her head into a silent deepe.
Now he that guides the Chariot of the Sunne,
Vpon th' Eclipticke Circle had so runne,
That his brasse-hoof'd fire-breathing horses wan
The stately height of the Meridian:
And the day-lab'ring man (who all the morne
Had from the quarry with his Pick-axe torne
A large well squared stone, which he would cut
To serue his stile, or for some water-shut)
Seeing the Sunne preparing to decline,
Tooke out his Bag, and sate him downe to dine.
When by a sliding, yet not steepe descent,
I gain'd a place, ne'er Poet did inuent
The like for sorrow: not in all this Round
A fitter seat for passion can be found.
As when a dainty Fount, and Crystall Spring,
Got newly from the earths imprisoning,
And ready prest some channell cleere to win,
Is round his rise by Rockes immured in,
And from the thirsty earth would be with-held,
Till to the Cesterne top the waues haue swell'd:
But that a carefull Hinde the Well hath found,
As he walkes sadly through his parched ground;
Whose patience suffring not his land to stay
Vntill the water o'er the Cesterne play,
He gets a Picke-axe and with blowes so stout,
Digs on the Rocke, that all the groues about
Resound his stroke, and still the rocke doth charge,
Till he hath made a hole both long and large,
Whereby the waters from their prison run,
To close earths gaping wounds made by the Sun:
So through these high rais'd hils, embracing round
This shady, sad, and solitary ground,
Some power (respecting one whose heauy mone
Requir'd a place to sit and weepe alone)

120

Had cut a path, whereby the grieued wight
Might freely take the comfort of this Scyte.
About the edges of whose roundly forme,
In order grew such Trees as doe adorne
The sable hearse, and sad forsaken mate;
And Trees whose teares their losse commiserate,
Such are the Cypresse, and the weeping Myrrhe,
The dropping Amber, and the refin'd Fyrrhe,
The bleeding Vine, the watry Sicamour,
And Willough for the forlorne Paramour;
In comely distance: vnderneath whose shade
Most neat in rudenesse Nature arbors made:
Some had a light; some so obscure a seat,
Would entertaine a sufferance ne'er so great:
Where grieued wights sate (as I after found,
Whose heauy hearts the height of sorrow crown'd)
Wailing in saddest tunes the doomes of Fate
On men by vertue cleeped fortunate.
The first note that I heard I soone was won,
To thinke the sighes of faire Endymion;
The subiect of whose mournfull heauy lay
Was his declining with faire Cynthia.
Next him a great man sate, in woe no lesse;
Teares were but barren shadowes to expresse
The substance of his griefe, and therefore stood
Distilling from his heart red streames of blood:
He was a Swaine whom all the Graces kist,
A braue, heroicke, worthy Martialist:
Yet on the Downes he oftentimes was seene
To draw the merry Maidens of the Greene
With his sweet voyce: Once, as he sate alone,
He sung the outrage of the lazy Drone,
Vpon the lab'ring Bee, in straines so rare,
That all the flitting Pinnionists of ayre
Attentiue sate, and in their kindes did long
To learne some Noat from his well-timed Song.

121

Exiled Naso (from whose golden pen
The Muses did distill delights for men)
Thus sang of Cepalus (whose name was worne
Within the bosome of the blushing Morn:)
He had a dart was neuer set on wing,
But death flew with it: he could neuer fling,
But life fled from the place where stucke the head.
A Hunters frolicke life in Woods he lead
In separation from his yoaked Mate,
Whose beauty, once, he valued at a rate
Beyond Aurora's cheeke, when she (in pride)
Promis'd their off-spring should be Deifide:
Procris she hight; who (seeking to restore
Her selfe that happinesse she had before)
Vnto the greene wood wends, omits no paine
Might bring her to her Lords embrace againe:
But Fate thus crost her, comming where he lay
Wearied with hunting all a Summers day,
He somewhat heard within the thicket rush,
And deeming it some Beast, hid in a bush,
Raised himselfe, then set on wing a dart,
Which tooke a sad rest in the restlesse heart
Of his chaste wife; who with a bleeding brest
Left loue and life, and slept in endlesse rest.
With Procris heauie Fate this Shepherds wrong
Might be compar'd, and aske as sad a song.
In th' Autumne of his youth, and manhoods Spring,
Desert (growne now a most deiected thing)
Won him the fauour of a Royall Maid,
Who with Diana's Nymphs in forests stray'd,
And liu'd a Huntresse life exempt from feare.
She once encountred with a surly Beare,
Neare to a Crystall Fountaines flowery brink
Heat brought them thither both, and both would drinke,
When from her golden quiuer she tooke forth
A Dart, aboue the rest esteem'd for worth,

122

And sent it to his side: the gaping wound
Gaue purple streames to coole the parched ground.
Whereat he gnasht his teeth, storm'd his hurt lym,
Yeelded the earth what it denied him:
Yet sunke not there, but (wrapt in horror) hy'd
Vnto his hellish caue, despair'd and dy'd.
After the Beares just death, the quickning Sunne
Had twice six times about the Zodiacke run,
And (as respectlesse) neuer cast an eye,
Vpon the night-inuail'd Cymmerij,
When this braue Swaine (approued valorous)
In opposition, of a tyrannous
And bloody Sauage being long time gone
Quelling his rage with faithlesse Gerion
Returned from the stratagems of warres,
(Inriched with his quail'd foes bootlesse scarres)
To see the cleare eyes of his dearest Loue,
And that her skill in hearbs might helpe remoue
The freshing of a wound which he had got
In her defence, by Enuies poyson'd shot,
And comming through a Groue wherein his faire
Lay with her brests displai'd to take the aire,
His rushing through the boughes made her arise,
And dreading some wilde beasts rude enterprize,
Directs towards the noyse a sharpned dart,
That reach'd the life of his vndaunted heart,
Which when shee knew, twice twenty Moones nie spent
In teares for him, and dy'd in languishment.
Within an arbour shadow'd with a Vine,
Mixed with Rosemary and Eglantine,
A Shepherdesse was set, as faire as young,
Whose praise full many a Shepherd whilome sung,
Who on an Altar faire had to her Name,
In consecration many an Anagram:
And when with sugred straines they stroue to raise
Worth, to a garland of immortall Bayes;

123

She as the learnedst Maid was chose by them,
(Her flaxen haire crown'd with an Anadem)
To iudge who best deseru'd, for she could fit
The height of praise vnto the height of wit.
But well-a-day those happy times were gone,
(Millions admit a small subtraction.)
And as the Yeere hath first his iocund Spring,
Wherein the Leaues, to Birds sweet carrolling,
Dance with the winde: then sees, the Summers day
Perfect the Embrion Blossome of each spray:
Next commeth Autumne, when the threshed sheafe
Loseth his graine, and every tree his leafe:
Lastly, cold Winters rage, with many a storme,
Threats the proud Pines which Ida's top adorne,
And makes the sap leaue succourlesse the shoot,
Shrinking to comfort his decaying root.
Or as a quaint Musitian being won,
To run a point of sweet Diuision,
Gets by degrees vnto the highest Key;
Then, with like order falleth in his play
Into a deeper Tone; and lastly, throwes
His Period in a Diapazon Close:
So euery humane thing terrestriall,
His vtmost height attain'd, bends to his fall.
And as a comely youth, in fairest age,
Enamour'd on a Maid (whose parentage
Had Fate adorn'd, as Nature deckt her eye,
Might at a becke command a Monarchie)
But poore and faire could neuer yet bewitch
A misers minde, preferring foule and rich,
And therefore (as a Kings heart left behinde,
When as his corps are borne to be enshrin'd)
(His Parents will, a Law) like that dead corse,
Leauing his heart, is brought vnto his Horse,
Carried vnto a place that can impart
No secret Embassie vnto his heart,

124

Climbes some proud hill, whose stately eminence
Vassals the fruitfull vales circumference:
From whence, no sooner can his lights descry
The place enriched by his Mistresse eye:
But some thicke cloud his happy prospect blends,
And he in sorrow rais'd, in teares descends:
So this sad Nymph (whom all commiserate)
Once pac'd the hill of Greatnesse and of State,
And got the top; but when she gan addresse
Her sight, from thence to see true happinesse,
Fate interpos'd an enuious cloud of feares,
And she with-drew into this vale of teares,
Where Sorrow so enthral'd best Vertues Iewell,
Stones check'd griefs hardnes, call'd her too-too cruel,
A streame of teares vpon her faire cheekes flowes,
As morning dew vpon the Damaske-Rose,
Or Crystall-glasse vailing Vermilion;
Or drops of Milke on the Carnation:
She sang and wept (ô yee Sea-binding Cleeues,
Yeeld Tributary drops, for Vertue grieues!)
And to the Period of her sad sweet Key
Intwinn'd her case with chaste Penelope:
But see the drisling South, my mournfull straine
Answers, in weeping drops of quickning raine,
And since this day we can no further goe,
Restlesse I rest within this Vale of Woe,
Vntill the modest morne on earths vast Zone,
The euer gladsome day shall re-inthrone.

125

The Fifth Song.

The Argvment.

In Noats that rocks to pittie moue,
Idya sings her buried Loue:
And from her horne of plentie giues
Comfort to Truth, whom none relieues.
Repentance house next cals me on,
With Riots true conuersion:
Leauing Amintas Loue to Truth,
To be the Theame the Muse ensu'th.
Here full of Aprill, vail'd with sorrowes wing,
For louely Layes, I dreary Dirges sing.
Who so hath seene yong Lads (to sport themselues)
Run in a low ebbe to the sandy shelues:
Where seriously they worke in digging wels,
Or building childish sorts of Cockle-shels:
Or liquid water each to other bandy;
Or with the Pibbles play at handy-dandy,
Till vnawares the Tyde hath clos'd them round,
And they must wade it through or else be drown'd,
May (if vnto my Pipe he listen well)
My Muse distresse with theirs soone paralell.

126

For where I whilome sung the loues of Swaines,
And woo'd the Crystall Currants of the Plaines,
Teaching the Birds to loue, whilst euery Tree
Gaue his attention to my Melodie:
Fate now (as enuying my too-happy Theame)
Hath round begirt my Song with Sorrowes streame,
Which till my Muse wade through and get on shore,
My griefe-swolne Soule can sing of Loue no more.
But turne we now (yet not without remorse)
To heauenly Aletheias sad discourse,
That did from Fida's eyes salt teares exhale,
When thus she shew'd the Solitarie Vale.
Iust in the midst this ioy-forsaken ground
A hillocke stood, with Springs embraced round:
(And with a Crystall Ring did seeme to marry
Themselues, to this small Ile sad-solitarie:)
Vpon whose brest (which trembled as it ran)
Rode the faire downie-siluer-coated Swan:
And on the bankes each Cypresse bow'd his head,
To heare the Swan sing her owne

A. Funerall song before the corps be interred.

Epiced.

As when the gallant youth which liue vpon
The Westerne Downes of louely Albion;
Meeting, some festiuall to solemnize,
Choose out two, skil'd in wrastling exercise,
Who strongly, at the wrist or coller cling,
Whilst arme in arme the people make a Ring.
So did the water round this Ile inlinke,
And so the Trees grew on the waters brinke:
Waters their streames about the Iland scatter;
And Trees perform'd as much vnto the water:
Vnder whose shade the Nightingale would bring
Her chirping young, and teach them how to sing.
The woods most sad, Musitians thither hie,
As it had beene the Siluians Castalie,
And warbled forth such Elegyacke straines,
That strucke the windes dumbe; & the motly plaines

127

Were fill'd with enuy, that such shady places
Held all the worlds delights in their embraces.
O how (me thinkes) the impes of Mneme bring
Dewes of Inuention from their sacred Spring!
Here could I spend that spring of Poesie,
Which not twice ten Sunnes haue bestow'd on me;
And tell the world, the Muses loue appeares
In nonag'd youth, as in the length of yeares.
But ere my Muse erected haue the frame,
Wherein t'enshrine an vnknowne Shepherds name,
She many a Groue, and other woods must tread,
More Hils, more Dales, more Founts must be displaid,
More Meadowes, Rockes, and from them all elect
Matter befitting such an Architect.
As Children on a play-day leaue the Schooles,
And gladly runne vnto the swimming Pooles,
Or in the thickets, all with nettles stung,
Rush to dispoile some sweet Thrush of her young;
Or with their hats (for fish) lade in a Brooke
Withouten paine: but when the Morne doth looke
Out of the Easterne gates, a Snayle would faster
Glide to the Schooles, then they vnto their Master:
So when before I sung the Songs of Birds,
(Whilst euery moment sweetned lines affords)
I pip'd deuoid of paine, but now I come
Vnto my taske, my Muse is stricken dumbe.
My blubbring pen her sable teares lets fall,
In Characters right Hyrogliphicall,
And mixing with my teares are ready turning,
My late white paper to a weed of mourning;
Or Inke and Paper striue how to impart,
My words, the weeds they wore, within my hart:
Or else the blots vnwilling are my rimes
And their sad cause should liue till after-times;
Fearing if men their subiect should descry,
They forth-with would dissolue in teares and die.

128

Vpon the Ilands craggy rising hill,
A Quadrant ranne, wherein by Artlesse skill,
At euery corner Nature did erect
A Columne rude, yet void of all defect:
Whereon a Marble lay. The thick-growne Bryer,
And prickled Hawthorne (wouen all entyre)
Together clung, and barr'd the gladsome light
From any entrance, fitting onely night.
No way to it but one, steepe and obscure,
The staires of rugged stone, seldome in vre,
All ouer-growne with Mosse, as Nature sate
To entertaine Griefe with a cloth of State.
Hardly vnto the top I had ascended,
But that the Trees (siding the steps) befriended
My weary limbes, who bowing downe their armes,
Gaue hold vnto my hands to scape from harmes:
Which euermore are ready, still present
Our feet, in climbing places eminent.
Before the doore (to hinder Phœbus view)
A shady Box-tree grasped with an Eugh,
As in the place behalfe they menac'd warre
Against the radiance of each sparkling Star.
And on their barkes (which Time had nigh deprau'd)
These lines (it seem'd) had been of old engrau'd:
This place was fram'd of yore, to be possest
By one which sometime Hath Beene Happiest.
Louely Idya the most beautious
Of all the darlings of Occeanus,
Hesperia's enuy and the Westerne pride,
Whose party-coloured garment Nature dy'd
In more eye-pleasing hewes with richer graine,
Then Iris bow attending Aprils raine.
Whose Lilly white inshaded with the Rose
Had that man seene, who sung th' Eneidos,
Dido had in obliuion slept, and she
Had giu'n his Muse her best eternitie.

129

Had braue Atrides (who did erst imploy
His force to mix his dead with those of Troy)
Beene proffered for a truce her fained peece
Helen had staid, and that had gone to Greece:
The Phrygian soile had not been drunk with blood,
Achilles longer breath'd, and Troy yet stood:
The Prince of Poets had not sung his story,
My friend had lost his euer-liuing glory.
But as a snowy Swan, who many a day
On Thamar's swelling brests hath had his play,
For further pleasure doth assay to swim
My natiue Tauy, or the sandy Plim:
And on the panting billowes brauely rides,
Whilst Country-lasses walking on the sides,
Admire her beauty, and with clapping hands,
Would force her leaue the streame, and tread the sands,
When she regardlesse swims to th' other edge,
Vntill an enuious Bryer, or tangling Sedge
Dispoyles her Plumes; or else a sharpned Beame
Pierceth her brest, and on the bloudy streame
She pants for life: So whilome rode this Maid
On streames of worldly blisse, more rich arrayd,
With Earths delight, then thought could put in vre,
To glut the senses of an Epicure.
Whilst neighbring Kings vpon their frontires stood,
And offer'd for her dowre huge Seas of blood:
And periur'd Gerion to winne her, rent
The Indian Rockes for gold, and bootlesse spent
Almost his patrimony for her sake,
Yet nothing like respected as the Drake
That skowr'd her Channels, and destroyd the weede,
VVhich spoyld her sisters nets, and fishes breede.
At last her truest loue she threw vpon
A royall Youth, whose like, whose Paragon
Heauen neuer lent the Earth: so great a spirit
The VVorld could not containe, nor kingdomes merit:

130

And therefore Ioue did with the Saints inthrone him,
And left his Lady nought but teares to mone him.
Within this place (as wofull as my Verse)
She with her Crystall founts bedew'd his Herse,
Inuailed with a sable weed she sate,
Singing this song which stones dissolued at.
What time the world clad in a mourning robe,
A Stage made for a wofull Tragedie:
When showers of teares from the Cœlestiall Globe
Bewaild the fate of Sea-lou'd Britanie;
When sighs as frequent were as various sights,
When Hope lay bed-rid, and all pleasures dying,
When Enuy wept,
And Comfort slept:
When Cruelty it selfe sate almost crying,
Nought being heard but what the minde affrights,
When Autumne had disrob'd the Summers pride,
Then Englands honour, Europes wonder dy'd.
O saddest straine that e'er the Muses sung!
A text of Woe for Griefe to comment on;
Teares, sighes, and sobs, giue passage to my tongue,
Or I shall spend you till the last is gone.
Which done, my heart in flames of burning loue
(Wanting his moisture) shall to cinders turne:
But first, by me
Bequeathed be
To strew the place wherein his sacred Vrne
Shall be inclos'd, this might in many moue
The like effect: (who would not doe it?) when
No graue befits him but the hearts of men.
That man whose masse of sorrowes hath been such,
That by their weight laid on each seuerall part,

131

His fountaines are so drie, he but as much
As one poore drop hath left to ease his heart;
Why should he keepe it? since the time doth call,
That he ne'er better can bestow it in:
If so he feares
That others teares
In greater number, greatest prizes winne;
Know none giues more then he which giueth all.
Then he which hath but one poore teare in store,
O let him spend that drop, and weepe no more.
Why flowes not Helicon beyond her strands?
Is Henry dead, and doe the Muses sleepe?
Alas! I see each one amazed stands,
“Shallow foords mutter, silent are the deepe:
Faine would they tell their griefes, but know not where:
All are so full, nought can augment their store:
Then how should they
Their griefes display
To men, so cloid, they faine would heare no more?
Though blaming those whose plaints they cannot heare:
And with this wish their passions I allow,
May that Muse neuer speake that's silent now!
Is Henry dead? alas! and doe I liue
To sing a Scrich-owles Note that he is dead?
If any one a fitter Theame can giue,
Come giue it now, or neuer to be read.
But let him see it doe of horror tast,
Anguish, destruction: could it rend in sunder
With fearefull grones
The senselesse stones,
Yet should we hardly be enforc'd to wonder,
Our former griefes would so exceed their last:
Time cannot make our sorrowes ought compleater;
Nor adde one griefe to make our mourning greater.

132

England was ne'er ingirt with waues till now;
Till now it held part with the Continent:
Aye me! some one in pitty shew me, how
I might in dolefull numbers so lament;
That any one which lou'd him, hated me,
Might dearely loue me, for lamenting him.
Alas! my plaint
In such constraint
Breaks forth in rage, that though my passions swimme,
Yet are they drowned ere they landed be:
Imperfect lines! O happy! were I hurld
And cut from life as England from the world.
O happier had we beene! if we had beene
Neuer made happie by enioying thee!
Where hath the glorious eye of heauen seene
A spectacle of greater miserie?
Time turne thy course; and bring againe the Spring;
Breake Natures lawes; search the records of old,
If ought befell
Might paralell
Sad Britain's case: weepe Rocks, and Heauen behold,
What Seas of sorrow she is plunged in.
Where stormes of woe so mainly haue beset her;
She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better.
Britaine was whilome knowne (by more then fame)
To be one of the Ilands fortunate;
What franticke man would giue her now that name,
Lying so rufull and disconsolate?
Hath not her watry Zone in murmuring,
Fill'd euery shoare with Ecchoes of her crie?
Yes, Thetis raues,
And bids her waues
Bring all the Nymphes within her Emperie
To be assistant in her sorrowing:

133

See where they sadly sit on Isis shore,
And rend their haires as they would ioy no more.
Isis the glory of the Westerne world,
When our Heroë (honour'd Essex) dy'd,
Strucken with wonder, backe againe she hurld,
And fill'd her banckes with an vnwoonted Tyde:
As if she stood in doubt, if it were so,
And for the certaintie had turn'd her way.
Why doe not now
Her waues reflow?
Poore Nymph, her sorrowes will not let her stay;
Or flies to tell the world her Countries woe:
Or cares not to come backe, perhaps, as showing
Our teares should make the flood, not her reflowing.
Sometimes a Tyrant held the reynes of Rome,
Wishing to all the City but one head,
That all at once might vndergoe his doome,
And by one blow from life be seuered.
Fate wisht the like on England, and 'twas giuen:
(O miserable men, enthral'd to Fate!)
Whose heauy hand
That neuer scand
The misery of Kingdomes ruinate,
Minding to leaue her of all ioyes bereauen,
With one sad blow (Alas! can worser fall!)
Hath giuen this little Ile her Funerall.
O come yee blessed Impes of Memory,
Erect a new Parnassus on his graue!
There tune your voices to an Elegy,
The saddest Note that ere Apollo gaue.
Let euery Accent make the stander by
Keepe time vnto your Song with dropping teares,
Till drops that fell
Haue made a well

134

To swallow him which still vnmoued heares?
And though my selfe proue senselesse of your cry,
Yet gladly should my light of life grow dim,
To be intomb'd in teares are wept for him.
When last he sickned, then we first began
To tread the Labyrinth of Woe about:
And by degrees we further inward ran,
Hauing his thread of life to guide vs out.
But Destinie no sooner saw vs enter
Sad Sorrowes Maze, immured vp in night,
(Where nothing dwels
But cryes and yels
Throwne from the hearts of men depriu'd of light,)
When we were almost come into the Center,
Fate (cruelly) to barre our ioyes returning,
Cut off our Thread, and left vs all in mourning.
If you haue seene at foot of some braue hill,
Two Springs arise, and delicately trill,
In gentle chidings through an humble dale,
(Where tufty Daizies nod at euery gale)
And on the bankes a Swaine (with Lawrell crown'd)
Marying his sweet Notes with their siluer sound:
When as the spongy clouds swolne big with water,
Throw their conception on the worlds Theater:
Downe from the hils the rained waters roare,
Whilst euery leafe drops to augment their store:
Grumbling the stones fall o'er each others backe,
Rending the greene turfes with their

A fall of waters from a very high place.

Cataract,

And through the Meadowes run with such a noise,
That taking from the Swaine the fountaines voice,
Inforce him leaue their margent, and alone
Couple his base Pipe with their baser Tone.

Aletheia to Fida.

Know (Shepherdesse) that so I lent an eare

To those sad wights whose plaints I told whileare:

135

But when this goodly Lady gan addresse
Her heauenly voyce to sweeten heauinesse,
It drown'd the rest, as torrents little Springs;
And strucken mute at her great sorrowings,
Lay still and wondred at her pitious mone,
Wept at her griefes, and did forget their owne,
Whilst I attentiue sate, and did impart,
Teares when they wanted drops, and from a hart,
As hie in sorrow as e'er creature wore,
Lent thrilling grones to such as had no more.
Had wise Vlysses (who regardlesse flung
Along the Ocean when the Syrens sung)
Pass'd by and seene her on the sea-torne cleeues,
Waile her lost Loue (while Neptunes watry Theeues
Durst not approach for Rockes:) to see her face
He would haue hazarded his Grecian race,
Thrust head-long to the shore, and to her eyes
Offer'd his Vessell as a Sacrifice.
Or had the Syrens on a neighbour shore
Heard in what raping Notes she did deplore
Her buried Glory, they had left their shelues,
And to come neere her would haue drown'd themselues.
Now silence lock'd the organs of that voyce;

Aletheia commeth to Idya.


Whereat each merry Syluan wont reioyce,
When with a bended knee to her I came,
And did impart my griefe and hated name:
But first a pardon begg'd, if that my cause
So much constrain'd me as to breake the Lawes
Of her wish'd sequestration, or ask'd Bread
(To saue a life) from her, whose life was dead:
But lawlesse famine, selfe-consuming hunger,
Alas! compel'd me: had I stayed longer,
My weakned limmes had beene my wants forc'd meed,
And I had fed, on that I could not feed.
When she (compassionate) to my sad mone
Did lend a sigh, and stole it from her owne;

136

And (wofull Lady wrackt on haplesse shelfe)
Yeelded me comfort, yet had none her selfe:
Told how she knew me well since I had beene,
As chiefest consort of the Fairy Queene;
O happy Queene! for euer, euer praise
Dwell on thy Tombe; the period of all dayes
Onely seale vp thy fame; and as thy Birth
Inrich'd thy Temples on the fading earth,
So haue thy Vertues crown'd thy blessed soule,
Where the first Mouer with his words controule;
As with a girdle the huge Ocean bindes;
Gathers into his fist the nimble Windes;
Stops the bright Courser in his hot careere;
Commands the Moone twelue courses in a yeere:
Liue thou with him in endlesse blisse, while we
Admire all vertues in admiring thee.
Thou, thou, the fautresse of the learned Well,
Thou nursing Mother of Gods Israel;
Thou, for whose louing Truth, the heauens raines
Sweet Mel and Manna on our flowry plaines:
Thou, by whose hand the sacred Trine did bring
Vs out of bonds, from bloody Bonnering.
Ye suckling Babes, for euer blesse that Name
Releas'd your burning in your Mothers flame!
Thrice blessed Maiden, by whose hand was giuen
Free liberty to taste the food of Heauen.
Neuer forget her (Albions louely Daughters)
Which led you to the Springs of liuing Waters!
And if my Muse her glory faile to sing,
May to my mouth my tongue for euer cling!
Herewith (at hand) taking her Horne of Plentie

Idya cherisheth Aletheia.

Fil'd with the choyse of euery Orchards daintie,

As Peares, Plums, Apples, the sweet Raspis-berry,
The Quince, the Apricocke, the blushing Cherry;
The Mulberry (his blacke from Thisbie taking)
The cluster'd Filberd, Grapes oft merry-making.

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(This fruitfull Horne th' immortall Ladies fill'd
With all the pleasures that rough Forrests yeeld,
And gaue Idya, with a further blessing,
That thence (as from a Garden) without dressing,
She these should euer haue; and neuer want
Store, from an Orchard without tree or plant.)
With a right willing hand she gaue me, hence,
The Stomackes comforter, the pleasing Quince;
And for the chiefest cherisher she lent
The Royall Thistles milkie nourishment.
Here staid I long: but when to see Aurora
Kisse the perfumed cheekes of dainty Flora,
Without the vale I trod one louely Morne,
With true intention of a quicke returne,
An vnexpected chance stroue to deferre
My going backe, and all the loue of her.
But Maiden see the day is waxen old,
And gins to shut in with the Marigold:
The Neat-herds Kine doe bellow in the yard;
And Dairy Maidens for the milke prepar'd,
Are drawing at the Vdder, long ere now
The Plow-man hath vnyoak't his Teame from plow:
My transformation to a fearefull Hinde
Shall to vnfold a fitter season finde;
Meane while yond Pallace, whose braue Turrets tops,
Ouer the stately Wood suruay the cops,
Promis'th (if sought) a wished place of rest,
Till Sol our Hemisphere haue repossest.
Now must my Muse afford a straine to Riot,
Who almost kild with his luxurious diet,
Lay eating grasse (as dogges) within a wood,
So to disgorge the vndisgested food:
By whom faire Aletheia past along
With Fida Queene of euery shepherds song,
By them vnseene (for he securely lay
Vnder the thicke of many a leauied spray)

138

And through the leueld Meadowes gently threw
Their neatest feet, washt with refreshing dew,
Where he durst not approach, but on the edge
Of th' hilly wood, in couert of a hedge,
VVent onward with them, trode with them in paces,
And farre off much admir'd their formes and graces.
Into the Plaines at last he headlong venter'd:
But they the hill had got and pallace enter'd.
VVhen, like a valiant well resolued man
Seeking new paths i' th' pathlesse Ocean,
Vnto the shores of monster-breeding Nyle,
Or through the North to the vnpeopled Thyle,
VVhere from the Equinoctiall of the Spring,
To that of Autumne, Titans golden Ring
Is neuer off; and till the Spring againe
In gloomy darknesse all the shoares remaine.
Or if he furrow vp the brynie Sea,
To cast his Ancors in the frozen bay
Of woody Norway; (who hath euer fed
Her people more with scaly fish then bread)
Though ratling mounts of Ice thrust at his Helme,
And by their fall still threaten to o'rewhelme
His little Vessell: and though Winter throw
(What age should on their heads) white caps of Snow;
Striues to congeale his bloud; he cares not for't,
But arm'd in minde, gets his intended port:
So Ryot, though full many doubts arise,
VVhose vnknowne ends might graspe his enterprise,
Climbes towards the Palace, and with gate demure,
VVith hanging head, a voice as faining pure,
With torne and ragged coat, his hairy legs
Bloudy, as scratch'd with Bryers, he entrance begs.
Remembrance sate as Portresse of this gate:
A Lady alwayes musing as she sate,
Except when sometime suddainly she rose,
And with a back-bent eye, at length, she throwes

139

Her hands to heauen: and in a wondring guize,
Star'd on each obiect with her fixed eyes:
As some way-faring man passing a wood,
(Whose wauing top hath long a Sea-marke stood)
Goes iogging on, and in his minde nought hath,
But how the Primrose finely strew the path,
Or sweetest Violets lay downe their heads
At some trees root on mossie feather-beds,
Vntill his heele receiues an Adders sting,
Whereat he starts, and backe his head doth fling.
She neuer mark'd the sute he did preferre,
But (carelesse) let him passe along by her.
So on he went into a spatious court,
All trodden bare with multitudes resort:
At th' end whereof a second gate appeares,
The Fabricke shew'd full many thousand yeares:
Whose Posterne-key that time a Lady kept,
Her eyes all swolne as if she seldome slept;
And would by fits her golden tresses teare,
And striue to stop her breath with her owne haire:
Her lilly hand (not to be lik'd by Art)
A paire of Pincers held; wherewith her heart
Was hardly grasped, while the piled stones
Re-eccoed her lamentable grones.
Here at this gate the custome long had bin
When any sought to be admitted in,
Remorce thus vs'd them, ere they had the key,
And all these torments felt, pass'd on their way.
When Riot came, the Ladies paines nigh done,
She past the gate; and then Remorce begun
To fetter Riot in strong iron chaines;
And doubting much his patience in the paines.
As when a Smith and's Man (lame Vulcans fellowes)
Call'd from the Anuile or the puffing Bellowes,
To clap a well-wrought shooe (for more then pay)
Vpon a stubborne Nagge of Galloway;

140

Or vnback'd Iennet, or a Flaunders Mare,
That at the Forge stand snuffing of the ayre;
The swarty Smith spits in his Buckhorne fist,
And bids his Man bring out the fiue-fold twist,
His shackles, shacklocks, hampers, gyues and chaines,
His linked bolts; and with no little paines
These make him fast: and least all these should faulter,
Vnto a poste with some six doubled halter
He bindes his head; yet all are of the least
To curbe the fury of the head-strong beast:
When if a Carriers Iade be brought vnto him,
His Man can hold his foot whilst he can shoe him:
Remorce was so inforc'd to binde him stronger,
Because his faults requir'd infliction longer
Then any sin-prest wight which many a day
Since Iudas hung himselfe had past that way.
When all the cruell torments he had borne,
Galled with chaines, and on the racke nigh torne,
Pinching with glowing pincers his owne heart;
All lame and restlesse, full of wounds and smart,
He to the Posterne creepes, so inward hies,
And from the gate a two-fold path descries,
One leading vp a hill, Repentance way;
And (as more worthy) on the right hand lay:
The other head-long, steepe, and lik'ned well
Vnto the path which tendeth downe to hell:
All steps that thither went shew'd no returning,
The port to paines, and to eternall mourning;
Where certaine Death liu'd, in an Ebon chaire,
The soules blacke homicide meager Despaire
Had his abode: there gainst the craggie rocks
Some dasht their braines out, with relentlesse knocks,
Others on trees (ô most accursed elues)
Are fastening knots, so to vndoe themselues.
Here one in sinne not daring to appeare
At Mercies seat with one repentant teare,

141

Within his brest was launcing of an eye,
That vnto God it might for vengeance cry:
There from a Rocke a wretch but newly fell,
All torne in pieces, to goe whole to Hell.
Here with a sleepie Potion one thinkes fit
To graspe with death, but would not know of it:
There in a poole two men their liues expire,
And die in water to reuiue in fire.
Here hangs the bloud vpon the guiltlesse stones:
There wormes consume the flesh of humane bones.
Here lyes an arme: a legge there: here a head,
Without other lims of men vnburied,
Scattring the ground, and as regardlesse hurl'd,
As they at vertue spurned in the world.
Fye haplesse wretch, ô thou! whose graces steruing,
Measur'st Gods mercy by thine owne deseruing;
Which cry'st (distrustfull of the power of Heauen)
My sinnes are greater then can be forgiuen:
Which still are ready to curse God and die,
At euery stripe of worldly miserie;
O learne (thou in whose brests the Dragon lurkes)
Gods mercy (euer) is o'er all his workes.
Know he is pitifull, apt to forgiue;
Would not a sinners death, but that he liue.
O euer, euer rest vpon that word
Which doth assure thee, though his two edg'd Sword
Be drawne in Iustice gainst thy sinfull soule,
To separate the rotten from the whole;
Yet if a sacrifice of prayer be sent him,
He will not strike; or if he strike repent him.
Let none despaire: for cursed Iudas sinne
Was not so much in yeelding vp the King
Of life, to death, as when he thereupon
Wholy dispair'd of Gods remission.
Riot, long doubting stood which way were best
To leade his steps: at last preferring rest

142

(As foolishly he thought) before the paine
Was to be past ere he could well attaine
The high-built Palace; gan aduenture on
That path, which led to all confusion,
When sodainly a voice as sweet as cleere,
With words diuine began entice his eare:
Whereat as in a rapture, on the ground
He prostrate lay, and all his senses found
A time of rest; onely that facultie
Which neuer can be seene, nor euer dye,
That in the essence of an endlesse Nature
Doth sympathize with the All-good Creator,
That onely wak'd which cannot be interr'd
And from a heauenly Quire this ditty heard.
Vaine man, doe not mistrust
Of heauen winning;
Nor (though the most vniust)
Despaire for sinning
God will be seene his sentence changing.
If he behold thee wicked wayes estranging.
Climbe vp where pleasures dwell
In flowry Allies:
And taste the liuing Well
That decks the Vallies.
Faire Metanoia is attending
To crowne thee with those ioyes which know no ending.
Herewith on leaden wings Sleepe from him flew,
When on his arme he rose, and sadly threw
Shrill acclamations; while an hollow caue,
Or hanging hill, or heauen an answer gaue.
O sacred Essence lightning me this houre!
How may I lightly stile thy great Power?
Ecch.
Power.

143

Power? but of whence? vnder the green-wood spray.
Or liu'st in heau'n? say.

Ecch.
In Heauens aye.

In heauens aye I tell, may I it obtaine
By almes; by fasting, prayer, by paine.
Ecch.
By paine.

Shew me the paine, 't shall be vndergone:
I to mine end will still goe on.
Ecch.
Goe on.

But whither? On! Shew me the place, the time:
What if the Mountain I do climbe?
Ecch.
Doe; climbe.

Is that the way to ioyes which still endure?
O bid my soule of it be sure!
Ecch.
Be sure.

Then thus assured, doe I climbe the hill,
Heauen be my guide in this thy will.
Ecch.
I will.

As when a maid taught from her mother wing,
To tune her voyce vnto a siluer string,
When she should run, she rests; rests when should run,
And ends her lesson hauing now begun:
Now misseth she her stop, then in her song,
And doing of her best she still is wrong,
Begins againe, and yet againe strikes false,
Then in a chafe forsakes her Virginals,
And yet within an houre she tries anew,
That with her daily paines (Arts chiefest due)
She gaines that charming skill: and can no lesse
Tame the fierce walkers of the wildernesse,
Then that Oeagrin Harpist, for whose lay,
Tigers with hunger pinde and left their pray.
So Riot, when he gan to climbe the hill,
Here maketh haste and there long standeth still,
Now getteth vp a step, then fals againe,
Yet not despairing all his nerues doth straine,
To clamber vp a new, then slide his feet,
And downe he comes: but giues not ouer yet,
For (with the maid) he hopes, a time will be
When merit shall be linkt with industry.
Now as an Angler melancholy standing
Vpon a greene banke yeelding roome for landing,

144

A wrigling yellow worme thrust on his hooke,
Now in the midst he throwes, then in a nooke:
Here puls his line, there throwes it in againe,
Mendeth his Corke and Bait, but all in vaine,
He long stands viewing of the curled streame;
At last a hungry Pike, or well-growne Breame
Snatch at the worme, and hasting fast away,
He knowing it, a Fish of stubborne sway,
Puls vp his rod, but soft: (as hauing skill)
Wherewith the hooke fast holds the Fishes gill,
Then all his line he freely yeeldeth him,
Whilst furiously all vp and downe doth swim
Th' insnared Fish, here on the top doth scud,
There vnderneath the banks, then in the mud;
And with his franticke fits so scares the shole,
That each one takes his hyde, or starting hole:
By this the Pike cleane wearied vnderneath
A Willow lyes, and pants (if Fishes breath)
Wherewith the Angler gently puls him to him,
And least his haste might happen to vndoe him,
Layes downe his rod, then takes his line in hand,
And by degrees getting the Fish to land,
Walkes to another Poole: at length is winner
Of such a dish as serues him for his dinner:
So when the Climber halfe the way had got,
Musing he stood, and busily gan plot,
How (since the mount did alwaies steeper tend)
He might with steps secure his iourney end.
At last (as wandring Boyes to gather Nuts)
A hooked Pole he from a Hasell cuts;
Now throwes it here, then there to take some hold,
But bootlesse and in vaine, the rockie mold,
Admits no cranny, where his Hasell-hooke
Might promise him a step, till in a nooke
Somewhat aboue his reach he hath espide
A little Oake, and hauing often tride

145

To catch a bough with standing on his toe,
Or leaping vp, yet not preuailing so;
He rols a stone towards the little tree,
Then gets vpon it, fastens warily
His Pole vnto a bough, and at his drawing
The early rising Crow with clam'rous kawing,
Leauing the greene bough, flyes about the Rocke,
Whilst twenty twenty couples to him flocke:
And now within his reach the thin leaues waue,
With one hand onely then he holds his staue,
And with the other grasping first the leaues,
A pretty bough he in his fist receiues;
Then to his girdle making fast the hooke,
His other hand another bough hath tooke;
His first, a third, and that, another giues,
To bring him to the place where his root liues.
Then, as a nimble Squirrill from the wood,
Ranging the hedges for his Filberd-food,
Sits peartly on a bough his browne Nuts cracking,
And from the shell the sweet white kernell taking,
Till (with their crookes and bags) a sort of Boyes,
(To share with him) come with so great a noyse,
That he is forc'd to leaue a Nut nigh broke,
And for his life leape to a neighbour Oake,
Thence to a Beech, thence to a row of Ashes;
Whilst th' row the Quagmires, and red water plashes,
The Boyes run dabling thorow thicke and thin,
One teares his hose, another breakes his shin,
This, torne and tatter'd, hath with much adoe
Got by the Bryers; and that hath lost his shooe:
This drops his band; that head-long fals for haste;
Another cries behinde for being last:
With sticks and stones, and many a sounding hollow,
The little foole, with no small sport, they follow,
Whilst he, from tree to tree, from spray to spray,
Gets to the wood, and hides him in his Dray:

146

Such shift made Ryot, ere he could get vp,
And so from bough to bough he won the top,
Though hindrances, for euer comming there,
Were often thrust vpon him by Dispaire.
Now at his feet the stately mountaine lay,
And with a gladsome eye he gan suruay
What perils he had trod on since the time
His weary feet and armes assaid to climbe.
When with a humble voyce (withouten feare,
Though he look'd wilde and ouer-grown with haire)
A gentle Nymph in russet course array,
Comes and directs him onward in his way.
First, brings she him into a goodly Hall,

Description of the house of Repentance.

Faire, yet not beautified with Minerall:

But in a carelesse Art, and artlesse care,
Made, loose neglect, more louely farre then rare.
Vpon the floore (ypau'd with Marble slate)
(With Sack-cloth cloth'd) many in ashes sate:
And round about the wals for many yeares,
Hung Crystall Vials of repentant teares:
And Books of vowes, and many a heauenly deed,
Lay ready open for each one to read,
Some were immured vp in little sheads,
There to contemplate Heauen, and bid their Beads.
Others with garments thin of Cammels-haire,
With head, and armes, and legs, and feet all bare,
Were singing Hymnes to the Eternall Sage,
For safe returning from their Pilgrimage,
Some with a whip their pamper'd bodies beat;
Others in fasting liue, and seldome eat:
But as those Trees which doe in India grow
And call'd of elder Swaines full long agoe
The Sun and Moones faire Trees (full goodly deight)
And ten times ten feet challenging their height:
Hauing no helpe (to ouer-looke braue Towers)
From coole refreshing dew, or drisling showers;

147

When as the Earth (as oftentimes is seene)
Is interpos'd twixt Sol and Nights pale Queene;
Or when the Moone ecclipseth Titans light,
The Trees (all comfortlesse) rob'd of their sight
Weepe liquid drops, which plentifully shoot
Along the outward barke downe to the root:
And by their owne shed teares they euer flourish;
So their own sorrowes, their owne ioyes doe nourish:
And so within this place full many a wight,
Did make his teares his food both day and night.
And had it g[r]anted (from th' Almighty great)
To swim th' row them vnto his Mercy-seat.
Faire Metanoia in a chaire of earth,
With count'nance sad, yet sadnesse promis'd mirth,
Sate vail'd in coursest weeds of Cammels hayre,
Inriching pouertie; yet neuer faire
Was like to her, nor since the world begun
A louelier Lady kist the glorious Sun.
For her the God of Thunder, mighty, great,
Whose Foot-stoole is the Earth, and Heauen his Seat,
Vnto a man who from his crying birth
Went on still, shunning what he carried, earth:
VVhen he could walke no further for his graue,
Nor could step ouer, but he there must haue
A seat to rest, when he would faine goe on;
But age in euery nerue, in euery bone
Forbad his passage: for her sake hath heauen
Fill'd vp the graue, and made his path so euen,
That fifteene courses had the bright Steeds run,
(And he was weary) ere his course was done.
For scorning her, the Courts of Kings which throw
A proud rais'd pinnacle to rest the Crow;
And on a Plaine out-braue a neighbour Rocke,
In stout resistance of a Tempests shocke,
For her contempt heauen (reining his disasters)
Haue made those Towers but piles to burne their masters.

148

To her the lowly Nymph (Humblessa hight)
Brought (as her office) this deformed wight;
To whom the Lady courteous semblance shewes,
And pittying his estate in sacred thewes,
And Letters (worthily ycleep'd diuine)
Resolu'd t'instruct him: but her discipline
She knew of true effect, would surely misse,
Except the first his Metamorphosis
Should cleane exile: and knowing that his birth
VVas to inherit reason, though on earth
Some VVitch had thus transform'd him, by her skill,
Expert in changing, euen the very will,
In few dayes labours with continuall prayer,
(A sacrifice transcends the buxome ayre)
His grisly shape, his foule deformed feature,
His horrid lookes, worse then a sauage creature,
By Metanoia's hand from heauen, began
Receiue their sentence of diuorce from man.
And as a louely Maiden, pure and chaste,
VVith naked Iu'rie necke, and gowne vnlac'd,
VVithin her chamher, when the day is fled,
Makes poore her garments to enrich her bed:
First, puts she off her lilly-silken gowne,
That shrikes for sorrow as she layes it downe;
And with her armes graceth a VVast-coat fine,
Imbracing her as it would ne'er vntwine.
Her flexen haire insnaring [the] beholders,
She next permits to waue about her shoulders,
And though she cast it backe, the silken slips.
Still forward steale, and hang vpon her lips:
VVhereat she sweetly angry, with her laces
Bindes vp the wanton locks in curious traces,
VVhilst (twisting with her ioynts) each haire long lingers,
As loth to be inchain'd, but with her fingers.
Then on her head a dressing like a Crowne;
Her breasts all bare, her Kirtle slipping downe,

149

And all things off (which rightly euer be
Call'd the foule-faire markes of our miserie)
Except her last, which enuiously doth seize her,
Least any eye partake with it in pleasure,
Prepares for sweetest rest, while Siluans greet her,
And (longingly) the down-bed swels to meet her:
So by degrees his shape all brutish vilde,
Fell from him (as loose skin from some yong childe)
In lieu whereof a man-like shape appeares,
And gallant youth scarce skill'd in twenty yeares,
So faire, so fresh, so young, so admirable
In euery part, that since I am not able
In words to shew his picture, gentle Swaines,
Recall the praises in my former straines;
And know if they haue graced any lim,
I onely lent it those, but stole't from him.
Had that chaste Roman Dame beheld his face,
Ere the proud King possest her Husbands place,
Her thoughts had beene adulterate, and this staine
Had won her greater fame, had she beene slaine.
The Larke that many mornes her selfe makes merry
With the shrill chanting of her teery-lerry,
(Before he was transform'd) would leaue the skyes,
And houer o'er him to behold his eyes.
Vpon an Oten-pipe well could he play,
For when he fed his flocke vpon the lay
Maidens to heare him from the Plaines came tripping
And Birds frō bough to bough full nimbly skipping;
His flocke (then happy flocke) would leaue to feed,
And stand amaz'd to listen to his Reed:
Lyons and Tygers, with each beast of game;
With hearing him were many times made tame:
Braue trees & flowers would towards him be bending
And none that heard him wisht his Song an ending:
Maids, Lyons, birds, flocks, trees, each flowre, each spring,
Were wrapt with wōder, whē he vs'd to sing

150

So faire a person to describe to men
Requires a curious Pencill, not a Pen.
Him Metanoia clad in seemly wise
(Not after our corrupted ages guise,
Where gaudy weeds lend splendor to the lim,
While that his cloaths receiu'd their grace from him,)
Then to a garden set with rarest flowres,
With pleasant fountains stor'd, and shady bowres:
She leads him by the hand, and in the groues,
Where thousand pretty Birds sung to their Loues,
And thousand thousand blossomes (from their stalks)
Milde Zephyrus threw downe to paint the walkes:
Where yet the wilde Boare neuer durst appeare:
Here Fida (euer to kinde Raymond deare)
Met them, and shew'd where Aletheia lay,
(The fairest Maid that euer blest the day.)
Sweetly she lay, and cool'd her lilly-hands
Within a Spring that threw vp golden sands:
As if it would intice her to perseuer
In liuing there, and grace the banks for euer.
To her Amintas (Riot now no more)
Came, and saluted: neuer man before
More blest, nor like this kisse hath beene another
But when two dangling Cherries kist each other:
Nor euer beauties, like, met at such closes;
But in the kisses of two Damaske-Roses.
O, how the flowres (prest with their treadings on thē)
Stroue to cast vp their heads to looke vpon them!
How iealously the buds that so had seene them,
Sent forth the sweetest smels to step betweene them,
As fearing the perfume lodg'd in their powers
Once known of them, they might neglect the flowres,
How often wisht Amintas with his heart,
His ruddy lips from hers might neuer part;
And that the heauens this gift were thē bequeathing,
To feed on nothing but each others breathing!

151

A truer loue the Muses neuer sung,
Nor happyer names ere grac'd a golden tongue:
O! they are better fitting his sweet stripe,
Who on the bankes of Ancor tun'd his Pipe:
Or rather for that learned Swaine whose layes
Diuinest Homer crown'd with deathlesse Bayes:
Or any one sent from the sacred Well
Inheriting the soule of Astrophell:
These, these in golden lines might write this Story,
And make these loues their owne eternall glory:
Whilst I a Swaine as weake in yeeres as skill,
Should in the valley heare them on the hill,
Yet (when my Sheepe haue at their Cesterne beene,
And I haue brought them backe to sheare the greene)
To misse an idle houre, and not for meed,
VVith choicest relish shall mine Oaten Reed
Record their worths: and though in accents rare
I misse the glory of a charming ayre,
My Muse may one day make the Courtly Swaines
Enamour'd on the Musicke of the Plaines,
And as vpon a hill she brauely sings,
Teach humble Dales to weepe in Crystall Springs.
The end of the first Booke.

153

The second Booke.

Carmine Dij superi placantur, carmine Manes.
Horat.


155

TO THE TRVLY NOBLE AND LEARNED William EARLE OF Pembroke, LORD CHAMBERLAINE TO HIS Maiestie, &c.

Not that the gift (Great Lord) deserues your hand,
(Held euer worth the rarest workes of men)
Offer I this; but since in all our Land
None can more rightly claime a Poet's Pen:
That Noble Bloud and Vertue truly knowne,
Which circular in you vnited run,
Makes you each good, & euery good your owne,
If it can hold in what my Muse hath done.
But weake and lowly are these tuned Layes,
Yet though but weake to win faire Memorie,
You may improue them, and your gracing raise;
For things are priz'd as their possessours be.
If for such fauour they haue worthlesse striuen,
Since Loue the cause was, be that Loue forgiuen!
Your Honours, W. Browne.

156

[Commendatory Verses.]

To the most ingenious Author Mr. W. Browne.

Ingenious Swaine! that highly dost adorne
Clear Tauy! on whose brinck we both were borne!
Iust Praise in me would ne're be thought to moue
From thy sole Worth, but from my partiall Loue.
Wherefore I will not doe thee so much wrong,
As by such mixture to allay thy Song.
But while kinde strangers rightly praise each Grace
Of thy chaste Muse; I (from the happy Place
That brought thee forth, and thinkes it not vnfit
To boast now that it earst bred such a Wit;)
Would onely haue it knowne I much reioyce;
To heare such Matters, sung by such a Voyce.
Iohn Glanvill.

To his Friend Mr. Browne.

All that doe reade thy Workes, and see thy face,
(Where scarce a haire growes vp, thy chin to grace)
Doe greatly wonder how so youthfull yeares
Could frame a Work, where so much worth appears.
To heare how thou describ'st a Tree, a Dale,
A Groue, a Greene, a solitary Vale,

157

The Euening Showers, and the Morning Gleames,
The golden Mountaines, and the siluer Streames,
How smooth thy Verse is, and how sweet thy Rimes,
How sage, and yet how pleasant are thy Lines;
What more or lesse can there be said by men,
But, Muses rule thy Hand, and guide thy Pen.
Tho. Wenman, è Societate Inter. Templi.

To his worthily-affected Friend Mr. VV. Browne.

Awake sad Muse, and thou my sadder spright,
Made so by Time, but more by Fortunes spight,
Awake, and hie vs to the Greene,
There shall be seene
The quaintest Lad of all the time
For neater Rime:
Whose free and vnaffected straines
Take all the Swaines
That are not rude and ignorant,
Or Enuy want.
And Enuy lest it's hate discouered be
A Courtly Loue and Friendship offers thee:
The Shepherdesses blithe and faire
For thee despaire.
And whosoe're depends on Pan
Holds him a man
Beyond themselues, (if not compare,)
He is so rare,
So innocent in all his wayes
As in his Layes.
He masters no low soule who hopes to please
The Nephew of the braue Philisides.

158

Another to the same.

Were all mens enuies fixt in one mans lookes,
That monster that would prey on safest Fame,
Darst not once checke at thine, nor at thy Name:
Se he who men can reade as well as Bookes
Attest thy Lines; thus tride, they show to vs
As Scæua's Shield, thy Selfe Emeritus.
W. Herbert.

[To my Browne, yet brightest Swaine]

To my Browne, yet brightest Swaine
That woons, or haunts or Hill or Plaine.
Poeta nascitur.
Pipe on, sweet Swaine, till Ioy, in Blisse, sleepe waking;
Hermes, it seemes, to thee, of all the Swaines,
Hath lent his Pipe and Art: For thou art making
With sweet Notes (noted) Heau'n of Hils and Plaines!
Nay, if as thou beginst, thou dost hold on,
The totall Earth thine Arcadie will bee;
And Neptunes Monarchy thy Helicon:
So, all in both will make a God of thee.
To whom they will exhibit Sacrifice
Of richest Loue and Praise; and enuious Swaines
(Charm'd with thine Accents) shall thy Notes agnize
To reach aboue great Pans in all thy Straines.
Then, ply this Veyne: for, it may well containe
The richest Morals vnder poorest Shroud;
And sith in thee the Past'rall spirit doth raigne,
On such Wits-Treasures let it sit abrood:
Till it hath hatch'd such Numbers as may buy
The rarest Fame that e're enriched Ayre;
Or fann'd the Way faire, to Æternity,
To which vnsoil'd, thy Glory shall repaire!

159

Where (with the Gods that in faire Starres doe dwell,
When thou shalt, blazing, in a Starre abide)
Thou shalt be stil'd the Shepherds-Starre, to tell
Them many Mysteries; and be their Guide.
Thus, doe I spurre thee on with sharpest praise,
To vse thy Gifts of Nature, and of Skill,
To double-gilde Apollos Browes, and Bayes,
Yet make great Natvre Arts true Sou'raigne still.
So, Fame shall euer say, to thy renowne,
The Shepherds-Star, or bright'st in Skie, is Browne!
The true Louer of thine Art and Nature, Iohn Davies of Heref.

To my noble Friend the Author.

A perfect Pen, it selfe will euer praise.
So pipes our Shepherd in his Roundelayes,
That who could iudge, of Musickes sweetest straine,
Would sweare thy Muse were in a heauenly vaine.

160

A Worke of worth, showes what the Worke-man is:
When as the fault, that may be found amisse,
(To such at least, as haue iudicious eyes)
Nor in the Worke, nor yet the Worke-man lyes.
Well worthy thou, to weare the Lawrell wreath:
When frō thy brest, these blessed thoughts do breath;
That in thy gracious Lines such grace doe giue,
It makes thee, euerlastingly to liue.
Thy words well coucht, thy sweet inuention show,
A perfect Poet, that could place them so.
Vnton Croke, è Societate Inter. Templi.

To the Author.

That priuiledge which others claime,
To flatter with their Friends
With thee (Friend) shall not be mine ayme,
My Verse so much pretends.
The generall Vmpire of best wit
In this will speake thy fame.
The Muses Minions as they sit,
Will still confirme the same.
Let me sing him that merits best,
Let others scrape for fashion;
Their buzzing prate thy worth will iest,
And sleight such commendation.
Anth. Vincent.

161

To his worthy Friend Mr. W. Browne, on his Booke.

That Poets are not bred so, but so borne,
Thy Muse it proues; for in her ages morne
She hath stroke enuy dumbe, and charm'd the loue
Of eu'ry Muse whose birth the Skies approue.
Goe on; I know thou art too good to feare.
And may thy earely straines affect the eare
Of that rare Lord, who iudge and guerdon can
The richer gifts which doe aduantage man!
Iohn Morgan, è Societate Inter. Templi.

To his Friend the Authour.

Sometimes (deare friend) I make thy Booke my meat,
And then I iudge 'tis Hony that I eat.
Sometimes my drinke it is, and then I thinke
It is Apollo's Nectar, and no drinke.
And being hurt in minde, I keepe in store
Thy Booke, a precious Balsame for the sore.
'Tis Hony, Nectar, Balsame most diuine:
Or one word for them all; my Friend, 'tis thine.
Tho. Heygate, è Societate Inter. Templi.

To his Friend the Author.

If antique Swaines wanne such immortall praise,
Though they alone with their melodious Layes,
Did onely charme the Woods and flowry Lawnes:
Satyres, and Floods, and Stones, and hairy Fawnes:

162

How much braue Youth to thy due worth belongs,
That charm'st not thē but men with thy sweet Songs?
Avgvstvs Cæsar, è Societate Inter. Templi.

To the Authour.

Tis knowne I scorne to flatter (or commend)
What merits not applause though in my Friend:
Which by my censure should now more appeare,
Were this not full as good as thou art deare:
But since thou couldst not (erring) make it so,
That I might my impartiall humour show
By finding fault; Nor one of these friends tell
How to shew loue so ill, that I as well
Might paint out mine: I feele an enuious touch,
And tell thee Swaine: that at thy fame I grutch,
Wishing the Art that makes this Poeme shine,
And this thy Worke (wert not thou wronged) mine.
For when Detraction shal forgotten be,
This will continue to eternize thee;
And if hereafter any busie wit
Should, wronging thy conceit, miscensure it,
Though seeming learn'd or wise: here he shall see,
Tis prais'd by wiser and more learn'd then hee.
G. Wither.

To Mr. Browne.

Were there a thought so strange as to deny
That happy Bayes doe some mens Births adorne,
Thy worke alone might serue to iustifie,
That Poets are not made so, but so borne.

163

How could thy plumes thus soone haue soar'd thus hie
Hadst thou not Lawrell in thy Cradle worne?
Thy Birth o'er tooke thy Youth: And it doth make
Thy youth (herein) thine elders ouer-take.
W. B.

To my truly-belou'd Friend M. Browne, on his Pastorals.

Some men, of Bookes or Friends not speaking right,
May hurt them more with praise, then Foes with spight.
But I haue seene thy Worke, and I know thee:
And, if thou list thy selfe, what thou canst bee.
For, though but early in these paths thou tread,
I finde thee write most worthy to be read.
It must be thine owne iudgement, yet that sends
This thy worke forth: that iudgement mine commends.
And, where the most reade bookes, on Authors fames,
Or, like our Money-brokers, take vp names
On credit, and are couzen'd; see, that thou
By offring not more sureties, then enow,
Hold thine owne worth vnbroke: which is so good
Vpon th' Exchange of Letters, as I wou'd
More of our Writers would like thee, not swell
With the how much they set forth, but th' how well.
Ben. Ionson.

165

The First Song.

The Argvment.

Marina's freedome now I sing,
And of her new endangering:
Of Famines Caue, and then th' abuse
Tow'rds buried Colyn and his Muse.
As when a Mariner (accounted lost,)
Vpon the watry Desert long time tost,
In Summers parching heat, in Winters cold,
In tempests great, in dangers manifold:
Is by a fau'ring winde drawne vp the Mast,
Whence he descries his natiue soile at last:
For whose glad sight he gets the hatches vnder,
And to the Ocean tels his ioy in thunder,
(Shaking those Barnacles into the Sea,
At once, that in the wombe and cradle lay)

166

When sodainly the still inconstant winde
Masters before, that did attend behinde;
And growes so violent, that he is faine
Command the Pilot stand to Sea againe;
Lest want of Sea-roome in a Channell streight,
Or casting Anchor might cast o're his freight:
Thus gentle Muse it happens in my Song,
A iourney, tedious, for a strength so young
I vnder-tooke: by siluer-seeming Floods,
Past gloomy Bottomes, and high-wauing Woods,
Climb'd Mountaines where the wanton Kidling dallies,
Thē with soft steps enseal'd the meekned Vallies,
In quest of memory: and had possest
A pleasant Garden, for a welcome rest
No sooner, then a hundred Theames come on
And hale my Barke a-new for Helicon.
Thrice sacred Powers! (if sacred Powers there be
Whose milde aspect engyrland Poesie)
Yee happy Sisters of the learned Spring,
Whose heauenly notes the Woods are rauishing!
Braue Thespian Maidens, at whose charming layes
Each Mosse-thrumb'd Mountaine bends, each Current playes!
Piërian Singers! O yee blessed Muses!
Who as a Iem too deare the world refuses!
Whose truest louers neuer clip with age,
O be propitious in my Pilgrimage!
Dwell on my lines! and till the last sand fall,
Run hand in hand with my weake Pastorall!
Cause euery coupling cadence flow in blisses,
And fill the world with enuy of such kisses.
Make all the rarest Beauties of our Clyme,
That deigne a sweet looke on my younger ryme,
To linger on each lines inticing graces,
As on their Louers lips and chaste imbraces!
Through rouling trenches of self-drowning waues,
Where stormy gusts throw vp vntimely graues,

167

By billowes whose white fome shew'd angry mindes,
For not out-roaring all the high-rais'd windes,
Into the euer-drinking thirsty Sea
By Rockes that vnder water hidden lay,
To shipwracke passengers, (so in some den
Theeues bent to robbry watch way-faring men.)
Fairest Marina, whom I whilome sung,
In all this tempest (violent though long)
Without all sense of danger lay asleepe:
Till tossed where the still inconstant deepe
With wide spred armes, stood ready for the tender
Of daily tribute, that the swolne floods render
Into her Chequer: (whence as worthy Kings
She helpes the wants of thousands lesser Springs:)
Here waxt the windes dumbe (shut vp in their caues)
As still as mid-night were the sullen waues,
And Neptunes siluer-euer-shaking brest
As smooth as when the Halcyon builds her nest.
None other wrinckles on his face were seene
Then on a fertile Mead, or sportiue Greene,
Where neuer Plow-share ript his mothers wombe
To giue an aged seed a liuing tombe,
Nor blinded Mole the batning earth ere stir'd,
Nor Boyes made Pit-fals for the hungry Bird.
The whistling Reeds vpon the waters side
Shot vp their sharpe heads in a stately pride,
And not a binding Ozyer bow'd his head,
But on his root him brauely carryed.
No dandling leafe plaid with the subtill aire,
So smooth the Sea was, and the Skie so faire.
Now with his hands in stead of broad-palm'd Oares,
The Swaine attempts to get the shell-strewd shores,
And with continuall lading making way,
Thrust the small Boat into as faire a Bay
As euer Merchant wisht might be the rode
Wherein to ease his sea-torne Vessels lode.

168

It was an Iland (hugg'd in Neptunes armes,
As tendring it against all forraigne harmes,)
And Mona height: so amiably faire,
So rich in soyle, so healthfull in her aire,
So quicke in her increase, (each dewy night
Yeelding that ground as greene, as fresh of plight
As't was the day before, whereon then fed
Of gallant Steeres, full many a thousand head.)
So deckt with Floods, so pleasant in her Groues,
So full of well-fleec'd Flockes and fatned Droues;
That the braue issue of the Troian line,
(Whose worths, like Diamonds, yet in darknesse shine,)
Whose deeds were sung by learned Bards as hye,
In raptures of immortall Poesie,
As any Nations, since the Grecian Lads
Were famous made by Homers Iliads.)
Those braue heroicke spirits, twixt one another
Prouerbially call

Mon Mam Kumbry.

Mona Cambria's Mother.

Yet Cambria is a land from whence haue come
Worthies well worth the race of Ilium.
Whose true desert of praise could my Muse touch,
I should be proud that I had done so much.
And though of mighty Brute I cannot boast,
Yet doth our warlike strong Deuonian coast
Resound his worth, since on her waue-worne strand
He and his Troians first set foot on land,
Strooke Saile, and Anchor cast on

Petunt Classem omnibus bonis onustam, prosperis ventis mare sulcantes in Totenesio littore feliciter applicarunt. Galf. Monum.

Totnes shore.

Though now no Ship can ride there any more.
In th' Ilands Rode the Swain now moares his Boat
Vnto a Willow (lest it outwards float)
And with a rude embracement taking vp
The Maid (more faire then

Hebe.

She that fill'd the cup

Of the great Thunderer, wounding with her eyes
More hearts then all the troopes of Deities.)
He wades to shore, and sets her on the sand,
That gently yeelded when her foot should land.

169

Where bubling waters through the pibbles fleet,
As if they stroue to kisse her slender feet.
Whlist like a wretch, whose cursed hand hath tane
The sacred reliques from a holy Phane,
Feeling the hand of heauen (inforcing wonder)
In his returne, in dreadfull cracks of thunder,
Within a bush his Sacriledge hath left,
And thinkes his punishment freed with the theft:
So fled the Swaine, from one; had Neptune spide
At halfe an ebbe; he would haue forc'd the Tyde
To swell anew; whereon his Carre should sweepe,
Deckt with the riches of th' vnsounded deepe,
And he from thence, would with all state, on shore,
To wooe this beautie, and to wooe no more.
Diuine Electra (of the Sisters seuen
That beautifie the glorious Orbe of heauen)
When Iliums stately towres, serv'd as one light
To guide the Rauisher in vgly night
Vnto her virgin beds, with-drew her face,
And neuer would looke downe on humane race
Til this Maids birth; since whē some power hath won her
By often fits to shine, as gazing on her.
Grim Saturnes son, the dread Olimpicke Ioue
That dark't three dayes to frolicke with his Loue,
Had he in Alcmen's stead clipt this faire wight,
The world had slept in euerlasting night.
For whose sake onely (had she liued then)
Deucalions flood had neuer rag'd on men:
Nor Phaëton perform'd his fathers duty,
For feare to rob the world of such a beauty:
In whose due praise, a learned quill might spend
Houres, daies, months, yeeres, and neuer make an end.
What wretch inhumane? or what wilder blood
(Suckt in a desert from a Tygers brood)
Could leaue her so disconsolate? but one
Bred in the wasts of frost-bit Calydon;

170

For had his veynes beene heat with milder ayre,
He had not wrong'd so foule, a Maid so faire.
Sing on sweet Muse, and whilst I feed mine eyes
Vpon a Iewell and vnvalued prize,
As bright a Starre, a Dame, as faire, as chaste,
As eye beheld, or shall, till Natures last:
Charme her quicke senses! and with raptures sweet
Make her affection with your cadence meet!
And if her gracefull tongue admire one straine,
It is the best reward my Pipe would gaine.
In lieu whereof, in Laurell-worthy rimes
Her Loue shall liue vntill the end of times,
And spight of age, the last of dayes shall see
Her Name embalm'd in sacred Poesie.
Sadly alone vpon the aged rocks,
Whom Thetis grac'd in washing oft their locks
Of branching Sampire, sate the Maid o'retaken
With sighes and teares, vnfortunate, forsaken,
And with a voice that floods frō rocks would borrow,
She thus both wept and sung her noates of sorrow.
If Heauen be deafe and will not heare my cries,
But addes new daies to adde new miseries;
Heare then ye troubled Waues and flitting Gales,
That coole the bosomes of the fruitfull Vales!
Lend, one, a flood of teares, the other, winde,
To weepe and sigh that Heauen is so vnkinde!
But if ye will not spare, of all your store
One teare, or sigh, vnto a wretch so poore;
Yet as ye trauell on this spacious Round,
Through Forrests, Mountains, or the Lawny ground,
If't happ' you see a Maid weepe forth her woe,
As I haue done; Oh bid her as ye goe
Not lauish teares! for when her owne are gone,
The world is flinty and will lend her none.
If this be eke deni'd; O hearken then
Each hollow vaulted Rocke, and crooked Den!

171

And if within your sides one Eccho be
Let her begin to rue my destinie!
And in your clefts her plainings doe not smother,
But let that Eccho teach it to another!
Till round the world in sounding coombe and plaine,
The last of them tell it the first againe:
Of my sad Fate, so shall they neuer lin,
But where one ends, another still begin.
Wretch that I am, my words I vainly waste,
Eccho, of all woes onely speake the last;
And that's enough: for should she vtter all,
As at Medusa's head, each heart would fall
Into a flinty substance, and repine
At no one griefe, except as great as mine.
No carefull Nurse would wet her watchfull eye,
When any pang should gripe her infantry,
Nor though to Nature it obedience gaue,
And kneeld, to doe her Homage, in the graue,
Would she lament, her suckling from her torne:
Scaping by death those torments I haue borne.
This sigh'd, she wept (low leaning on her hand)
Her briny teares downe rayning on the sand,
Which seene by (them, that sport it in the Seas
On Dolphins backes) the faire Nereides,
They came on shore, and slily as they fell
Conuai'd each teare into an Oyster-shell,
And by some power that did affect the Girles,
Transform'd those liquid drops to orient Pearles,
And strew'd them on the shore: for whose rich prize
In winged Pines, the Roman Colonies
Flung through the deepe Abysse to our white rocks
For Iems to decke their Ladyes golden lockes:
Who valew'd them as highly in their kinds
As those the Sun-burnt Æthiopian finds.
Long on the shore, distrest Marina lay:
For he that opes the pleasant sweets of May

172

Beyond the Noon-stead so farre droue his teame,
That Haruest-folkes (with curds and clouted creame,
With cheese and butter, cakes, and cates enow,
That are the Yeomans from the yoake or Cowe)
On sheafes of corne were at their noonshuns close,
Whilst them merrily the Bag-pipe goes:
Ere from her hand she lifted vp her head,
Where all the Graces then inhabited.
When casting round her ouer-drowned eyes,
(So haue I seene a Iem of mickle price
Roule in a Scallop-shell with water fild)
She, on a marble rocke at hand behild
In Characters deepe cut with Iron stroke,
A Shepherds moane, which read by her, thus spoke:
Glide soft ye siluer Floods,
And euery Spring:
Within the shady Woods,
Let no Bird sing!
Nor from the Groue a Turtle Doue,
Be seene to couple with her loue,
But silence on each Dale and Mountaine dwell
Whilst Willy bids his friend and ioy Farewell.
But (of great Thetis traine)
Yee Mermaids faire,
That on the shores doe plaine
Your Sea-greene haire,
As ye in tramels knit your locks
Weepe yee; and so inforce the rocks
In heauy murmures through the broad shores tell,
How Willy bade his friend and ioy Farewell.
Cease, cease, yee murdring winds
To moue a waue;
But if with troubled minds
You seeke his graue;

173

Know 'tis as various as your selues,
Now in the deepe, then on the shelues,
His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell,
Whilst Willy weepes and bids all ioy Farewell.
Had he Arion like
Beene iudg'd to drowne,
Hee on his Lute could strike
So rare a sowne;
A thousand Dolphins would haue come
And ioyntly striue to bring him home.
But he on Ship-boord dide, by sicknesse fell,
Since when his Willy bade all ioy Farewell.
Great Neptune heare a Swaine!
His Coffin take,
And with a golden chaine
(For pittie) make
It fast vnto a rocke neere land!
Where eu'ry calmy morne Ile stand
And ere one sheepe out of my fold I tell,
Sad Willy's Pipe shall bid his friend Farewell.
Ah heauy Shepherd (who so ere thou be)
Quoth faire Marina, I doe pitty thee:
For who by death is in a true friend crost,
Till he be earth, he halfe himselfe hath lost.
More happy deeme I thee, lamented Swaine,
Whose body lies among the scaly traine,
Since I shall neuer thinke, that thou canst dye,
Whilst Willy liues, or any Poetry:
For well it seemes in versing he hath skill,
And though he (ayded from the sacred Hill)
To thee with him no equall life can giue,
Yet by this Pen thou maist for euer liue.
With this a beame of sudden brightnesse flyes
Vpon her face, so dazeling her cleere eyes,

174

That neither flowre nor grasse which by her grew
She could discerne cloath'd in their perfect hue.
For as a Wag (to sport with such as passe)
Taking the Sun-beames in a Looking-glasse,
Conuayes the Ray into the eyes of one,
Who (blinded) either stumbles at a stone,
Or as he dazeled walkes the peopled streets,
Is ready iustling euery man he meets:
So then Apollo did in glory cast
His bright beames on a rocke with gold enchast,
And thence the swift reflection of their light
Blinded those eyes: The chiefest Stars of night.
When streight a thick-swolne Cloud (as if it sought
In beauties minde to haue a thankfull thought)
Inuail'd the lustre of great Titans Carre,
And she beheld, from whence she sate not farre,
Cut on a high-brow'd Rocke (inlaid with gold)
This Epitaph, and read it, thus enrold.
In depth of waues long hath Alexis slept,
So choicest Iewels are the closest kept;
Whose death the land had seene, but it appeares
To counteruaile his losse, men wanted teares.
So here he lyes, whose Dirge each Mermaid sings,
For whom the Clouds weepe raine, the Earth her springs.
Her eyes these lines acquainted with her minde
Had scarcely made; when o're the hill behinde
She heard a woman cry; Ah well-a-day,
What shall I doe? goe home, or flye, or stay.
Admir'd Marina rose, and with a pace
As gracefull as the Goddesses did trace
O're stately Ida (when fond Paris doome
Kindled the fire, should mighty Troy entombe.)
She went to aid the woman in distresse,
(True beauty neuer was found mercilesse)

175

Yet durst she not goe nye, lest (being spide)
Some villaines outrage, that might then betide
(For ought she knew) vnto the crying Maid,
Might graspe with her: by thickets which arai'd
The high Sea-bounding hill, so neere she went,
She saw what wight made such lowd dreriment.
Lowd? yes: sung right: for since the Azure skie
Imprison'd first the world, a mortals cry
With greater clangor neuer pierc'd the ayre.
A wight she was so farre from being faire;
None could be foule esteem'd, compar'd with her.
Describing Foulnesse, pardon if I erre,
Ye Shepherds Daughters, and ye gentle Swaines!
My Muse would gladly chaunt more louely straines:
Yet since on miry grounds she trode, for doubt
Of sinking, all in haste, thus wades she out.
As when great Neptune in his height of pride
The inland creeks fils with a high Spring-tyde,
Great sholes of fish, among the Oysters hye,
Which by a quicke ebbe, on the shores, left dry,
The fishes yawne, the Oysters gapen wide:
So broad her mouth was: As she stood and cride,
She tore her eluish knots of haire, as blacke
And full of dust as any Collyers sacke.
Her eyes vnlike, were like her body right,
Squint and misse-shapen, one dun, t'other white.
As in a picture limb'd vnto the life,
Or carued by a curious workmans knife,
If twenty men at once should come to see
The great effects of vntirde industry,
Each seu'rally would thinke the pictures eye
Was fixt on him, and on no stander by:
So as she (bawling) was vpon the banke,
If twice fiue hundred men stood on a ranke,
Her ill face towards them; euery one would say,
She lookes on me; when she another way

176

Had cast her eyes, as on some rocke or tree,
And on no one of all that company.
Her Nose (ô crooked nose) her mouth o're-hung,
As it would be directed by her tongue:
Her Fore-head such, as one might neere auow
Some Plow-man, there, had lately beene at plow.
Her Face so scorcht was, and so vilde it showes,
As on a Peare-tree she had scar'd the Crowes.
Within a Tanners fat I oft haue eyde
(That three moones there had laine) a large Oxe-hyde
In liquor mixt with strongest barke (for gaine)
Yet had not tane one halfe so deepe a staine
As had her skin: and that, as hard well-nye
As any Brawnes, long hardned in the stye.
Her Shoulders such, as I haue often seene
A silly Cottage on a Village greene
Might change his corner posts, in good behoofe,
For foure such vnder-proppers to his roofe.
Huswiues, goe hire her, if you yeerely gaue
A Lamkin more then vse, you that might saue
In washing-Beetles, for her hands would passe
To serue that purpose, though you daily wash.
For other hidden parts, thus much I say;
As Ballad-mongers on a Market-day
Taking their stand, one (with as harsh a noyse
As euer Cart-wheele made) squeakes the sad choice
Of Tom the Miller with a golden thumbe,
Who crost in loue, ran mad, and deafe, and dumbe,
Halfe part he chants, and will not sing it out,
But thus he speakes to his attentiue rout:
Thus much for loue I warbled from my brest,
And gentle friends, for money take the rest:
So speake I to the ouer-longing eare,
That would the rest of her description heare,
Much haue I sung for loue, the rest (not common)
Martial will shew for coine, in's crabbed woman.

177

If e're you saw a Pedant gin prepare
To speake some gracefull speech to Master Maior,
And being bashfull, with a quaking doubt
That in his eloquence he may be out;
He oft steps forth, as oft turnes backe againe;
And long 'tis e're he ope his learned veine:
Thinke so Marina stood: for now she thought
To venture forth, then some coniecture wrought
Her to be iealous, lest this vgly wight
(Since like a Witch she lookt) through spels of night,
Might make her body thrall (that yet was free)
To all the foule intents of Witcherie:
This drew her backe againe. At last she broke
Through all fond doubts, went to her, and bespoke
In gentle manner thus: Good day, good Maid;
With that her cry she on a sodaine staid,
And rub'd her squint eyes with her mighty fist.
But as a Miller hauing ground his grist,
Lets downe his flood-gates with a speedy fall,
And quarring vp the passage therewithall,
The waters swell in spleene, and neuer stay
Till by some cleft they finde another way:
So when her teares were stopt from either eye
Her singults, blubbrings, seem'd to make them flye
Out at her Oyster-mouth and Nose-thrils wide.
Can there (quoth faire Marina) e're betide
(In these sweet Groues) a wench, so great a wrong,
That should inforce a cry so loud, so long?
On these delightfull Plaines how can there be
So much as heard the name of villany?
Except when Shepherds in their gladsome fit
Sing Hymnes to Pan that they are free from it.
But shew me, what hath caus'd thy grieuous yell?
As late (quoth she) I went to yonder Well,
(You cannot see it here; that Groue doth couer
With his thicke boughes his little channell ouer.)

178

To fetch some water (as I vse) to dresse
My Masters supper (you may thinke of flesh;
But well I wot he tasteth no such dish)
Of Rotchets, Whitings, or such common fish,
That with his net he drags into his Boat:
Among the Flags below, there stands his Coat
(A simple one) thatch'd o're with Reede and Broome;
It hath a Kitchen, and a seuerall roome
For each of vs. But this is nought: you flee,
Replide Marine, I prithee answer me
To what I question'd. Doe but heare me first,
Answer'd the Hag. He is a man so curst,
Although I toyle at home, and serue his Swine,
Yet scarce allowes he me whereon to dine:
In Summer time on Black-berries I liue,
On Crabs and Hawes, and what wilde Forrests giue:
In Winters cold, bare-foot, I run to seeke
For Oysters, and small Winkles in each creeke,
Whereon I feed, and on the Meager Slone.
But if he home returne and finde me gone,
I still am sure to feele his heauy hand.
Alas and weale away, since now I stand
In such a plight: for if I seeke his dore
Hee'l beat me ten times worse then e're before.
What hast thou done? (yet askt Marina) say?
I with my pitcher lately tooke my way
(As late I said) to thilke same shaded Spring,
Fill'd it, and homewards, rais'd my voyce to sing;
But in my backe returne, I (haplesse) spide
A tree of Cherries wilde, and them I eyde
With such a longing, that vnwares my foot
Got vnderneath a hollow-growing root,
Carrying my pot as Maids vse on their heads,
I fell with it, and broke it all to shreads.
This is my griefe, this is my cause of mone.
And if some kinde wight goe not to attone

179

My surly Master with me wretched Maid,
I shall be beaten dead. Be not afraid,
Said sweet Marina, hasten thee before;
Ile come to make thy peace: for since I sore
Doe hunger, and at home thou hast small cheere,
(Need and supply grow farre off, seldome neere.)
To yonder Groue Ile goe, to taste the spring,
And see what it affords for nourishing.
Thus parted they. And sad Marina blest
The houre she met the Maid, who did invest
Her in assured hope, she once should see
Her Flocke againe (and driue them merrily
To their flowre-decked layre, and tread the shores
Of pleasant Albion) through the well poys'd Oares
Of the poore Fisher-man that dwelt thereby.
But as a man who in a Lottery
Hath ventur'd of his coyne, ere he haue ought,
Thinkes this or that shall with his Prize be bought,
And so enricht, march with the better ranke,
When sodainly he's call'd, and all is Blanke:
To chaste Marina, so doth Fortune proue,
Statesmen and she are neuer firme in loue.
No sooner had Marina got the wood,
But as the trees she neerly search'd for food,
A Villaine, leane, as any rake appeares,
That look't, as pinch'd with famine, Ægypts yeeres,
Worne out and wasted to the pithlesse bone,
As one that had a long Consumption.
His rusty teeth (forsaken of his lips
As they had seru'd with want two Prentiships)
Did through his pallid cheekes, and lankest skin
Bewray what number were enranckt within.
His greedy eyes deepe sunke into his head,
Which with a rough haire was o're couered.
How many bones made vp this starued wight
Was soone perceiu'd; a man of dimmest sight

180

Apparantly might see them knit, and tell
How all his veines and euery sinew fell.
His belly (inwards drawne) his bowels prest,
His vnfill'd skin hung dangling on his brest,
His feeble knees with paine enough vphold
That pined carkasse, casten in a mold
Cut out by Deaths grim forme. If small legs wan
Euer the title of a Gentleman;
His did acquire it. In his flesh pull'd downe
As he had liu'd in a beleaguerd towne,
Where Plenty had so long estranged beene
That men most worthy note, in griefe were seene
(Though they reioyc'd to haue attain'd such meat)
Of Rats, and halfe-tann'd Hydes, and stomacks great,
Gladly to feed: and where a Nurse, most vilde,
Drunke her owne milke, and staru'd her crying childe.
Yet he through want of food not thus became:
But Nature first decreed, That as the flame
Is neuer seene to flye his nourishment,
But all consumes: and still the more is lent
The more it couets. And as all the Floods
(Down trēching from small groues, & greater woods)
The vast insatiate Sea doth still deuoure,
And yet his thirst not quenched by their power:
So euer should befall this starued wight;
The more his vyands, more his appetite.
What ere the deepes bring forth, or earth, or ayre,
He rauine should, and want in greatest fare.
And what a Citie twice seuen yeeres would serue,
He should deuoure, and yet be like to starue.
A wretch so empty, that if e're there be
In Nature found the least vacuitie,
'Twill be in him. The graue to Ceres store;
A Caniball to lab'rers old and poore;
A Spunge-like-Dropsie, drinking till it burst;
The Sicknesse tearm'd the Wolfe, vilde and accurst;

181

In some respects like th' art of Alchumy
That thriues least, when it long'st doth multiply:
Limos he cleeped was: whose long-nayl'd paw
Seizing Marina, and his sharpe-fang'd iaw
(The strongest part he had) fixt in her weeds,
He forc'd her thence, through thickets & high Reeds,
Towards his Caue. Her fate the swift windes rue,
And round the Groue in heauy murmures flew.
The limbs of trees, that (as in loue with either)
In close embrasements long had liu'd together,
Rubb'd each on other, and in shreeks did show
The windes had mou'd more partners of their woe.
Old and decaied stocks, that long time spent
Vpon their armes, their roots chiefe nourishment;
And that drawne dry, as freely did impart
Their boughes a feeding on their fathers heart,
Yet by respectlesse impes when all was gone,
Pithlesse and saplesse, naked left alone,
Their hollow trunks, fill'd with their neighbours moanes,
Sent from a thousand vents, ten thousand groanes.
All Birds flew from the wood, as they had been
Scar'd with a strong Bolt ratling 'mong the treen.
Limos with his sweet theft full slily rushes
Through sharp-hook'd brambles, thornes, & tangling bushes,
Whose tenters sticking in her garments, sought
(Poore shrubs) to helpe her, but auailing nought,
As angry (best intents miss'd best proceeding)
They scratch'd his face & legs, cleere water bleeding.
Not greater haste a fearefull schoole-boy makes
Out of an Orchard whence by stealth he takes
A churlish Farmers Plums, sweet Peares or Grapes,
Then Limos did, as from the thicke he scapes
Downe to the shore. Where resting him a space,
Restlesse Marina gan intreat for grace
Of one whose knowing it as desp'rate stood,
As where each day to get supply of food.

182

O! had she (thirsty) such intreaty made
At some high Rocke, proud of his euening shade,
He would haue burst in two, and from his veines
(For her auaile) vpon the vnder Plaines
A hundred Springs a hundred wayes should swim,
To shew her teares inforced floods from him.
Had such an Oratresse beene heard to plead
For faire Polixena, the Murthrers head
Had beene her pardon, and so scap'd that shocke,
Which made her louers tombe her dying blocke.
Not an inraged Lion, surly, wood,
No Tyger reft her young, nor sauage brood;
No, not the foaming Boare, that durst approue
Louelesse to leaue the mighty Queene of Loue,
But her sad plaints, their vncouth walkes among
Spent, in sweet numbers from her golden tongue,
So much their great hearts would in softnes steepe,
They at her foot would groueling lye, and weepe.
Yet now (alas!) nor words, nor floods of teares
Did ought auaile. The belly hath no eares.
As I haue knowne a man loath meet with gaine
That carrieth in his front least shew of paine,
Who for his vittailes all his raiment pledges,
Whose stackes for firing are his neighbours hedges,
From whence returning with a burden great,
Wearied, on some greene banke he takes his seat,
But fearefull (as still theft is in his stay)
Gets quickly vp, and hasteth fast away:
So Limos sooner eased then yrested
Was vp, and through the Reeds (as much molested
As in the Brakes) who louingly combine,
And for her aide together twist and twine,
Now manacling his hands, then on his legs
Like fetters hang the vnder-growing Segs:
And had his teeth not beene of strongest hold,
He there had left his prey. Fates vncontrold,

183

Denide so great a blisse to Plants or men,
And lent him strength to bring her to his den.
West, in Apollo's course to Tagus streame,
Crown'd with a siluer circling Diadem
Of wet exhaled mists, there stood a pile
Of aged Rocks (torne from the neighbour Ile
And girt with waues) against whose naked brest
The surges tilted, on his snowie crest
The towring Falcon whilome built, and Kings
Stroue for that Eirie, on whose scaling wings,
Monarchs, in gold refin'd as much would lay
As might a month their Army Royall pay.
Braue Birds they were, whose quick-self-less-'ning kin
Still won the girlonds from the

A Falcon differing from the Falcon-gentle.

Peregrin.

Not Cerna Ile in Affricks siluer maine,
Nor lustfull-bloody-Tereus Thracian straine,
Nor any other Lording of the ayre
Durst with this Eirie for their wing compare.
About his sides a thousand Seaguls bred,
The Meuy and the Halcyon famosed
For colours rare, and for the peacefull Seas
Round the Sicilian coast, her brooding dayes.
Puffins (as thicke as Starlings in a Fen)
Were fetcht from thence: there sate the Pewet hen,
And in the clefts the Martin built his nest.
But those by this curst caitife dispossest
Of roost and nest, the least; of life, the most:
All left that place, and sought a safer coast.
In stead of them the Caterpiller hants,
And Cancre-worme among the tender plants,
That here and there in nooks and corners grew;
Of Cormorants and Locusts not a few;
The cramming Rauen, and a hundred more
Deuouring creatures; yet when from the shore
Limos came wading (as he easily might
Except at high tydes) all would take their flight,

184

Or hide themselues in some deepe hole or other,
Lest one deuourer should deuoure another.
Neere to the shore that bord'red on the Rocke
No merry Swaine was seene to feed his Flocke,
No lusty Neat-heard thither droue his Kine,
Nor boorish Hog-heard fed his rooting Swine:
A stony ground it was, sweet Herbage fail'd:
Nought there but weeds, which Limos, strongly nail'd,
Tore from their mothers brest, to stuffe his maw.
No Crab-tree bore his load, nor Thorne his paw.
As in a Forest well compleat with Deere
We see the Hollies, Ashes, euery where
Rob'd of their cloathing by the browsing Game:
So neere the Rocke, all trees where e're you came,
To cold Decembers wrath stood void of barke.
Here danc'd no Nymph, no early-rising Larke
Sung vp the Plow-man and his drowsie mate:
All round the Rocke['s] barren and desolate.

The description of the Caue of Famine.

In midst of that huge pile was Limos Caue

Full large and round, wherein a Millers knaue
Might for his Horse and Querne haue roome at will:
Where was out-drawne by some inforced skill,
What mighty conquests were atchieu'd by him.
First stood the siege of great Ierusalem,
Within whose triple wall and sacred Citie
(Weepe ye stone-hearted men! oh read and pittie!
'Tis Sions cause inuokes your briny teares:
Can any dry eye be when she appeares
As I must sing her? oh, if such there be;
Flie, flie th' abode of men! and hasten thee
Into the Desart, some high Mountaine vnder,
Or at thee boyes will hisse, and old men wonder.)
Here sits a mother weeping, pale and wan,
With fixed eyes, whose hopelesse thoughts seem'd ran
How (since for many daies no food she tasted,
Her Meale, her Oyle consum'd, all spent, all wasted)

185

For one poore day she might attaine supply,
And desp'rate of ought else, sit, pine, and dye.
At last her minde meets with her tender childe
That in the cradle lay (of Oziers wilde)
Which taken in her armes, she giues the teat,
From whence the little wretch with labour great
Not one poore drop can sucke: whereat she wood,
Cries out, ô heauen! are all the founts of food
Exhausted quite? and must my Infant yong
Be fed with shooes? yet wanting those ere long,
Feed on it selfe? No: first the roome that gaue
Him soule and life, shall be his timelesse graue:
My dugs, thy best reliefe, through griping hunger
Flow now no more, my babe; Then since no longer
By me thou canst be fed, nor any other,
Be thou the Nurse, and feed thy dying Mother.
Then in another place she straight appeares,
Seething her suckling in her scalding teares.
From whence not farre the Painter made her stand
Tearing his sod flesh with her cruell hand,
In gobbets which she ate. O cursed wombe,
That to thy selfe art both the graue and tombe.
A little sweet lad (there) seemes to intreat
(With held vp hands) his famisht Sire for meat,
Who wanting ought to giue his hoped ioy
But throbs and sighes; the ouer-hungry boy,
For some poore bit, in darke nooks making quest,
His Sachell finds, which growes a gladsome feast
To him and both his Parents. Then, next day
He chewes the points wherewith he vs'd to play:
Deuouring last his Books of euery kinde,
They fed his body which should feede his minde:
But when his Sachell, Points, Books all were gone,
Before his Sire he droopes, and dies anon.
In height of Art then had the Work-man done,
A pious, zealous, most religious sonne,

186

Who on the enemy excursion made,
And spight of danger strongly did inuade
Their victuals conuoy, bringing from them home
Dri'd figs, Dates, Almonds, and such fruits as come
To the beleagring foe, and sate's the want
Therewith of those, who, from a tender plant
Bred him a man for armes: thus oft he went,
And Storke-like sought his Parents nourishment,
Till Fates decreed, he on the Roman Speares
Should giue his bloud for them, who gaue him theirs.
A Million of such throes did Famine bring
Vpon the Citie of the mighty King,
Till, as her people, all her buildings rare
Consum'd themselues and dim'd the lightsome ayre.
Neere this the curious Pencell did expresse
A large and solitary wildernesse,
Whose high well limmed Oakes in growing show'd
As they would ease strong Atlas of his load:
Here vnderneath a tree in heauy plight
(Her bread and pot of water wasted quite)
Ægyptian Hagar (nipt with hunger fell)
Sate rob'd of hope: her Infant Ishmael.
(Farre from her being laid) full sadly seem'd
To cry for meat, his cry she nought esteem'd,
But kept her still, and turn'd her face away,
Knowing all meanes were bootlesse to assay
In such a Desert: and since now they must
Sleepe their eternall sleepe, and cleaue to dust,
She chose (apart) to graspe one death alone,
Rather then by her babe a million.
Then Eresichthons case in Ouids Song
Was portraied out; and many moe along
The insides of the Caue; which were descride
By many loope-holes round on euery side.
These faire Marina view'd, left all alone,
The Caue fast shut, Limos for pillage gone;

187

Neere the wash'd shore mong roots and breers, and thorns,
A Bullocke findes, who deluing with his hornes
The hurtlesse earth (the while his tough hoofe tore
The yeelding turffe) in furious rage he bore
His head among the boughs that held it round,
While with his bellowes all the shores resound:
Him Limos kil'd, and hal'd with no small paine
Vnto the Rocke; fed well; then goes againe:
Which seru'd Marina fit, for had his food
Fail'd him, her veines had fail'd their deerest blood.
Now great Hyperion left his golden throne
That on the dancing waues in glory shone,
For whose declining on the Westerne shore
The orientall hils blacke mantles wore,
And thence apace the gentle Twi-light fled,
That had from hideous cauernes vshered
All-drowsie Night; who in a Carre of Iet,
By Steeds of Iron-gray (which mainly swet
Moist drops on all the world) drawne through the skie,
The helps of darknesse waited orderly.
First, thicke clouds rose from all the liquid plaines:
Then mists from Marishes, and grounds whose veines
Were Conduit-pipes to many a crystall spring:
From standing Pooles and Fens were following
Vnhealthy fogs: each Riuer, euery Rill
Sent vp their vapours to attend her will.
These, pitchie curtains drew, 'twixt earth & heauen.
And as Nights Chariot through the ayre was driuen,
Clamour grew dumb, vnheard was Shepheards song,
And silence girt the Woods; no warbling tongue
Talk'd to the Eccho; Satyres broke their dance,
And all the vpper world lay in a trance.
Onely the curled streames soft chidings kept;
And little gales that from the greene leafe swept
Dry Summers dust, in fearefull whisp'rings stir'd,
As loth to waken any singing Bird.

188

Darknesse no lesse then blinde Cimmerian
Of Famines Caue the full possession wan,
Where lay the Shepherdesse inwrapt with night,
(The wished garment of a mournfull wight)
Here silken slumbers and refreshing sleepe
Were seldome found; with quiet mindes those keepe,
Not with disturbed thoughts; the beds of Kings
Are neuer prest by them, sweet rest inrings
The tyred body of the swarty Clowne,
And oftner lies on flocks then softest downe.
Twice had the Cocke crowne, and in Cities strong
The Bel-mans dolefull noyse and carefull song,
Told men, whose watchfull eyes no slumber hent,
What store of houres theft-guilty night had spent.
Yet had not Morpheus with this Maiden been,
As fearing Limos; (whose impetuous teen
Kept gentle rest from all to whom his Caue
Yeelded inclosure (deadly as the graue.)
But to all sad laments left her (forlorne)
In which three watches she had nie outworne.
Faire siluer-footed Thetis that time threw
Along the Ocean with a beautious crew
Of her attending Sea-nymphs (Ioues bright Lamps
Guiding from Rocks her Chariots

Sea-horses.

Hippocamps.)

A iourney, onely made, vnwares to spye
If any Mighties of her Empery
Opprest the least, and forc'd the weaker sort
To their designes, by being great in Court.
O! should all Potentates whose higher birth
Enroles their titles, other Gods on earth,
Should they make priuate search, in vaile of night,
For cruell wrongs done by each Fauorite;
Here should they finde a great one paling in
A meane mans land, which many yeeres had bin
His charges life, and by the others heast,
The poore must starue to feed a scuruy beast.

189

If any recompence drop from his fist,
His time's his owne, the mony, what he list.
There should they see another that commands
His Farmers Teame from furrowing his lands,
To bring him stones to raise his building vast,
The while his Tenants sowing time is past.
Another (spending) doth his rents inhance,
Or gets by tricks the poores inheritance.
But as a man whose age hath dim'd his eyes,
Vseth his Spectacles, and as he pryes
Through them all Characters seeme wondrous faire,
Yet when his glasses quite remoued are
(Though with all carefull heed he neerly looke)
Cannot perceiue one tittle in the Booke;
So if a King behold such fauourites
(Whose being great, was being Parasites)
With th' eyes of fauour, all their actions are
To him appearing plaine and regular:
But let him lay his sight of grace aside,
And see what men he hath so dignifide,
They all would vanish, and not dare appeare,
Who Atom-like, when their Sun shined cleare,
Danc'd in his beame; but now his rayes are gone,
Of many hundred we perceiue not one.
Or as a man who standing to descry
How great floods farre off run, and vallies lye,
Taketh a glasse prospectiue good and true,
By which things most remote are full in view:
If Monarchs, so, would take an Instrument
Of truth compos'd to spie their Subiects drent
In foule oppression by those high in seat
(Who care not to be good but to be great)
In full aspect the wrongs of each degree
Would lye before them; and they then would see,
The diuellish Politician all conuinces,
In murdring Statesmen and in poisning Princes;

190

The Prelate in pluralities asleepe,
Whilst that the Wolfe lies preying on his sheepe;
The drowsie Lawyer, and the false Atturnies
Tire poore mens purses with their life-long-iournies;
The Country Gentleman, from's neighbours hand
Forceth th' inheritance, ioynes land to land,
And (most insatiate) seekes vnder his rent
To bring the worlds most spacious continent;
The fawning Citizen (whose loue's bought dearest)
Deceiues his brother when the Sun shines clearest,
Gets, borrowes, breakes, lets in, and stops out light,
And liues a Knaue to leaue his sonne a Knight;
The griping Farmer hoords the seed of bread,
Whilst in the streets the poore lye famished:
And free there's none from all this worldly strife,
Except the Shepherds heauen-blest happy life.
But stay sweet Muse! forbeare this harsher straine,
Keepe with the Shepherds; leaue the Satyres veine,
Coupe not with Beares: let Icarus alone
To scorch himselfe within the torrid Zone:
Let Phaëton run on, Ixion fall,
And with an humble stiled Pastorall
Tread through the vallies, dance about the streames,
The lowly Dales will yeeld vs Anadems
To shade our temples, 'tis a worthy meed,
No better girlond seekes mine Oaten Reed;
Let others climbe the hils, and to their praise
(Whilst I sit girt with Flowers) be crown'd with Bayes.
Shew now faire Muse what afterward became
Of great Achilles Mother; She whose name
The Mermaids sing, and tell the weeping strand
A brauer Lady neuer tript on land,
Except the euer-liuing Fayerie Queene,
Whose vertues by her Swaine so written beene,
That time shall call her high enhanced story
In his rare song, The Muses chiefest glory.

191

So mainly Thetis droue her siluer throne,
Inlaid with pearles of price, and precious stone,
(For whose gay purchase, she did often make
The scorched Negro diue the briny Lake)
That by the swiftnesse of her Chariot wheels
(Scouring the Maine as well-built English Keels)
She, of the new-found World all coasts had seene,
The shores of Thessaly, where she was Queene,
Her brother Pontus waues, imbrac'd, with those
Mœotian fields and vales of Tenedos,
Streit Hellespont, whose high-brow'd cliffes yet sound
The mournfull name of young Leander drown'd,
Then with full speed her Horses doth she guide
Through the Ægæan Sea, that takes a pride
In making difference twixt the fruitfull lands
Europe and Asia almost ioyning hands,
But that she thrusts her billowes all afront
To stop their meeting through the Hellespont.
The Midland Sea so swiftly was she scouring,
The Adriaticke gulfe braue Ships deuouring.
To Padus siluer streame then glides she on
(Enfamoused by rekelesse Phaëton)

Plin. lib. cap. 16.


Padus that doth beyond his limits rise,
When the hot Dog-starre raines his maladies,
And robs the high and ayre-inuading Alpes
Of all their Winter-suits and snowie scalpes,
To drowne the leuel'd lands along his shore,
And make him swell with pride. By whom of yore
The sacred Heliconian Damsels sate
(To whom was mighty Pindus consecrate)
And did decree (neglecting other men)
Their height of Art should flow from Maro's pen.
And pratling Eccho's euermore should long
For repetition of sweet Naso's song.
It was inacted here, in after dayes
What wights should haue their temples crown'd with Bayes.

192

Learn'd Ariosto, holy Petrarchs quill,
And Tasso should ascend the Muses hill.
Diuinest Bartas, whose enriched soule
Proclaim'd his Makers worth, should so enroule
His happy name in brasse, that Time nor Fate
That swallows all, should euer ruinate.
Delightfull Salust, whose all blessed layes
The Shepherds make their Hymnes on Holy-daies;
And truly say thou in one weeke hast pend
What time may euer study, ne're amend.
Marot and Ronsard, Garnier's buskind Muse
Should spirit of life in very stones infuse.
And many another Swan whose powerfull straine
Should raise the Golden World to life againe.
But let vs leaue (faire Muse) the bankes of Po,
Thetis forsooke his braue streame long agoe,
And we must after. See in haste she sweepes
Along the Celticke shores, th' Armorick deepes
She now is entring: beare vp then a head,
And by that time she hath discouered
Our Alablaster rocks, we may descry
And ken with her, the coasts of Britany.
There will she Anchor cast, to heare the Songs
Of English Shepherds, whose all-tunefull tongues
So pleas'd the Nayades, they did report
Their songs perfection in great Nereus Court:
Which Thetis hearing, did appoint a day
When she would meet them in the Brittish Sea,
And thither for each Swaine a Dolphin bring
To ride with her, whilst she would heare him sing.
The time prefixt was come; and now the Starre
Of blissefull light appear'd, when she her Carre
Staid in the narrow Seas. At Thames faire port
The Nymphes and Shepherds of the Isle resort.
And thence did put to Sea with mirthfull rounds,
Whereat the billowes dance aboue their bounds,

193

And bearded Goats, that on the clouded head
Of any sea-suruaying Mountaine fed,
Leauing to crop the Iuy, listning stood
At those sweet ayres which did intrance the flood
In iocund sort the Goddesse thus they met.
And after reu'rence done, all being set
Vpon their finny Coursers, round her throne,
And she prepar'd to cut the watry Zone
Ingirting Albion; all their pipes were still,
And Colin Clout began to tune his quill
With such deepe Art, that euery one was giuen
To thinke Apollo (newly slid from heau'n)
Had tane a humane shape to win his loue,
Or with the Westerne Swaines for glory stroue.
He sung th' heroicke Knights of Faiery land
In lines so elegant, of such command,
That had the

Orpheus.

Thracian plaid but halfe so well,

He had not left Eurydice in hell.
But e're he ended his melodious song
An host of Angels flew the clouds among,
And rapt this Swan from his attentiue mates,
To make him one of their associates
In heauens faire Quire: where now he sings the praise
Of him that is the first and last of dayes.
Diuinest Spencer heau'n-bred, happy Muse!
Would any power into my braine infuse
Thy worth, or all that Poets had before,
I could not praise till thou deseru'st no more.
A dampe of wonder and amazement strooke
Thetis attendants, many a heauy looke
Follow'd sweet Spencer, till the thickning ayre
Sights further passage stop'd. A passionate teare
Fell from each Nymph, no Shepherds cheeke was dry,
A dolefull Dirge, and mournfull Elegie
Flew to the shore. When mighty Nereus Queene
(In memory of what was heard and seene)
Imploy'd a Factor (fitted well with store

194

Of richest Iemmes, refined Indian Ore)
To raise, in honour of his worthy name,
A Piramis, whose head (like winged Fame)
Should pierce the clouds, yea seeme the stars to kisse,
And Mausolus great tombe might shrowd in his.
Her will had beene performance, had not Fate
(That neuer knew how to commiserate)
Suborn'd curs'd Auarice to lye in waight
For that rich prey: (Gold is a taking bait)
Who closely lurking like a subtile Snake
Vnder the couert of a thorny brake,
Seiz'd on the Factor by faire Thetis sent,
And rob'd our Colin of his Monument.
Yee English Shepherds, sonnes of Memory,
For Satyres change your pleasing melody,
Scourge, raile and curse that sacrilegious hand,
That more then Fiend of hell, that Stygian brand,
All-guilty Auarice: that worst of euill,
That gulfe-deuouring, off-spring of a Deuill:
Heape curse on curse so direfull and so fell,
Their weight may presse his damned soule to hell.
Is there a spirit so gentle can refraine
To torture such? O let a Satyres veine
Mix with that man! to lash this hellish lym,
Or all our curses will descend on him.
For mine owne part, although I now commerce
With lowly Shepherds, in as low a Verse;
If of my dayes I shall not see an end
Till more yeeres presse me; some few houres Ile spend
In rough-hewn Satyres, and my busied pen
Shall ierke to death this infamy of men.
And like a Fury, glowing coulters beare,
With which? But see how yonder fondlings teare
Their fleeces in the brakes; I must goe free
Them of their bonds; Rest you here merrily
Till my returne: when I will touch a string
Shall make the Riuers dance, and Vallies ring.

1

The Second Song.

The Argvment.

What Shepheards on the Sea were seene
To entertaine the Oceans Queene,
Remond in search of Fida gone,
And for his loue yong Doridon,
Their meeting with a wofull Swaine,
Mute, and not able to complaine
His metamorphos'd Mistresse wrong;
Is all the subiect of this Song.
The Mvses friend (gray-eyde Aurora) yet
Held all the Meadowes in a cooling sweat,
The milke-white Gossamores not vpwards snow'd,
Nor was the sharpe and vsefull steering goad
Laid on the strong-neckt Oxe; no gentle bud
The Sun had dride; the cattle chew'd the cud
Low leuel'd on the grasse; no Flyes quicke sting
Inforc'd the Stonehorse in a furious ring
To teare the passiue earth, nor lash his taile
About his buttockes broad; the slimy Snaile
Might on the wainscot (by his many mazes
Winding Meanders and selfe-knitting traces)

2

Be follow'd, where he stucke, his glittering slime
Not yet wip't off. It was so early time,
The carefull Smith had in his sooty forge
Kindled no coale; nor did his hammers vrge
His neighbours patience: Owles abroad did flye,
And day as then might plead his infancy.
Yet of faire Albion all the westerne Swaines
Were long since vp, attending on the Plaines
When Nereus daughter with her mirthfull hoast
Should summon them, on their declining coast.
But since her stay was long: for feare the Sun
Should finde them idle, some of them begun
To leape and wrastle, others threw the barre;
Some from the company remoued are,
To meditate the songs they meant to play,
Or make a new Round for next Holiday:
Some tales of loue their loue-sicke fellowes told:
Others were seeking stakes to pitch their fold.
This, all alone was mending of his Pipe:
That, for his lasse sought fruits most sweet most ripe.
Here (from the rest) a louely shepherds boy
Sits piping on a hill, as if his ioy
Would still endure, or else that ages frost
Should neuer make him thinke what he had lost.
Yonder a shepherdesse knits by the springs,
Her hands still keeping time to what she sings:
Or seeming, by her song, those fairest hands
Were comforted in working. Neere the sands
Of some sweet Riuer sits a musing lad,
That moanes the losse of what he sometime had,
His Loue by death bereft: when fast by him
An aged Swaine takes place, as neere the brim
Of's graue as of the Riuer; shewing how
That as those floods, which passe along right now
Are follow'd still by others from their spring,
And in the Sea haue all their burying:

3

Right so our times are knowne, our ages found,
(Nothing is permanent within this Round:)
One age is now, another that succeeds,
Extirping all things which the former breeds:
Another followes that, doth new times raise,
New yeers, new months, new weeks, new houres, new daies,
Mankinde thus goes like Riuers from their spring,
And in the Earth haue all their burying.
Thus sate the old man counselling the young;
Whilst, vnderneath a tree which ouer-hung
The siluer streame (as some delight it tooke
To trim his thicke boughes in the Crystall Brooke)
Were set a iocund crew of youthfull Swaines,
Wooing their sweetings with delicious straines.
Sportiue Oreades the hils descended,
The Hamadryades their hunting ended,
And in the high woods left the long-liu'd Harts
To feed in peace, free from their winged Darts;
Floods, Mountains, Vallies, Woods, each vacant lies
Of Nimphs that by them danc'd their Haydigyes:
For all those Powers were ready to embrace
The present meanes, to giue our Shepherds grace.
And vnderneath this tree (till Thetis came)
Many resorted; where a Swaine, of name
Lesse, then of worth: (and we doe neuer owne
Nor apprehend him best, that most is knowne.)
Fame is vncertaine, who so swiftly flyes
By th' vnregarded shed where Vertue lies:
Shee (ill inform'd of Vertues worth) pursu'th
(In haste) Opinion for the simple Truth.
True Fame is euer likened to our shade,
He soonest misseth her, that most hath made
To ouer-take her; who so takes his wing,
Regardlesse of her, shee'll be following:
Her true proprietie she thus discouers,

4

“Loues her contemners, and contemnes her louers.
Th' applause of common people neuer yet
Pursu'd this Swaine; he knew't the counterfeit
Of setled praise, and therefore at his songs,
Though all the Shepherds and the gracefull throngs
Of Semigods compar'd him with the best
That euer touch'd a Reed, or was addrest
In shepherds coat, he neuer would approue
Their Attributes, giuen in sincerest loue;
Except he truly knew them as his merit.
Fame giues a second life to such a spirit.
This Swaine, intreated by the mirthfull rout,
That with intwined armes lay round about
The tree 'gainst which he lean'd. (So haue I seene
Tom Piper stand vpon our village greene,
Backt with the May-pole, whilst a iocund crew
In gentle motion circularly threw
Themselues about him.) To his fairest Ring
Thus 'gan in numbers well according sing:
Venus by Adonis side
Crying kist, and kissing cride,
Wrung her hands and tore her haire,
For Adonis dying there.
Stay (quoth shee) ô stay and liue!
Nature surely doth not giue
To the Earth her sweetest flowres
To be seene but some few houres.
On his face, still as he bled
For each drop a teare she shed,
Which she kist or wip't away,
Else had drown'd him where he lay

5

Faire Proserpina (quoth shee)
Shall not haue thee yet from mee;
Nor thy soule to flie begin
While my lips can keepe it in.
Here she clos'd againe. And some
Say Apollo would haue come
To haue cur'd his wounded lym,
But that shee had smother'd him.
Looke as a Traueller in Summers day
Nye choakt with dust, and molt with Titans ray,
Longs for a spring to coole his inward heat,
And to that end, with vowes, doth heauen intreat,
When going further, finds an Apple-tree,
(Standing as did old Hospitalitie,
With ready armes to succour any needs:)
Hence plucks an Apple, tastes it, and it breeds
So great a liking in him for his thirst,
That vp he climbs, and gathers to the first
A second, third; nay, will not cease to pull
Till he haue got his cap and pockets full.
“Things long desir'd so well esteemed are,
“That when they come we hold them better farre.
“There is no meane 'twixt what we loue and want,
Desire, in men, is so predominant.
No lesse did all this quaint assembly long
Then doth the Traueller: this Shepherds Song
Had so ensnar'd each acceptable eare,
That but a second, nought could bring them cleare
From an affected snare; had Orpheus beene
Playing, some distance from them, he had seene
Not one to stirre a foot for his rare straine,
But left the Thracian for the English Swaine.
Or had suspicious Iuno (when her Ioue

6

Into a Cowe transform'd his fairest

Io.

Loue)

Great Inachus sweet Stem in durance giuen
To this young Lad; the

Mercury.

Messenger of heauen

(Faire Maia's off-spring) with the depth of Art
That euer Ioue to Hermes might impart,
In fingring of a Reed, had neuer won
Poore Iö's freedome. And though Arctors son
(Hundred-ey'd Argus) might be lull'd by him,
And loose his pris'ner: yet in euery lym
That God of wit had felt this Shepherds skill,
And by his charmes brought from the Muses hill
Inforc'd to sleepe; then, rob'd of Pipe and Rod,
And vanquish'd so, turne Swaine, this Swaine a God.
Yet to this Lad not wanted Enuies sting,
(“He's not worth ought, that's not worth enuying)
Since many at his praise were seene to grutch.
For as a Miller in his boulting hutch
Driues out the pure meale neerly (as he can)
And in his sister leaues the courser bran:
So doth the canker of a Poets name
Let slip such lines as might inherit Fame,
And from a Volume culs some small amisse,
To fire such dogged spleenes as mate with his.
Yet, as a man that (by his Art) would bring
The ceaslesse current of a Crystall Spring
To ouer-looke the lowly flowing head,
Sinkes by degrees his soder'd Pipes of Lead,
Beneath the Fount, whereby the water goes
High, as a Well that on a mountaine flowes:
So when Detraction and a Cynnicks tongue
Haue sunke Desert vnto the depth of wrong,
By that, the eye of skill, True Worth shall see
To braue the Stars, though low his passage be.
But, here I much digresse, yet pardon, Swaines:
For as a Maiden gath'ring on the Plaines
A sentfull Nosegay (to set neere her pap,

7

Or as a fauour for her Shepherds cap)
Is seene farre off to stray, if she haue spide
A Flower that might increase her Posies pride:
So if to wander I am sometimes prest,
'Tis for a straine that might adorne the rest.
Requests, that with deniall could not meet,
Flew to our Shepherd, and the voices sweet
Of fairest Nymphes, intreating him to say
What wight he lou'd; he thus began his lay:
Shall I tell you whom I loue?
Hearken then a while to me;
And if such a woman moue,
As I now shall versifie;
Be assur'd, 'tis she, or none
That I loue, and loue alone.
Nature did her so much right,
As she scornes the helpe of Art,
In as many Vertues dight
As e'er yet imbrac'd a heart.
So much good so truly tride,
Some for lesse were deifide.
Wit she hath without desire
To make knowne how much she hath;
And her anger flames no higher
Then may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pitty as may be,
Though perhaps not so to me.
Reason masters euery sense,
And her vertues grace her birth
Louely as all excellence,
Modest in her most of mirth:

8

Likelihood enough to proue,
Onely worth could kindle Loue.
Such she is: and if you know
Such a one as I haue sung;
Be she browne, or faire, or so,
That she be but somewhile young;
Be assur'd, 'tis she, or none
That I loue, and loue alone.

Eous, Pyroeis, Aethon, and Phlegon, were fained to be the horses of the Sunne.

Eous and his fellowes in the teame,

(Who, since their watring in the Westerne streame,
Had run a furious iourney to appease
The night-sicke eyes of our Antipodes.)
Now (sweating) were in our Horizon seene
To drinke the cold dew from each flowry greene:
When Tritons Trumpet (with a shrill command)
Told siluer-footed Thetis was at hand.
As I haue seene when on the brest of Thames
A heauenly beauty of sweet English Dames,
In some calme Eu'ning of delightfull May,
With Musicke giue a farewell to the day,
Or as they would (with an admired tone)
Greet Nights ascension to her Eben Throne,
Rapt with their melodie, a thousand more
Run to be wafted from the bounding shore:
So ran the Shepherds, and with hasty feet
Stroue which should first increase that happy fleet.
The true

Dolphins.

presagers of a comming storme,

Teaching their fins to steere them to the forme
Of Thetis will, like Boats at Anchor stood,
As ready to conuay the Muses brood
Into the brackish Lake, that seem'd to swell,
As proud so rich a burden on it fell.
Ere their ariuall Astrophel had done
His shepherds lay, yet equaliz'd of none.

9

Th' admired mirrour, glory of our Isle,
Thou far-far-more then mortall man, whose stile
Strucke more men dumbe to hearken to thy song,
Then Orpheus Harpe, or Tuilies golden tongue.
To him (as right) for wits deepe quintessence,
For honour, valour, vertue, excellence,
Be all the Garlands, crowne his toombe with Bay,
Who spake as much as ere our tongue can say.
Happy Arcadia! while such louely straines
Sung of thy Vallies, Riuers, Hils and Plaines;
Yet most vnhappy other ioyes among,
That neuer heard'st his Musicke nor his Song.
Deafe men are happy so, whose Vertues praise
(Vnheard of them) are sung in tunefull layes.
And pardon me ye Sisters of the Mountaine,
Who waile his losse from the Pegasian Fountaine,
If (like a man for portraiture vnable)
I set my Pencill to Apelles table;
Or dare to draw his Curtaine, with a will
To show his true worth, when the Artists skill
Within that Curtaine fully doth expresse
His owne Arts-Mastry my vnablenesse.
He sweetly touched, what I harshly hit,
Yet thus I glory in what I haue writ;
Sidney began (and if a wit so meane
May taste with him the dewes of Hippocrene)
I sung the Past'rall next; his Muse, my mouer:
And on the Plaines full many a pensiue louer
Shall sing vs to their loues, and praising be
My humble lines: the more, for praising thee.
Thus we shall liue with them, by Rocks, by Springs,
As well as Homer by the death of Kings.
Then in a straine beyond an Oaten Quill
The learned

M. Chapman

Shepherd of faire Hitching hill

Sung the heroicke deeds of Greece and Troy,
In lines so worthy life, that I imploy

10

My Reed in vaine to ouertake his fame.
All praiseful tongues doe wait vpon that name.
Our second Ouid, the most pleasing Muse
That heau'n did e're in mortals braine infuse,
All-loued Draiton, in soule-raping straines,
A genuine noat, of all the Nimphish traines
Began to tune; on it all eares were hung
As sometime Dido's on Æneas tongue.
Iohnson whose full of merit to reherse
Too copious is to be confinde in verse;
Yet therein onely fittest to be knowne,
Could any write a line which he might owne.
One, so iudicious; so well knowing; and
A man whose least worth is to vnderstand;
One so exact in all he doth preferre
To able censure; for the Theater
Not Seneca transcends his worth of praise;
Who writes him well shall well deserue the Bayes.
Well-languag'd Danyel: Brooke, whose polisht lines
Are fittest to accomplish high designes,
Whose pen (it seemes) still young Apollo guides;
Worthy the forked Hill, for euer glides
Streames from thy braine, so faire, that time shall see
Thee honour'd by thy Verse, and it by thee.
And when thy Temples well-deseruing Bayes,
Might impe a pride in thee to reach thy praise,
As in a Crystall glasse, fill'd to the ring
With the cleare water of as cleare a spring,
A steady hand may very safely drop
Some quantity of gold, yet o're the top
Not force the liquor run: although before
The Glasse (of water) could containe no more:
Yet so, all-worthy Brooke, though all men sound
With plummets of iust praise thy skill profound,
Thou in thy verse those attributes canst take,
And not apparent ostentation make,

11

That any second can thy vertues raise,
Striuing as much to hide as merit praise.
Davies and Wither, by whose Muses power
A naturall day to me seemes but an houre,
And could I euer heare their learned layes,
Ages would turne to artificiall dayes.
These sweetly chanted to the Queene of Waues,
She prais'd, and what she prais'd, no tongue depraues.
Then base contempt (vnworthy our report)
Fly from the Muses and their faire resort,
And exercise thy spleene on men like thee:
Such are more fit to be contemn'd then wee.
'Tis not the rancour of a cankred heart
That can debase the excellence of Art;
Nor great in titles make our worth obey,
Since we haue lines farre more esteem'd then they.
For there is hidden in a Poets name
A Spell that can command the wings of Fame,
And maugre all Obliuions hated birth,
Begin their immortalitie on earth;
When he that gainst a Muse with hate combines,
May raise his Tombe in vaine to reach our lines.
Thus Thetis rides along the narrow seas
Encompast round with lovely Naides,
With gaudy Nymphs, and many a skilfull Swaine,
Whose equals earth cannot produce againe,
But leaue the times and men that shall succeed them
Enough to praise that age which so did breed them.
Two of the quaintest Swaines that yet haue beene,
Fail'd their attendance on the Oceans Queene:
Remond and Doridon, whose haplesse Fates
Late seuer'd them from their more happy mates.
For (gentle Swaines) if you remember well,
When last I sung on brim of yonder dell,
And as I ghesse it was that sunny morne,
When in the groue thereby my sheepe were shorne,

12

I weene I told you, while the Shepherds yong
Were at their Past'rall and their rurall Song,
The shrikes of some poore Maid, fallen in mischance,
Inuok't their aid, and drew them from their dance:
Each ran a seuerall way to helpe the Maid;
Some tow'rds the Vallie, some the green wood straid:
Here one the thicket beats, and there a Swaine
Enters the hidden Caues; but all in vaine.
Nor could they finde the wight whose shrikes and cry
Flew through the gentle ayre so heauily,
Nor see or man or beast, whose cruell teene
Would wrong a Maiden or in graue or greene.
Backe then return'd they all to end their sport
But Doridon and Remond, who resort
Backe to those places which they erst had sought,
Nor could a thicket be by Nature wrought
In such a web, so intricate, and knit
So strong with Bryers, but they would enter it.
Remond his Fida cals; Fida the woods
Resound againe, and Fida speake the floods,
As if the Riuers and the Hils did frame
Themselues no small delight, to heare her name.
Yet she appeares not. Doridon would now
Haue call'd his Loue too, but he knew not how:
Much like a man who, dreaming in his sleepe
That he is falling from some Mountaine steepe
Into a soundlesse Lake, about whose brim
A thousand Crocodiles doe wait for him,
And hangs but by one bough, and should that breake
His life goes with it, yet to cry or speake,
Though faine he would, can moue nor voyce nor tongue:
So when he Remond heard the woods among
Call for his Fida, he would gladly too
Haue call'd his fairest Loue, but knew not who,
Or what to call; poore Lad, that canst not tell,
Nor speake the name of her thou lou'st so well.

13

Remond by hap neere to the Arbour found,
Where late the Hynd was slaine, the hurtlesse ground
Besmear'd with blood; to Doridon he cride,
And tearing then his haire, ô haplesse tide
(Quoth he), behold! some cursed hand hath tane
From Fida this; ô what infernall bane,
Or more then hellish fiend inforced this!
Pure as the streame of aged Symois,
And as the spotlesse Lilly was her soule!
Yee sacred Powers that round about the Pole
Turne in your Spheares! ô could you see this deed,
And keep your motion? If the eldest seed
Of chained Saturne hath so often beene
In Hunters and in Shepherds habit seene
To trace our Woods, and on our fertile Plaines
Wooe Shepherds Daughters with melodious strains,
Where was he now, or any other Powre?
So many seu'rall Lambes haue I each howre
And crooked horned Rams brought to your Shrines,
And with Perfumes clouded the Sun that shines,
Yet now forsaken? to an vncouth state
Must all things run, if such will be ingrate.
Cease Remond (quoth the Boy) no more complaine,
Thy fairest Fida liues; nor doe thou staine
With vile reproaches any power aboue,
They all as much as thee haue beene in loue:
Saturne his Rhea; Jupiter had store,
As Iö, Leda, Eurŏpa, and more;
Mars entred Vulcans bed; pertooke his ioy:
Phœbus had Daphne, and the

Hyacinth.

sweet-fac'd Boy;

Venus, Adonis; and the God of Wit
In chastest bonds was to the Muses knit,
And yet remaines so, nor can any seuer
His loue, but brother-like affects them euer;
Pale-changefull Cinthia her Endimion had,

14

And oft on Latmus sported with that Lad:
If these were subiect (as all mortall men)
Vnto the golden shafts, they could not then
But by their owne affections rightly ghesse
Her death would draw on thine; thy wretchednesse
Charge them respectlesse; since no Swaine then thee
Hath offred more vnto each Deitie.
But feare not, Remond, for those sacred Powres
Tread on obliuion; no desert of ours
Can be intoomb'd in their celestiall brests;
They weigh our offrings, and our solemne feasts,
And they forget thee not: Fida (thy deere)
Treads on the earth, the blood that's sprinkled here
Ne're fill'd her veynes, the Hynd possest this gore,
See where the Coller lyes she whilome wore;
Some Dog hath slaine her, or the griping Carle
That spoiles our Plaines in digging them for Marle.
Looke, as two little Brothers who, addrest
To searche the hedges for a Thrushes nest,
And haue no sooner got the leauy Spring,
When mad in lust with fearefull bellowing
A strong-neckt Bull pursues throughout the field,
One climbes a tree, and takes that for his shield,
Whence looking from one pasture to another,
What might betide to his much-loued Brother,
Further then can his ouer-drowned eyes
Aright perceiue, the furious beast he spies
Tosse something on his hornes, he knowes not what,
But one thing feares, and therefore thinkes it that;
When comming nigher he doth well discerne
It of the wondrous-one-night-seeding Ferne
Some bundle was: yet thence he home-ward goes
Pensiue and sad, nor can abridge the throes
His feare began, but still his minde doth moue
Vnto the worst: Mistrust goes still with Loue.
So far'd it with our Shepherd: though he saw

15

Not ought of Fida's rayment, which might draw
A more suspicion; though the Coller lay
There on the grasse, yet goes he thence away
Full of mistrust, and vowes to leaue that Plaine,
Till he embrace his chastest Loue againe.
Loue-wounded Doridon intreats him then
That he might be his partner, since no men
Had cases liker; he with him would goe,
Weepe when he wept, and sigh when he did so:
I (quoth the Boy) will sing thee songs of loue,
And as we sit in some all-shady groue,
Where Philomela and such sweetned throats
Are for the mastry tuning various notes,
I'le striue with them, and tune so sad a Verse,
That whilst to thee my fortunes I rehearse,
No Bird but shall be mute, her note decline,
And cease her woe, to lend an eare to mine.
I'le tell thee tales of loue, and shew thee how
The Gods haue wandred as we Shepherds now,
And when thou plain'st thy Fida's losse, will I
Eccho the same, and with mine owne supply
Know, Remond, I doe loue, but, well-a-day!
I know not whom; but as the gladsome May
Shee's faire and louely, as a Goddesse she
(If such as hers a Goddesse beauty be)
First stood before me, and inquiring was
How to the Marish she might soonest passe,
When rusht a Villaine in, hell be his lot,
And drew her thence, since when I saw her not,
Nor know I where to search; but if thou please
'Tis not a Forrest, Mountaine, Rockes, or Seas
Can in thy iourney stop my going on.
Fate so may smile on haplesse Doridon,
That he reblest may be with her faire sight,
Though thence his eyes possesse eternall night.
Remond agreed, and many weary dayes

16

They now had spent in vnfrequented wayes:
About the Riuers, Vallies, Holts and Crags,
Among the Ozyers and the wauing Flags
They neerly pry, if any dens there be,
Where from the Sun might harbour crueltie:
Or if they could the bones of any spy,
Or torne by beasts, or humane tyranny.
They close inquiry make in cauernes blinde,
Yet what they looke for would be death to finde.
Right as a curious man that would descrie
(Lead by the trembling hand of Iealousie),
If his faire wife haue wrong'd his bed or no,
Meeteth his torment if he finde her so.
One Eu'n, e're Phœbus (neere the golden shore
Of Tagus streame) his iourney gan giue o're;
They had ascended vp a woody hill,
(Where oft the Fauni with their Bugles shrill
Wakened the Eccho, and with many a shout
Follow'd the fearefull Deere the woods about,
Or through the Brakes that hide the craggy rockes,
Digd to the hole where lyes the wily Fox.)
Thence they beheld an vnder-lying Vale,
Where Flora set her rarest flowres at sale,
Whither the thriuing Bee came oft to sucke them,
And fairest Nymphes to decke their haire did plucke them.
Where oft the Goddesses did run at base,
And on white Harts begun the Wilde-goose-chase:
Here various Nature seem'd adorning this,
In imitation of the fields of blisse;
Or as she would intice the soules of men
To leaue Elizium, and liue here agen.
Not Hybla mountaine in the iocund prime
Vpon her many bushes of sweet Thyme
Shewes greater number of industrious Bees,
Then were the Birds that sung there on the trees.
Like the trim windings of a wanton Lake,

17

That doth his passage through a Meadow make,
Ran the delightfull Vally 'tweene two Hils:
From whose rare trees the precious Balme distils,
And hence Apollo had his simples good
That cur'd the Gods, hurt by the Earths ill brood.
A Crystall Riuer on her bosome slid,
And (passing) seem'd in sullen muttrings chid
The artlesse Songsters, that their Musicke still
Should charme the sweet Dale and the wistfull Hill:
Not suffering her shrill waters, as they run
Tun'd with a whistling gale in Vnison
To tell as high they priz'd the brodred Vale
As the quicke Lennet or sweet Nightingale.
Downe from a steepe Rocke came the water first,
(Where lusty Satyres often quench'd their thirst)
And with no little speed seem'd all in haste,
Till it the louely bottome had embrac'd:
Then as intranc'd to heare the sweet Birds sing,
In curled whirlpooles she her course doth bring,
As loth to leaue the songs that lull'd the Dale,
Or waiting time, when she and some soft gale
Should speake what true delight they did possesse
Among the rare flowres which the Vally dresse.
But since those quaint Musitians would not stay,
Nor suffer any to be heard but they:
Much like a little Lad who gotten new
To play his part amongst a skilfull crew
Of choise Musitians on some softer string
That is not heard, the others fingering
Drowning his Art, the Boy would gladly get
Applause with others that are of his Set,
And therefore strikes a stroke loud as the best,
And often descants when his fellowes rest;
That to be heard (as vsuall singers doe)
Spoiles his owne Musicke and his partners too:
So at the further end the waters fell

18

From off an high bancke downe a lowly Dell,
As they had vow'd, ere passing from that ground,
The Birds should be inforc'd to heare their sound.
No small delight the Shepherds tooke to see
A

Vally.

coombe so dight in Flora's liuery,

Where faire Feronia

According to that of Silius lib. 13. Punicor.—Itur in agros Diues vbi ante omnes colitur Feronia luco.

honour'd in the Woods,

And all the Deities that haunt the floods,
With powrefull Nature stroue to frame a plot,
Whose like the sweet Arcadia yeelded not.
Downe through the arched wood the Shepherds wend,
And seeke all places that might helpe their end,
When comming neere the bottome of the hill,
A deepe fetch'd sigh (which seem'd of power to kill
The brest that held it) pierc'd the listning wood,
Whereat the carefull Swaines no longer stood
Where they were looking on a tree, whose rinde
A Loue-knot held, which two ioyn'd hearts intwinde;
But searching round, vpon an aged root
Thicke linde with mosse which (though to little boot)
Seem'd as a shelter it had lending beene
Against cold Winters stormes and wreakfull teene:
Or clad the stocke in Summer with that hue
His withered branches not a long time knew:
For in his hollow truncke and perish'd graine
The Cuckow now had many a Winter laine,
And thriuing Pismires laid their egges in store:
The Dormouse slept there, and a many more.
Here sate the Lad, of whom I thinke of old
Virgils prophetique spirit had foretold,
Who whilst Dame Nature for her cunnings sake
A male or female doubted which to make,
And to adorne him more than all assaid
This pritty youth was almost made a Maid.
Sadly he sate, and (as would griefe) alone,
As if the Boy and Tree had beene but one,
Whilst downe neere boughs did drops of Amber creepe,

19

As if his sorrow made the trees to weepe.
If euer this were true in Ouids Verse
That teares haue powre an Adamant to pierce,
Or moue things void of sense, 'twas here approu'd:
Things, vegetatiue once, his teares haue mou'd.
Surely the stones might well be drawne in pitty
To burst that he should mone, as for a Ditty
To come and range themselues in order all,
And of their owne accord raise Thebes a wall.
Or else his teares (as did the others song)
Might haue th' attractiue power to moue the throng
Of all the Forrests Citizens and Woods,
With eu'ry Denizon of Ayre and Floods,
To sit by him and grieue: to leaue their iarres,
Their strifes, dissentions, and all ciuill warres;
And though else disagreeing, in this one
Mourning for him should make an Vnion.
For whom the heauens would weare a sable sute,
If men, beasts, fishes, birds, trees, stones were mute.
His eyes were fixed (rather fixed Starres)
With whom it seem'd his teares had beene in warres,
The diff'rence this (a hard thing to descry)
Whether the drops were clearest, or his eye.
Teares fearing conquest to the eye might fall,
An inundation brought and drowned all.
Yet like true Vertue from the top of State
(Whose hopes vile Enuie hath seene ruinate),
Being lowly cast, her goodnesse doth appeare
(Vncloath'd of greatnesse) more apparant cleere:
So though deiected, yet remain'd a feature,
Made sorrow sweet plac'd in so sweet a creature.
“The test of misery the truest is,
“In that none hath but what is surely his.
His armes a crosse, his sheepe-hooke lay beside him:
Had Venus pass'd this way, and chanc'd t'haue spide him,
With open brest, locks on his shoulders spred,

20

She would haue sworne (had she not seene him dead)
It was Adonis; or if e're there was
Held transmigration by Pithagoras
Of soules, that certaine then, her lost-loues spirit
A fairer body neuer could inherit.
His Pipe which often wont vpon the Plaine
To sound the Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian straine,
Lay from his Hooke and Bagge cleane cast apart,
And almost broken like his Masters heart.
Yet till the two kinde Shepherds neere him stept,
I finde he nothing spake but that he wept.
Cease gentle Lad (quoth Remond), let no teare
Cloud those sweet beauties in thy face appeare;
Why dost thou call on that which comes alone,
And will not leaue thee till thy selfe art gone?
Thou maist haue griefe, when other things are reft thee:
All else may slide away, this still is left thee;
And when thou wantest other company,
Sorrow will euer be embracing thee.
But fairest Swaine what cause hast thou of woe?
Thou hast a well-fleec'd flocke feed to and fro
(His sheepe along the Vally that time fed
Not farre from him, although vnfollowed).
What, doe thy Ewes abortiues bring? or Lambs
For want of milke seeke to their fellowes Dams?
No gryping Land-lord hath inclos'd thy walkes,
Nor toyling Plowman furrow'd them in balkes.
Ver hath adorn'd thy Pastures all in greene
With Clouer-grasse as fresh as may be seene:
Cleare gliding Springs refresh thy Meadowes heat,
Meads promise to thy charge their winter-meat,
And yet thou grieu'st. O! had some Swains thy store,
Their Pipes should tell the Woods they ask'd no more.
Or haue the Parcæ with vnpartiall knife
Left some friends body tenantlesse of life,
And thou bemoan'st that Fate in his youths morne

21

Ore-cast with clouds his light but newly borne?
“Count not how many yeares he is bereau'd,
“But those which he possest and had receiu'd;
“If I may tread no longer on this stage,
“Though others thinke me young; it is mine age:
“For who so hath his Fates full period told,
“He full of yeeres departs, and dyeth old.
May be that Auarice thy minde hath crost,
And so thy sighes are for some trifle lost.
Why shouldst thou hold that deare the world throwes on thee?
“Thinke nothing good which may be taken from thee.
Look as some pondrous weight or massie pack,
Laid to be carried on a Porters back,
Doth make his strong ioynts cracke, and forceth him
(Maugre the helpe of euery nerue and lim)
To straggle in his gate, and goeth double,
Bending to earth, such is his burdens trouble:
So any one by Auarice ingirt,
And prest with wealth, lyes groueling in the dirt.
His wretched minde bends to no point but this,
That who hath most of wealth hath most of blisse.
Hence comes the world to seeke such traffique forth
And passages through the congealed North,
Who when their haires with Isicles are hung,
And that their chatt'ring teeth confound their tongue,
Shew them a glitt'ring stone, will streightwaies say,
If paines thus prosper, oh, what fooles would play?
Yet I could tell them (as I now doe thee)
“In getting wealth we lose our libertie.
“Besides, it robs vs of our better powres,
“And we should be our selues, were these not ours.
“He is not poorest that hath least in store,
“But he which hath enough, yet asketh more:
“Nor is he rich by whom are all possest,
“But he which nothing hath, yet asketh least.

22

“If thou a life by Natures leading pitch,
“Thou neuer shalt be poore, nor euer rich
“Led by Opinion; for their states are such,
Nature but little seekes, Opinion much.
Amongst the many buds proclaiming May,
(Decking the fields in holy-dayes aray,
Striuing who shall surpasse in brauery)
Marke the faire blooming of the Hawthorne-tree
Who, finely clothed in a robe of white,
Feeds full the wanton eye with May's delight;
Yet for the brauery that she is in
Doth neither handle Card nor Wheele to spin,
Nor changeth robes but twice: is neuer seene
In other colours then in white or greene.
Learne then content, young Shepherd, from this tree,
Whose greatest wealth is Natures liuery;
And richest ingots neuer toyle to finde,
Nor care for pouerty but of the minde,
This spoke young Remond: yet the mournfull Lad
Not once replyde; but with a smile, though sad,
He shooke his head, then crost his armes againe,
And from his eyes did showres of salt teares raine;
Which wrought so on the Swains, they could not smother
Their sighes, but spent them freely as the other.
Tell vs (quoth Doridon) thou fairer farre
Then

Hippolitus.

he whose chastity made him a Starre,

More fit to throw the wounding shafts of Loue,
Then follow sheepe, and pine here in a Groue.
O doe not hide thy sorrowes, shew them briefe;
“He oft findes ayde that doth disclose his griefe.
If thou wouldst it continue, thou dost wrong;
“No man can sorrow very much and long:
For thus much louing Nature hath dispos'd,
That 'mongst the woes that haue vs round inclos'd,
This comfort's left (and we should blesse her for't)
That we may make our griefes be borne, or short.

23

Beleeue me, Shepherd, we are men no lesse
Free from the killing throes of heauinesse
Then thou art here, and but this diff'rence sure,
That vse hath made vs apter to endure.
More he had spoke, but that a Bugle shrill
Rung through the Vally from the higher Hill,
And as they turn'd them tow'rds the hartning sound,
A gallant Stag, as if he scorn'd the ground,
Came running with the winde, and bore his head
As he had beene the King of forrests bred.
Not swifter comes the Messenger of Heauen,
Or winged vessell with a full gale driuen,
Nor the swift Swallow flying neere the ground,
By which the ayres distemp'rature is found:
Nor Mirrha's course, nor Daphne's speedy flight,
Shunning the daliance of the God of light,
Thus seem'd the Stag, that had no sooner crost them,
But in a trice their eyes as quickly lost him.
The weeping Swaine ne're mou'd, but as his eyes
Were onely giuen to shew his miseries,
Attended those; and could not once be won
To leaue that obiect whence his teares begun.
O had that

Phiton.

man, who (by a Tyrants hand)

Seeing his childrens bodies strew the sand,
And he next morne for torments prest to goe,
Yet from his eyes let no one small teare flow,
But being ask'd how well he bore their losse,
Like to a man affliction could not crosse,
He stoutly answer'd: Happier sure are they
Then I shall be by space of one short day.
No more his griefe was. But had he beene here,
He had beene flint, had he not spent a teare.
For still that man the perfecter is knowne,
Who others sorrowes feeles more then his owne.
Remond and Doridon were turning then
Vnto the most disconsolate of men,

24

But that a gallant Dame, faire as the morne
Or louely bloomes the Peach-tree that adorne,
Clad in a changing silke, whose lustre shone
Like yellow flowres and grasse farre off in one:
Or like the mixture Nature doth display
Vpon the quaint wings of the Popiniay,
Her horne about her necke with siluer tip,
Too hard a metall for so soft a lip:
Which it no oftner kist, then Ioue did frowne,
And in a mortals shape would faine come downe
To feed vpon those dainties, had not hee
Beene still kept back by Iuno's iealousie.
An Iuory dart she held of good command,
White was the bone, but whiter was her hand;
Of many peeces was it neatly fram'd,
But more the hearts were that her eyes inflam'd.
Vpon her head a greene light silken cap:
A peece of white Lawne shadow'd either pap,
Betweene which hillocks many Cupids lay,
Where with her necke or with her teats they play,
Whilst her quicke heart will not with them dispence,
But heaues her brests as it would beat them thence:
Who, fearing much to lose so sweet repaire,
Take faster hold by her disheuell'd haire.
Swiftly she ran; the sweet Bryers to receiue her
Slipt their embracements, and (as loth to leaue her)
Stretch'd themselues to their length; yet on she goes.
So great Diana frayes a heard of Roes
And speedy followes: Arethusa fled
So from the

Alpheus.

Riuer, that her rauished.

When this braue Huntresse neere the Shepherds drew.
Her Lilly arme in full extent she threw,
To plucke a little bough (to fan her face)
From off a thicke-leau'd Ash (no tree did grace
The low Groue as did this, the branches spred
Like Neptune's Trident vpwards from the head).

25

No sooner did the grieued Shepherd see
The Nimphs white hand extended tow'rds the tree,
But rose and to her ran, yet she had done
Ere he came neere, and to the wood was gone;
Yet now approach'd the bough the Huntresse tore,
He suckt it with his mouth, and kist it o're
A hundred times, and softly gan it binde
With Dock-leaues, and a slip of Willow rinde.
Then roūd the trunke he wreaths his weakned armes,
And with his scalding teares the smooth bark warms,
Sighing and groaning, that the Shepherds by
Forgot to helpe him, and lay downe to cry:
“For 'tis impossible a man should be
“Grieu'd to himselfe, or faile of company.
Much the two Swaines admir'd, but pitti'd more
That he no powre of words had, to deplore
Or shew what sad misfortune 'twas befell
To him, whom Nature (seem'd) regarded well.
As thus they lay, and while the speechlesse Swaine
His teares and sighes spent to the woods in vaine,
One like a wilde man ouer-growne with haire,
His nailes long growne, and all his body bare,
Saue that a wreath of Iuy twist did hide
Those parts which Nature would not haue discride,
And the long haire that curled from his head
A grassie garland rudely couered.
But Shepherds I haue wrong'd you, 'tis now late,
For see our Maid stands hollowing on yond gate,
'Tis supper-time, withall, and we had need
Make haste away, vnlesse we meane to speed
With those that kisse the Hares foot: Rhumes are bred,
Some say, by going supperlesse to bed,
And those I loue not; therefore cease my rime,
And put my Pipes vp till another time.

26

The Third Song.

The Argvment.

A Redbrest doth from pining saue
Marina shut in Famines Caue.
The Golden age described plaine,
And Limos by the Shepherds slaine,
Doe giue me leaue a while to moue
My Pipe of Tauy and his Loue.
Alas that I haue done so great a wrong
Vnto the fairest Maiden of my Song,
Diuine Marina, who in Limos Caue
Lyes euer fearefull of a liuing graue,
And night and day vpon the hardned stones
Rests, if a rest can be amongst the mones
Of dying wretches; where each minute all
Stand still afraid to heare the Deaths-man call.
Thrice had the golden Sun his hot Steeds washt
In the West Maine, and thrice them smartly lasht
Out of the Baulmy East, since the sweet Maid
Had in that dismall Caue beene sadly laid.
Where hunger pinch'd her so, she need not stand
In feare of murdring by a second hand:
For through her tender sides such darts might passe
Gainst which strong wals of stone, thick gates of brasse

27

Deny no entrance, nor the Campes of Kings,
Since soonest there they bend their flaggy wings.
But heauen that stands still for the best's auaile,
Lendeth his hand when humane helpings faile;
For 'twere impossible that such as she
Should be forgotten of the Deitie;
Since in the spacious Orbe could no man finde
A fairer face match'd with a fairer minde.
A little Robin Red-brest, one cleare morne,
Sate sweetly singing on a well-leau'd Thorne:
Whereat Marina rose, and did admire
He durst approach from whence all else retire:
And pittying the sweet Bird what in her lay,
She fully stroue to fright him thence away.
Poore harmelesse wretch (quoth she) goe seeke some spring,
And to her sweet fall with thy fellowes sing;
Fly to the well-replenish'd Groues, and there
Doe entertaine each Swaines harmonious eare,
Trauerse the winding branches; chant so free,
That euery louer fall in loue with thee;
And if thou chance to see that louely Boy
(To looke on whom the Siluans count a ioy):
He whom I lou'd no sooner then I lost,
Whose body all the Graces hath ingrost,
To him vnfold (if that thou dar'st to be
So neare a neighbour to my Tragedie)
As farre as can thy voyce, (in plaints so sad,
And in so many mournefull accents clad,
That as thou sing'st vpon a tree there by
He may some small time weepe, yet know not why),
How I in death was his, though Powres diuine
Will not permit that he in life be mine.
Doe this, thou louing Bird; and haste away
Into the woods: but if so be thou stay
To doe a deed of charity on me,
When my pure soule shall leaue mortalitie,

28

By cou'ring this poore body with a sheet
Of greene leaues, gath'red from a vally sweet;
It is in vaine: these harmelesse lims must haue
Then in the Caitifes wombe no other graue.
Hence then, sweet Robin; lest in staying long
At once thou chance forgoe both life and song.
With this she husht him thence, he sung no more,
But (fraid the second time) flew tow'rds the shore.
Within as short time as the swiftest Swaine
Can to our May-pole run and come againe,
The little Redbrest to the prickled thorne
Return'd, and sung there as he had beforne:
And faire Marina to the loope-hole went,
Pittying the pretty Bird, whose punishment
Limos would not deferre if he were spide.
No sooner had the bird the Maiden eyde,
But leaping on the rocke, downe from a bough,
He takes a Cherry vp (which he but now
Had thither brought, and in that place had laid
Till to the cleft his song had drawne the Maid),
And flying with the small stem in his bill,
(A choiser fruit, then hangs on Bacchus

Cithæron in Beotia.

hill)

In faire Marina's bosome tooke his rest,
A heauenly seat fit for so sweet a guest:
Where Citherea's Doues might billing sit,
And Gods and men with Enuie looke on it;
Where rose two mountaines, whose rare sweets to crop
Was harder then to reach Olympus top:
For those the Gods can; but to climbe these hils
Their powres no other were then mortall wils.
Here left the Bird the Cherry, and anone
Forsooke her bosome, and for more is gone,
Making such speedy flights into the Thicke,
That she admir'd he went and came so quicke.
Then lest his many Cherries should distast,
Some other fruit he brings then he brought last.

29

Sometime of Strawberries a little stem,
Oft changing colours as he gath'red them:
Some greene, some white, some red on them infus'd,
These lou'd, those fear'd, they blush'd to be so vs'd.
The Peascod greene oft with no little toyle
Hee'd seeke for in the fattest fertil'st soile,
And rend it from the stalke to bring it to her,
And in her bosome for acceptance wooe her.
No Berry in the Groue or Forrest grew,
That fit for nourishment the kinde Bird knew,
Nor any powrefull herbe in open field
To serue her brood the teeming earth did yeeld,
But with his vtmost industry he sought it,
And to the Caue for chaste Marina brought it.
So from one well-stor'd garden to another,
To gather Simples runs a carefull mother,
Whose onely childe lies on the shaking bed
Grip'd with a Feuer (sometime honoured
In Rome as if a

Febrem ad minus nocendum templis colebant, ait Val. Maximus. Vide Tullium in tertio de Nat. Deorum, et secundo de Legibus.

God) nor is she bent

To other herbes then those for which she went.
The feathred houres fiue times were ouer-told,
And twice as many floods and ebbs had rold
The small sands out and in, since faire Marine
(For whose long losse a hundred Shepherds pine)
Was by the charitable Robin fed:
For whom (had she not so beene nourished)
A hundred Doues would search the Sun-burnt hils,
Or fruitfull Vallies lac'd with siluer rils,
To bring her Oliues. Th' Eagle strong of sight
To Countries farre remote would bend her flight,
And with vnwearied wing strip through the skie
To the choise plots of Gaule and Italy,
And neuer lin till home-ward she escape
With the Pomgranat, Lemmon, Oringe, Grape,
Or the lou'd Citron, and attain'd the Caue.
The well-plum'd Goshawke (by th' Egyptians graue

30

Vs'd in their mysticke Characters for speed)
Would not be wanting at so great a need,
But from the well-stor'd Orchards of the Land
Brought the sweet Peare (once by a cursed hand
At

One writes that K. Iohn was poison'd at Swinsted, with a dish of peares: Others, there, in a cup of wine: Some that he died at Newark of the Flux. A fourth by the distemperature of Peaches eaten in his fit of an Ague. Among so many doubts, I leaue you to beleeue the Author most in credit with our best of Antiquaries.

Swinsted vs'd with poyson, for the fall

Of one who on these Plaines rul'd Lord of all.)
The sentfull Osprey by the Rocke had fish'd
And many a prettie Shrimp in Scallops dish'd,
Some way conuay'd her; no one of the shole
That haunt the waues, but from his lurking hole
Had pull'd the Cray-fish, and with much adoe
Brought that the Maid, and Perywinckles too.
But these for others might their labours spare,
And not with Robin for their merits share.
Yet as a Herdesse in a Summers day,
Heat with the glorious Suns all-purging ray,
In the calme Euening (leauing her faire flocke)
Betakes her selfe vnto a froth-girt Rocke,
On which the head-long Tauy throwes his waues,
(And foames to see the stones neglect his braues:)
Where sitting to vndoe her Buskins white,
And wash her neat legs, (as her vse each night)
Th' inamour'd flood, before she can vnlace them,
Rowles vp his waues as hast'ning to imbrace them,
And though to helpe them some small gale doe blow,
And one of twenty can but reach her so;
Yet will a many little surges be
Flashing vpon the rocke full busily,
And doe the best they can to kisse her feet,
But that their power and will not equall meet:
So as she for her Nurse look'd tow'rds the land,
(And now beholds the trees that grace the strand,
Then lookes vpon a hill whose sliding sides
A goodly flocke (like winters cou'ring) hides,
And higher on some stone that iutteth out,
Their carefull master guiding his trim rout

31

By sending forth his Dog (as Shepherds doe),
Or piping sate, or clowting of his shoe.)
Whence, nearer hand drawing her wandring sight
(So from the earth steales the all-quickning light)
Beneath the rocke, the waters high, but late,
(I know not by what sluce or empting gate)
Were at a low ebbe; on the sand she spies
A busie Bird that to and fro still flies,
Till pitching where a heatfull Oyster lay,
Opening his close iawes, (closer none then they
Vnlesse the griping fist, or cherry lips
Of happy Louers in their melting sips.)
Since the decreasing waues had left him there
Gaping for thirst, yet meets with nought but ayre,
And that so hot; ere the returning tyde,
He in his shell is likely to be fride;
The wary Bird a prittie pibble takes
And claps it twixt the two pearle-hiding flakes
Of the broad yawning Oyster, and she then
Securely pickes the fish out (as some men
A tricke of policie thrust tweene two friends,
Seuer their powres), and his intention ends.
The Bird thus getting that, for which she stroue,
Brought it to her: to whom the Queene of Loue
Seru'd as a foyle, and Cupid could no other,
But flie to her mistaken for his Mother.
Marina from the kinde Bird tooke the meat,
And (looking downe) she saw a number great
Of Birds, each one a pibble in his bill,
Would doe the like, but that they wanted skill:
Some threw it in too farre, and some too short;
This could not beare a stone fit for such sport,
But, harmelesse wretch, putting in one too small,
The Oyster shuts and takes his head withall.
Another bringing one too smooth and round,
(Vnhappy Bird that thine owne death hast found)

32

Layes it so little way in his hard lips,
That with their sodaine close, the pibble slips
So strongly forth (as when your little ones
Doe twixt their fingers slip their Cherry-stones),
That it in passage meets the brest or head
Of the poore wretch, and layes him there for dead.
A many striu'd, and gladly would haue done
As much or more then he which first begun,
But all in vaine: scarce one of twenty could
Performe the deed, which they full gladly would.
For this not quicke is to that act he go'th,
That wanteth skill, this cunning, and some both:
Yet none a will, for (from the caue) she sees
Not in all-louely May th' industrious Bees
More busie with the flowres could be, then these
Among the shell-fish of the working Seas.
Limos had all this while beene wanting thence,
And but iust heau'n preseru'd pure innocence
By the two Birds, her life to ayre had flit,
Ere the curst Caytife should haue forced it.
The first night that he left her in his den,
He got to shore, and neere th' abodes of men
That liue as we by tending of their flockes,
To enterchange for Ceres golden lockes,
Or with the Neat-herd for his milke and creame,
Things we respect more then the Diademe:
His choise made-dishes. O! the golden age
Met all contentment in no surplusage
Of dainty viands, but (as we doe still)
Dranke the pure water of the crystall rill,
Fed on no other meats then those they fed,
Labour the salad that their stomacks bred.
Nor sought they for the downe of siluer Swans,
Nor those Sow-thistle lockes each small gale fans,
But hydes of Beasts, which when they liu'd they kept,
Seru'd them for bed and cou'ring when they slept.

33

If any softer lay, 'twas (by the losse
Of some rocks warmth) on thicke and spungy mosse,
Or on the ground: some simple wall of clay
Parting their beds from where their cattle lay.
And on such pallats one man clipped then
More golden slumbers then this age agen.
That time Physitians thriu'd not: or, if any,
I dare say all: yet then were thrice as many
As now profess't, and more; for euery man
Was his owne Patient and Physitian.
None had a body then so weake and thin,
Bankrout of natures store, to feed the sinne
Of an insatiate female, in whose wombe
Could nature all hers past, and all to come
Infuse, with vertue of all drugs beside,
She might be tyr'd, but neuer satisfied.
To please which Orke her husbands weakned peece
Must haue his Cullis mixt with Amber-greece:
Phesant and Partridge into ielly turn'd,
Grated with gold, seuen times refin'd and burn'd
With dust of Orient Pearle, richer the East
Yet ne're beheld: (O Epicurian feast!)
This is his breakfast; and his meale at night
Possets no lesse prouoking appetite,
Whose deare ingredients valu'd are at more
Then all his Ancestors were worth before.
When such as we by poore and simple fare
More able liu'd, and di'd not without heire,
Sprung from our owne loines, and a spotlesse bed
Of any other powre vnseconded:
When th' others issue (like a man falne sicke,
Or through the Feuer, Gout, or Lunaticke,
Changing his Doctors oft, each as his notion
Prescribes a seu'rall dyet, seu'rall potion,
Meeting his friend (who meet we now adayes
That hath not some receit for each disease?)

34

He tels him of a plaister, which he takes;
And finding after that, his torment slakes,
(Whether because the humour is out-wrought,
Or by the skill which his Physitian brought,
It makes no matter:) for he surely thinkes
None of their purges nor their diet drinkes
Haue made him sound; but his beleefe is fast
That med'cine was his health which he tooke last.
So (by a mother) being taught to call
One for his Father, though a Sonne to all,
His mothers often scapes (though truly knowne)
Cannot diuert him; but will euer owne
For his begetter him, whose name and rents
He must inherit. Such are the descents
Of these men; to make vp whose limber heyre
As many as in him must haue a share;
When he that keepes the last yet least adoe,
Fathers the peoples childe, and gladly too.
Happier those times were, when the Flaxen clew
By faire Arachne's hand the Lydians knew,
And sought not to the worme for silken threds,
To rowle their bodies in, or dresse their heads.
When wise Minerua did th' Athenians learne
To draw their milke-white fleeces into yarne;
And knowing not the mixtures which began
(Of colours) from the Babylonian,
Nor wooll in Sardis dyde, more various knowne
By hues, then Iris to the world hath showne:
The bowels of our mother were not ript
For Mader-pits, nor the sweet meadowes stript
Of their choise beauties, nor for Ceres load
The fertile lands burd'ned with needlesse Woad.
Through the wide Seas no winged Pine did goe
To Lands vnknowne for staining Indico;
Nor men in scorching clymates moar'd their Keele
To traffique for the costly Coucheneele.

35

Vnknowne was then the Phrygian brodery,
The Tyrian purple, and the Scarlet dye,
Such as their sheepe clad, such they woue and wore,
Russet or white, or those mixt, and no more:
Except sometimes (to brauery inclinde)
They dide them yellow caps with Alder rinde.
The Græcian mantle, Tuscan robes of state,
Tissue, nor Cloth of gold of highest rate,
They neuer saw; onely in pleasant woods,
Or by th' embrodered margin of the floods,
The dainty Nymphs they often did behold
Clad in their light silke robes, stitcht oft with gold.
The Arras hangings round their comely Hals
Wanted the Cerites web and minerals:
Greene boughes of trees which fatning Acornes lade,
Hung full with flowres and Garlands quaintly made,
Their homely Cotes deck'd trim in low degree,
As now the Court with richest Tapistry.
In stead of Cushions wrought in windowes laine,
They pick'd the Cockle from their fields of Graine,
Sleepe-bringing Poppy, by the Plow-men late
Not without cause to Ceres consecrate,
For being round and full at his halfe birth
It signifi'd the perfect Orbe of earth;
And by his inequalities when blowne,
The earths low Vales and higher Hils were showne.
By multitude of graines it held within,
Of men and beasts the number noted bin;
And she since taking care all earth to please,
Had in her

θεσμοφορια and Δημητρια were sacrifices peculiar to Ceres, the one for being a Lawgiuer, the other as Goddesse of the grounds.

Thesmophoria offred these.

Or cause that seed our Elders vs'd to eat,
With honey mixt (and was their after meat)
Or since her Daughter that she lou'd so well
By him that in th' infernall shades doth dwell,
And on the Stygian bankes for euer raignes
(Troubled with horrid cries and noyse of chaines)

36

(Fairest Proserpina) was rapt away;
And she in plaints the night in teares the day
Had long time spent, when no high Power could giue her
Any redresse; the

Vide Seruium in Virg. Georg. 1.

Poppy did releeue her:

For eating of the seeds they sleepe procur'd,
And so beguil'd those griefes she long endur'd.
Or rather since her Loue (then happy man)
Micon (ycleep'd) the braue Athenian,
Had beene transform'd into this gentle Flowre,
And his protection kept from Flora's powre.
The Daizy scattred on each Mead and Downe,
A golden tuft within a siluer Crowne:
(Faire fall that dainty flowre! and may there be
No Shepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!)
The Primrose, when with six leaues gotten grace
Maids as a True-loue in their bosomes place:
The spotlesse Lilly, by whose pure leaues be
Noted the chaste thoughts of virginitie;
Carnations sweet with colour like the fire,
The fit Impresa's for imflam'd desire:
The Hare-bell for her stainlesse azur'd hue
Claimes to be worne of none but those are true:
The Rose, like ready youth, inticing stands,
And would be cropt if it might choose the hands.
The yealow King cup Flora them assign'd
To be the badges of a iealous minde;
The Oringe-tawny Marigold: the night
Hides not her colour from a searching sight.
To thee then, dearest Friend (my songs chiefe mate),
This colour chiefly I appropriate,
That spight of all the mists Obliuion can
Or enuious frettings of a guilty man,
Retain'st thy worth; nay, mak'st it more in prise,
Like Tennis-bals, throwne downe hard, highest rise.
The Columbine in tawny often taken,

37

Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken;
Flora's choise buttons of a russet dye
Is Hope euen in the depth of misery.
The Pansie, Thistle, all with prickles set,
The Cowslip, Honisuckle, Violet,
And many hundreds more that grac'd the Meads,
Gardens and Groues, (where beautious Flora treads)
Were by the Shepherds Daughters (as yet are
Vs'd in our Cotes) brought home with speciall care:
For bruising them they not alone would quell
But rot the rest, and spoile their pleasing smell.
Much like a Lad, who in his tender prime
Sent from his friends to learne the vse of time,
As are his mates or good or bad, so he
Thriues to the world, and such his actions be.
As in the Rainbowes many coloured hew,
Here see we watchet deepned with a blew:
There a darke tawnie with a purple mixt,
Yealow and flame, with streakes of greene betwixt,
A bloudy streame into a blushing run,
And ends still with the colour which begun;
Drawing the deeper to a lighter staine,
Bringing the lightest to the deep'st againe,
With such rare Art each mingleth with his fellow,
The blew with watchet, greene and red with yealow;
Like to the changes which we daily see
About the Doues necke with varietie,
Where none can say (though he it strict attends)
Here one begins, and there the other ends:
So did the Maidens with their various flowres
Decke vp their windowes, and make neat their bowres:
Vsing such cunning as they did dispose
The ruddy Piny with the lighter Rose,
The Moncks-hood with the Buglosse, and intwine
The white, the blew, the flesh-like Columbine
With Pinckes, Sweet-Williams: that farre off the eye

38

Could not the manner of their mixtures spye.
Then with those flowres they most of all did prise,
(With all their skill, and in most curious wise
On tufts of Hearbs and Rushes) would they frame
A dainty border round their Shepherds name.
Or Poesies make, so quaint, so apt, so rare,
As if the Muses onely liued there:
And that the after world should striue in vaine
What they then did, to counterfeit againe.
Nor will the Needle nor the Loome e're be
So perfect in their best embroderie,
Nor such composures make of silke and gold,
As theirs, when Nature all her cunning told.
The word of Mine did no man then bewitch,
They thought none could be fortunate if rich.
And to the couetous did wish no wrong
But what himselfe desir'd: to liue here long.
As of their Songs, so of their liues they deem'd:
Not of the long'st, but best perform'd, esteem'd.
They thought that heauen to him no life did giue,
Who onely thought vpon the meanes to liue.
Nor wish'd they 'twere ordain'd to liue here euer,
But as life was ordain'd they might perseuer.
O happy men! you euer did possesse
No wisedome but was mixt with simplenesse;
So wanting malice and from folly free,
Since reason went with your simplicitie,
You search'd your selues if all within were faire,
And did not learne of others what you were.
Your liues the patternes of those vertues gaue,
Which adulation tels men now they haue.
With pouerty in loue we onely close,
Because our Louers it most truely showes:
When they who in that blessed age did moue,
Knew neither pouerty, nor want of loue.
The hatred which they bore was onely this,

39

That euery one did hate to doe amisse.
Their fortune still was subiect to their will:
Their want (ô happy!) was the want of ill.
Ye truest, fairest, louelyest Nymphes that can
Out of your eyes lend fire Promethian,
All-beautious Ladies, loue-alluring Dames,
That on the banckes of Isca, Humber, Thames,
By your encouragement can make a Swaine
Climbe by his Song where none but soules attaine:
And by the gracefull reading of our lines
Renew our heat to further braue designes.
(You, by whose meanes my Muse thus boldly sayes:
Though she doe sing of Shepherds loues and layes,
And flagging weakly low gets not on wing
To second that of Hellens rauishing:
Nor hath the loue nor beauty of a Queene
My subiect grac'd, as other workes haue beene;
Yet not to doe their age nor ours a wrong,
Though Queenes, nay Goddesses fam'd Homers song):
Mine hath beene tun'd and heard by beauties more
Then all the Poets that haue liu'd before.
Not cause it is more worth, but it doth fall
That Nature now is turn'd a prodigall,
And on this age so much perfection spends,
That to her last of treasure it extends;
For all the ages that are slid away
Had not so many beauties as this day.
O what a rapture haue I gotten now!
That age of gold, this of the louely brow
Haue drawne me from my Song! I onward run
Cleane from the end to which I first begun.
But ye, the heauenly creatures of the West
In whom the vertues and the graces rest,
Pardon! that I haue run astray so long,
And grow so tedious in so rude a song,
If you your selues should come to adde one grace

40

Vnto a pleasant Groue or such like place,
Where here the curious cutting of a hedge:
There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge:
Here the fine setting of well shading trees:
The walkes there mounting vp by small degrees,
The grauell and the greene so equall lye,
It, with the rest, drawes on your lingring eye:
Here the sweet smels that doe perfume the ayre,
Arising from the infinite repaire
Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price,
(As if it were another Paradice)
So please the smelling sense, that you are faine
Where last you walk'd to turne and walke againe.
There the small Birds with their harmonious notes
Sing to a Spring that smileth as she floats:
For in her face a many dimples show,
And often skips as it did dancing goe:
Here further downe an ouer-arched Alley
That from a hill goes winding in a valley,
You spie at end thereof a standing Lake,
Where some ingenious Artist striues to make
The water (brought in turning pipes of Lead
Through Birds of earth most liuely fashioned)
To counterfeit and mocke the Siluans all,
In singing well their owne set Madrigall.
This with no small delight retaines your eare,
And makes you think none blest but who liue there.
Then in another place the fruits that be
In gallant clusters decking each good tree,
Inuite your hand to crop some from the stem,
And liking one, taste euery sort of them:
Then to the arbours walke, then to the bowres,
Thence to the walkes againe, thence to the flowres,
Then to the Birds, and to the cleare spring thence,
Now pleasing one, and then another sense.
Here one walkes oft, and yet anew begin'th,

41

As if it were some hidden Labyrinth;
So loath to part, and so content to stay,
That when the Gardner knocks for you away,
It grieues you so to leaue the pleasures in it,
That you could wish that you had neuer seene it:
Blame me not then, if while to you I told
The happinesse our fathers clipt of old,
The meere imagination of their blisse
So rapt my thoughts, and made me sing amisse.
And still the more they ran on those dayes worth,
The more vnwilling was I to come forth.
O! if the apprehension ioy vs so,
What would the action in a humane show?
Such were the Shepherds (to all goodnesse bent)
About whose

Villages.

Thorps that night curs'd Limos went.

Where he had learn'd that next day all the Swaines,
That any sheepe fed on the fertill plaines,
That feast of Pales Goddesse of their grounds
Did meane to celebrate. Fitly this sounds,
He thought, to what he formerly intended,
His stealth should by their absence be befriended:
For whilst they in their offrings busied were,
He 'mongst the flocks might range with lesser feare.
How to contriue his stealth he spent the night.
The Morning now in colours richly dight
Stept o're the Easterne thresholds, and no lad
That ioy'd to see his pastures freshly clad,
But for the holy rites himselfe addrest
With necessaries proper to that feast.
The Altars euery where now smoaking be
With Beane-stalkes, Sauine, Laurell, Rosemary,
Their Cakes of Grummell-seed they did preferre,
And Pailes of milke in sacrifice to her.
Then Hymnes of praise they all deuoutly sung
In those Palilia for increase of young.
But ere the ceremonies were halfe past

42

One of their Boyes came downe the hill in haste,
And told them Limos was among their sheepe;
That he, his fellowes, nor their dogs could keepe
The Rau'ner from their flocks; great store were kild,
Whose blood he suck'd, and yet his panch not fild.
O hasten then away! for in an houre
He will the chiefest of your fold deuoure.
With this most ran (leauing behinde some few
To finish what was to faire Pales due),
And as they had ascended vp the hill,
Limos they met, with no meane pace and skill
Following a well-fed Lambe; with many a shout
They then pursu'd him all the plaine about.
And either with fore-laying of his way,
Or he full gorg'd ran not so swift as they,
Before he could recouer downe the strand,
No Swaine but on him had a fastned hand.
Reioycing then (the worst Wolfe to their flocke
Lay in their powres), they bound him to a Rocke
With chaines tane from the plow, and leauing him
Return'd backe to their Feast. His eyes late dim
Now sparkle forth in flames, he grindes his teeth,
And striues to catch at euery thing he seeth;
But to no purpose: all the hope of food
Was tane away; his little flesh, lesse bloud,
He suck'd and tore at last, and that denide,
With fearefull shrikes most miserably dyde.
Vnfortunate Marina, thou art free
From his iawes now, though not from misery.
Within the Caue thou likely art to pine,
If (ô may neuer) faile a helpe diuine,
And though such aid thy wants doe still supply,
Yet in a prison thou must euer lye.
But heau'n that fed thee, will not long defer
To send thee thither some deliuerer:
For then to spend thy sighes there to the maine

43

Thou fitter wert to honour Thetis traine:
Who so farre now with her harmonious crew
Scour'd through the Seas (ô who yet euer knew
So rare a consort?) she had left behinde
The Kentish, Sussex shores, the

Victa quam Vespasianus a Claudio missus subiugauit. Vide Bed. in Hist. Ecc. lib. 1. ca. 3.

Isle assignde

To braue Vespasians conquest, and was come
Where the shrill Trumpet and the ratling Drum
Made the waues tremble (ere befell this chance)
And to no softer Musicke vs'd to dance.
Haile, thou my natiue soile! thou blessed plot
Whose equall all the world affordeth not!
Shew me who can so many crystall Rils,
Such sweet-cloath'd Vallies or aspiring Hils:
Such Wood-groūd, Pastures, Quarries, welthy Mines:
Such Rocks in whom the Diamond fairely shines:
And if the earth can shew the like agen,
Yet will she faile in her Sea-ruling men.
Time neuer can produce men to ore-take
The fames of Greenuil, Dauies, Gilbert, Drake,
Or worthy Hawkins, or of thousands more
That by their powre made the Deuonian shore
Mocke the proud Tagus; for whose richest spoyle
The boasting Spaniard left the Indian soyle
Banckrupt of store, knowing it would quit cost
By winning this, though all the rest were lost.
As oft the Sea-Nymphs on her strand haue set
Learning of Fisher-men to knit a net,
Wherein to winde vp their disheuel'd haires,
They haue beheld the frolicke Mariners
For exercise (got early from their beds)
Pitche bars of siluer, and cast golden sleds.
At Ex a louely Nymph with Thetis met:
She singing came, and was all round beset
With other watry powres, which by her song
She had allur'd to float with her along.
The Lay she chanted she had learn'd of yore,

44

Taught by a

Ioseph of Excester writ a Poem of the Troian War according to Dares the Phrigians story, but falsly attributed to Cornelius Nepos, as it is printed. He liued in the time of Hen. 2. and Rich. 1. See the Illustrations of my most worthy friend M. Selden vpon M. Draitons Polyolbion, pag. 98.

skilfull Swaine, who on her shore

Fed his faire flocke: a worke renown'd as farre
As His braue subiect of the Troian warre.
When she had done, a prettie Shepherds boy
That from the neare Downs came (though he smal ioy
Tooke in his tunefull Reed, since dire neglect
Crept to the brest of her he did affect,
And that an euer-busie-watchfull eye
Stood as a barre to his felicitie,)
Being with great intreaties of the Swaines,
And by the faire Queene of the liquid plaines
Woo'd to his Pipe, and bade to lay aside
All troubled thoughts, as others at that tyde,
And that he now some merry note should raise,
To equall others which had sung their laies:
He shooke his head, and knowing that his tongue
Could not belye his heart, thus sadly sung:
As new-borne babes salute their ages morne
With cries vnto their wofull mother hurld:
My infant Muse that was but lately borne
Began with watry eyes to wooe the world.
She knowes not how to speake, and therefore weepes
Her woes excesse,
And striues to moue the heart that senslesse sleepes,
To heauinesse;
Her eyes inuail'd with sorrowes clouds
Scarce see the light,
Disdaine hath wrapt her in the shrowds
Of loathed night.
How should she moue then her grief-laden wing,
Or leaue my sad complaints, and Pæans sing?
Six Pleyads liue in light, in darknesse one.
Sing mirthfull Swaines, but let me sigh alone.
It is enough that I in silence sit,

45

And bend my skill to learne your laies aright;
Nor striue with you in ready straines of wit,
Nor moue my hearers with so true delight.
But if for heauy plaints and notes of woe
Your eares are prest;
No Shepherd liues that can my Pipe out-goe
In such vnrest.
I haue not knowne so many yeeres
As chances wrong,
Nor haue they knowne more floods of teares
From one so yong.
Faine would I tune to please as others doe,
Wert not for faining Song and numbers too.
Then (since not fitting now are songs of mone)
Sing mirthfull Swaines, but let me sigh alone.
The Nymphs that float vpon these watry plaines
Haue oft beene drawne to listen to my Song,
And Sirens left to tune dissembling straines
In true bewailing of my sorrowes long.
Vpon the waues of late a siluer Swan
By me did ride;
And thrilled with my woes forthwith began
To sing, and dide.
Yet where they should, they cannot moue.
O haplesse Verse!
That fitter then to win a Loue
Art for a Herse.
Hence-forward silent be; and ye my cares
Be knowne but to my selfe, or who despaires;
Since pittie now lyes turned to a stone.
Sing mirthfull Swaines; but let me sigh alone.
The fitting accent of His mournfull lay
So pleas'd the pow'rfull Lady of the Sea,
That she intreated him to sing againe;
And he obeying tun'd this second straine:

46

Borne to no other comfort then my teares,
Yet rob'd of them by griefes too inly deepe,
I cannot rightly waile my haplesse yeeres,
Nor moue a passion that for me might weepe.
Nature alas too short hath knit
My tongue to reach my woe:
Nor haue I skill sad notes to fit
That might my sorrow show.
And to increase my torments ceaselesse sting,
There's no way left to shew my paines,
But by my pen in mournfull straines,
Which others may perhaps take ioy to sing.
As (woo'd by Mayes delights) I haue beene borne
To take the kinde ayre of a wistfull morne
Neere Tauies voicefull streame (to whom I owe
More straines then from my Pipe can euer flowe):
Here haue I heard a sweet Bird neuer lin
To chide the Riuer for his clam'rous din;
There seem'd another in his song to tell,
That what the faire streame did he liked well;
And going further heard another too,
All varying still in what the others doe;
A little thence, a fourth with little paine
Con'd all their lessons, and them sung againe;
So numberlesse the Songsters are that sing
In the sweet Groues of the too-carelesse Spring,
That I no sooner could the hearing lose
Of one of them, but straight another rose,
And perching deftly on a quaking spray,
Nye tyr'd her selfe to make her hearer stay,
Whilst in a bush two Nightingales together
Shew'd the best skill they had to draw me thither:
So (as bright Thetis past our cleeues along)
This shepherds lay pursu'd the others song,
And scarce one ended had his skilfull stripe,

47

But streight another tooke him to his Pipe.
By that the younger Swaine had fully done,
Thetis with her braue company had won
The mouth of Dert, and whilst the Tritons charme
The dancing waues, passing the crystall Arme
Sweet Yalme and Plim; ariu'd where Thamar payes
Her daily tribute to the westerne Seas.
Here sent she vp her Dolphins, and they plide
So busily their fares on euery side,
They made a quicke returne, and brought her downe
A many Homagers to Thamars crowne,
Who in themselues were of as great command
As any meaner Riuers of the Land.
With euery Nymph the Swaine of most account
That fed his white sheepe by her clearer fount:
And euery one to Thetis sweetly sung.
Among the rest a Shepherd (though but young,
Yet hartned to his Pipe) with all the skill
His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill.
By Tauies speedy streame he fed his flocke,
Where when he sate to sport him on a rocke,
The Water-nymphs would often come vnto him,
And for a dance with many gay gifts wooe him.
Now posies of this flowre, and then of that;
Now with fine shels, then with a rushie hat,
With Corrall or red stones brought from the deepe
To make him bracelets, or to marke his sheepe:
Willy he hight. Who by the Oceans Queene
More cheer'd to sing then such young Lads had beene,
Tooke his best framed Pipe, and thus gan moue
His voyce of Walla, Tauy's fairest Loue.
Faire was the day, but fairer was the Maid
Who that daies morn into the green-woods straid.
Sweet was the ayre, but sweeter was her breathing,
Such rare perfumes the Roses are bequeathing.

48

Bright shone the Sun, but brighter were her eyes,
Such are the Lampes that guide the Deities;
Nay such the fire is, whence the Pythian Knight
Borrowes his beames, and lends his Sister light.
Not Pelop's shoulder whiter then her hands,
Nor snowie Swans that iet on Isca's sands.
Sweet Flora, as if rauisht with their sight,
In emulation made all Lillies white:
For as I oft haue heard the Wood-nimphs say,
The dancing Fairies, when they left to play,
Then blacke did pull them, and in holes of trees
Stole the sweet honey from the painfull Bees;
Which in the flowre to put they oft were seene,
And for a banquet brought it to their Queene.
But she that is the Goddesse of the flowres
(Inuited to their groues and shady bowres)
Mislik'd their choise. They said that all the field
No other flowre did for that purpose yeeld;
But quoth a nimble Fay that by did stand:
If you could giue't the colour of yond hand;
(Walla by chance was in a meadow by
Learning to 'sample earths embrodery)
It were a gift would Flora well befit,
And our great Queene the more would honour it.
She gaue consent; and by some other powre
Made Venus Doues be equall'd by the flowre,
But not her hand; for Nature this prefers:
All other whites but shadowings to hers.
Her haire was rowl'd in many a curious fret,
Much like a rich and artfull Coronet,
Vpon whose arches twenty Cupids lay,
And were or tide, or loath to flye away.
Vpon her bright eyes Phœbus his inclinde,
And by their radience was the God stroke blinde,
That cleane awry th' Ecclipticke then he stript,
And from the milky way his horses whipt;

49

So that the Easterne world to feare begun
Some stranger droue the Chariot of the Sun.
And neuer but that once did heauens bright eye
Bestow one looke on the Cymmerij.
A greene silke frock her comely shoulders clad,
And tooke delight that such a seat it had,
Which at her middle gath'red vp in pleats,
A loue-knot Girdle willing bondage threats.
Not Venus Ceston held a brauer peece,
Nor that which girt the fairest flowre of Greece.
Downe from her waste, her mantle loose did fall,
Which Zephyre (as afraid) still plaid withall,
And then tuck'd vp somewhat below the knee
Shew'd searching eyes where Cupids columnes be.
The inside lin'd with rich Carnation silke,
And in the midst of both, Lawne white as milke.
Which white beneath the red did seeme to shroud,
As Cynthia's beautie through a blushing cloud,
About the edges curious to behold
A deepe fringe hung of rich and twisted gold,
So on the greene marge of a crystall brooke
A thousand yealow flowres at fishes looke;
And such the beames are of the glorious Sun,
That through a tuft of grasse dispersed run.
Vpon her leg a paire of Buskins white,
Studded with orient Pearle and Chrysolite,
And like her Mantle stitcht with gold and greene,
(Fairer yet neuer wore the Forrests Queene)
Knit close with ribands of a party hue,
A knot of Crimson and a tuft of blew,
Nor can the Peacocke in his spotted traine
So many pleasing colours shew againe;
Nor could there be a mixture with more grace,
Except the heau'nly Roses in her face.
A siluer Quiuer at her backe she wore,
With Darts and Arrowes for the Stag and Boare,

50

But in her eyes she had such darts agen
Could conquer Gods, and wound the hearts of men.
Her left hand held a knotty Brasill Bow,
Whose strength with teares she made the red Deere know.
So clad, so arm'd, so drest to win her will
Diana neuer trode on Latmus hill.
Walla, the fairest Nimph that haunts the woods,
Walla, belou'd of Shepherds, Faunes and Floods,
Walla, for whom the frolike Satyres pine,
Walla, with whose fine foot the flowrets twine,
Walla, of whom sweet Birds their ditties moue,
Walla, the earths delight, and Tauy's loue.
This fairest Nimph, when Tauy first preuail'd
And won affection where the Siluans fail'd,
Had promis'd (as a fauour to his streame)
Each weeke to crowne it with an Anadem:
And now Hyperion from his glitt'ring throne
Seu'n times his quickning rayes had brauely showne
Vnto the other world, since Walla last
Had on her Tauy's head the Garland plac'd;
And this day (as of right) she wends abroad
To ease the Meadowes of their willing load.
Flora, as if to welcome her, those houres
Had beene most lauish of her choisest flowres,
Spreading more beauties to intice that morne
Then she had done in many daies beforne.
Looke as a Maiden sitting in the shade
Of some close Arbour by the Wood-binde made,
With-drawne alone where vndiscride she may
By her most curious Needle giue assay
Vnto some Purse (if so her fancy moue)
Or other token for her truest Loue,
Varietie of silke about her pap,
Or in a box she takes vpon her lap,
Whose pleasing colours wooing her quicke eye,
Now this she thinkes the ground would beautifie,

51

And that, to flourish with, she deemeth best;
When spying others, she is straight possest
Those fittest are; yet from that choice doth fall
And she resolues at last to vse them all:
So Walla, which to gather long time stood,
Whether those of the field, or of the wood;
Or those that 'mong the springs and marish lay;
But then the blossomes which inrich'd each spray
Allur'd her looke; whose many coloured graces
Did in her Garland challenge no meane places:
And therefore she (not to be poore in plenty)
From Meadows, springs, woods, spraies, culs some one dainty,
Which in a scarfe she put, and onwards set
To finde a place to dresse her Coronet.
A little Groue is seated on the marge
Of Tauy's streame, not ouer-thicke nor large,
Where euery morne a quire of Siluans sung,
And leaues to chattring winds seru'd as a tongue,
By whom the water turnes in many a ring,
As if it faine would stay to heare them sing;
And on the top a thousand young Birds flye,
To be instructed in their harmony.
Neere to the end of this all-ioysome Groue
A dainty circled plot seem'd as it stroue
To keepe all Bryers and bushes from inuading
Her pleasing compasse by their needlesse shading,
Since it was not so large, but that the store
Of trees around could shade her brest and more.
In midst thereof a little swelling hill,
Gently disburd'ned of a crystall rill
Which from the greenside of the flowrie banke
Eat down a channell; here the Wood-nymphs drank,
And great Diana hauing slaine the Deere,
Did often vse to come and bathe her here.
Here talk'd they of their chase, and where next day

52

They meant to hunt; here did the shepherds play,
And many a gaudy Nymph was often seene
Imbracing shepherds boyes vpon this greene.
From hence the spring hasts downe to Tauy's brim,
And paies a tribute of his drops to him.
Here Walla rests the rising mount vpon,
That seem'd to swell more since she sate thereon,
And from her scarfe vpon the grasse shooke downe
The smelling flowres that should her Riuer crowne:
The Scarfe (in shaking it) she brushed oft,
Whereon were flowres so fresh and liuely wrought,
That her owne cunning was her owne deceit,
Thinking those true which were but counterfeit.
Vnder an Aldar on his sandy marge
Was Tauy set to view his nimble charge,
And there his Loue he long time had expected:
While many a rose-cheekt Nymph no wile neglected
To wooe him to imbraces; which he scorn'd,
As valluing more the beauties which adorn'd
His fairest Walla, then all Natures pride
Spent on the cheekes of all her sexe beside.
Now would they tempt him with their open brests,
And sweare their lips were Loues assured Tests:
That Walla sure would giue him the deniall
Till she had knowne him true by such a triall,
Then comes another, and her hand bereaues
The soone slipt Alder of two clammy leaues,
And clapping them together, bids him see
And learne of loue the hidden mystery.
Braue Flood (quoth she) that hold'st vs in suspence,
And shew'st a God-like powre in abstinence,
At this thy coldnesse we doe nothing wonder,
These leaues did so, when once they grew asunder;
But since the one did taste the others blisse,
And felt his partners kinde partake with his,
Behold how close they ioyne; and had they power

53

To speake their now content, as we can our,
They would on Nature lay a hainous crime
For keeping close such sweets vntill this time.
Is there to such men ought of merit due,
That doe abstaine from what they neuer knew?
No: then as well we may account him wise
For speaking nought, who wants those faculties.
Taste thou our sweets; come here and freely sip
Diuinest Nectar from my melting lip;
Gaze on mine eyes, whose life-infusing beames
Haue power to melt the Icy Northerne streames,
And so inflame the Gods of those bound Seas
They should vnchaine their virgin passages,
And teach our Mariners from day to day
To bring vs Iewels by a neerer way.
Twine thy long fingers in my shining haire,
And thinke it no disgrace to hide them there;
For I could tell thee how the Paphian Queene
Met me one day vpon yond pleasant Greene,
And did intreat a slip (though I was coy)
Wherewith to fetter her lasciuious Boy.
Play with my teates that swell to haue impression;
And if thou please from thence to make digression,
Passe thou that milkie way where great Apollo
And higher powres then he would gladly follow.
When to the full of these thou shalt attaine,
It were some mastry for thee to refraine;
But since thou know'st not what such pleasures be
The world will not commend but laugh at thee.
But thou wilt say, thy Walla yeelds such store
Of ioyes, that no one Loue can raise thee more;
Admit it so, as who but thinkes it strange?
Yet shalt thou finde a pleasure more, in change,
If that thou lik'st not, gentle Flood, but heare
To proue that state the best I neuer feare.
Tell me wherein the state and glory is

54

Of thee, of Auon, or braue Thamesis?
In your owne Springs? or by the flowing head
Of some such Riuer onely seconded?
Or is it through the multitude that doe
Send downe their waters to attend on you?
Your mixture with lesse Brookes addes to your fames,
So long as they in you doe loose their names:
And comming to the Ocean, thou dost see,
It takes in other Floods as well as thee;
It were no sport to vs that hunting loue
If we were still confinde to one large Groue.
The water which in one Poole hath abiding
Is not so sweet as Rillets euer gliding.
Nor would the brackish waues in whom you meet
Containe that state it doth, but be lesse sweet,
And with contagious streames all mortals smother,
But that it moues from this shore to the other.
There's no one season such delight can bring,
As Summer, Autumne, Winter, and the Spring.
Nor the best Flowre that doth on earth appeare
Could by it selfe content vs all the yeere.
The Salmons, and some more as well as they,
Now loue the freshet, and then loue the Sea.
The flitting Fowles not in one coast doe tarry,
But with the yeere their habitation vary.
What Musicke is there in a Shepherds quill
(Plaid on by him that hath the greatest skill)
If but a stop or two thereon we spy?
Musicke is best in her varietie.
So is discourse, so ioyes; and why not then
As well the liues and loues of Gods as men?
More she had spoke, but that the gallant Flood
Replide: ye wanton Rangers of the wood,
Leaue your allurements; hye ye to your chase;
See where Diana with a nimble pace
Followes a strucke Deere: if you longer stay

55

Her frowne will bend to me another day.
Harke how she winds her Horne; she some doth call
Perhaps for you, to make in to the fall.
With this they left him. Now he wonders much
Why at this time his Walla's stay was such,
And could haue wish'd the Nymphs back, but for feare
His Loue might come and chance to finde them there.
To passe the time at last he thus began
(Vnto a Pipe ioyn'd by the art of Pan)
To praise his Loue: his hasty waues among
The frothed Rocks, bearing the Vnder-song.
As carefull Merchants doe expecting stand
(After long time and merry gales of winde)
Vpon the place where their braue Ship must land:
So waite I for the vessell of my minde.
Upon a great aduenture is it bound,
Whose safe returne will vallu'd be at more
Then all the wealthy prizes which haue crown'd
The golden wishes of an age before.
Out of the East Iewels of worth she brings,
Th' vnualu'd Diamond of her sparkling Eye
Wants in the Treasures of all Europe's Kings,
And were it mine they nor their crownes should buy
The Saphires ringed on her panting brest,
Run as rich veines of Ore about the mold,
And are in sicknesse with a pale possest,
So true; for them I should disualue gold.
The melting Rubies on her cherry lip
Are of such powre to hold; that as one day
Cupid flew thirsty by, he stoop'd to sip
And fast'ned there could neuer get away.

56

The sweets of Candie are no sweets to me
When hers I taste; nor the Perfumes of price
Rob'd from the happy shrubs of Araby,
As her sweet breath, so powrefull to intice.
O hasten then! and if thou be not gone
Vnto that wished trafficke through the Maine,
My powrefull sighes shall quickly driue thee on,
And then begin to draw thee backe againe.
If in the meane rude waues haue it opprest,
It shall suffice I venter'd at the best.
Scarce had he giuen a period to his Lay
When from a Wood (wherein the Eye of day
Had long a stranger beene, and Phœbe's light
Vainly contended with the shades of night.)
One of those wanton Nymphs that woo'd him late
Came crying tow'rds him; O thou most ingrate
Respectlesse Flood! canst thou here idely sit,
And loose desires to looser numbers fit?
Teaching the ayre to court thy carelesse Brooke,
Whil'st thy poore Walla's cries the hils haue shooke
With an amazed terror: heare! ô heare!
A hundred Eccho's shriking euerie where!
See how the frightfull Heards run from the Wood!
Walla, alas, as she, to crowne her Flood,
Attended the composure of sweet flowres,
Was by a lust-fir'd Satyre 'mong our bowres
Well-neere surpriz'd, but that she him discride
Before his rude imbracement could betide.
Now but her feet no helpe, vnlesse her cries
A needfull aid draw from the Deities.
It needlesse was to bid the Flood pursue:
Anger gaue wings; waies that he neuer knew
Till now, he treads; through dels and hidden brakes
Flies through the Meadows, each where ouertakes

57

Streames swiftly gliding, and them brings along
To further iust reuenge for so great wrong,
His current till that day was neuer knowne,
But as a Meade in Iuly, which vnmowne
Beares in an equall height each bent and stem,
Vnlesse some gentle gale doe play with them.
Now runs it with such fury and such rage,
That mightie Rocks opposing vassalage,
Are from the firme earth rent and ouer-borne
In Fords where pibbles lay secure beforne.
Low'd Cataracts, and fearefull roarings now
Affright the Passenger; vpon his brow
Continuall bubbles like compelled drops,
And where (as now and then) he makes short stops
In little pooles drowning his voice too hie,
'Tis where he thinkes he heares his Walla cry.
Yet vaine was all his haste, bending a way,
Too much declining to the Southerne Sea,
Since she had turned thence, and now begun
To crosse the braue path of the glorious Sun.
There lyes a Vale extended to the North
Of Tauy's streame, which (prodigall) sends forth
In Autumne more rare fruits then haue beene spent
In any greater plot of fruitfull Kent.
Two high brow'd rocks on either side begin,
As with an arch to close the valley in:
Vpon their rugged fronts short writhen Oakes
Vntouch'd of any fellers banefull stroakes:
The Iuy twisting round their barkes hath fed
Past time wilde Goates which no man followed.
Low in the Valley some small Heards of Deere,
For head and footmanship withouten peere,
Fed vndisturb'd. The Swaines that thereby thriu'd
By the tradition from their Sires deriu'd,
Call'd it sweet Ina's Coombe: but whether she
Were of the earth or greater progeny

58

Iudge by her deedes; once this is truely knowne
She many a time hath on a Bugle blowne,
And through the Dale pursu'd the iolly Chase,
As she had bid the winged windes a base.
Pale and distracted hither Walla runs,
As closely follow'd as she hardly shuns;
Her mantle off, her haire now too vnkinde
Almost betrai'd her with the wanton winde.
Breathlesse and faint she now some drops discloses,
As in a Limbeck the kinde sweat of Roses,
Such hang vpon her brest, and on her cheekes;
Or like the Pearles which the tand Æthiop seekes.
The Satyre (spur'd with lust) still getteth ground,
And longs to see his damn'd intention crown'd.
As when a Greyhound (of the rightest straine)
Let slip to some poore Hare vpon the plaine;
He for his prey striues, th' other for her life;
And one of these or none must end the strife.
Now seemes the Dog by speed and good at bearing
To haue her sure; the other euer fearing
Maketh a sodaine turne, and doth deferre
The Hound a while from so neere reaching her:
Yet being fetcht againe and almost tane,
Doubting (since touch'd of him) she scapes her bane:
So of these two the minded races were,
For Hope the one made swift, the other Feare.
O if there be a powre (quoth Walla then
Keeping her earnest course) o'reswaying men
And their desires! ô let it now be showne
Vpon this Satyre halfe part earthly knowne.
What I haue hitherto with so much care
Kept vndefiled, spotlesse, white and faire,
What in all speech of loue I still reseru'd,
And from it's hazard euer gladly sweru'd;
O be it now vntouch'd! and may no force
That happy Iewell from my selfe deuorce!

59

I that haue euer held all women be
Void of all worth if wanting chastitie;
And who so any lets that best flowre pull,
She might be faire, but neuer beautifull:
O let me not forgoe it! strike me dead!
Let on these Rocks my limbs be scattered!
Burne me to ashes with some powrefull flame,
And in mine owne dust bury mine owne name,
Rather then let me liue and be defil'd.
Chastest Diana! in the Deserts wilde,
Haue I so long thy truest handmaid beene?
Vpon the rough rocke-ground thine arrowes keene,
Haue I (to make thee crownes) beene gath'ring still
Faire-cheekt Etesia's yealow Cammomill?
And sitting by thee on our flowrie beds
Knit thy torne Buck-stals with well twisted threds,
To be forsaken? O now present be,
If not to saue, yet helpe to ruine me!
If pure Virginitie haue heretofore
By the Olympicke powres beene honour'd more
Then other states; and Gods haue beene dispos'd
To make them knowne to vs, and still disclos'd
To the chaste hearing of such Nymphs as we
Many a secret and deepe misterie;
If none can lead without celestiall aid
Th' immaculate and pure life of a Maid,
O let not then the Powres all-good diuine
Permit vile lust to soile this brest of mine!
Thus cride she as she ran: and looking backe
Whether her hot pursuer did ought slacke
His former speed, she spies him not at all,
And somewhat thereby cheer'd gan to recall
Her nye fled hopes: yet fearing he might lye
Neere some crosse path to worke his villanie,
And being weary, knowing it was vaine
To hope for safety by her feet againe,

60

She sought about where she her selfe might hide.
A hollow vaulted Rocke at last she spide,
About whose sides so many bushes were,
She thought securely she might rest her there.
Farre vnder it a Caue, whose entrance streight
Clos'd with a stone-wrought dore of no mean weight;
Yet from it selfe the gemels beaten so
That little strength could thrust it to and fro.
Thither she came, and being gotten in
Barr'd fast the darke Caue with an iron pin.
The Satyre follow'd, for his cause of stay
Was not a minde to leaue her, but the way
Sharpe ston'd and thornie, where he pass'd of late,
Had cut his clouen foot, and now his gate
Was not so speedy, yet by chance he sees
Through some small glade that ran between the trees
Where Walla went. And with a slower pace
Fir'd with hot blood, at last attain'd the place.
When like a fearefull Hare within her Forme,
Hearing the Hounds come like a threatning storme,
In full cry on the walke where last she trode,
Doubts to stay there, yet dreads to goe abroad:
So Walla far'd. But since he was come nie,
And by an able strength and industry
Sought to breake in, with teares anew she fell
To vrge the Powres that on Olympus dwell.
And then to Ina call'd: O if the roomes,
The Walkes and Arbours in these fruitfull coombes
Haue famous beene through all the Westerne Plaines
In being guiltlesse of the lasting staines
Pour'd on by lust and murther: keepe them free!
Turne me to stone, or to a barked tree,
Vnto a Bird, or flowre, or ought forlorne;
So I may die as pure as I was borne.
“Swift are the prayers and of speedy haste,
“That take their wing from hearts so pure and chaste.

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“And what we aske of Heauen it still appeares
“More plaine to it in mirrours of our teares.
Approu'd in Walla. When the Satyre rude
Had broke the doore in two, and gan intrude
With steps prophane into that sacred Cell,
Where oft (as I haue heard our Shepherds tell)
Faire Ina vs'd to rest from Phœbus ray:
She or some other hauing heard her pray,
Into a Fountaine turn'd her; and now rise
Such streames out of the caue, that they surprise
The Satyre with such force and so great din,
That quenching his lifes flame as well as sin,
They roul'd him through the Dale with mighty rore
And made him flye that did pursue before.
Not farre beneath i'the Valley as she trends
Her siluer streame, some Wood-nymphs and her friends
That follow'd to her aide, beholding how
A Brooke came gliding, where they saw but now
Some Herds were feeding, wondring whence it came:
Vntill a Nymph that did attend the game
In that sweet Valley, all the processe told,
Which from a thicke-leau'd-tree she did behold:
See, quoth the Nymph, where the rude Satyre lies
Cast on the grasse; as if she did despise
To haue her pure waues soyl'd with such as he:
Retaining still the loue of puritie.
To Tauy's Crystall streame her waters goe,
As if some secret power ordained so,
And as a Maid she lou'd him, so a Brooke
To his imbracements onely her betooke.
Where growing on with him, attain'd the state
Which none but Hymens bonds can imitate.
On Walla's brooke her sisters now bewaile,
For whom the Rocks spend teares when others faile,
And all the Woods ring with their piteous mones:
Which Tauy hearing as he chid the stones,

62

That stopt his speedy course, raising his head
Inquir'd the cause, and thus was answered:
Walla is now no more. Nor from the hill
Will she more plucke for thee the Daffadill,
Nor make sweet Anadems to gird thy brow,
Yet in the Groues she runs, a Riuer now.
Looke as the feeling

Sentida.

Plant (which learned Swaines

Relate to grow on the East Indian Plaines)
Shrinkes vp his dainty leaues, if any sand
You throw thereon, or touch it with your hand:
So with the chance the heauy Wood-nymphs told,
The Riuer (inly touch'd) began to fold
His armes acrosse, and while the torrent raues,
Shrunke his graue head beneath his siluer waues.
Since when he neuer on his bankes appeares
But as one franticke: when the clouds spend teares
He thinkes they of his woes compassion take,
(And not a Spring but weepes for Walla's sake)
And then he often (to bemone her lacke)
Like to a mourner goes, his waters blacke,
And euery Brooke attending in his way,
For that time meets him in the like aray.
Here Willy that time ceas'd; and I a while:
For yonder's Roget comming o're the stile,
'Tis two daies since I saw him (and you wonder,
You'le say, that we haue beene so long asunder).
I thinke the louely Heardesse of the Dell
That to an Oaten Quill can sing so well,
Is she that's with him: I must needs goe meet them,
And if some other of you rise to greet them
'Twere not amisse, the day is now so long
That I ere night may end another Song.

63

The Fovrth Song.

The Argvment.

The Cornish Swaines and Brittish Bard
Thetis hath with attention heard.
And after meets an aged man
That tels the haplesse loue of Pan:
And why the flockes doe liue so free
From Wolues within rich Britannie.
Looke as a Louer with a lingring kisse
About to part with the best halfe that's his,
Faine would he stay but that he feares to doe it,
And curseth time for so fast hastning to it:
Now takes his leaue, and yet begins anew
To make lesse vowes then are esteemed true:
Then saies he must be gone, and then doth finde
Something he should haue spoke that's out of minde;
And whilst he stands to look for't in her eyes,
Their sad-sweet glance so tye his faculties
To thinke from what he parts, that he is now
As farre from leauing her, or knowing how,

64

As when he came; begins his former straine,
To kisse, to vow, and take his leaue againe:
Then turns, comes back, sighes, parts, & yet doth go,
Apt to retire, and loath to leaue her so.
Braue Streame, so part I from thy flowrie banke,
Where first I breath'd, and (though vnworthy) dranke
Those sacred waters which the Muses bring
To wooe Britannia to their ceaslesse spring.

Vide de amœnitate loci. Malmesb. 2. lib. de gest. Pontif. fo. 146.

Now would I on, but that the crystall Wels,

The fertill Meadowes and their pleasing smels,
The Woods delightfull and the scatt'red Groues,
(Where many Nymphs walk with their chaster Loues)
Soone make me stay: And think that Ordgar's

Ordulphus.

son

(Admonish'd by a heauenly vision)
Not without cause did that apt fabricke reare,
(Wherein we nothing now but Eccho's heare
That wont with heauenly Anthemes daily ring
And duest praises to the greatest King)
In this choise plot. Since he could light vpon
No place so fit for contemplation.
Though I a while must leaue this happy soyle,
And follow Thetis in a pleasing toyle,
Yet when I shall returne, Ile striue to draw
The Nymphs by Thamar, Tauy, Ex and Tau,
By Turridge, Otter, Ock, by Dert and Plym,
With all the Nayades that fish and swim
In their cleare streames, to these our rising Downes,
Where while they make vs chaplets, wreaths and crowns,
Ile tune my Reed vnto a higher key,
(And haue already cond some of the Lay)
Wherein (as Mantua by her Virgils birth
And Thames by him that sung her Nuptiall mirth)
You may be knowne (though not in equall pride)
As farre as Tiber throwes his swelling Tide.
And by a Shepherd (feeding on your plaines)
In humble, lowly, plaine, and ruder straines,

65

Heare your worths challenge other floods among,
To haue a period equall with their song.
Where Plym and Thamar with imbraces meet,
Thetis weighes ancor now, and all her Fleet:
Leauing that spacious

Plymouth.

Sound, within whose armes

I haue those Vessels seene, whose hot alarmes
Haue made Iberia tremble, and her towres
Prostrate themselues before our iron showres
While their proud builders hearts haue been inclinde
To shake (as our braue Ensignes) with the winde.
For as an Eyerie from their Seeges wood
Led o're the Plaines and taught to get their food:
By seeing how their Breeder takes his prey
Now from an Orchard doe they scare the Iey,
Then o're the Corne-fields as they swiftly flye,
Where many thousand hurtfull Sparrowes lye
Beating the ripe graine from the bearded eare,
At their approach, all (ouer-gone with feare)
Seeke for their safetie: some into the dike,
Some in the hedges drop, and others like
The thick-growne corne as for their hiding best,
And vnder turfes or grasse most of the rest;
That of a flight which couer'd all the graine,
Not one appeares, but all or hid, or slaine:
So by Heröes were we led of yore,
And by our drums that thundred on each shore,
Stroke with amazement Countries farre and neere;
Whilst their Inhabitants like Heards of Deere,
By kingly Lyons chas'd, fled from our Armes.
If any did oppose, instructed swarmes
Of men immail'd; Fate drew them on to be
A greater Fame to our got Victory.
But now our Leaders want; those Vessels lye
Rotting, like houses through ill husbandry;
And on their Masts where oft the Ship-boy stood,
Or siluer Trumpets charm'd the brackish Flood,

66

Some wearied Crow it set; and daily seene
Their sides instead of pitch calk'd o're with greene:
Ill hap (alas) haue you that once were knowne
By reaping what was by Iberia sowne.
By bringing yealow sheaues from out their plaine,
Making our Barnes the store-house for their graine:
When now as if we wanted land to till,
Wherewith we might our vselesse Souldiers fill:
Vpon their Hatches where halfe-pikes were borne,
In euery chinke rise stems of bearded corne:
Mocking our idle times that so haue wrought vs,
Or putting vs in minde what once they brought vs.
Beare with me Shepherds if I doe digresse,
And speake of what our selues doe not professe:
Can I behold a man that in the field,
Or at a breach hath taken on his Shield
More Darts then euer

M. Scena.

Roman; that hath spent

Many a cold December in no Tent
But such as Earth and Heauen make; that hath beene
Except in Iron Plates not long time seene;
Vpon whose body may be plainly told
More wounds then his lanke purse doth almes-deeds hold.
O! can I see this man (aduentring all)
Be onely grac'd with some poore Hospitall,
Or may be worse, intreating at his doore
For some reliefe whom he secur'd before,
And yet not shew my griefe? First may I learne
To see, and yet forget how to discerne;
My hands neglectfull be at any need,
Or to defend my body, or to feed,
Ere I respect those times that rather giue him
Hundreds to punish, then one to relieue him.
As in an Euening when the gentle ayre
Breathes to the sullen night a soft repaire,
I oft haue set on Thames sweet banke to heare
My Friend with his sweet touch to charme mine eare,

67

When he hath plaid (as well he can) some straine
That likes me, streight I aske the same againe,
And he as gladly granting, strikes it o're
With some sweet relish was forgot before:
I would haue beene content if he would play
In that one straine to passe the night away;
But fearing much to doe his patience wrong,
Vnwillingly haue ask'd some other song.
So in this diffring Key, though I could well
A many houres but as few minutes tell,
Yet lest mine owne delight might iniure you
(Though loath so soone) I take my Song anew.
Yet as when I with other Swaines haue beene
Invited by the Maidens of our greene
To wend to yonder Wood, in time of yeare
When Cherry-trees inticing burdens beare,
He that with wreathed legs doth vpwards goe,
Pluckes not alone for those which stand below;
But now and then is seene to picke a few
To please himselfe as well as all his crew:
Or if from where he is he doe espie
Some Apricocke vpon a bough thereby,
Which ouerhangs the tree on which he stands,
Climbs vp and striues to take it with his hands:
So if to please my selfe I somewhat sing,
Let it not be to you lesse pleasuring.
No thirst of glory tempts me: for my straines
Befit poore Shepherds on the lowly Plaines;
The hope of riches cannot draw from me
One line that tends to seruile flatterie,
Nor shall the most in titles on the earth
Blemish my Muse with an adulterate birth,
Nor make me lay pure colours on a ground
Where nought substantiall can be euer found.
No; such as sooth a base and dunghill spirit,
With attributes fit for the most of merit,

68

Cloud their free Muse; as when the Sun doth shine
On straw and durt mixt by the sweating Hyne,
It nothing gets from heapes so much impure
But noysome steames that doe his light obscure.
My free-borne Muse will not like Danae be,
Won with base drosse to clip with slauery;
Nor lend her choiser Balme to worthlesse men,
Whose names would dye but for some hired pen.
No: if I praise, Vertue shall draw me to it,
And not a base procurement make me doe it.
What now I sing is but to passe away
A tedious houre, as some Musitians play;
Or make another my owne griefes bemone;
Or to be least alone when most alone.
In this can I as oft as I will choose,
Hug sweet content by my retired Muse,
And in a study finde as much to please
As others in the greatest Pallaces.
Each man that liues (according to his powre)
On what he loues bestowes an idle houre;
In stead of Hounds that make the woodded hils
Talke in a hundred voyces to the Rils,
I like the pleasing cadence of a line
Strucke by the consort of the sacred Nine.
In lieu of Hawkes, the raptures of my soule
Transcend their pitch and baser earths controule.
For running Horses, Contemplation flyes
With quickest speed to win the greatest prize.
For courtly dancing I can take more pleasure
To heare a Verse keepe time and equall measure.
For winning Riches, seeke the best directions
How I may well subdue mine owne affections.
For raising stately piles for heires to come,
Here in this Poem I erect my toombe.
And time may be so kinde in these weake lines
To keepe my Name enroll'd past his that shines

69

In guilded Marble, or in brazen leaues:
Since Verse preserues, when Stone & Brasse deceiues.
Or if (as worthlesse) Time not lets it liue
To those full dayes which others Muses giue,
Yet I am sure I shall be heard and sung
Of most seuerest eld, and kinder young
Beyond my daies; and, maugre Enuies strife,
Adde to my name some houres beyond my life.
Such of the Muses are the able powres,
And since with them I spent my vacant houres,
I finde nor Hawke, nor Hound, nor other thing,
Turnies nor Reuels, pleasures for a King,
Yeeld more delight; for I haue oft possest
As much in this as all in all the rest,
And that without expence, when others oft
With their vndoings haue their pleasures bought.
On now, my loued Muse, and let vs bring
Thetis to heare the Cornish Michael sing;
And after him to see a Swaine vnfold
The Tragedie of Drake in leaues of gold.
Then heare another Greenvils name relate,
Which times succeeding shall perpetuate,
And make those two the Pillers great of Fame,
Beyond whose worths shall neuer sound a Name,
Nor Honour in her euerlasting story
More deeper graue for all ensuing glory.
Now Thetis staies to heare the Shepherds tell
Where Arthur met his death, and Mordred fell:)
Of holy Vrsula (that fam'd her age)
With other Virgins in her pilgrimage:
And as she forwards steeres is showne the Rocke
Maine-Amber, to be shooke with weakest shocke,
So equall is it poiz'd; but to remoue
All strength would faile, and but an infants proue.
Thus while to please her some new Songs deuise,
And others Diamonds (shaped angle-wise,

70

And smooth'd by Nature, as she did impart
Some willing time to trim her selfe by Art)
Sought to present her and her happy crew:
She of the Gulfe and Syllies tooke a view.
And doubling then the point, made on away
Tow'rds goodly Seuerne and the Irish Sea,
There meets a Shepherd that began sing o're
The Lay which aged

Robert of Glocester.

Robert sung of yore,

In praise of England and the deeds of Swaines
That whilome fed and rul'd vpon our plaines.
The Brittish Bards then were not long time mute,
But to their sweet Harps sung their famous Brute:
Striuing in spight of all the mists of eld,
To haue his Story more authenticke held.
Why should we enuy them those wreaths of Fame:
Being as proper to the Troian name,
As are the dainty flowres which Flora spreads
Vnto the Spring in the discoloured Meads?
Rather afford them all the worth we may,
For what we giue to them adds to our Ray.
And, Brittons, thinke not that your glories fall,
Deriued from a meane originall;
Since lights that may haue powre to check the darke,
Can haue their lustre from the smallest sparke.
“Not from Nobilitie doth Vertue spring,
“But Vertue makes fit Nobles for a King.
“From highest nests are croaking Rauens borne,
“When sweetest Nightingales sit in the Thorne.
From what low Fount soe're your beings are
(In softer peace and mighty brunts of warre)
Your owne worths challenge as triumphant Bayes
As euer Troian hand had power to raise.
And when I leaue my Musiques plainer ground,
The world shall know it from Bellona's sound.
Nor shall I erre from Truth; for what I write
She doth peruse, and helps me to indite.

71

The small conuerse which I haue had with some,
Branches which from those gallant trees haue come,
Doth what I sing in all their acts approue,
And with more daies increase a further loue.
As I haue seene the Lady of the May
Set in an Arbour (on a Holy-day)
Built by the May-pole, where the iocund Swaines
Dance with the Maidens to the Bagpipes straines,
When enuious Night commands them to be gone,
Call for the merry youngsters one by one,
And for their well performance soone disposes:
To this a Garland interwoue with Roses.
To that a carued Hooke or well-wrought Scrip,
Gracing another with her cherry lip:
To one her Garter, to another then
A Hand-kerchiefe cast o're and o're agen:
And none returneth emptie that hath spent
His paines to fill their rurall merriment:
So Nereus Daughter, when the Swaines had done
With an vnsparing, liberall hand begun
To giue to euery one that sung before,
Rich orient Pearles brought from her hidden store,
Red branching Corrall, and as precious Iems
As euer beautifide the Diadems:
That they might liue what chance their sheepe betide,
On her reward, yet leaue their heires beside.
Since when I think the world doth nothing giue them
As weening Thetis euer should relieue them.
And Poets freely spend a golden showre,
As they expected Her againe each houre.
Then with her thanks and praises for their skill
In tuning numbers of the sacred Hill.
She them dismist to their contented Coates;
And euery Swaine a seuerall passage floates
Vpon his Dolphin. Since whose safe repaire,
Those Fishes like a well composed ayre.

72

And (as in loue to men) are euer seene
Before a tempests rough regardlesse teene,
To swim high on the waues: as none should dare
Excepting fishes to aduenture there.
When these had left her, she draue on in pride
Her prouder Coursers through the swelling tyde,
To view the Cambrian Cliffes, and had not gone
An houres full speede, but neere a Rocke (whereon
Congealed frost and snow in Summer lay,
Seldome dissolued by Hyperions ray)
She saw a troope of people take their seat,
Whereof some wrung their hands, and some did beat
Their troubled brests, in signe of mickle woe,
For those are actions griefe inforceth to.
Willing to know the cause, somewhat neere hand
She spies an aged man sit by the strand,
Vpon a greene hill side (not meanly crown'd
With golden flowres, as chiefe of all the ground):
By him a little Lad, his cunning heire,
Tracing greene Rushes for a Winter Chaire.
The old man while his sonne full neatly knits them
Vnto his worke begun, as trimly fits them.
Both so intending what they first propounded,
As all their thoghts by what they wrought were boūded.
To them She came, and kindly thus bespake:
Ye happy creatures, that your pleasures take
In what your needes inforce, and neuer aime
A limitlesse desire to what may maime
The setled quiet of a peacefull state,
Patience attend your labours! And when Fate
Brings on the restfull night to your long daies,
Wend to the fields of blisse! Thus Thetis prayes.
Faire Queene, to whom all dutious praise we owe,
Since from thy spacious Cesterne daily flow
(Repli'd the Swaine) refreshing streames that fill
Earth's dugs (the hillocks) so preseruing still

73

The infant grasse, when else our Lambs might bleat
In vaine for suke, whose Dams haue nought to eat:
For these thy praiers we are doubly bound,
And that these Cleeues should know; but (ô) to sound
My often mended Pipe presumption were,
Since Pan would play if thou wouldst please to heare.
The louder blasts which I was wont to blow
Are now but faint, nor doe my fingers know
To touch halfe part those merry tunes I had.
Yet if thou please to grace my little Lad
With thy attention, he may somewhat strike
Which thou from one so young maist chance to like.
With that the little Shepherd left his taske,
And with a blush (the Roses onely maske)
Deni'd to sing. Ah father (quoth the Boy),
How can I tune a seeming note of ioy?
The worke which you command me, I intend
Scarce with a halfe bent minde, and therefore spend
In doing little, now, an houre or two,
Which I in lesser time could neater doe.
As oft as I with my more nimble ioints
Trace the sharpe Rushes ends, I minde the points
Which Philocel did giue; and when I brush
The prittie tuft that growes beside the rush,
I neuer can forget (in yonder layre)
How Philocel was wont to stroake my haire.
No more shall I be tane vnto the Wake,
Nor wend a fishing to the winding Lake,
No more shall I be taught on siluer strings
To learne the measures of our banquettings:
The twisted Collers and the ringing Bels:
The Morrice Scarfes and cleanest drinking shels
Will neuer be renew'd by any one;
Nor shall I care for more when he is gone.
See! yonder hill where he was wont to sit,
A cloud doth keepe the golden Sun from it,

74

And for his seat (as teaching vs) hath made
A mourning couering with a scowling shade.
The dew on euery flowre this morne hath laine
Longer then it was wont, this side the plaine;
Belike they meane, since my best friend must die,
To shed their siluer drops as he goes by.
Not all this day here, nor in comming hither,
Heard I the sweet Birds tune their Songs together,
Except one Nightingale in yonder Dell
Sigh'd a sad Elegie for Philocel;
Neere whom a Wood-Doue kept no small adoe,
To bid me in her language Doe so too,
The Weathers bell that leads our flocke around
Yeelds as me thinkes this day a deader sound.
The little Sparrowes which in hedges creepe,
Ere I was vp did seeme to bid me weepe.
If these doe so, can I haue feeling lesse,
That am more apt to take and to expresse?
No: let my owne tunes be the Mandrakes grone
If now they tend to mirth when all haue none.
My pritty Lad (quoth Thetis) thou dost well
To feare the losse of thy deere Philocel.
But tell me, Sire, what may that Shepherd be?
Or if it lye in vs to set him free,
Or if with you yond people touch'd with woe
Vnder the selfe same load of sorrow goe.
Faire Queene (replide the Swaine) one is the cause
That moues our griefe, & those kind shepherds draws
To yonder rocke. Thy more then mortall spirit
May giue a good beyond our power to merit.
And therefore please to heare while I shall tell
The haplesse Fate of hopelesse Philocel.
Whilome, great Pan, the Father of our flocks
Lou'd a faire lasse so famous for her locks,
That in her time all women first begun
To lay their looser tresses to the Sun.

75

And theirs whose hew to hers was not agreeing,
Were still roll'd vp as hardly worth the seeing.
Fondly haue some beene led to thinke, that Man
Musiques invention first of all began
From the dull Hammers stroke; since well we know
From sure tradition that hath taught vs so,
Pan sitting once to sport him with his Fayre
Mark'd the intention of the gentle ayre,
In the sweet sound her chaste words brought along,
Fram'd by the repercussion of her tongue:
And from that harmony begun the Art
Which others (though vniustly) doe impart
To bright Apollo from a meaner ground:
A sledge or parched nerues; meane things to found
So rare an Art on; when there might be giuen
All earth for matter with the gyre of heauen.
To keepe her slender fingers from the Sunne,
Pan through the pastures oftentimes hath run
To plucke the speckled Fox-gloues from their stem,
And on those fingers neatly placed them.
The Hony-suckles would he often strip,
And lay their sweetnesse on her sweeter lip:
And then as in reward of such his paine,
Sip from those cherries some of it againe.
Some say that Nature, while this louely Maid
Liu'd on our plaines, the teeming earth araid
With Damaske Roses in each pleasant place,
That men might liken somewhat to her face.
Others report: Venus, afraid her sonne
Might loue a mortall as he once had done,
Preferr'd an earnest sute to highest Ioue,
That he which bore the winged shafts of loue,
Might be debarr'd his sight, which sute was sign'd,
And euer since the God of Loue is blinde.
Hence is't he shoots his shafts so cleane awry:
Men learne to loue when they should learne to dye.

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And women, which before to loue began
Man without wealth, loue wealth without a man.
Great Pan of his kinde Nymph had the imbracing
Long, yet too short a time. For as in tracing
These pithfull Rushes, such as are aloft
By those that rais'd them presently are brought
Beneath vnseene: So in the loue of Pan
(For Gods in loue doe vndergoe as man),
She whose affection made him raise his song,
And (for her sport) the Satyres rude among
Tread wilder measures then the frolike guests,
That lift their light heeles at Lyëus feasts:
Shee by the light of whose quick-turning eye
He neuer read but of felicitie:
She whose assurance made him more than Pan,
Now makes him farre more wretched then a man.
For mortals in their losse haue death a friend,
When gods haue losses, but their losse no end.
It chanc'd one morne (clad in a robe of gray,
And blushing oft as rising to betray)
Intic'd this louely Maiden from her bed
(So when the Roses haue discouered
Their taintlesse beauties, flyes the early Bee
About the winding Allies merrily.)
Into the Wood, and 'twas her vsuall sport,
Sitting where most harmonious Birds resort,
To imitate their warbling in a quill
Wrought by the hand of Pan, which she did fill
Halfe full with water: and with it hath made
The Nightingale (beneath a sullen shade)
To chant her vtmost Lay, nay, to inuent
New notes to passe the others instrument,
And (harmelesse soule) ere she would leaue that strife,
Sung her last song, and ended with her life.
So gladly chusing (as doe other some)
Rather to dye then liue and be o're come.

77

But as in Autumne (when birds cease their noates,
And stately Forrests d'on their yealow coates:
When Ceres golden locks are nearely shorne
And mellow fruit from trees are roughly torne),
A little Lad set on a banke to shale
The ripened Nuts pluck'd in a wooddy Vale,
Is frighted thence (of his deare life afeard)
By some wilde Bull lowd bellowing for the heard:
So while the Nymph did earnestly contest
Whether the Birds or she recorded best,
A Rauenous Wolfe, bent eager to his prey
Rush'd from a theeuish brake; and making way,
The twined Thornes did crackle one by one,
As if they gaue her warning to be gone.
A rougher gale bent downe the lashing boughes,
To beat the beast from what his hunger vowes.
When she (amaz'd) rose from her haplesse seat
(Small is resistance where the feare is great),
And striuing to be gone, with gaping iawes
The Wolfe pursues, and as his rending pawes
Were like to seise, a Holly bent betweene;
For which good deed his leaues are euer greene.
Saw you a lusty Mastiue at the stake,
Throwne from a cunning Bull, more fiercely make
A quicke returne? yet to preuent the goare
Or deadly bruize which he escap'd before,
Winde here and there, nay creepe if rightly bred,
And proffring otherwhere, fight still at head:
So though the stubborn boughes did thrust him back,
(For Nature, loath so rare a Iewels wracke,
Seem'd as she here and there had plash'd a tree,
If possible to hinder Destiny.)
The sauage Beast foaming with anger flyes
More fiercely then before, and now he tries
By sleights to take the Maid; as I haue seene
A nimble Tumbler on a burrow'd greene,

78

Bend cleane awry his course, yet giue a checke
And throw himselfe vpon a Rabbets necke.
For as he hotly chas'd the Loue of Pan,
A heard of Deere out of a thicket ran,
To whom he quickly turn'd, as if he meant
To leaue the Maid, but when she swiftly bent
Her race downe to the Plaine, the swifter Deere
He soone forsooke. And now was got so neere
That (all in vaine) she turned to and fro
(As well she could) but not preuailing so,
Breathlesse and weary calling on her Loue
With fearefull shrikes that all the Ecchoes moue
(To call him to) she fell downe deadly wan,
And ends her sweet life with the name of Pan.
A youthfull Shepherd of the neighbour Wold,
Missing that morne a sheepe out of his Fold,
Carefully seeking round to finde his stray,
Came on the instant where this Damsell lay.
Anger and pitty in his manly brest
Vrge yet restraine his teares. Sweet Maid, possest
(Quoth he) with lasting sleepe, accept from me
His end, who ended thy hard destinie!
With that his strong Dog of no dastard kinde
(Swift as the Foales conceiued by the winde)
He sets vpon the Wolfe, that now with speed
Flies to the neighbour-wood; and lest a deed
So full of ruth should vnreuenged be,
The Shepherd followes too, so earnestly
Chearing his Dog, that he ne're turn'd againe
Till the curst Wolfe lay strangled on the plaine.
The ruin'd temple of her purer soule
The Shepherd buries. All the Nymphs condole
So great a losse, while on a Cypresse graffe
Neere to her graue they hung this Epitaph:

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Least loathed age might spoile the worke in whom
All earth delighted, Nature tooke it home.
Or angry all hers else were carelesse deem'd,
Here did her best to haue the rest esteem'd.
For feare men might not thinke the Fates so crosse,
But by their rigour in as great a losse;
If to the graue there euer was assign'd
One like this Nymph in body and in minde,
We wish her here in balme not vainly spent,
To fit this Maiden with a Monument.
For Brasse and Marble were they seated here.
Would fret or melt in teares to lye so neere.
Now Pan may sit and tune his Pipe alone
Among the wished shades, since she is gone,
Whose willing eare allur'd him more to play,
Then if to heare him should Apollo stay.
Yet happy Pan! and in thy Loue more blest,
Whom none but onely death hath dispossest;
While others loue as well, yet liue to be
Lesse wrong'd by Fate then by inconstancie.
The sable mantle of the silent night
Shut from the world the euer-ioysome light;
Care fled away, and softest slumbers please
To leaue the Court for lowly Cottages;
Wilde beasts forsooke their dens on wooddy hils,
And sleightfull Otters left the purling Rils;
Rookes to their Nests in high woods now were flung
And with their spread wings shield their naked yong.
When theeues from thickets to the crosse-wayes stir,
And terror frights the loanely passenger.
When nought was heard but now & then the howle
Of some vilde Curre, or whooping of the Owle.
Pan, that the day before was farre away
At shepherds sports, return'd; and as he lay

80

Within the bowre wherein he most delighted,
Was by a gastly vision thus affrighted:
Heart-thrilling grones first heard he round his bowre,
And then the Schrich-owle with her vtmost powre
Labour'd her loathed note, the forrests bending
With winds, as Hecate had beene ascending.
Hereat his curled hayres on end doe rise,
And chilly drops trill o're his staring eyes.
Faine would he call, but knew not who, nor why,
Yet getting heart at last would vp and try
If any diuellish Hag were come abroad
With some kinde Mothers late deliuer'd load,
A ruthlesse bloudy sacrifice to make
To those infernall Powres that by the Lake
Of mighty Styx and blacke Cocytus dwell,
Aiding each Witches Charme and misticke Spell.
But as he rais'd himselfe within his bed,
A sudden light about his lodging spread,
And therewithall his Loue, all ashie pale
As euening mist from vp a watry Vale,
Appear'd; and weakly neere his bed she prest,
A rauell'd wound distain'd her purer brest
(Brests softer farre then tufts of vnwrought silke):
Whence had she liu'd to giue an infant milke,
The vertue of that liquor (without ods)
Had made her babe immortall as the Gods.
Pan would haue spoke, but him she thus preuents:
Wonder not that the troubled Elements
Speake my approach; I draw no longer breath,
But am inforced to the shades of death.
My exequies are done, and yet before
I take my turne to be transported o're
The neather floods among the shades of Dis
To end my iourney in the fields of blisse:
I come to tell thee that no humane hand
Made me seeke waftage on the Stygian strand;

81

It was an hungry Wolfe that did imbrue
Himselfe in my last bloud. And now I sue
In hate to all that kinde, and shepherds good
To be reuenged on that cursed brood.
Pan vow'd, and would haue clipt her, but she fled,
And as she came, so quickly vanished.
Looke as a well-growne stately headed Bucke
But lately by the Wood-mans arrow strucke,
Runs gadding o're the Lawnes, or nimbly straies
Among the combrous Brakes a thousand wayes,
Now through the high-wood scowres, then by the brooks,
On euery hill side, and each vale he lookes,
If 'mongst their store of simples may be found
An hearbe to draw and heale his smarting wound,
But when he long hath sought, and all in vaine,
Steales to the Couert closely backe againe,
Where round ingirt with Ferne more highly sprung,
Striues to appease the raging with his tongue,
And from the speckled Heard absents him till
He be recouer'd somewhat of his ill:
So wounded Pan turnes in his restlesse bed,
But finding thence all ease abandoned,
He rose, and through the wood distracted runs:
Yet carries with him what in vaine he shuns.
Now he exclaim'd on Fate: and wisht he ne're
Had mortall lou'd, or that he mortall were.
And sitting lastly on an Oakes bare trunke
(Where raine in Winter stood long time vnsunke)
His plaints he gan renew, but then the light
That through the boughes flew from the Queene of night,
(As giuing him occasion to repine)
Bewraid an Elme imbraced by a Vine,
Clipping so strictly that they seem'd to be
One in their growth, one shade, one fruit, one tree,
Her boughes his armes, his leaues so mixt with hers,
That with no winde he mou'd, but streight she stirs.

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As shewing all should be, whom loue combinde:
In motion one, and onely two in kinde.
This more afflicts him while he thinketh most
Not on his losse, but on the substance lost.
O haplesse Pan, had there but beene one by,
To tell thee (though as poore a Swaine as I)
Though (whether casuall meanes or death doe moue)
“We part not without griefe things held with loue:
“Yet in their losse some comfort may be got
“If we doe minde the time we had them not.
This might haue lessen'd somewhat of thy paine,
Or made thee loue as thou mightst loose againe.
If thou the best of women didst forgoe,
Weigh if thou foundst her, or did'st make her so;
If she were found so, know there's more then one;
If made, the Worke-man liues, though she be gone.
Should from mine eyes the light be tane away,
Yet night her pleasures hath as well as day;
And my desires to heauen yeeld lesse offence,
Since blindnesse is a part of Innocence.
So though thy Loue sleepe in eternall night,
Yet there's in loannesse somewhat may delight.
Instead of dalliance, partnership in woes
It wants, the care to keepe, and feare to lose.
For iealousies and fortunes baser pelfe,
He rest inioyes that well inioyes himselfe.
Had some one told thee thus, or thou bethought thee
Of inward helpe, thy sorrow had not brought thee
To weigh misfortune by anothers good:
Nor leaue thy seat to range about the wood.
Stay where thou art, turne where thou wert before,
Light yeelds small comfort, nor hath darknesse more.
A wooddy hill there stood, at whose low feet
Two goodly streames in one broad channell meet,
Whose fretfull waues beating against the hill,
Did all the bottome with soft muttrings fill.

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Here in a nooke made by another mount,
(Whose stately Oakes are in no lesse account
For height or spreading, then the proudest be
That from Oëta looke on Thessaly)
Rudely o'rehung there is a vaulted Caue,
That in the day as sullen shadowes gaue,
As Euening to the woods. An vncouth place,
(Where Hags and Goblins might retire a space)
And hated now of Shepherds, since there lies
The corps of one (lesse louing Deities
Then we affected him) that neuer lent
His hand to ought but to our detriment.
A man that onely liu'd to liue no more,
And di'd still to be dying. Whose chiefe store
Of vertue was, his hate did not pursue her,
Because he onely heard of her, not knew her;
That knew no good, but onely that his sight
Saw euery thing had still his opposite;
And euer this his apprehension caught,
That what he did was best, the other naught;
That alwaies lou'd the man that neuer lou'd,
And hated him whose hate no death had mou'd;
That (politique) at fitting time and season
Could hate the Traitor, and yet loue the Treason;
That many a wofull heart (ere his decease)
In peeces tore to purchase his owne peace;
Who neuer gaue his almes but in this fashion,
To salue his credit, more then for saluation;
Who on the names of good-men euer fed,
And (most accursed) sold the poore for bread.
Right like the Pitch-tree, from whose any limbe
Comes neuer twig, shall be the seed of him.
The Muses scorn'd by him, laugh at his fame,
And neuer will vouchsafe to speake his Name.
Let no man for his losse one teare let fall,
But perish with him his memoriall!

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Into this caue the God of Shepherds went;
The Trees in grones, the Rocks in teares lament
His fatall chance: the Brookes that whilome lept
To heare him play while his faire Mistresse slept,
Now left their Eddyes and such wanton moods,
And with loud clamours fild the neighbring woods.
There spent he most of night: but when the day
Drew from the earth her pitchie vaile away,
When all the flowry plaines with Carols rung
That by the mounting Larke were shrilly sung,
When dusky mists rose from the crystall floods,
And darknesse no where raign'd but in the woods;
Pan left the Caue, and now intends to finde
The sacred place where lay his loue enshrinde:
A plot of earth, in whose chill armes was laid
As much perfection as had euer Maid;
If curious Nature had but taken care
To make more lasting, what she made so faire.
Now wanders Pan the arched Groues, and hils
Where Fayeries often danc'd, and Shepherds quils
In sweet contentions pass'd the tedious day:
Yet (being early) in his vnknowne way
Met not a Shepherd, nor on all the Plaine
A Flocke then feeding saw, nor of his traine
One iolly Satyre stirring yet abroad,
Of whom he might inquire; this to the load
Of his affliction addes. Now he inuokes
Those

Hamadriades.

Nymphs in mighty Forrests, that with Oakes

Haue equall Fates, each with her seuerall Tree
Receiuing birth, and ending Destinie:
Cals on all Powres, intreats that he might haue
But for his Loue the knowledge of her graue;
That since the Fates had tane the Iem away,
He might but see the Carknet where it lay,
To doe fit right to such a part of mold,
Couering so rare a piece that all the Gold

85

Or Diamond Earth can yeeld, for value ne're
Shall match the treasure which was hidden there!
A hunting Nymph awakned with his mone,
(That in a bowre neere-hand lay all alone,
Twining her small armes round her slender waste,
That by no others vs'd to be imbrac'd)
Got vp, and knowing what the day before
Was guiltie of; she addes not to his store
As many simply doe, whose friends so crost
They more afflict by shewing what is lost.
But bad him follow her. He, as she leads,
Vrgeth her hast. So a kinde mother treads
Earnest, distracted, where with bloud defil'd
She heares lyes dead her deere and onely childe.
Mistrust now wing'd his feet, then raging ire,
“For Speed comes euer lamely to Desire.
Delayes, the stones that waiting Suiters grind,
By whom at Court the poore mans cause is sign'd.
Who to dispatch a suit, will not deferre
To take death for a ioynt Commissioner.
Delay, the Wooers bane, Reuenges hate,
The plague to Creditors decaid estate,
The Test of Patience, of our Hopes the Racke,
That drawes them forth so long vntill they cracke:
Vertues best benefactor in our times,
One that is set to punish great mens crimes,
She that had hindred mighty Pan a while,
Now steps aside: and as ore-flowing Nyle
Hid from Clymene's sonne his reeking head
So from his rage all opposition fled,
Giuing him way to reach the timelesse Toombe
Of Natures glory, for whose ruthlesse doome
(When all the Graces did for mercy pleade,
And Youth and Goodnesse both did intercede)
The Sons of Earth (if liuing) had beene driuen
To heape on hils, and warre anew with heauen.

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The Shepherds which he mist vpon the Downes
Here meets he with: for from the neighbring Townes
Maidens and Men resorted to the graue
To see a wonder more then time e're gaue.
The holy Priests had told them long agone
Amongst the learned Shepherds there was one
So giuen to pietie, and did adore
So much the name of Pan, that when no more
He breath'd, those that to ope his heart began,
Found written there with gold the name of Pan.
Which vnbeleeuing man that is not mou'd
To credit ought, if not by reason prou'd,
And ties the ouer-working powre to doe
Nought otherwise then Nature reacheth to,
Held as most fabulous: Not inly seeing,
The hand by whom we liue, and All haue being,
No worke for admirable doth intend,
Which Reason hath the powre to comprehend,
And Faith no merit hath from heauen lent
Where humane reason yeelds experiment.
Till now they durst not trust the Legend old,
Esteeming all not true their Elders told,
And had not this last accident made good
The former, most in vnbeliefe had stood.
But Fame that spread the bruit of such a wonder,
Bringing the Swaine[s] of places farre a sunder
To this selected plot (now famous more
Then any Groue, Mount, Plaine, had bin before
By relicke, vision, buriall or birth
Of Anchoresse, or Hermit yet on earth):
Out of the Maidens bed of endlesse rest
Shewes them a Tree new growne, so fairely drest
With spreading armes and curled top that Ioue
Ne're brauer saw in his Dodonian Groue;
The hart-like leaues oft each with other pyle,
As doe the hard scales of the Crocodyle;

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And none on all the tree was seene but bore
Written thereon in rich and purest Ore
The name of Pan; whose lustre farre beyond
Sparkl'd, as by a Torch the Dyamond;
Or those bright spangles which, faire Goddesse, doe
Shine in the haire of these which follow you.
The Shepherds by direction of great Pan
Search'd for the root, and finding it began
In her true heart, bids them againe inclose
What now his eyes for euer, euer lose.
Now in the selfe-same Spheare his thoughts must moue
With

Xerxes.

him that did the shady Plane-tree loue.

Yet though no issue from her loines shall be
To draw from Pan a noble peddigree,
And Pan shall not, as other Gods haue done,
Glory in deeds of an heroicke Sonne,
Nor haue his Name in Countries neere and farre
Proclaim'd, as by his Childe the Thunderer:
If Phœbus on this Tree spread warming rayes,
And Northerne blasts kill not her tender sprayes,
His Loue shall make him famous in repute,
And still increase his Name, yet beare no fruit.
To make this sure (the God of Shepherds last,
When other Ceremonies were o're past),
And to performe what he before had vow'd
To dire Reuenge, thus spake vnto the crow'd:
What I haue lost, kinde Shepherds, all you know,
And to recount it were to dwell in woe:
To shew my passion in a Funerall Song,
And with my sorrow draw your sighes along.
Words, then, well plac'd might challenge somewhat due,
And not the cause alone, win teares from you.
This to preuent, I set Orations by
“For passion seldome loues formalitie.
What profits it a prisoner at the Barre,
To haue his iudgement spoken regular?

88

Or in the prison heare it often read,
When he at first knew what was forfeited?
Our griefes in others teares, like plates in water,
Seeme more in quantitie. To be relator
Of my mishaps, speaks weaknesse, and that I
Haue in my selfe no powre of remedy.
Once (yet that once too often) heretofore
The siluer Ladon on his sandy shore
Heard my complaints, and those coole groues that be
Shading the brest of louely Arcady
Witnesse the teares which I for Syrinx spent:
Syrinx the faire, from whom the instrument
That fils your feasts with ioy (which when I blow
Drawes to the sagging dug milke white as snow),
Had his beginning. This enough had beene
To shew the Fates (my

Pronapis in suo Protocosmo.

deemed sisters) teene.

Here had they staid, this Adage had beene none:
“That our disasters neuer come alone.
What boot is it though I am said to be
The worthy sonne of winged Mercury?
That I with gentle Nymphs in Forrests high
Kist out the sweet time of my infancie?
And when more yeeres had made me able growne,
Was through the Mountains for their leader known?
That high-brow'd Mænalus where I was bred,
And stony hils not few haue honoured
Me as protector by the hands of Swaines,
Whose sheepe retire there from the open plaines?
That I in Shepherds cups (

Apollonius Smyrnæus.

reiecting gold)

Of milke and honie measures eight times told
Haue offred to me, and the ruddy wine
Fresh and new pressed from the bleeding Vine?
That gleesome Hunters pleased with their sport
With sacrifices due haue thank'd me for't?
That patient Anglers standing all the day
Neere to some shallow stickle or deepe bay,

89

And Fishermen whose nets haue drawne to land
A shoale so great it well-nye hides the sand,
For such successe some Promontories head
Thrust at by waues, hath knowne me worshipped?
But to increase my griefe, what profits this,
“Since still the losse is as the looser is?”
The many-kernell-bearing Pyne of late
From all trees else to me was consecrate,
But now behold a root more worth my loue,
Equall to that which in an obscure Groue
Infernall Iuno proper takes to her:
Whose golden slip the Troian wanderer
(By sage Cumœan Sybil taught) did bring
(By Fates decreed) to be the warranting
Of his free passage, and a safe repaire
Through darke Auernus to the vpper ayre.
This must I succour, this must I defend,
And from the wilde Boares rooting euer shend.
Here shall the Wood-pecker no entrance finde,
Nor Tiuy's Beuers gnaw the clothing rinde,
Lambeders Heards, nor Radnors goodly Deere
Shall neuer once be seene a browsing here.
And now, ye Brittish Swains (whose harmelesse sheepe
Then all the worlds besides I ioy to keepe,
Which spread on euery Plaine and hilly Wold
Fleeces no lesse esteem'd then that of Gold,
For whose exchange one Indy Iems of price,
The other giues you of her choisest spice.
And well she may; but we vnwise the while
Lessen the glory of our fruitfull Isle,
Making those Nations thinke we foolish are
For baser Drugs to vent our richer ware,
Which (saue the bringer) neuer profit man
Except the Sexton and Physitian.
And whether change of Clymes or what it be
That proues our Mariners mortalitie,

90

Such expert men are spent for such bad fares
As might haue made vs Lords of what is theirs
Stay, stay at home, ye Nobler spirits, and prise
Your liues more high then such base trumperies:
Forbeare to fetch, and they'le goe neere to sue,
And at your owne doores offer them to you;
Or haue their woods and plaines so ouergrowne
With poisnous weeds, roots, gums & seeds vnknown,
That they would hire such Weeders as you be
To free their land from such fertilitie.
Their Spices hot their nature best indures,
But 'twill impaire and much distemper yours.
What our owne soyle affords befits vs best,
And long, and long, for euer, may we rest
Needlesse of helpe! and may this Isle alone
Furnish all other Lands, and this Land none!
Excuse me, Thetis, quoth the aged man,
If passion drew me from the words of Pan,
Which thus I follow: You whose flocks, quoth he,
By my protection quit your industry,
For all the good I haue and yet may giue
To such as on the Plaines hereafter liue,
I doe intreat what is not hard to grant,
That not a hand rend from this holy Plant
The smallest branch; and who so cutteth this
Dye for th' offence; to me so hainous 'tis.
And by the Floods infernall here I sweare,
(An oath whose breach the greatest Gods forbeare)
Ere Phœbe thrice twelue times shall fill her hornes
No furzy tuft, thicke wood, nor brake of thornes
Shall harbour Wolfe, nor in this Ile shall breed,
Nor liue one of that kinde: if what's decreed
You keepe inuiolate. To this they swore:
And since those beasts haue frighted vs no more.
But Swaine (quoth Thetis), what is this you tell,
To what you feare shall fall on Philocel?

91

Faire Queene, attend; but oh I feare, quoth he,
Ere I haue ended my sad Historie,
Vnstaying time may bring on his last houre,
And so defraud vs of thy wished powre.
Yond goes a Shepherd: giue me leaue to run
And know the time of execution,
Mine aged limbs I can a little straine,
And quickly come (to end the rest) againe.

92

The Fifth Song.

The Argvment.

Within this Song my Muse doth tell
The worthy fact of Philocel,
And how his Loue and he in thrall
To death depriu'd of Funerall
The Queene of Waues doth gladly saue,
And frees Marina from the Caue.
So soone as can a Martin from our Towne
Fly to the Riuer vnderneath the Down,
And backe returne with morter in her bill,
Some little cranny in her nest to fill,
The Shepherd came. And thus began anew:
Two houres alas, onely two houres are due
From time to him, t'is sentenc'd so of those
That here on earth as Destinies dispose
The liues and deaths of men; and that time past
He yeelds his iudgement leaue and breaths his last.
But to the cause. Great Goddesse, vnderstand
In Mona-Ile thrust from the Brittish land,
As (since it needed nought of others store)
It would intire be and a part no more,
There liu'd a Maid so faire, that for her sake
Since she was borne the Ile had neuer Snake,

93

Nor were it fit a deadly sting should be
To hazard such admired Symmetrie:
So many beauties so commixt in one,
That all delight were dead if she were gone.
Shepherds that in her cleare eyes did delight,
Whilst they were open neuer held it night:
And were they shut, although the morning gray
Call'd vp the Sun, they hardly thought it day.
Or if they call'd it so, they did not passe
Withall to say that it eclipsed was.
The Roses on her cheekes, such as each turne
Phœbus might kisse, but had no powre to burne.
From her sweet lips distill sweets sweeter doe,
Then from a Cherry halfe way cut in two:
Whose yeelding touch would, as Promethian fire,
Lumps truly senslesse with a Muse inspire;
Who praising her would youth's desire so stirre,
Each man in minde should be a rauisher.
Some say the nimble-witted Mercury
Went late disguis'd professing Palmistrie,
And Milk-maids fortunes told about the Land,
Onely to get a touch of her soft hand.
And that a Shepherd walking on the brim
Of a cleare streame where she did vse to swim,
Saw her by chance, and thinking she had beene
Of Chastitie the pure and fairest Queene,
Stole thence dismaid, lest he by her decree
Might vndergoe Acteons destinie.
Did youths kinde heat inflame me (but the snow
Vpon my head shewes it coold long agoe),
I then could giue (fitting so faire a feature)
Right to her fame, and fame to such a creature.
When now much like a man the Palsie shakes
And spectacles befriend, yet vndertakes
To limne a Lady, to whose red and white
Apelles curious hand would owe some right:

94

His too vnsteady Pencell shadowes here
Somewhat too much, and giues not ouer cleere;
His eye deceiu'd mingles his colours wrong,
There strikes too little, and here staies too long,
Does and vndoes, takes off, puts on (in vaine)
Now too much white, then too much red againe;
And thinking then to giue some speciall grace,
He workes it ill, or so mistakes the place,
That she which sits were better pay for nought,
Then haue it ended, and so lamely wrought.
So doe I in this weake description erre;
And striuing more to grace, more iniure her.
For euer where true worth for praise doth call,
He rightly nothing giues that giues not all.
But as a Lad who learning to diuide,
By one small misse the whole hath falsifide.
Cælia men call'd, and rightly call'd her so:
Whom Philocel (of all the Swaines I know
Most worthy) lou'd: alas! that loue should be
Subiect to fortunes mutabilitie!
What euer learned Bards to fore haue sung,
Or on the Plaines Shepherds and Maidens young,
Of sad mishaps in loue are set to tell,
Comes short to match the Fate of Philocel.
For as a Labourer toyling at a Bay
To force some cleere streame from his wonted way,
Working on this side sees the water run
Where he wrought last, and thought it firmely done;
And that leake stopt, heares it come breaking out
Another where, in a farre greater spout,
Which mended to, and with a turfe made trim,
The brooke is ready to o'reflow the brim:
Or in the banke the water hauing got,
Some Mole-hole, runs where he expected not:
And when all's done, still feares lest some great raine
Might bring a flood and throw all downe againe:

95

So in our Shepherds loue: one hazard gone,
Another still as bad was comming on.
This danger past, another doth begin,
And one mishap thrust out lets twenty in.
For he that loues, and in it hath no stay,
Limits his blisse seld' past the Marriage day.
But Philocels, alas, and Cælia's too
Must ne're attaine so farre as others doe.
Else Fortune in them from her course should swerue,
Who most afflicts those that most good deserue.
Twice had the glorious Sun run through the Signes,
And with his kindly heat improu'd the Mines,
(As such affirme with certaine hopes that try
The vaine and fruitlesse Art of Alchymie)
Since our Swaine lou'd: and twice had Phœbus bin
In horned Aries taking vp his Inne,
Ere he of Cælia's heart possession won;
And since that time all his intentions done
Nothing to bring her thence. All eyes vpon her
Watchfull, as Vertues are on truest Honour:
Kept on the Ile as carefully of some,
As by the Troians their Palladium.
But where's the Fortresse that can Loue debar?
The forces to oppose when he makes war?
The Watch which he shall neuer finde asleepe?
The Spye that shall disclose his counsels deepe?
That Fort, that Force, that Watch, that Spye would be
A lasting stop to a fifth Emperie.
But we as well may keepe the heat from fire
As seuer hearts whom loue hath made intire.
In louely May when Titans golden raies
Make ods in houres betweene the nights and daies,
And weigheth almost downe the once-euen Scale
Where night and day by th' Æquinoctiall
Were laid in ballance, as his powre he bent
To banish Cynthia from her Regiment,

96

To Latmus stately Hill, and with his light
To rule the vpper world both day and night:
Making the poore Antipodes to feare
A like coniunction 'twixt great Iupiter
And some Alc'mena new, or that the Sun
From their Horizon did obliquely run:
This time the Swaines and Maidens of the Ile
The day with sportiue dances doe beguile,
And euery Valley rings with shepherds songs,
And euery Eccho each sweet noat prolongs,
And euery Riuer with vnusuall pride
And dimpled cheeke rowles sleeping to the tide;
And lesser springs, which ayrie-breeding Woods
Preferre as hand-maids to the mighty floods,
Scarce fill vp halfe their channels, making haste
(In feare, as boyes) lest all the sport be past.
Now was the Lord and Lady of the May
Meeting the May-pole at the breake of day,
And Cælia, as the fairest on the Greene,
Not without some Maids enuy chosen Queene.
Now was the time com'n, when our gentle Swaine
Must inne his haruest or lose all againe.
Now must he plucke the Rose least other hands,
Or tempests, blemish what so fairely stands:
And therefore as they had before decreed,
Our shepherd gets a Boat, and with all speed
In night (that doth on Louers actions smile)
Arriued safe on Mona's fruitfull Ile.
Betweene two rocks (immortall, without mother)
That stand as if out-facing one another,
There ran a Creeke vp, intricate and blinde,
As if the waters hid them from the winde;
Which neuer wash'd but at a higher tyde
The frizled coats which doe the Mountaines hide;
Where neuer gale was longer knowne to stay
Then from the smooth waue it had swept away

97

The new diuorced leaues, that from each side
Left the thicke boughes to dance out with the tide.
At further end the Creeke, a stately Wood
Gaue a kinde shadow (to the brackish Flood)
Made vp of trees, not lesse kend by each skiffe
Then that sky-scaling Pike of Tenerife,
Vpon whose tops the Herneshew bred her young,
And hoary mosse vpon their branches hung:
Whose rugged rindes sufficient were to show
Without their height, what time they gan to grow.
And if dry eld by wrinckled skin appeares,
None could allot them lesse then Nestor's yeeres.
As vnder their command the thronged Creeke
Ran lessened vp. Here did the Shepherd seeke
Where he his little Boat might safely hide,
Till it was fraught with what the world beside
Could not outvalew; nor giue equall weight
Though in the time when Greece was at her height.
The ruddy Horses of the Rosie morne
Out of the Easterne gates had newly borne
Their blushing Mistresse in her golden Chaire,
Spreading new light throughout our Hemispheare.
When fairest Cælia with a louelier crew
Of Damsels then braue Latmus euer knew
Came forth to meet the Youngsters, who had here
Cut downe an Oake that long withouten peere
Bore his round head imperiously aboue
His other Mates there, consecrate to Ioue.
The wished time drew on: and Cælia now
(That had the same for her white arched brow)
While all her louely fellowes busied were
In picking off the Iems from Tellus haire,
Made tow'rds the Creeke, where Philocel vnspide,
(Of Maid or Shepherd that their May-games plide)
Receiu'd his wish'd-for Cælia, and begun
To steere his Boat contrary to the Sun,

98

Who could haue wish'd another in his place
To guide the Carre of light, or that his race
Were to haue end (so he might blesse his hap)
In Cælia's bosome, not in Thetis lap.
The Boat oft danc'd for ioy of what it held:
The hoist-vp Saile, not quicke but gently sweld,
And often shooke, as fearing what might fall,
Ere she deliuer'd what she went withall.
Winged

The Westerne winde. And supposed (with the Starres) the birth of Aurora by Astræa, as Apollodorus: Ηους δε και Αστραιον ανεμοι και αστρα.

Argestes, faire Aurora's sonne,

Licenc'd that day to leaue his Dungeon,
Meekly attended and did neuer erre,
Till Cælia grac'd our Land and our Land her.
As through the waues their loue-fraught Wherry ran,
A many Cupids, each set on his Swan,
Guided with reines of gold and siluer twist
The spotlesse Birds about them as they list:
Which would haue sung a Song (ere they were gone),
Had vnkinde Nature giuen them more then one;
Or in bestowing that had not done wrong,
And made their sweet liues forfeit one sad song.
Yet that their happy Voyage might not be
Without Times shortner, Heauen-taught Melodie
(Musicke that lent feet to the stable Woods,
And in their currents turn'd the mighty Floods:
Sorrowes sweet Nurse, yet keeping Ioy aliue:
Sad discontent's most welcome Corrasiue:
The soule of Art, best lou'd when Loue is by:
The kinde inspirer of sweet Poesie,
Lest thou should'st wanting be, when Swans would faine
Haue sung one Song, and neuer sung againe)
The gentle Shepherd hasting to the shore
Began this Lay, and tim'd it with his Oare:
Neuer more let holy Dee
O're other Riuers braue,
Or boast how (in his iollitie)
Kings row'd vpon his waue.

99

But silent be, and euer know
That Neptune for my Fare would row.
Those were Captiues. If he say
That now I am no other,
Yet she that beares my prisons key
Is fairer then Loues Mother;
A God tooke me, those, one lesse high:
They wore their bonds, so doe not I.
Swell then, gently swell, yee Floods,
As proud of what yee beare,
And Nymphs, that in low corrall Woods
String Pearles vpon your haire,
Ascend: and tell if ere this day
A fairer prize was seene at Sea.
See, the Salmons leape and bound
To please vs as we passe,
Each Mermaid on the Rocks around,
Lets fall her brittle glasse,
As they their beauties did despise,
And lou'd no mirrour but your eyes.
Blow, but gently blow, faire winde;
From the forsaken shore,
And be as to the Halcyon kinde,
Till we haue ferry'd o're:
So maist thou still have leaue to blow,
And fan the way where she shall goe.
Floods, and Nymphs, and Winds, and all
That see vs both together,
Into a disputation fall,
And then resolue me whether
The greatest kindnesse each can show,
Will quit our trust of you or no.

100

Thus as a merry Milke-maid neat and fine,
Returning late from milking of her Kine,
Shortens the dew'd way which she treads along
With some selfe-pleasing-since-new-gotten Song,
The Shepherd did their passage well beguile.
And now the horned Flood bore to our Ile
His head more high then he had vs'd to doe,
Except by Cynthia's newnesse forced to.
Not Ianuaries snow dissolu'd in Floods
Makes Thamar more intrude on Blanchden Woods,
Nor the concourse of waters where they fleet
After a long Raine, and in Seuerne meet,
Rais'th her inraged head to root faire Plants,
Or more affright her nigh inhabitants,
(When they behold the waters rufully,
And saue the waters nothing else can see)
Then Neptune's subiect now, more then of yore:
As loth to set his burden soone on shore.
O Neptune! hadst thou kept them still with thee,
Though both were lost to vs and such as we,
And with those beautious birds which on thy brest
Get and bring vp, afforded them a rest,
Delos that long time wandring peece of earth
Had not beene fam'd more for Diana's birth,
Then those few planks that bore them on the Seas,
By the blest issue of two such as these.
But they were landed: so are not our woes,
Nor euer shall, whil'st from an eye there flowes
One drop of moisture; to these present times
We will relate, and some sad Shepherds rimes
To after ages may their Fates make knowne,
And in their depth of sorrow drowne his owne.
So our Relation and his mournfull Verse
Of teares shall force such tribute to their Herse,
That not a priuate griefe shall euer thriue
But in that deluge fall, yet this suruiue.

101

Two furlongs from the shore they had not gone,
When from a low-cast Valley (hauing on
Each hand a woody hill, whose boughes vnlopt
Haue not alone at all time sadly dropt,
And turn'd their stormes on her deiected brest,
But when the fire of heauen is ready prest
To warme and further what it should bring forth,
For lowly Dales mate Mountaines in their worth,
The Trees (as screenlike Greatnesse) shades his raye,
As it should shine on none but such as they)—
Came (and full sadly came) a haplesse Wretch,
Whose walkes & pastures once were known to stretch
From East to West so farre that no dike ran
For noted bounds, but where the Ocean
His wrathful billowes thrust, and grew as great
In sholes of fish as were the others Neat:
Who now deiected and depriu'd of all,
Longs (and hath done so long) for funerall.
For as with hanging head I haue beheld
A widow Vine stand in a naked field,
Vnhusbanded, neglected, all-forlorne,
Brouz'd on by Deere, by Cattle cropt and torne:
Vnpropt, vnsuccoured by stake or tree
From wreakfull stormes impetuous tyrannie,
When, had a willing hand lent kinde redresse,
Her pregnant bunches might from out the Presse
Haue sent a liquour both for taste and show
No lesse diuine then those of Malligo:
Such was this wight, and such she might haue beene.
She both th' extremes hath felt of Fortunes teene,
For neuer haue we heard from times of yore,
One sometime enuy'd and now pitti'd more.
Her obiect, as her state, is low as earth;
Priuation her companion; thoughts of mirth
Irkesome; and in one selfe-same circle turning,
With sodaine sports brought to a house of mourning.

102

Of others good her best beliefe is still
And constant to her owne in nought but ill.
The onely enemy and friend she knowes
Is Death who, though defers, must end her woes;
Her contemplation frightfull as the night;
She neuer lookes on any liuing wight
Without comparison; and as the day
Giues vs, but takes the Glowormes light away:
So the least ray of Blisse on others throwne
Depriues and blinds all knowledge of her owne.
Her comfort is (if for her any be)
That none can shew more cause of griefe then she.
Yet somewhat she of aduerse Fate hath won,
Who had vndone her were she not vndone.
For those that on the Sea of Greatnesse ride
Farre from the quiet shore, and where the tide
In ebbs and floods is ghess'd, not truly knowne;
Expert of all estates except their owne:
Keeping their station at the Helme of State
Not by their Vertues but auspicious Fate:
Subiect to calmes of fauour, stormes of rage,
Their actions noted as the common Stage:
Who, like a man borne blinde that cannot be
By demonstration shewne what 'tis to see,
Liue still in Ignorance of what they want,
Till Misery become the Adamant,
And touch them for that point, to which with speed
None comes so sure as by the hand of Need.
A Mirrour strange she in her right hand bore,
By which her friends from flatterers heretofore
She could distinguish well; and by her side
(As in her full of happinesse) vntide,
Vnforc'd and vncompell'd did sadly goe
(As if partaker of his Mistresse woe)
A louing Spaniell, from whose rugged backe
(The onely thing but death she moanes to lacke).

103

She plucks the haire, and working them in pleats
Furthers the suit which Modestie intreats.
Men call her Athliot: who cannot be
More wretched made by infelicitie,
Vnlesse she here had an immortall breath,
Or liuing thus, liu'd timorous of death.
Out of her lowly and forsaken dell
She running came, and cri'd to Philocel:
Helpe! helpe! kinde shepherd helpe! see yonder, where
A louely Lady hung vp by the haire,
Struggles, but mildly struggles with the Fates,
Whose thread of life, spun to a thread that mates
Dame Natures in her haire, staies them to wonder,
While too fine twisting makes it breake in sunder.
So shrinkes the Rose that with the flames doth meet;
So gently bowes the Virgin parchment sheet;
So rowle the waues vp and fall out againe,
As all her beautious parts, and all in vaine.
Farre, farre, aboue my helpe or hope in trying,
Vnknowne, and so more miserably dying,
Smothring her torments in her panting brest,
She meekly waits the time of her long rest.
Hasten! ô hasten then! kinde Shepherd, haste.
He went with her, And Cælia (that had grac'd
Him past the world besides) seeing the way
He had to goe, not farre, rests on the lay.
'Twas neere the place where Pans transformed Loue
Her guilded leaues displaid, and boldly stroue
For lustre with the Sun: a sacred tree
(Pal'd round) and kept from violation free:
Whose smallest spray rent off, we neuer prize
At lesse then life. Here, though her heauenly eyes
From him she lou'd could scarce afford a sight,
(As if for him they onely had their light)
Those kinde and brighter Stars were knowne to erre
And to all misery betrayed her.

104

For turning them aside, she (haplesse) spies
The holy Tree, and (as all nouelties
In tempting women haue small labour lost
Whether for value nought, or of more cost)
Led by the hand of vncontroll'd desire
She rose, and thither went. A wrested Bryre
Onely kept close the gate which led into it,
(Easie for any all times to vndoe it,
That with a pious hand hung on the tree
Garlands or raptures of sweet Poesie)
Which by her opened, with vnweeting hand
A little spray she pluckt, whose rich leaues fan'd
And chatter'd with the ayre, as who should say:
Doe not for once, ô doe not this bewray!
Nor giue sound to a tongue for that intent!
“Who ignorantly sinnes, dies innocent.”
By this was Philocel returning backe,
And in his hand the Lady; for whose wrack
Nature had cleane forsworne to frame a wight
So wholly pure, so truly exquisite:
But more deform'd and from a rough-hewne mold,
Since what is best liues seldome to be old.
Within their sight was fairest Cælia now;
Who drawing neere, the life-priz'd golden bough
Her Loue beheld. And as a Mother kinde
What time the new-cloath'd trees by gusts of winde
Vnmou'd, stand wistly listning to those layes
The feather'd Quiristers vpon their sprayes
Chaunt to the merry Spring, and in the Euen
She with her little sonne for pleasure giuen,
To tread the fring'd bankes of an amorous flood,
That with her musicke courts a sullen wood,
Where euer talking with her onely blisse
That now before and then behinde her is,
She stoopes for flowres the choisest may be had,
And bringing them to please her prittie Lad,

105

Spies in his hand some banefull flowre or weed,
Whereon he gins to smell, perhaps to feed,
With a more earnest haste she runs vnto him,
And puls that from him which might else vndoe him:
So to his Cælia hastned Philocel,
And raught the bough away: hid it: and fell
To question if she broke it, or if then
An eye beheld her? Of the race of men
(Replide she), when I tooke it from the tree
Assure your selfe was none to testifie,
But what hath past since in your hand, behold,
A fellow running yonder o're the Wold
Is well inform'd of. Can there (Loue) insue,
Tell me! oh tell me! any wrong to you
By what my hand hath ignorantly done?
(Quoth fearefull Cælia) Philocel! be won
By these vnfained teares, as I by thine,
To make thy greatest sorrowes partly mine!
Cleere vp these showres (my Sun), quoth Philocel,
The ground it needs not. Nought is so from Well
But that reward and kinde intreaties may
Make smooth the front of wrath, and this allay.
Thus wisely he supprest his height of woe,
And did resolue, since none but they did know
Truly who rent it: And the hatefull Swaine
That lately past by them vpon the Plaine
(Whom well he knew did beare to him a hate,
Though vndeserued, so inueterate
That to his vtmost powre he would assay
To make his life haue ended with that day)
Except in his had seene it in no hand,
That hee against all throes of Fate would stand,
Acknowledge it his deed, and so afford
A passage to his heart for Iustice sword,
Rather then by her losse the world should be
Despiz'd and scorn'd for losing such as she.

106

Now (with a vow of secrecy from both)
Inforcing mirth, he with them homewards go'th;
And by the time the shades of mighty woods
Began to turne them to the Easterne Floods,
They thither got: where with vndaunted heart
He welcomes both, and freely doth impart
Such dainties as a Shepherds cottage yeelds,
Tane from the fruitfull woods and fertile fields:
No way distracted nor disturb'd at all.
And to preuent what likely might befall
His truest Cælia, in his apprehending
Thus to all future care gaue finall ending:
Into their cup (wherein for such sweet Girles
Nature would Myriades of richest Pearles
Dissolue, and by her powrefull simples striue
To keepe them still on earth, and still aliue)
Our Swaine infus'd a powder which they dranke:
And to a pleasant roome (set on a banke
Neere to his Coat, where he did often vse
At vacant houres to entertaine his Muse)
Brought them and seated on a curious bed,
Till what he gaue in operation sped,
And rob'd them of his sight, and him of theirs,
Whose new inlightning will be quench'd with teares.
The Glasse of Time had well-nye spent the Sand
It had to run, ere with impartiall hand
Iustice must to her vpright Ballance take him:
Which he (afraid it might too soone forsake him)
Began to vse as quickly as perceiue,
And of his Loue thus tooke his latest leaue:
Cælia! thou fairest creature euer eye
Beheld, or yet put on mortalitie!
Cælia that hast but iust so much of earth,
As makes thee capable of death! Thou birth
Of euery Vertue, life of euery good!
Whose chastest sports and daily taking food

107

Is imitation of the highest powres
Who to the earth lend seasonable showres,
That it may beare, we to their Altars bring
Things worthy their accept, our offering.
I the most wretched creature euer eye
Beheld, or yet put on mortalitie,
Vnhappy Philocel, that haue of earth
Too much to giue my sorrowes endlesse birth,
The spring of sad misfortunes; in whom lyes
No blisse that with thy worth can sympathize,
Clouded with woe that hence will neuer flit,
Till deaths eternall night grow one with it:
I as a dying Swan that sadly sings
Her moanfull Dirge vnto the siluer springs,
Which carelesse of her Song glide sleeping by
Without one murmure of kinde Elegie,
Now stand by thee; and as a Turtles mate,
With lamentations inarticulate,
The neere departure from her loue bemones,
Spend these my bootlesse sighes and killing grones.
Here as a man (by Iustice doome) exilde
To Coasts vnknowne, to Desarts rough and wilde,
Stand I to take my latest leaue of thee:
Whose happy and heauen-making company
Might I enioy in Libia's Continent,
Were blest fruition and not banishment.
First of those Eyes that haue already tane
Their leaue of me: Lamps fitting for the Phane
Of heauens most powre, & which might ne're expire
But be as sacred as the Vestall fire:
Then of those plots, where halfe-Ros'd Lillies be,
Not one by Art but Natures industry,
From which I goe as one excluded from
The taintlesse flowres of blest Elizium:
Next from those Lips I part, and may there be
No one that shall hereafter second me!

108

Guiltlesse of any kisses but their owne,
Their sweets but to themselues to all vnknowne:
For should our Swaines diuulge what sweets there be
Within the Sea-clipt bounds of Britanie,
We should not from inuasions be exempted,
But with that prize would all the world be tempted.
Then from her heart: ô no! let that be neuer,
For if I part from thence I dye for euer.
Be that the Record of my loue and name!
Be that to me as is the Phœnix flame!
Creating still anew what Iustice doome
Must yeeld to dust and a forgotten toombe.
Let thy chaste loue to me (as shadowes run
In full extent vnto the setting Sun)
Meet with my fall; and when that I am gone,
Backe to thy selfe retyre, and there grow one.
If to a second light thy shadow be,
Let him still haue his ray of loue from me;
And if, as I, that likewise doe decline,
Be mine or his, or else be his and mine.
But know no other, nor againe be sped,
“She dyes a virgin that but knowes one bed.”
And now from all at once my leaue I take
With this petition, that when thou shalt wake,
My teares already spent may serue for thine,
And all thy sorrowes be excus'd by mine!
Yea rather then my losse should draw on hers,
(Heare, Heauen, the suit which my sad soule prefers!)
Let this her slumber, like Obliuions streame,
Make her beleeue our loue was but a dreame!
Let me be dead in her as to the earth,
Ere Nature lose the grace of such a birth.
Sleepe thou sweet soule from all disquiet free,
And since I now beguile thy destinie,
Let after patience in thy brest arise,
To giue his name a life who for thee dies.

109

He dyes for thee that worthy is to dye,
Since now in leauing that sweet harmonie
Which Nature wrought in thee, he drawes not to him
Enough of sorrow that might streight vndoe him.
And haue for meanes of death his parting hence,
So keeping Iustice still in Innocence.
Here staid his tongue, and teares anew began.
“Parting knowes more of griefe then absence can,”
And with a backward pace and lingring eye
Left, and for euer left, their company.
By this the curs'd Informer of the deede
With wings of mischiefe (and those haue most speed)
Vnto the Priests of Pan had made it knowne;
And (though with griefe enough) were thither flown
With strict command the Officers that be
As hands of Iustice in her each decree.
Those vnto iudgement brought him: where, accus'd
That with vnhappy hand he had abus'd
The holy Tree, and by the oath of him
Whose eye beheld the separated limb,
All doubts dissolu'd, quicke iudgement was awarded,
(And but last night) that hither strongly guarded
This morne he should be brought, & from yond rock
(Where euery houre new store of mourners flocke)
He should be head-long throwne (too hard a doome)
To be depriu'd of life, and dead, of toombe.
This is the cause, faire Goddesse, that appeares
Before you now clad in an old mans teares,
Which willingly flow out, and shall doe more
Then many Winters haue seene heretofore.
But Father (quoth she), let me vnderstand
How you are sure that it was Cælia's hand
Which rent the branch; and then (if you can) tell
What Nymph it was which neere the lonely Dell
Your shepherd succour'd. Quoth the good old man:
The last time in her Orbe pale Cynthia ran,

110

I to the prison went, and from him knew
(Vpon my vow) what now is knowne to you.
And that the Lady which he found distrest,
Is Fida call'd, a Maid not meanly blest
By heauens endowments, and, alas! but see,
Kinde Philocel, ingirt with miserie
More strong then by his bonds, is drawing nigh
The place appointed for his tragedie!
You may walke thither and behold his fall;
While I come neere enough, yet not at all.
Nor shall it need I to my sorrow knit
The griefe of knowing with beholding it.
The Goddesse went: (but ere she came did shrowd
Her selfe from euery eye within a cloud)
Where she beheld the Shepherd on his way,
Much like a Bridegroome on his marriage-day,
Increasing not his miserie with feare:
Others for him, but he shed not a teare.
His knitting sinewes did not tremble ought,
Nor to vnusuall palpitation brought
Was or his heart or lyuer: nor his eye,
Nor tongue, nor colour shew'd a dread to dye.
His resolution keeping with his spirit,
(Both worthy him that did them both inherit)
Held in subiection euery thought of feare,
Scorning so base an executioner.
Some time he spent in speech, and then began
Submissely prayer to the name of Pan,
When sodainly this cry came from the Plaines:
From guiltlesse blood be free, ye Brittish Swaines!
Mine be those bonds, and mine the death appointed!
Let me be head-long thrown, these limbs disioynted!
Or if you needs must hurle him from that brim,
Except I dye there dyes but part of him.
Doe then right, Iustice, and performe your oath,
Which cannot be without the death of both!

111

Wonder drew thitherward their drowned eyes,
And Sorrow Philocels. Where he espies,
What he did onely feare, the beautious Maid,
His wofull Cælia whom (ere night araid
Last time the world in suit of mournfull blacke,
More darke then vse, as to bemone their wracke)
He at his cottage left in sleepes soft armes
By powre of simples and the force of charmes:
Which time had now dissolu'd, and made her know
For what intent her Loue had left her so.
She staid not to awake her mate in sleepe,
Nor to bemone her Fate. She scorn'd to weepe,
Or haue the passion that within her lyes
So distant from her heart as in her eyes.
But rending of her haire, her throbbing brest
Beating with ruthlesse strokes, she onward prest
As an inraged furious Lionesse,
Through vncouth treadings of the wildernesse,
In hot pursuit of her late missed brood.
The name of Philocel speakes euery wood,
And she begins to still and still her pace:
Her face deckt anger, anger deckt her face.
So ran distracted Hecuba along
The streets of Troy. So did the people throng
With helplesse hands and heauy hearts to see
Their wofull ruine in her progenie.
And harmlesse flocks of sheepe that neerely fed
Vpon the open plaines wide scattered,
Ran all afront, and gaz'd with earnest eye
(Not without teares) while thus she passed by.
Springs that long time before had held no drop,
Now welled forth and ouer-went the top:
Birds left to pay the Spring their wonted vowes,
And all forlorne sate drooping on the boughes:
Sheep, Springs and Birds, nay trees' vnwonted grones
Bewail'd her chance, and forc'd it from the stones.

112

Thus came she to the place (where aged men,
Maidens and wiues, and youth and childeren
That had but newly learnt their Mothers name,
Had almost spent their teares before she came.)
And those her earnest and related words
Threw from her brest; and vnto them affords
These as the meanes to further her pretence:
Receiue not on your soules, by Innocence
Wrong'd, lasting staines which from a sluce the Sea
May still wash o're, but neuer wash away;
Turne all your wraths on me: for here behold
The hand that tore your sacred Tree of gold;
These are the feet that led to that intent;
Mine was th' offence, be mine the punishment.
Long hath he liu'd among you, and he knew
The danger imminent that would insue;
His vertuous life speakes for him, heare it then!
And cast not hence the miracle of men!
What now he doth is through some discontent,
Mine was the fact, be mine the punishment!
What certaine death could neuer make him doe
(With Cælia's losse), her presence forc'd him to.
She that could cleere his greatest clouds of woes,
Some part of woman made him now disclose,
And shew'd him all in teares: And for a while
Out of his heart vnable to exile
His troubling thoughts in words to be conceiu'd;
But weighing what the world should be bereau'd,
He of his sighes and throbs some license wan,
And to the sad spectators thus began:
Hasten! ô haste! the houre's already gone,
Doe not deferre the execution!
Nor make my patience suffer ought of wrong!
'Tis nought to dye, but to be dying long!
Some fit of Frenzie hath possest the Maid:
She could not doe it, though she had assaid,

113

No bough growes in her reach; nor hath the tree
A spray so weake to yeeld to such as she.
To win her loue I broke it, but vnknowne
And vndesir'd of her; Then let her owne
No touch of preiudice without consent,
Mine was the fact, be mine the punishment!
O! who did euer such contention see
Where death stood for the prize of victory?
Where loue and strife were firme and truly knowne,
And where the victor must be ouerthrowne?
Where both pursude, and both held equall strife
That life should further death, death further life.
Amazement strucke the multitude. And now
They knew not which way to performe their vow.
If onely one should be depriu'd of breath,
They were not certaine of th' offenders death;
If both of them should dye for that offence,
They certainly should murder Innocence;
If none did suffer for it, then there ran
Vpon their heads the wrath and curse of Pan.
This much perplex'd and made them to defer
The deadly hand of th' Executioner,
Till they had sent an Officer to know
The Iudges wils (and those with Fates doe goe):
Who backe return'd, and thus with teares began:
The Substitutes on earth of mighty Pan
Haue thus decreed (although the one be free)
To cleare themselues from all impunitie,
If, who the offender is, no meanes procure,
Th' offence is certaine, be their death as sure.
This is their doome (which may all plagues preuent)
To haue the guilty kill the innocent.
Looke as two little Lads (their parents treasure)
Vnder a Tutor strictly kept from pleasure,
While they their new-giuen lesson closely scan,
Heare of a message by their fathers man,

114

That one of them, but which he hath forgot,
Must come along and walke to some faire plot;
Both haue a hope: their carefull Tutor loth
To hinder either, or to license both,
Sends backe the Messenger that he may know
His Masters pleasure which of them must goe:
While both his Schollers stand alike in feare
Both of their freedome and abiding there,
The Seruant comes and sayes that for that day
Their Father wils to haue them both away.
Such was the feare these louing soules were in
That time the messenger had absent bin.
But farre more was their ioy twixt one another,
In hearing neither should out-liue the other.
Now both intwinde, because no conquest won,
Yet either ruinde, Philocel begun
To arme his Loue for death: a roabe vnfit
Till Hymens saffron'd weed had vsher'd it.
My fairest Cælia! come; let thou and I,
That long haue learn'd to loue, now learne to dye;
It is a lesson hard if we discerne it,
Yet none is borne so soone as bound to learne it.
Vnpartiall Fate layes ope the Booke to vs,
And let[s] vs con it still imbracing thus;
We may it perfect haue, and goe before
Those that haue longer time to read it o're;
And we had need begin and not delay,
For 'tis our turne to read it first to day.
Helpe when I misse, and when thou art in doubt
Ile be thy prompter, and will helpe thee out.
But see how much I erre: vaine Metaphor
And elocution Destinies abhorre.
Could death be staid with words, or won with teares,
Or mou'd with beauty, or with vnripe yeeres,
Sure thou could'st doe't; this Rose, this Sun-like eye
Should not so soone be quell'd, so quickly dye.

115

But we must dye, my Loue; not thou alone,
Nor onely I, but both; and yet but one.
Nor let vs grieue; for we are marryed thus,
And haue by death what life denied vs.
It is a comfort from him more then due;
“Death seuers many, but he couples few.
Life is a Flood that keepes vs from our blisse,
The Ferriman to waft vs thither, is
Death, and none else; the sooner we get o're
Should we not thanke the Ferriman the more?
Others intreat him for a passage hence,
And groane beneath their griefes and impotence,
Yet (mercilesse) he lets those longer stay,
And sooner takes the happy man away.
Some little happinesse haue thou and I,
Since we shall dye before we wish to dye.
Should we here longer liue, and haue our dayes
As full in number as the most of these,
And in them meet all pleasures may betide,
We gladly might haue liu'd and patient dyde.
When now our fewer yeeres made long by cares
(That without age can snow downe siluer haires)
Make all affirme (which doe our griefes discry)
We patiently did liue, and gladly dye.
The difference (my Loue) that doth appeare
Betwixt our Fates and theirs that see vs here,
Is onely this: the high-all knowing powre
Conceales from them, but tels vs our last houre.
For which to Heauen we far-farre more are bound,
Since in the houre of death we may be found
(By its prescience) ready for the hand
That shall conduct vs to the Holy-land.
When those, from whom that houre conceal'd is, may
Euen in their height of Sinne be tane away.
Besides, to vs Iustice a friend is knowne,
Which neither lets vs dye nor liue alone.

116

That we are forc'd to it cannot be held;
“Who feares not Death, denies to be compell'd.”
O that thou wert no Actor in this Play,
My sweetest Cælia! or diuorc'd away
From me in this: ô Nature! I confesse
I cannot looke vpon her heauinesse
Without betraying that infirmitie
Which at my birth thy hand bestow'd on me.
Would I had dide when I receiu'd my birth!
Or knowne the graue before I knew the earth!
Heauens! I but one life did receiue from you,
And must so short a loane be paid with two?
Cannot I dye but like that brutish stem
Which haue their best belou'd to dye with them?
O let her liue! some blest powre heare my cry!
Let Cælia liue and I contented dye.
My Philocel (quoth she) neglect these throes!
Aske not for me, nor adde not to my woes!
Can there be any life when thou art gone?
Nay, can there be but desolation?
Art thou so cruell as to wish my stay,
To wait a passage at an vnknowne day?
Or haue me dwell within this Vale of woe
Excluded from those ioyes which thou shalt know?
Enuie not me that blisse! I will assay it,
My loue deserues it, and thou canst not stay it.
Iustice! then take thy doome; for we intend,
Except both liue, no life: one loue, one end.
Thus with embraces and exhorting other:
With teare-dew'd kisses that had powre to smother
Their soft and ruddy lips close ioyn'd with either,
That in their deaths their soules might meet together:
With prayers as hopefull as sincerely good,
Expecting death they on the Cliffes edge stood,
And lastly were (by one oft forcing breath)
Throwne from the Rocke into the armes of death.

117

Faire Thetis whose command the waues obey,
Loathing the losse of so much worth as they,
Was gone before their fall; and by her powre
The Billowes (mercilesse, vs'd to deuoure,
And not to saue) she made to swell vp high,
Euen at the instant when the tragedy
Of those kinde soules should end: so to receiue them,
And keepe what crueltie would faine bereaue them.
Her hest was soone perform'd: and now they lay
Imbracing on the surface of the Sea,
Void of all sense; a spectacle so sad
That Thetis, nor no Nymph which there she had,
Touch'd with their woes, could for a while refraine,
But from their heauenly eyes did sadly raine
Such showres of teares (so powrefull, since diuine)
That euer since the Sea doth taste of Bryne.
With teares, thus to make good her first intent,
She both the Louers to her Chariot hent:
Recalling Life that had not cleerely tane
Full leaue of his or her more curious Phane,
And with her praise sung by these thankfull paire
Steer'd on her Coursers (swift as fleeting ayre)
Towards her Pallace built beneath the Seas,
Proud of her iourney, but more proud of these.
By that time Night had newly spred her robe
Ouer our halfe-part of this massie Globe,
She won that famous Ile which Ioue did please
To honour with the holy Druydes.
And as the Westerne side she stript along,
Heard (and so staid to heare) this heauy Song:
O Heaven! what may I hope for in this Caue?
A Graue.
But who to me this last of helpes shall retch?
A Wretch.
Shall none be by pittying so sad a wight?
Yes: Night.

118

Small comfort can befall in heauy plight
To me poore Maid, in whose distresses be
Nor hope, nor helpe, nor one to pittie me,
But a cold Graue, a Wretch, and darksome Night.
To digge that Graue what fatall thing appeares?
Thy Teares.
What Bell shall ring me to that bed of ease?
Rough Seas.
And who for Mourners hath my Fate assign'd?
Each Winde.
Can any be debarr'd from such I finde?
When to my last Rites Gods no other send
To make my Graue, for Knell, or mourning friend,
Then mine own Teares, rough Seas, & gusts of Wind.
Teares must my graue dig: but who bringeth those?
Thy Woes.
What Monument will Heauen my body spare?
The Ayre.
And what the Epitaph when I am gone?
Obliuion.
Most miserable I, and like me none
Both dying, and in death, to whom is lent
Nor Spade, nor Epitaph, nor Monument,
Excepting Woes, Ayre and Obliuion.
The end of this gaue life vnto a grone,
As if her life and it had beene but one;
Yet she as carelesse of reseruing either,
If possible would leaue them both together.
It was the faire Marina, almost spent
With griefe and feare of future famishment.
For (haplesse chance) but the last rosie morne
The willing Redbrest flying through a Thorne,
Against a prickle gor'd his tender side,
And in an instant so, poore creature, dyde.

119

Thetis much mou'd with those sad notes she heard,
Her freeing thence to Triton soone referr'd;
Who found the Caue as soone as set on shore,
And by his strength remouing from the doore
A weighty stone, brought forth the fearefull Maid,
Which kindly led where his faire Mistresse staid
Was entertain'd as well became her sort,
And with the rest steer'd on to Thetis Court,
For whose release from imminent decay
My Muse awhile will here keepe Holy-day.
The end of the Second Booke.

121

The third Booke.

Carmine Dij superi placantur, carmine Manes.
Horat.


123

The First Song.

[OMITTED]
Thrice had the pale fac'd Cinthia fill'd her hornes,
And through the circling zodiaque, which adornes
Heaven's goodly frame, the horses of the fun
A fourth parte of their race had fiercely run,
Since faire Marina lefte her gentle flocke;
Whose too untymely losse, the watchfull cock
Noe oftner gave a summons to the daye,
Then some kinde shepheard on the fertill ley

124

Tooke a sadd seate, and, with a drowned eye,
Bemoan'd in heart farre more then elegie.
Heere sitts a shepheard, whose mellifluous tongue,
On shaded bancks of rivers whilome sung
Many sweet layes to her harmonious eare;
Recounting former joyes, when she liv'd there,
With present woes, and every pleasure gone
Tells with a hundred teares, and, those dropps done,
A thowsand sighes ensue, and gives not o're
Untill he faints, and soe can sighe noe more.
Yonder, another, on some swelling hill,
Records her sweet prayse to a gentle rill
Which, in requitall, takes noe little payne
To roule her silver sands up to the swayne;
And almost wept that tyme would not permitt
That beautious mayde to bathe herselfe in it;
Whose touch made streames, and men, and plants more prowde,
Then he that clasp'd the Juno-seeming clowde.
Amongst the rest (that ere the sun did shyne
Sought the thick groves) neglectfull Celadyne
Was come abroade; and underneath a tree,
Dead as his joyes, and from all moysture free
As were the fountaynes of his lovely eyes,
With lavish weeping, discontented lyes.
Now, like a prodigall, he myndes in vayne
What he hath lost, and cannot lose againe.
Now thinckes he on her eyes, like some sadd wight,
Which newe strooke blynde bemones the want of light.
Her cheekes, her lipps, to mynde he doth recall,
As one in exile cleane bereav'd of all.
Her modest graces, her affection more,
That wounds him most which onely can restore.
And lastly, to his pipe (which woods nor playnes
Acquainted not, but with the saddest straynes,

125

Yet he more sadd then song or places can)
Vary'd his playntes, and thus anewe began:—
Marina's gone, and nowe sitt I,
As Philomela (on a thorne,
Turn'd out of nature's livery),
Mirthles, alone, and all forlorne:
Onely she sings not, while my sorrowes can
Breathe forth such notes as fitt a dyeing swan.
Soe shutts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;
Soe from the hony-suckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sitts the turtle when she is but one,
And soe all woe, as I, since she is gone.
To some fewe birds, kinde Nature hath
Made all the summer as one daye;
Which once enjoy'd, colde winter's wrath,
As night, they sleeping passe away.
Those happy creatures are, that knowe not yet
The payne to be depriv'd or to forgett.
I ofte have heard men saye there be
Some, that with confidence professe
The helpfull Art of Memorie;
But could they teach forgetfulnesse,
I'de learne, and try what further art coulde doe,
To make me love her and forgett her too.
Sadd melancholy, that perswades
Men from themselves, to thincke they be
Headlesse, or other bodyes shades,
Hath long and bootles dwelt with me;
For coulde I thincke she some idea weare,
I still might love, forgett, and have her heere.

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But such she is not: nor would I,
For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaved companye
Hath brought to those I felt before,
For then noe future tyme might hap to knowe
That she deserv'd, or I did love her soe.
Yee houres, then, but as minutes be!
(Though soe I shall be sooner olde)
Till I those lovely graces see,
Which, but in her, can none beholde;
Then be an age! that we maye never trye
More griefe in parting, but growe olde and dye.
Heere ceas'd the shepheard's song, but not his woe;
Griefe never ends ytselfe. And he doth knowe
Nothing but tyme or wisdome to allaye yt;
Tyme could not then; the other should not stay yt.
Thus sitts the haples swayne: now sighes, now sings:
Sings, sighes, and weepes at once. Then from the springs
Of pitty beggs his pardon. Then his eye
(Wronging his oraizons) some place hard by
Informes his intellect, where he hath seen
His mistris feed her flock, or on the green
Dance to the merry pype: this drives him thence
As one, distracted with the violence
Of some hote fever, casts his clothes awaye,
Longs for the thing he loath'd but yesterdaye,
And fondly thincking 'twill his fitts appease,
Changeth his bedd, but keepes still the disease.
Quitting the playnes to seeke the gloomy springs,
He, like a swan that on Meander sings,
Takes congey of his mates with ling'ring haste,
To finde some streame where he maye sing his last.

127

Soe haue I lefte my Tavy's flow'ry shore,
Farre-flowing Thamisis, and many more
Attractive pleasures which sweet England yeelds,
Her peopled cittyes and her fertill fields,
For Amphitrite's playnes; those hath myne eye
Chang'd for our whilome fields of Normandy;
For Seyne those have I lefte; for Loyre, the Seyne;
And for the Thoüé changed Loyre againe;
Where to the nymphes of Poictou now I sing
A stranger note (yet such as ev'ry spring
Roules smiling to attend): for none of those
Yet have I lessen'd or exchang'd my woes.
Deere, dearest isle, from the[e] I pass'd awaye
But as a shadowe, when the eye of daye
Shynes otherwhere; for she whose I have been,
By her declining makes me live unseen.
Nor doe I hope that any other light
Can make me her's; the pallid queen of night
And Venus (or some erre) maye with their rayes
Force an observing shade; but none of these
(Meteors to my sett sun) can ever have
That powre thou hadst. Sweet soule, thy silent grave
I give my best verse, if a shepheard's witt
Can make a dead hand capable of yt.
Chaste were our loves, as mutuall; nor did we
Hardly dreame otherwise; our secrecye
Such as I thincke the world hath never knowne
I had a mistris, till that I had none.
Poore Celadyne and I (but happyer he)
Onely in dreames meet our felicitie;
Our joyes but shadowes are; our constant woes
The daye shewes reall; O, unhappy those,
Thrice, thrice unhappy, whoe are ever taking
Their joyes in sleepe, but are most wretched waking!
Seated at last neere Tavy's siluer streame,
Sleepe seis'd our shepheard; and in sleepe a dreame

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Shew'd him Marina all bedew'd with teares:
Pale as the lilly of the field appeares,
When the unkist morne from the mountaynes topps
Sees the sweet flowres distill their silver dropps.
She seem'd to take him by the hand and saye:
O Celadyne, this, this is not the waye
To recompence the wrong which thou hast done
And I have pardon'd, since yt was begun
To exercise my virtue; I am thine
More then I wish'd, or thou canst now devine.
Seeke out the aged Lama, by whose skill
Thou mayst our fortunes know, and what the will
Of fate is in thy future. This she spoke,
And seem'd to kisse him, wherewith he awoke,—
And missing what (in thought) his sleepe had gayn'd,
He mus'd, sigh'd, wept, and lastly thus complaynde:
Vaine dreames, forbeare! yee but deceavers be,
For as in flattring glasses woemen see
More beauty then possest: soe I in you
Have all I can desire, but nothing true.
Whoe would be rich, to be soe but an howre,
Eates a sweet fruite to rellishe more the sowre.
If but to lose againe we things possesse,
Nere to be happy is a happinesse.
Men walking in the pitchy shades of night
Can keepe their certayne way; but if a light
O'retake and leave them, they are blynded more,
And doubtfull goe that went secure before.
For this (though hardly) I have ofte forborne
To see her face, faire as the rosy morne;
Yet myne owne thoughts in night such traytors be,
That they betraye me to that misery.
Then thincke noe more of her—as soone I maye
Commande the sun to robbe us of a daye,
Or with a nett repell a liquidd streame,
As lose such thoughts, or hinder but a dreame.

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The lightsome ayre as eas'ly hinder can
A glasse to take the forme of any man
That stands before yt, as or tyme or place
Can drawe a veyle between me and her face.
Yet, by such thoughts my torments hourely thrive;
For (as a pris'ner by his perspective)
By them I am inform'd of what I want;
I envy nowe none but the ignorant.
Hee that ne'er sawe her (O, too happy wight)
Is one borne blynde that knowes noe want of light;
He that nere kist her lipps, yet sees her eyes,
Lives, while he lives soe, still in paradise;
But if he taste those sweets as haples I,
He knowes his want, and meets his miserye.
An Indian rude that never heard one sing
A heav'nly sonnet to a silver string,
Nor other sounds, but what confused heards
In pathles deserts make, or brookes or birds,
Should he heare one the sweet Pandora touch,
And lose his hearing streight; he would as much
Lament his knowledge as doe I my chance,
And wish he still had liv'd in ignorance.
I am that Indian; and my soothing dreames
In thirst have brought me but to painted streames,
Which not allaye, but more increase desire:
A man, neer frozen with December's ire,
Hath, from a heape of glowormes, as much ease
As I can ever have by dreames as these.
O leave me then! and strongest memorie
Keepe still with those that promise-breakers be;
Goe; bidd the debter mynde his payment daye;
Or helpe the ignorant devoute to saye
Prayers they understand not; leade the blynde,
And bidd ingratefull wretches call to mynde
Their benefactors; and if vertue be
(As still she is) trode on by miserie,

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Shewe her the rich, that they maye free her want,
And leave to nurse the fawning sycophant;
Or, if thou see faire honor careles lye,
Without a tombe for after memorye,
Dwell by the grave, and teach all those that passe
To ymitate, by sheweing who yt was.
This waye, Remembrance, thou mayst doe some good,
And have due thanckes; but he that understood
The throes thou bringst on me, would saye I misse
The sleepe of him that did the pale moone kisse,
And that yt were a blessing throwne on me,
Sometymes to have the hated lethargie.
Then, darke forgetfulnes, that onely art
The friend of lunatikes, seize on that part
Of memorie which hourely shewes her me!
Or suffer still her waking fantasie,
Even at the instant when I dreame of her,
To dreame the like of me! soe shall we erre
In pleasures endles maze without offence,
And both connex as soules in innocence.
His sorrowe this waye yet had further gone,
For now his soule, all in confusion,
Discharg'd her passions on all things she mett,
And (rather then on none) on counterfett.
For in her suff'rings she will sooner frame
Subjects fantasticall, formes without name,
Deceave ytselfe against her owne conceite,
Then want to worke on somwhat thought of weight.
Hence comes yt, those affections which are tyde
To an inforced bedd, a worthles bride,
(Wanting a lawfull hold) our loving parte
To subjects of lesse worth doth soone convert
Her exercise, which should be nobly free,
Rather on doggs, or dice, then idle be.
Thus on his memory, poor soule, he cast
His exclamations; and the daye had past

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With him as sadly as his sighes were true,
And on this subject. When (as if he flewe)
Leap'd from a neere grove (as he thought) a man,
And to th' adjoyning wood as quickly ran;
This stayde his thoughts. And whilst the other fledd,
He rose, scarce knowing why, and followed.
It was a gentle swayne, on whose sweet youth
Fortune had throwne her worst, and all men's ruth;
Whoe, like a Satyre now, from men's aboade
The uncouth pathes of gloomy deserts trode;
Deepe, sullen vales, that never mercy wonne,
To have a kinde looke from the powrefull sun;
But mantled up in shades as fearefull night,
Could merry hearts with awfull terror smyte.
Sadd nookes and dreadfull clefts of mighty rocks
That knewe noe gueste within their careles locks,
But banefull serpents, hated beasts of prey,
And fatall fowle, that from the blessed daye
Hidd their abhorred heads; these, only these,
Were his companyons and his cottages.
Wayfaring man, for aftertymes y-bore,
Who-ere thou be, that on the pleasant shore
Of my deare Tavy hapst to treade along,
When Willy sings noe more his rurall song,
But long dissolv'd to dust, shall hardly have
A teare or verse bestow'd upon his grave—
Thincke on that hapless ladd, for all his meed,
Whoe first this laye tun'd to an oaten reed;
Then aske the swaynes who, in the valleys deepe,
Sing layes of love and feed their harmles sheepe,
Aske them for Ramsham (late a gallant wood
Whose gaudye nymphes, tripping beside the floode,
Allur'd the sea gods from their brackish strands
To courte the beautyes of the upper lands).
And neere to yt, halfwaye, a high-brow'd hill,
Whose mayden sydes nere felt a coulter's ill,

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Thou mayst beholde, and (if thou list) admire
An arched cave cutt in a rock intire,
Deepe, hollowe, hideous, overgrowne with grasse,
With thornes and bryers, and sadd mandragoras:
Poppy and henbane therby grewe so thicke,
That had the earth been thrice as lunaticke
As learn'd Copernicus in sport would frame her,
We there had sleepy simples founde to tame her.
The entrance to yt was of brick and stone,
Brought from the ruyn'd towre of Babilon.
On either syde the doore a pillar stood,
Whereon of yore, before the generall flood,
Industrious Seth in characters did score
The mathematicks soule-inticing lore.
Cheeke-swolne Lyœus neere one pillar stoode,
And from each hand a bunche, full with the blood
Of the care-killing vyne, he crushed out,
Like to an artificial water-spout;
But of what kinde yt was, the writers vary:
Some say 'twas clarett, others sweare canary.
On th' other syde, a statue strangely fram'd,
And never till Columbus voyage nam'd,
The genius of America blewe forth
A fume that hath bewitched all the north.
A noyse of ballad makers, rymers, drinckers,
Like a madd crewe of uncontrolled tinkers,
Laye there, and druncke, and sung, and suck'd, and writt
Verse without measure, volumes without witt;
Complaints and sonnetts, vowes to yong Cupido,
May be in such a manner as now I doe.
He that in some faire daye of sommer sees
A little comonwealth of thrifty bees
Send out a pritty colony, to thrive
Another where, from their too-peopled hyve,
And markes the yong adventurers with payne
Fly off and on, and forth, and backe againe,

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Maye well conceave with how much labour these
Druncke, writt, and wrongd the learnde Pierides;
Yet tyme, as soone as ere their workes were done,
Threwe them and yt into oblivion.
Into this cave the forlorne shepheard enters,
And Celadyn pursues; yet ere he venters
On such an obscure place, knowing the danger
Which ofte betided there the careles stranger,
Moly or such preservative he takes,
And thus assur'd, breakes through the tangling brakes;
Searcheth each nooke to fynde the haples swayne,
And calls him ofte, yet seekes and calls in vayne.
At last, by glimring of some glowormes there,
He findes a darke hole and a wynding stayre;
Uncouth and hideous the descent appeares,
Yet (unappalld with future chance or feares)
Essays the first stepp, and goes boldly on;
Peeces of rotten wood on each side shone,
Which, rather then to guide his vent'rous pace,
With a more dreadfull horror fill'd the place.
Still he descends. And many a stepp doth make,
As one whose naked foote treads on a snake:
The stayres so worne, he feareth in a trice
To meet some deepe and deadly precipice.
Thus came he downe into a narrow vaulte,
Whose rocky sides (free from the smallest faulte,
Inforc'd by age or weather) and the roofe
Stood firmely strong and almost thunder-proofe.
'Twas long; and at the farre-off further end
A little lampe he spyes, as he had kend
One of the fixed starres; the light was small,
And distance made yt almost nought at all.
Tow'rds it he came, and (from the swayne which fledd)
These verses falne tooke up, went neere and read:
Listen! yee gentle wyndes, to my sadd mone;
And, mutt'ring brooks, attend my heavy plaints.

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Yee melodists, which in the lowe groves sing,
Strive with your fellowes for sweet skill no more,
But wayle with me! and if my song yee passe
For drery notes, match with the nightingale.
Henceforward with the ruefull nightingale
Noe other but sadd groves shall heare my mone,
And night beare witnes of my dolefull plaints.
Sweet songs of love let others quaintly sing,
For fate decrees I shall be knowne noe more
But by my woes. All pleasures from me passe,
As gliding torrents to the ocean passe,
Nere to come back. The all-voice nightingale
Comforts her fellowes, and makes deare her mone;
But (where I would) regardles are my plaints,
And but for eccho should unansweer'd sing;
Can there in others be affection more
Then is in me, yet be neglected more?
Then such neglect and love shall no man passe.
For voyce she well may mate the nightingale,
And from her syrens song I learnt to mone;
Yet she, as most imperfect deemes my plaints,
Though too-too long I them have us'd to sing,
Yet to noe happyer key she letts me sing.
Shall I then change? O there are others more
(As I heare shepheards wayling, when I passe
In deserts wilde to heare the nightingale)
Whose eares receive noe sounde of any mone,
But heare their praises rather then our plaints.
Then since to flynt I still addresse my plaints,
And my sadd numbers to a deafe eare sing,
My cryes shall beate the subtill ayre noe more,
But all my woes imprison; and soe passe
The poore rest of my dayes. Noe nightingale
Shal be disturb'd in forrests with my mone.
And when through inpent mone I hyde my plaints,
And what I should sing makes me live noe more,

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Tell her my woes did passe the nightingale.
Sadd swayne (quoth Celadyne), who ere thou be,
I grieve not at my paines to followe thee;
Thou art a fitt companyon for my woe,
Which hearts suncke into misery should knowe.
O, if thou heare me, speake; take to thy home!
Receave into this dismall living tombe
A sorrowe-loaden wretch! one that would dye
And treade the gloomy shades of destinye
Onely to meet a soule that coulde relate
A storye true as his and passionate!
By this a sadd and heavy sounde began
To fill the cave. And by degrees he wan
Soe neere, he heard a well accorded lute,
Touch'd by a hand had strooke the Thracian mute.
Had yt been heard when sweet Amphion's tones
Gave motion to the dull and senceles stones;
When, at the notes his skillfull fingers warble,
The pibble tooke the flynte, the flynte the marble;
And rouling from the quarry justly fall,
And mason-lesse built Cadmus towne a wall.
Each one each other to this labour woo,
And were the workemen and materialls too.
Had this man playde when tother touch'd his lyre,
Those stones had from the wall been seen retyre;
Or stopp'd halfe waye to heare him striking thus,
Thoughe each had been a stone of Sisyphus.
Naye, the musitian had his skill approv'd,
And been as ravish'd as the rocks he mov'd.
Celadyne list'ned; and the arched skyes
Myght wish themselves as many eares as eyes,
That they might teach the starre-bestudded spheares
A musicke newe, and more devyne than theirs.
To these sadd-sweet strings, as ere woe befriended,
This verse was marry'd:—

136

Yet one dayes rest for all my cryes!
One howre amongst soe many!
Springs have their sabaoths; my poore eyes
Yet never mett with any.
He that doth but one woe misse,
O Death, to make him thyne;
I would to God that I had his,
Or else that he had myne!
By this sadd wish wee two should have
A fortune and a wife;
For I should wedd a peacefull grave,
And he a happy lyfe.
Yet lett that man whose fortunes swym
Soe hye by my sadd woe,
Forbeare to treade a stepp on him
That dy'de to make them soe.
Onely to acquitt my foes,
Write this where I am layne:
Heere lyes the man whome others woes
And those he lov'd have slaine.
—Heere the musicke ended.
But Celadyne leaves not his pious guest:
For, as an artist curiously addrest
To some conclusion, having haply founde
A small incouragement on his first grounde,
Goes cheerefull on; nor from it can be wonne,
Till he have perfected what he begun;

137

Soe he pursues, and labours all he can
(Since he had heard the voice) to fynde the man.
A little dore, at last, he in the syde
Of the long stretched entry had descryde,
And coming to it with the lampe, he spyes
These lynes upon a table writt:—
Love! when I mett her first whose slave I am,
To make her myne, why had I not thy flame?
Or els thy blyndnes not to see that daye?
Or if I needs must looke on her rare parts,
Love! why to wounde her had I not thy darts,
Since I had not thy wings to fly away?
Winter was gone; and by the lovely spring
Each pleasant grove a merry quire became,
Where day and night the carelesse birds did sing,
Love, when I mett her first whose slave I am.
She sate and listned (for she lov'd his strayne)
To one whose songs coulde make a tiger tame;
Which made me sighe, and crye, O happy swayne!
To make her myne, why had I not thy flame?
I vainely sought my passion to controule:
And therefore (since she loves the learned laye),
Homer, I should have brought with me thy soule,
Or else thy blyndnesse, nott to see that daye!

138

Yet would I not (myne eyes) my dayes outrun
In gazing (coulde I helpe it, or the arts),
Like him that dyde with looking on the sun;
Or if I needs must, looke on her rare parts!
Those, seen of one who every herbe would try,
And what the blood of elephants imparts
To coole his flame, yet would he (forced) cry,
Love! why to wounde her had I not thy darts?
O Dedalus! the labrinth fram'd by thee
Was not soe intricate as where I straye;
There have I lost my dearest libertie,
Since I had not thy wings to flye awaye.
—His eyes,
And still attentive eares, doe now discover
Sufficient cause to thincke some haples lover
Inhabited this darke and sullen cell,
Where none but shame or dismall griefe would dwell.
As I have seen a fowler, by the floods
In winter tyme, or by the fleeced woods,
Steale softly, and his stepps full often vary,
As heere and there flutters the wished quarry;
Now with his heele, now with his toe he treads,
Fearing the crackling of the frozen meades;
Avoydes each rotten sticke neere to his foote,
And creepes, and labours thus, to gett a shoote:
Soe Celadyne approaches neere the dore,
Where sighes amaz'd him as the lute before;
Sighes fetchd so deepe, they seemd of powre to carry
A soule fitt for eternitye to marrye.
Had Dido stood upon her cliffs and seen
Ilium's Æneas stealing from a queen,
And spent her sighes as powrefull as were these,
She had inforc'd the faire Nereides

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To answere hers; those had the Nayads wonne,
To drive his winged Pyne rounde with the sun,
And long ere Drake (without a fearfull wrack)
Girdled the world, and brought the wandrer back.
Celadyne gently somewhat op'd the dore,
And by a glimmring lampe upon the floore
Descryde a pritty curious rocky cell;
A spoute of water in one corner fell
Out of the rocke upon a little wheele,
Which speedy as it coulde the water feele
Did, by the helpe of other engines lent,
Sett soone on worke a curious instrument,
Whose sounde was like the hollowe, heavy flute,
Joyn'de with a deepe, sadd, sullen, cornemute.
This had the unknowne shepheard sett to playe
Such a soule-thrilling note, that if that day
Celadyne had not seen this uncouth youth
Descend the cave, he would have sworne for truth
That great Apollo, slidd down from his spheare,
Did use to practise all his lessons there.
Upon a couche the musick's master laye;
And whilst the handlesse instrument did playe
Sadd heavy accents to his woes as deepe,
To wooe him to an everlasting sleepe,
Stretch'd carelesly upon his little bedd,
His eyes fixt on the floore, his carefull head
Leaning upon his palme, his voice but fainte,
Thus to the sullen cave made his complaynte:
Fate! yet at last be mercifull. Have done!
Thou canst aske nothing but confusion;
Take then thy fill! strike till thyne edge be dull!
Thy cruelty will soe be pittifull.
He that at once hath lost his hopes and feares
Lives not, but onely tarryes for more yeares!
(Much like an aged tree which moisture lacks,

140

And onely standeth to attend the axe.)
So have, and soe doe I: I truely knowe
How men are borne, and whither they shall goe;
I knowe that like to silkewormes of one yeare,
Or like a kinde and wronged lover's teare,
Or on the pathles waves a rudders dint,
Or like the little sparkles of a flynt,
Or like to thinne rounde cakes with cost perfum'd,
Or fireworkes, onely made to be consum'd;
I knowe that such is man, and all that trust
In that weake peece of animated dust.
The silkeworme droopes, the lovers teares soone shedd,
The shipps waye quickly lost, the sparkle dead;
The cake burnes out in hast, the fireworke's done,
And man as soone as these as quickly gone.
Daye hath her night; millions of yeares shal be
Bounded at last by long eternitie.
The roses have their spring, they have their fall,
Soe have the trees, beasts, fowle, and soe have all;
The rivers run and end: starres rise and sett;
There is a heate, a colde, a dry, a wett;
There is a heaven, a hell, an earth, a skye;
Or teach me something newe, or lett me dye!
Deere fate, be mercifull by prayers wonne,
Teach me once what Death is, and all is done!
Thou mayst object; there's somewhat else to learne;
O doe not bring me backe unto the querne
To grynde for honours, when I cannot tell
What will be sayde in the next chronicle!
Lett my vnblemish'd name meet with a tombe
Deservedly unspurn'd at, and at home!
I knowe there are possessions to inheritt;
But since the gate is stopp'd up to all merritt,
Some haples soules, as I, doe well observe it,
The waye to lose a place is to deserve it.
I am not ignorant besides of this,

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Each man the workeman of his fortune is;
But to apply and temper well his tooles,
He followe must th' advice of babes and fooles;
Thoughe virtue and reward be the extreames,
Of fortunes lyne, yet there are other beames,
Some spriggs of bribery imp'd in the lyne;
Pandrisme or flatt'ry from the Florentine,
Which whoe soe catches, comes home crown'd with baye,
Ere he that runs the right lyne runs halfe waye.
What love and beauty is (thou know'st, O fate!)
I have read over; and, alas! but late;
Their woundes yet bleed, and yet noe helpe is nye;
Then teach me something newe, or lett me dye!
Honors and places, riches, pleasures be
Beyonde my starre, and not ordayn'd for me;
Or sure the waye is lost, and those we holde
For true, are counterfaits to those of olde.
How sprout they else soe soon, like ozyer topps,
Which one spring breeds and which next autumne lopps?
Why are they else soe fading: soe possest
With guilt and feare, they dare not stand the test?
Had virtue and true merritt been the basis,
Whereon were rays'd their honors and hye places,
They had been stronger seated, and had stood
To after ages, as our antient blood,
Whose very names, and courages well steel'd,
Made up an armye, and could crowne a field.
Open the waye to merritt and to love!
That we may teach a Cato and a Dove
To heart a cause and weighe affection deare,
And I will thincke we live, not tarry heere.
Further his plainte had gone (if needed more),
But Celadyne, now widing more the dore,
Made a small noyse, which startling up the man,

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He streight descryde him, and anewe began:
What sorrowe, or what curiositie,
Saye (if thou be a man), conducted thee
Into these darke and unfrequented cells,
Where nought but I and dreadfull horror dwells?
Or if thou be a ghost, for pitty saye
What powre, what chance, hath ledd thee to this way?
If soe thou be a man, there can nought come
From them to me, unlesse yt be a tombe,
And that I holde already. See! I have
Sufficient too to lend a king a grave,
A blest one too, within these hollowe vaults;
Earth hydes but bodyes, but oblivion, faults.
Or if thou be a ghost sent from above,
Saye, is not blessed virtue and faire love,
Faith and just gratitude, rewarded there?
Alas! I knowe they be: I knowe they weare
Crownes of such glory, that their smallest ray
Can make us lend th' Antipodes a daye:
Nay, change our spheare, and need noe more the sun
Then those that have that light whence all begun.
Staye further inquisition, quoth the swayne,
And knowe I am a man, and of that trayne
Which neer the westerne rivers feed their flocks.
I need not make me knowne; for if the rocks
Can holde a sculpture, or the powre of verse
Preserve a name, the last-borne maye reherse
Me and my fortunes. Curiositie
Lead me not hither: chance, in seeing thee,
Gave me the thread, and by it I am come
To finde a living man within a tombe.
Thy plaints I have oreheard; and lett it be
Noe wrong to them that they were heard of me.
Maye be that heavens great providence hath ledd
Me to these horrid caves of night and dread,
That, as in phisicke by some signature

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Nature herselfe doth pointe us out a cure:
The liverwort is by industrious art
Knowne phisicall and soveraigne for that part
Which it resembles; and if we applye
The eye-bright by the like unto the eye,
Why mayst not thou (disconsolate) as well
From me receave a cure, since in me dwell
All those sadd wrongs the world hath throwne on thee;
Which wrought soe much on my proclivitie,
That I have entertayn'd them, and th' are growne
And soe incorporated, and myne owne,
That griefe, elixir like, hath turn'd me all
Into itselfe; and therefore phisicall?
For if in herbes there lye this misterie,
Saye, why in other bodyes maye not we
Promise ourselves the like? why shouldst not thou
Expect the like from me this instant now?
And more, since heaven hath made me for thy cure
Both the phisitian and the signature.
Ah! Celadyne, quoth he, and thinck't not strange
I call thee by thy name; thoughe tymes now change
Makes thee forgett what myne is, with my voyce
I have recorded thyne: and if the choice
Of all our swaynes, which by the westerne rills
Feed their white flocks and tune their oaten quills,
Were with me now, thou onely art the man
Whome I woulde chuse for my phisitian.
The others I would thancke and wishe awaye.
There needs but one sun to bring in the daye,
Nor but one Celadyne to cleere my night
Of discontent, if any humane wight
Can reach that possibilitye: but know
My griefes admitt noe parallax; they goe,
Like to the fixed starres, in such a spheare,
Soe hye from meaner woes and cōmon care
That thou canst never any distance take

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'Twixt myne and others woes; and till thou make
And knowe a diff'rence in my saddest fate,
The cause, the station and the ling'ring date,
From other men which are in griefe oregone
(Since it is best read by comparison),
Thou never canst attayne the least degree
Of hope to worke a remedye on me.
I knowe to whome I speake. On Isis banckes,
And melancholy Charwell, neere the rancks
Of shading willowes, often have we layne
And heard the muses and Apollos strayne
In heavenly raptures, as the powres on highe
Had there been lecturers of poesye,
And natures searcher, deepe philosophy;
Yet neither these, nor any other art
Can yeeld a meanes to cure my wounded heart.
Staye then from losing longer tyme on me,
And in these deepe caves of obscuritie
Spend some fewe howres to see what is not knowne
Above; but on the wings of rumor blowne.
Heere is the faeries' court (if soe they be)
(With that he rose); come neere, and thou shalt see
Whoe are my neighbours. And with that he leadd
(With such a pace as lovers use to treade
Neere sleeping parents) by the hand the swayne
Unto a pritty seate, neer which these twayne
By a rounde little hole had soone descryde
A trim feate roome, about a fathome wide,
As much in height, and twice as much in length,
Out of the mayne rocke cutt by artfull strength.
The two-leav'd doore was of the mother pearle,
Hinged and nayl'd with golde. Full many a girle,
Of the sweet faierye ligne, wrought in the loome
That fitted those rich hangings cladd the roome.
In them was wrought the love of their great king,
His triumphs, dances, sports, and revelling:

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And learned Spenser, on a little hill
Curiously wroughte, laye, as he tun'de his quill;
The floore could of respect complayne noe losse,
But neatly cover'd with discolour'd mosse,
Woven into storyes, might for such a peece
Vye with the richest carpetts brought from Greece.
A little mushrome (that was now growne thinner,
By being one tyme shaven for the dinner
Of one of Spaines grave grandis, and that daye
Out of his greatnesse larder stolne awaye,
By a more nimble elfe then are their witts,
Whoe practice truth as seldom as their spitts)—
This mushrome (on a frame of waxe y-pight,
Wherein was wrought the strange and cruell fight
Betwixt the troublous comonwealth of flyes,
And the slye spider with industrious thighes)
Serv'd for a table; then a little elfe
(If possible, far lesser then itselfe),
Brought in the covering made of white rose leaves,
And (wrought together with the spinners sleaves)
Mett in the tables middle in right angles;
The trenchers were of little silver spangles:
The salt the small bone of a fishes backe,
Whereon in little was exprest the wracke
Of that deplored mouse, from whence hath sprung
That furious battle Homer whilome sung,
Betwixt the frogs and mice: soe neately wrought
Yet coulde not worke it lesser in a thought.
Then on the table, for their bread, was put
The milke-white kernells of the hazell nutt;
The cupboord, suteable to all the rest,
Was as the table with like cov'ring drest.
The ewre and bason were, as fitting well,
A perriwinckle and a cockle-shell:
The glasses pure, and thinner then we can
See from the sea-betroth'd Venetian,

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Were all of ice not made to overlast
One supper, and betwixt two cow-slipps cast:
A prittyer fashion hath not yet been tolde,
Soe neate the glasse was, and so feate the molde.
A little spruce elfe then (just of the sett
Of the French dancer or such marionett)
Cladd in a sute of rush, woven like a matt,
A monkeshood flowre then serving for a hatt;
Under a cloake made of the spiders loome:
This faiery (with them helde a lusty groome)
Brought in his bottles; neater were there none,
And every bottle was a cherrystone.
To each a seed pearle served for a screwe,
And most of them were fill'd with early dewe.
Some choicer ones, as for the king most meet,
Held mel-dewe and the hony-suckles sweet.
All things thus fitted; streightways follow'd in
A case of small musitians, with a dynne
Of little hautboys, whereon each one strives
To shewe his skill; they all were made of syves,
Excepting one, which pufte the players face,
And was a chibole, serving for the base.
Then came the service. The first dishes were
In white brothe boylde, a crammed grashopper;
A pismire roasted whole; five crayfish eggs;
The udder of a mouse; two hornetts leggs;
In steed of olyves, cleanly pickl'd sloes;
Then of a batt were serv'd the petty-toes;
Three fleas in souse; a criquet from the bryne;
And of a dormouse, last, a lusty chyne.
Tell me, thou grandi, Spaines magnifico,
Could'st thou ere intertayne a monarch soe,
Without exhausting most thy rents and fees,
Tolde by a hundred thowsand marvedies,
That bragging poore accompt? If we should heere
Some one relate his incomes every yeare

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To be five hundred thousand farthings tolde,
Coulde yee refrayne from laughter? coulde yee holde?
Or see a miser sitting downe to dyne
On some poore spratt new squeesed from the bryne,
Take out his spectakles, and with them eate,
To make his dish seeme larger and more greate.
Or else to make his golde its worth surpasse,
Woulde see it throughe a multiplying glasse:
Such are there auditts; such their highe esteemes;
A Spanyard is still lesse then what he seemes:
Lesse wise, less potent; rich, but glorious;
Prouder then any and more treacherous.
But lett us leave the bragadochio heere,
And turne to better company and cheere.
The first course thus serv'd in, next follow'd on
The faierye nobles, ushering Oberon,
Their mighty king, a prince of subtill powre,
Cladd in a sute of speckled gilliflowre.
His hatt by some choice master in the trade
Was (like a helmett) of a lilly made.
His ruffe a daizie was, soe neately trimme,
As if of purpose it had growne for him.
His points were of the lady-grasse, in streakes,
And all were tagg'd, as fitt, with titmouse beakes.
His girdle, not three tymes as broade as thinne,
Was of a little trouts selfe-spangled skinne.
His bootes (for he was booted at that tyde),
Were fittly made of halfe a squirrells hyde.
His cloake was of the velvett flowres, and lynde
With flowre-de-lices of the choicest kinde.
Downe sate the king; his nobles did attend;
And after some repaste he gan commend
Their hawkes and sporte. This in a brave place flewe:
That bird too soone was taken from the mewe:
This came well throughe the fowle, and quick againe
Made a brave point streight up upon her trayne.

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Another for a driver none came nye;
And such a hawke truss'd well the butterfly.
That was the quarry which their pastime crownde;
Their hawkes were wagtayles, most of them mew'd rounde.
Then of their coursers' speed, sure-footing pace,
Their next discourse was; as that famous race,
Ingend'red by the wynde, coulde not compare
With theirs, noe more then coulde a Flemish mare
With those fleet steeds that are so quickly hurl'd,
And make but one dayes journey rounde the world.
Naye, in their praises, some one durst to run
Soe farre to say, that if the glorious sun
Should lame a horse, he must come from the spheares
And furnish up his teame with one of theirs.
Those that did heare them vaunte their excellence
Beyonde all value with such confidence,
Stoode wond'ring how such little elfes as these
Durst venture on soe greate hyperboles;
But more upon such horses. But it ceast
(I mean the wonder) when each nam'd his beaste.
My nimble squirrell (quoth the king), and then
Pinching his hatt is but a minutes ken.
The earth ran speedy from him, and I dare
Saye, if it have a motion circular,
I coulde have run it rounde ere she had done
The halfe of her circumvolution.
Her motion, lik'd with myne, should almost be
As Saturnes, myne the primum mobile.
Then, looking on the faieryes most accounted,
I grante, quoth he, some others were well mounted,
And praise your choice; I doe acknowledge that
Your weesell ran well too; soe did your ratt;
And were his tayle cutt shorter to the fashion,
You in his speed woulde finde an alteration.
Anothers stoate had pass'd the swiftest teggs,

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If somewhat sooner he had founde his leggs;
His hare was winded well; soe had indeed
Anothers rabbett tolerable speed.
Your catt (quoth he) would many a courser baffle;
But sure he reynes not halfe well in a snaffle.
I knowe her well; 'twas Tybert that begatt her,
But she is flewe, and never will be fatter:
The vare was lastly prais'd, and all the kinde,
But on their pasternes they went weake behynde.
What brave discourse was this! now tell me, you
That talke of kings and states, and what they doe;
Or gravely silent with a Cato's face,
Chewe ignorance untill the later grace;
Or such, whoe (with discretion then at jarre)
Dare checke brave Grinvill and such sonnes of warre,
With whome they durst as soone have measur'd swords,
(How ere their pens fight or wine-prompted words)
As not have lefte him all with blood besmear'd,
Or tane an angry lion by the beard.
Forbeare that honor'd name! you, that in spight
Take paines to censure, more then he to fight,
Trample not on the dead! those wrongly laye
The not-successe, whoe soonest ran awaye.
Kill not againe whome Spaine would have repreev'd!
Had ten of you been Grinvills, he had liv'd.
Were it not better that you did apply
Your meate, unlaught at of the standers by?
Or (like the faierye king) talke of your horse,
Or such as you, for want of something worse.
Lett that deare name for ever sacred be:
Cæsar had enemyes, and soe had he;
But Grinvill did that Romans fate transcend,
And fought an enemy into a friend.
Thus with small things I doe compose the greate.
Now comes the king of faieries second meate;
The first dish was a small spawn'd fish and fryde,

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Had it been lesser, it had not been spyde;
The next, a dozen larded mytes; the third,
A goodly pye fill'd with a lady-bird.
Two roasted flyes, then of a dace the poule,
And of a millers-thumbe a mighty joule;
A butterfly which they had kill'd that daye,
A brace of ferne-webbs pickled the last Maye.
A well-fedd hornet taken from the souse,
A larkes tongue dryde, to make him to carowse.
As when a lusty sawyer, well preparde,
His breakefast eaten, and his timber squarde,
About to rayse up as he thincketh fitt
A good sound tree above his sawing pitt,
His neighbours call'd; each one a lusty heaver,
Some steere the rouler, others ply the leaver;
Heave heere, sayes one; another calls, shove thither;
Heave, roule, and shove! cry all, and altogether;
Looke to your foote, sir, and take better heed,
Cryes a by-stander, noe more hast then need;
Lifte up that ende there; bring it gently on;
And now thrust all at once, or all is gone;
Holde there a little; softe; now use your strength
And with this stirre, the tree lyes fitt at length.
Just such a noyse was heard when came the last
Of Oberons second messe. One cryde, holde fast;
Put five more of the guard to't, of the best;
Looke to your footing; stoppe awhile and rest;
One would have thought with soe much strength and dyn
They surely would have brought Behemoth in,
That mighty oxe which (as the Rabbins saye)
Shall feaste the Jewes upon the latter daye.
But at the last, with all this noyse and cry,
Ten of the guard brought in a minowe-pye.
The mountaynes labour'd and brought forth a mouse,
And why not in this mighty princes house
As any others? Well, the pye was plac'd,

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And then the musicke strooke, and all things grac'd.
It was a consort of the choicest sett
That never stood to tune, or right a frett;
For Nature to this king such musike sent,
Most were both players and the instrument.
Noe famous sensualist, what ere he be,
Whoe in the brazen leaves of historie
Hath his name registred, for vast expence
In striving how to please his hearing sence,
Had ever harmony chose for his eare
Soe fitt as for this king; and these they were.
The trebble was a three-mouth'd grashopper,
Well tutor'd by a skillfull quirister:
An antient master, that did use to playe
The friskins which the lambs doe dance in Maye;
And long tyme was the chiefest call'd to sing,
When on the playnes the faieryes made a ring;
Then a field-criquett, with a note full cleare,
Sweet and unforc'd and softly sung the meane,
To whose accord, and with noe mickle labor,
A pritty faiery playde upon a tabor:
The case was of a hasell nutt, the heads
A batt's-wing dress'd, the snares were silver thredds;
A little stiffned lamprey's skin did sute
All the rest well, and serv'd them for a flute;
And to all these a deepe well brested gnatt,
That had good sides, knewe well his sharpe and flatt,
Sung a good compasse, making noe wry face,—
Was there as fittest for a chamber base.
These choice musitians to their merry king
Gave all the pleasure which their art coulde bring;
At last he ask'd a song: but ere I fall
To sing it over in my pastorall,
Give me some respitt; now the daye growes olde,
And 'tis full tyme that I had pitch'd my folde;
When next sweet morning calls us from our bedds

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With harmelesse thoughts and with untroubled heads,
Meet we in Rowden meadowes, where the flood
Kisses the banckes, and courts the shady wood;
A wood wherein some of these layes were drest,
And often sung by Willy of the west:
Upon whose trees the name of Licea stands,
Licea more fleeting then my Tavyes sands.
Growe olde, ye ryndes! and shedd awaye that name;
But O what hand shall wipe awaye her shame?
There lett us meet. And if my younger quill
Bring not such raptures from the sacred hill
With others, to whome heaven infused breath
When raignd our glorious deare Elizabeth,
(The nurse of learning and the blessed arts,
The center of Spaines envy and our hearts),
If that the Muses fayle me not, I shall
Perfect the little faieries festivall,
And charme your eares soe with that princes song,
That those faire nymphes which dayly tread along
The westerne rivers and survaye the fountaynes,
And those which haunte the woods, and sky-kiss'd mountaynes,
Shall learne and sing it to ensuing tymes
When I am dust. And, Tavy, in my rimes
Challenge a due; lett it thy glorye be,
That famous Drake and I were borne by thee!
THE END OF THE FIRST SONG OF THE THIRD BOOKE.

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The Second Song.

The Argument.

Goode daye to all yee merry westerne swaynes,
And ev'ry gentle shepherdesse that deignes
A kinde attentive eare to what I sing.
Come, sitt you rounde about me in a ring;
My reed is fitted, and I meane to playe
The faieryes song I promis'd yesterdaye;
And thoughe for length I have it over-run,
This was the matter, thus the elfe begun.
Of royall parents in a country rich
Were borne three daughters, with all beautyes crownde
That coulde the eyes of men or gods bewitch,
Or poets sacred verse did ever sounde;
But Natures favour flewe a higher pitch,
When with the youngest she enrich'd this round,
Thoughe her first worke for prayse much right might holde,
Her last outwent yt, and she broke the molde.
From countryes farre remote, wing'd with desire,
Strangers pass'd gladly o're a tedious waye

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To see if fame would now be founde a lyer,
Whoe said another sun brought in the daye;
Poore men! yee come too neere to such a fire,
And for a looke your lives at hazard laye.
Staye, staye at home, reade of her beauty there,
And make not those sweet eyes your murderer.
The curious statuaryes, painters quainte,
From their greate monarks come, from ev'ry land,
That what the chesill coulde or pensill painte,
Might in her portraict have the skillfull'st hand;
But, seely men, they meet a sadd restrainte,
And they themselves as turn'd to statues stand:
Soe many graces in her feature lurke,
They turne all eye and have noe hands to worke.
The altars of the gods stood nowe forlorne;
Their mirrhe and frankincense was kept awaye,
And fairest Cytherea (that was borne
Out of the white froth of the working sea)
Wanted her votaryes; nay, some in scorne
Durste wante, while they the sacrifice delaye;
This was a deity, indeed, for whome
The gods themselves might be a hecatombe.
Divers beleev'd, whoe, ravish'd with the sight,
Stood gazing, as amaz'd, at her faire eyes,
That Nature had produc'd another light,
Newe kinde of starre, and in a newer guize;
And from the earth, not from the sea, should rise
A Venus worthyer to unlength the night;
And thoughe the first be for a goddesse plac'd,
This was more heavenly faire, more truely chaste.
Hence came it Paphos and Cythera nowe,
Gnidus and Amathus, could see noe more

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The shipps, the parent of their goddesse plowe,
Nor pilgrims land on their forsaken shore.
Noe man a guifte coulde to her shryne allowe,
Nor rose nor mirtle crowne her image wore;
The bedds contemn'd, harth fireless and unfitt,
And mens devotions were as colde as it.
Anger and rage possest the queen of love
To see a fairer queen of love then she;
And that a mortall with the powers above
Came in divyne rytes to a like degree;
Nay, that the ravish'd people alwayes strove
That this none other coulde then Venus be;
Impatient ought on earth deserv'd her name;
Thus murmur'd she, and scorne still fedd the flame.
Have I, quoth she, the most confus'd abisse,
The chaos rude unwounde, the vault of heaven
Compos'd, and settled all that order is?
The name of nursing mother to me given,
And all regardless? must I, after this,
Be from my temples and myne altars driven?
And she that is the sourse of humane things
Paye, as a vassall, tribute to her springs?
Noe; 'tis a competition too-too lowe,
To stand with one compos'd of elements
Which their originall to me doe owe;
Shall fading creatures prosecute intents
With us that all eternity doe knowe?
And the like victimes have and sacred sents?
Or share with me in any rites of myne,
And mingle mortall honors with divine?
What bootes it then that men me rightly call
The daughter of the mighty thunderer?

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And that I can ascend up to my stall
Along the milky waye by many a starre?
And where I come, the powers celestiall
Rise more to mee then any goddesse farre?
And all those contryes by bright Phœbus seen
Doe homage and acknowledge me their queen.
Shall I then leave the prize I whilome wonne
On stately Ida (for my beautyes charmes),
Given me by Paris, Priams fatall sonne,
From stately Juno and the Maide of Armes?
By which old Symois long with blood did run.
If such ambition her proude bosome warmes,
I must descend: she fly to heaven, and there
Sitt in my glorious orbe, and guide my spheare.
Noe! this usurping maide shall feele the powre
Of an incensed deity, and see
Those cheekes of redd and white, that living flowre,
And those her limms of truest symetrie,
Want winning eloquence to scape the showre
Of due revenge must fall on her from me.
She shall repent those beautyes, and confesse
She had been happyer in deformednes.
She said noe more: but full of ire ascends,
Her chariott drawne by white enamour'd doves;
Her passion to their speed more swiftnes lends.
And now to search her sonne (that various loves
Worketh each where) she studiously intends:
She sought him long among th' Elizian groves,
But missing him, to earth-ward bent her reynes,
And with a shepheard founde him on the playnes.
It was a shepheard that was borne by-west,
And well of Tityrus had learnt to sing;

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Little knewe he, poore ladd, of loves unrest,
But by his fellowe shepheards sonnetting;
A speculative knowledge with the best
He had, but never felt the golden sting;
And to comply with those his fellowe swaynes,
He sung of love and never felt the paines.
The little Cupid lov'd him for his verse,
Thoughe lowe and tuned to an oaten reed;
And that he might the fitter have commerce
With those that sung of love and lovers deed,
Strooke (O but had Death strooke her to a herse)
Those woundes had not been ope which freshly bleed—
Strooke a faire maide and made her love this ladd,
From whence his sorrowes their beginnings had.
Long tyme she lov'd: and Cupid did soe deare
Affect the shepheard, that he woulde not try
A golden dart to wounde him, out of feare
(That they might not be strooken equally)
But turned orator, and coming there
Where this yong pastor did his flocks apply,
He wooes him for the lasse sicke of his hand,
And beggs, whoe might imperiously command:
Shall that sweet paradise neglected lye
('Twas soe, and had a serpent in it too),
Shall those sweet lipps, that pitty-begging eye
Begett noe flame, when common beautyes doe?
Those brests of snowe, bedds of felicitye,
Made to inforce a man of ire to woo,
Make nought for her, in whose soule-melting flashes
A Salamander might consume to ashes?
Pitty her sighes, fond swayne! beleeve her teares;
What hearte of marble woulde not rend to see her

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Languish for love? poore soule, her tender yeares
Have flame to feed her fire, not words to free her.
Bad orators are yonger loves and feares.
Thus Cupid wooes, and coulde a mortall flee her?
But Venus coming, Cupid threwe a dart
To make all sure, and left it in his heart.
Thus to the winged archer Venus came,
Whoe, thoughe by Nature quick ynoughe inclynde
To all requests made by the Cyprian dame,
She lefte noe grace of looke or worde behynde
That might rayse up that fire which none can tame:
Revenge, that sweet betrayer of the mynde,
That cunning, turbulent, impatient guest,
Which sleepes in blood, and but in death hath rest.
Into her charyott she him quickly takes,
And swifte as tyme, cutting the yeelding ayre,
Her discontent she tells him, as she makes
Towards Psyches sweet aboade a sadd repaire.
Psyche the lady hight that nowe awakes
Faire Venus furye; looke, quoth she, and there
Beholde my griefe; O Cupid, shutt thyne eyne,
Or that which now is hers will soone be thyne.
See yonder girle, quoth she, for whome my shryne
Is lefte neglected and of all forlorne;
Hearke how the poets court the sacred Nyne
To give them raptures full and highly borne
That maye befitt a beauty soe divyne,
And from the threshold of the rosy morne
To Phœbus westerne inne, fill by their layes
All hearts with love of her, all tongues with praise.
By that maternall rightfull powre, my sonne,
Which I have with thee, and may justly claime:

159

By those golde darts which I for thee have wonne,
By those sweet wounds they make without a mayme:
By thy kinde fire which hath such wonders donne,
And all faire eyes from whence thou takest ayme:
By these and by this kisse, this and this other,
Right a wronged goddesse and revenge thy mother.
And this waye doe it: make that glorious mayde
Slave in affection to a wretch as rude
As ever yet deformitie arayde
Or all the vices of the multitude.
Lett him love money! and a friend betrayde
Proclayme with how much witt he is indude;
Lett not sweet sleepe but sicknes make his bedd!
And to the grave bring home her maidenhead.
When the bless'd day calls others from their sleepe,
And birds sweet layes rejoyce all creatures waking,
Lett her lame husbands grones and sighing deepe
Affright her from that rest which she is taking!
And (spight of all her care) when she doth weepe,
Lett him mistrust her teares and faithes forsaking!
In briefe, lett her affect (thus I importune)
One wrong'd as much as Nature coulde or Fortune.
Thus spoke she, and a winning kisse she gave,
A long one with a free and yeelding lipp,
Unto the God; and on the brackish wave
(Leaving her sonne ashore) doth nimbly tripp.
Two dolphins with a charryot richly brave
Wayted, and with her unto Cyprus tripp;
The little Cupid she had lefte behinde,
And gave him sight then when he shoulde be blynde.
Cupid, to worke his wyles that can applye
Himselfe, like Proteus, to what forme he list,

160

Fierce as a lyon, nimble as an eye,
As glorious as the sun, darke as a miste,
Hiding himselfe within a ladyes eye,
Or in a silken hayres insnaring twist;
And those within whose brests he ofte doth fall,
And feele him moste, doe knowe him leaste of all.
The God now us'd his powre, and him addrest
Unto a fitting stand, where he might see
All that kinde Nature ever yet exprest
Of colour, feature, or due symetrie:
It seem'd heaven was come downe to make earth blest.
Noe wonder then if there this god should be;
Noe; wonder more which waye he can be driven,
To leave this sight for those he knewe in heaven.
Her cheekes the wonder of what eye beheld
Begott betwixt a lilly and a rose,
In gentle rising plaines devinely swell'd,
Where all the graces and the loves repose.
Nature in this peece all her workes excell'd,
Yet shewd her selfe imperfect in the close,
For she forgott (when she soe faire did rayse her)
To give the world a witt might duely prayse her.
Her sweet and ruddy lipps, full of the fyre
Which once Prometheus stole awaye from heaven,
Coulde by their kisses rayse a like desire
To that by which Alcides once was driven
To fifty bedds, and in one night entyre
To fifty maides the name of mother given;
But had he mett this dame first, all the other
Had rested maides: she fifty tymes a mother!
When that she spoake, as at a voice from heaven
On her sweet words all eares and hearts attended;

161

When that she sung, they thought the planetts seaven
By her sweet voice might well their tunes have mended;
When she did sighe, all were of joye bereaven;
And when she smyld, heaven had them all befriended.
If that her voice, sighes, smiles, soe many thrilld,
O, had she kiss'd, how many had she kill'd!
Her hayre was flaxen, small, and full and long,
Wherewith the softe enamour'd ayre did playe,
And heere and there with pearles was quaintly strung;
When they were spredd (like to Apollos raye)
They made the brests of the Olimpicque throng
To feele their flames, as we the flame of daye;
And to eternize what they sawe soe fayre,
They made a constellation of her hayre.
Her slender fingers (neate and worthy made
To be the servants to soe much perfection)
Joyn'd to a palme, whose touch woulde streight invade
And bring a sturdy heart to lowe subjection.
Her slender wrists two diamond braceletts lade,
Made richer by soe sweet a soules election.
O happy braceletts! but more happy he
To whom those armes shall as a bracelett be!
Nature, when she made woemens brests, was then
In doubt of what to make them, or how stayned;
If that she made them softe, she knewe that men
Woulde seeke for rest there, where none coulde be gayned:
If that she made them snow-like, they agen
Woulde seeke for colde where loves hote flamings reigned;
She made them both, and men deceaved soe,
Finde wakefullnes in downe, and fyre in snowe.

162

Such were faire Psyches lillyed bedds of love,
Or rather two new worlds where men would faine
Discover wonders by her starres above,
If any guide coulde bring them back againe.
But who shall on those azure riveretts move,
Is lost, and wanders in an endles mayne;
Soe many graces, pleasures, there apply them,
That man should need the worlds age to descry them.
As when a woodman on the greeny lawnes,
Where daylie chants the sadd-sweet nightingale,
Woulde counte his heard, more bucks, more pricketts, fawnes
Rush from the copps and put him from his tale;
Or some wayfaring man, when morning dawnes,
Woulde tell the sweet notes in a joysome vale,
At ev'ry foote a newe bird lights and sings,
And makes him leave to counte their sonnettings.
Soe when my willing muse would gladly dresse
Her severall graces in immortall lines,
Plenty impoores her; ev'ry golden tresse,
Each little dimple, every glance that shynes
As radyant as Apollo, I confesse
My skill too weake for soe admirde designes;
For whilst one beauty I am close about,
Millions doe newly rise and put me out.
Never was mayde to varyous nature bounde
In greater bonds of thanckfullnes then she,
As all eyes judg'd; nor on the massy round
For all perfections coulde another be
Upon whose any limme was to be founde
Ought, that on hers coulde vante of masterie;
Yet thoughe all eyes had been a wishfull feaste,
Whoe sawe nought but her body sawe her leaste.

163

Blest was the wombe that bore soe faire a birth;
Blest was the birth for blessing of the wombe;
Blest was the hand that tooke her to the earth;
Blest ev'ry shady arbour, every roome;
Blest were the deserts roughe where zephir stirr'th;
Blest ev'ry craggy rock and rushy coombe:
All things that held, touchd, sawe her, still confessed
To tymes last periodd they were ever blessed.
My fairest Cœlia, when thyne eyes shall viewe
These, and all other lynes ere writt by me,
Wherein all beautyes are describ'd, and true,
Thincke your devoted shepheards fantazie,
Rapt by those heavenly graces are in you,
Had thence all matter fitt for elogie.
Your blest endowments are my verses mothers,
For by your sweetnesse I describe all others.
End of Britannia's Pastorals.

165

THE SHEPHEARDS PIPE.

Του ποιμην φορμιγγη και ορχηθμω και αοιδη.


167

To the truely Vertuous, and worthy of all Honour, the Right Honourable Edvvard, Lord Zovch, Saint Mavre and Cantelvpe, and one of his Mties. most Honourable Priuy Councell.

Be pleas'd (great Lord) whē vnderneath the shades
Of your delightfull Brams-hill, (where the spring
Her flowers for gentle blasts with Zephire trades)
Once more to heare a silly Shepheard sing.
Yours be the pleasure, mine the Sonneting;
Eu'n that hath his delight; nor shall I need
To seeke applause amongst the common store
It is enough if this mine oaten Reed
Please but the eare it should; I aske no more:
Nor shall those rurall notes which heretofore
Your true attention grac'd and wing'd for fame
Imperfect lye; Obliuion shall not gaine
Ought on your worth, but sung shall be your name
So long as England yeelds or song or Swaine.
Free are my lines, though drest in lowly state,
And scorne to flatter but the men I hate.
Your Honours. W. Brovvne.

169

Of his Friend Maister William Browne.

A Poets borne, not made: No wonder then
Though Spencer, Sidney (miracles of men,
Sole English Makers, whose eu'n names so hie
Expresse by implication Poesy)
Were long vnparaleld: For nature, bold
In their creation, spent that precious mould,
That Nobly better earth, that purer spirit
Which Poets, as their Birth-rights, claime t'inherite:
And in their great production Prodigall,
Carelesse of futures, well-nye spent her all.
Veiwing her work: conscious sh'had suffred wracke,
Hath caus'd our Countrymen ere since to lacke
That better earth and forme: Long thrifty growne
Who truely might beare Poets, brought forth none:
Till now of late, seeing her stockes new full
(By Time and Thrift) of matter beautifull,
And quint-essence of formes; what seuerall
Our elder Poets graces had, those all
Shee now determin'd to vnite in one;
So to surpasse her selfe; and call'd him Browne.
'That beggard by his birth, shee's now so poore
That of true Maker[s] shee can make no more.
Heereof accus'd; answer'd, shee meant that hee
A species should, no indiuiduum, bee.

170

That (Phœnix-like) Hee in himselfe should find
Of Poesy contain'd each seuerall kind.
And from this Phœnix's vrne, thought shee could take
Whereof all following-Poets well to make.
For of some former shee had, now made knowne
They were her errours whilst sh'intended Browne.

In libellum, inscriptionemq;.

Not Æglogues your, but Eclogues: To compare:
Virgil's selected, yours elected are.
Hee Imitates, you Make: and this your creature
Expresseth well your Name, and theirs, their Nature.
E. Iohnson Int. Temp.

171

To his better beloued, then knowne friend, Mr. Brovvne.

Svch is the fate of some (write) now a daies
Thinking to win and weare, they breake the Bayes,
As a slow Foote-man striuing neere to come
A swifter that before him farre doth runne,
Puft with the hope of Honours gole to winne
Runnes out of Breath yet furthest of from him.
So do our most of Poets whose Muse flies
About for honour, catch poore Butterflies.
But thou, faire freind, not rankt shall be 'mongst those
That makes a Mountaine where a Mole-hill growes;
Thou whose sweete singing Pen such layes hath writ
That in an old way teacheth vs new wit:
Thou that wert borne and bred to bee the man
To turne Apollos glory into Pan,
And when thou lists of Shepheards leaue to write,
To great Apollo adde againe his light
For neuer yet like Shepheards forth haue come
Whose Pipes so sweetely play as thine haue done.
Faire Muse of Browne, whose beauty is as pure
As women Browne that faire and long'st endure,
Still may'st thou as thou dost a louer moue,
And as thou dost each mouer may thee loue,
Whilst I my selfe in loue with thee must fall,
Brownes Muse the faire Browne woman still will call.
Iohn Onley. Int. Temp.

173

The first Eglogue. Roget and Willy both ymet

The Argvment.

Roget and Willy both ymet,
Vpon a greeny Ley,
With Rondelayes and Tales are set.
To spend the length of day.
Willie. Roget.
Willie.
Roget, droope not, see the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on euery Tree
Greete this morne with melody:
Hearke, how yonder Thrustle chants it,
And her mate as proudly vants it;

174

See how euery streame is drest
By her Margine with the best
Of Flora's gifts, she seemes glad
For such Brookes such flowres she had.
All the trees are quaintly tyred
With greene buds, of all desired;
And the Hauthorne euery day
Spreads some little shew of May:
See the Prim-rose sweetely set
By the much-lou'd Violet
All the Bankes doe sweetly couer,
As they would inuite a Louer
With his Lasse to see their dressing
And to grace them by their pressing:
Yet in all this merry tyde
When all cares are laid aside,
Roget sits as if his bloud
Had not felt the quickning good
Of the Sun, nor cares to play,
Or with songs to passe the day
As he wont: Fye, Roget, flye,
Raise thy head, and merrily
Tune vs somewhat to thy reed:
See our Flockes do freely feed,
Heere we may together sit,
And for Musicke very fit
Is this place; from yonder wood
Comes an Eccho shrill and good,
Twice full perfectly it will
Answere to thine Oaten quill.
Roget, droope not then, but sing
Some kind welcome to the Spring.

Roget.
Ah Willie, Willy, why should I
Sound my notes of iollity?

175

Since no sooner can I play
Any pleasing Roundelay,
But some one or other still
'Gins to descant on my Quill;
And will say, by this he me
Meaneth in his Minstralsie.
If I chance to name an Asse
In my song, it comes to passe,
One or other sure will take it
As his proper name, and make it
Fit to tell his nature too.
Thus what e're I chance to do
Happens to my losse, and brings
To my name the venom'd stings
Of ill report: How should I
Sound then notes of iollity?

Willie.
Tis true indeed, we say all
Rub a gal'd horse on the gall,
Kicke he wil, storme and bite,
But the horse of sounder plight
Gently feeles his Maisters hand.
In the water thrust a brand
Kindled in the fire, 'twill hisse,
When a sticke that taken is
From the Hedge, in water thrust,
Neuer rokes as would the first,
But endures the waters touch:
Roget, so it fares with such
Whose owne guilt hath them enflam'd,
Rage when e're their vice is blam'd.
But who in himselfe is free
From all spots, as Lillies be,
Neuer stirres, do what thou can.
If thou slander such a man

176

Yet he's quiet, for he knowes
With him no such vices close.
Onely he that is indeed
Spotted with the leprous seed
Of corrupted thoughts, and hath
An vlcerous soule in the path
Of reproofe, he straight will brall
If you rub him on the gall.
But in vaine then shall I keepe
These my harmlesse flocke of sheepe.
And though all the day I tend them,
And from Wolues & Foxes shend them.
Wicked Swaines that beare mee spight,
In the gloomy vaile of night,
Of my fold will draw the pegges,
Or else breake my Lambkins legges:
Or vnhang my Weathers bell,
Or bring bryers from the dell,
And them in my fold by peeces
Cast, to tangle all their fleeces.
Welladay! such churlish Swaynes
Now and then lurke on our plaines:
That I feare a time ere long
Shall not heare a Sheepheards song,
Nor a Swayne shall take in taske
Any wrong, nor once vnmaske
Such as do with vices rife
Soyle the Sheepheards happy life:
Except he meanes his Sheepe shall bee
A prey to all their iniury.
This causeth mee I do no more
Chant so as I wont of yore:
Since in vaine then should I keepe
These my harmlesse flocke of Sheepe.


177

Willie.
Yet if such thou wilt not sing,
Make the Woods and Vallies ring
With some other kind of lore,
Roget hath enough in store,
Sing of loue, or tell some tale,
Praise the flowers, the Hils, the Vale:
Let vs not heere idle be;
Next day I will sing to thee.
Hearke on knap of yonder Hill
Some sweet Sheepheard tunes his quill;
And the Maidens in a round
Sit (to heare him) on the ground.
And if thou begin, shall wee
Grac'd be with like company.
And to gird thy Temples bring
Garlands for such fingering.
Then raise thee Roget

Roget.
Gentle Swaine
Whom I honour for thy straine,
Though it would beseeme me more
To attend thee and thy lore:
Yet least thou might'st find in me
A neglect of courtesie,
I will sing what I did leere
Long agon in Ianiueere
Of a skilfull aged Sire,
As we tosted by the fire.

Willy.
Sing it out, it needs must be
Very good what comes from thee.


178

Roget.
Whilome an Emperour prudent and wise,
Raigned in Rome, and had sonnes three
Which he had in great chiertee & great prise,
And when it shop so, that th' infirmitee
Of death, which no wight may eschew or flee,
Him threw downe in his bed, hee let do call
His sonnes, and before him they came all.
And to the first he said in this maneere,
All th' eritage which at the dying
Of my fadir, he me left, all in feere
Leaue I thee: And all that of my buying
Was with my peny, all my purchasing,
My second sonne bequeath I to thee,
And to the third sonne thus said hee:
Vnmoueable good right none withouten oath
Thee giue I may; but I to thee deuise
Iewels three, a Ring, a Brooch and a Cloth:
With which, and thou bee guied as the wise,
Thou maist get all that ought thee suffice;
Who so that the Ring vseth still to weare
Of all folkes the loue hee shall conquere.
And who so the Broch beareth on his breast,
It is eke of such vertue and such kind,
That thinke vpon what thing him liketh best,
And he as bliue shall it haue and finde.
My words, sonne, imprint well in mind:
The Cloth eke hath a meruailous nature,
Which that shall be committed to thy cure.
Who so sit on it, if he wish where
In all the world to beene, he suddenly
Without more labour shall be there.

179

Sonne, those three Iewels bequeath I
To thee, vnto this effect certainely
That to study of the Vniuersitee
Thou go, and that I bid and charge thee.
When he had thus said, the vexation
Of death so hasted him, that his spirit
Anon forsooke his habitation
In his body: death would no respyte
Him yeue at all: he was of his life quitte.
And buried was with such solemnity,
As fell to his Imperiall dignity.
Of the yongest sonne I tell shall,
And speake no more of his brethren two,
For with them haue I not to do at all.
Thus spake the mother Ionathas vnto:
Sin God hath his will of thy father do,
To thy fathers Will, would I me conforme,
And truly all his Testament performe.
He three Iewels, as thou knowest well:
A Ring, a Brooch, and a Cloth thee bequeath,
Whose vertues he thee told euery deal,
Or that he past hence and yalde vp the breath:
O good God, his departing, his death
Full grieuously sticketh vnto mine heart,
But suffered mot been, all how sore it smart.
In that case women haue such heauinesse,
That it not lyeth in my cunning aright
You tell of so great sorrow the excesse;
But wise women can take it light,
And in short while put vnto the flight
All sorrow & woe, and catch againe comfort:
Now to my tale make I my resort.

180

Thy fathers will, my sonne, as I said ere,
Will I performe; haue heere the ring and go
To study anon, and when that thou art there,
As thy father thee bade, do euen so,
And as thou wilt my blessing haue also.
Shee vnto him as swythe tooke the Ring
And bad him keepe it well for any thing.
Hee went vnto the study generall
Where he gat loue enough, and acquaintance
Right good and friendly, the ring causing all,
And on a day to him befell this chance
With a woman, a morsell of pleasance,
By the streetes of the Vniuersity
As he was in his walking, met he.
And right as bliue he had with her a tale,
And therewithall sore in her loue he brent;
Gay, fresh and piked was she to the sale,
For to that end and to that intent
She thither came, and both forth they went,
And he a pistle rowned in her eare,
Nat wot I what, for I ne came nat there.
She was his Paramour, shortly to sey:
This man to folkes all was so leefe,
That they him gaue aboundance of money,
He feasted folke, and stood at high boncheefe:
Of the lacke of good hee felt no griefe,
All whiles the ring he with him had;
But fayling it his friendship gan sad.
His Paramour, which that ycalled was
Fellicula, maruailed right greatly
Of the dispences of this Ionathas,
Sin she no peny at all with him sy,

181

And on a night as there she lay him by
In the bed, thus she to him spake and said,
And this petition assoile him praid:
O reuerent sir, vnto whom, quoth she,
Obey I would ay with hearts humblenesse,
Since that ye han had my virginitie,
You I beseech of your high gentlenesse,
Tellith me whence comth the good and richesse
That yee with feasten folke, and han no store,
By ought I see can, ne gold, ne tresore.
If I tell it, quoth he, par auenture
Thou wilt discouer it, and out it publish;
Such is womans inconstant nature,
They cannot keep Councell worth a rish:
Better is my tongue keepe than to wish
That I had kept close that is gone at large,
And repentance is thing that I mote charge.
Nay, good sir, quoth she, holdeth me not suspect,
Doubteth nothing, I can be right secree,
Well worthy were it me to been abiect
From all good company, if I, quoth she,
Vnto you should so mistake me.
Be not adread your councell me to shew.
Well, said he, thus it is at words few:
My father the ring, which that thou maist see
On my finger, me at his dying day
Bequeath'd, which this vertue and propertee
Hath, that the loue of men he shall haue aye
That weareth it, and there shall be no nay
Of what thing that him liketh aske and craue,
But with good will he shall as bliue it haue.

182

Through the rings vertuous excellence
Thus am I rich, and haue euer ynow.
Now, Sir, yet a word by your licence
Suffreth me to say, and to speake now:
Is it wisedome, as that it seemeth you,
Weare it on your finger continually?
What woldst thou meane, quoth he, therby?
What perill thereof might there befall?
Right great, quoth she, as yee in company
Walke often, fro your finger might it fall,
Or plucked off been in a ragery
And so be lost, and that were folly:
Take it me, let me been of it wardeine,
For as my life keepe it would I certeine.
This Ionathas, this innocent yong man,
Giuing vnto her words full credence,
As youth not auised best be can:
The Ring her tooke of his insipience.
When this was done, the heat & the feruence
Of loue which he beforne had purchased,
Was quench'd, and loues knot was vnlaced.
Men of their gifts to stint began.
Ah, thought he, for the ring I not ne beare,
Faileth my loue; fetch me, woman
(Said he) my Ring, anon I will it weare.
She rose, and into chamber dresseth her,
And when she therein had been a while,
Alasse (quoth she), out on falshood and gyle,
The chest is broken, and the Ring take out.
And when he heard her complaint and cry,
He was astonied sore, and made a shout,
And said: Cursed be the day that I

183

Thee met first, or with mine eyne sy.
She wept and shewed outward cheere of wo,
But in her heart was it nothing so.
The ring was safe enough, and in her Chest
It was; all that she said was leasing,
As some woman other while at best
Can lye and weepe when is her liking.
This man saw her woe, and sayd: Dearling,
Weep no more, Gods helpe is nye,
To him vnwiste how false she was and slye.
He twyned thence, and home to his countree
Vnto his mother the streight way he went,
And when she saw thither comen was he,
My sonne, quoth she, what was thine intent
Thee fro the schoole now to absent?
What caused thee fro schoole hither to hye?
Mother, right this, said he, nat would I lye.
Forsooth, mother, my ring is a goe,
My Paramour to keepe I betooke it,
And it is lost, for which I am full woe,
Sorrowfully vnto mine heart it sit.
Sonne, often haue I warned thee, and yet
For thy profit I warne thee, my sonne,
Vnhonest women thou hereafter shunne.
Thy brooch anon right woll I to thee fet,
She brought it him, and charged him full deep
When he it tooke, and on his breast it set,
Bet than his ring he should it keepe,
Lest he the losse bewaile should and weepe.
To the vniuersity, shortly to seyne,
In what he could, he hasted him ageine.

184

And when he comen was, his Paramour
Him met anon, and vnto her him tooke,
As that he did erst, this yong reuelour;
Her company he nat a deale forsooke,
Though he cause had, but as with the hooke
Of her sleight he beforne was caught and hent,
Right so he was deceiued oft and blent.
And as through vertue of the Ring before
Of good he had abundance and plentee,
While it was with him, or he had it lore:
Right so through vertue of the brooch had hee
What good him list; she thought, how may this be?
Some priuy thing now causeth this richesse,
As did the Ring herebefore, I gesse.
Wondring hereon she praid him, and besought
Besily night and day, that tell he would
The cause of this; but he another thought:
He meant it close for him it kept be should,
And a long time it was or he it told.
She wept aye too and too, and said: alasse,
The time and houre that euer I borne was!
Trust ye not on me, Sir? she seid,
Leuer me were be slaine in this place
By that good Lord that for vs all deid,
Then purpose againe you any fallace;
Vnto you would I be my liues space
As true as any woman in earth is
Vnto a man; doubteth nothing of this.
Small may she doe, that cannot well byheet,
Though not performed be such a promesse.
This Ionathas thought her words so sweet,
That he was drunke of the pleasant sweetnesse

185

Of them, and of his foolish tendernesse.
Thus vnto her he spake and said tho:
Be of good comfort, why weepest thou so?
And she thereto answered thus sobbing:
Sir, quoth she, my heauinesse and dreed
Is this; I am adread of the leesing
Of your brooch, as Almighty God forbeed
It happen so. Now what so God thee speed,
Said he, wouldest thou in this case counsaile?
Quoth she, that I keep it might sans faile.
He said: I haue a feare and dread algate,
If I so did thou wouldst it leese
As thou lostest my ring, now gon but late.
First God pray I, quoth she, that I not cheese,
But that my heart as the cold frost may freeze,
Or else be it brent with wild fire:
Nay, surely it to keepe is my desire.
To her words credence he gaue pleneere,
And the brooch tooke her, and after anone,
Whereas he was beforne full leefe and cheere
To folke, and had good, all was gone.
Good & frendship him lacked, there was none.
Woman, me fetch the brooch, quoth he; swythee
Into thy chamber for it goe; hye thee.
She into chamber went, as then he bad,
But she not brought that he sent her fore;
She meant it nat; but as she had be mad
Her clothes hath she all to rent and tore,
And cryd, alasse, the brooch away is bore.
For which I wole anon right with my knife
My selfe slay: I am weary of my life.

186

This noice he heard, and bliue he to her ran,
Weening she would han done as she spake,
And the knife in all haste that he can
From her tooke, and threw it behind his back,
And said: ne for the losse, ne for the lacke
Of the brooch, sorrow not, I forgiue all,
I trust in God, that yet vs helpe he shall.
To th' Emperesse his mother this yong man
Againe him dresseth: he went her vnto,
And when she saw him, she to wonder gan;
She thought, now somewhat there is misdoe,
And said, I dread thy Iewels two
Been lost now, percase the brooch with the ring.
Mother, he said, yea, by heauen King.
Sonne, thou wotst well no iewell is left
Vnto thee now, but the cloath pretious
Which I thee take shall, thee charging eft
The company of women riotous
Thou flee, least it be to thee so grieuous
That thou it nat sustaine shalt ne beare;
Such company on my blessing forbeare.
The cloth she fet, and it hath him take,
And of his Lady his mother his leaue
He tooke; but first this forward gan he make:
Mother, said he, trusteth this weel and leeue,
That I shall seyn, for sooth ye shall it preeue,
If I leese this cloth, neuer I your face
Henceforth see wole, ne you pray of grace.
With Gods helpe I shall do well ynow.
Her blessing he tooke, and to study is go,
And as beforne told haue I vnto you,
His Paramour his priuy mortall foe

187

Was wont to meet him, right euen so
She did than, & made him pleasant cheere.
They clip and kisse and walke homeward in feere.
When they were entred in the house, he sprad
This cloth vpon the ground, and thereon sit,
And bad his Paramour, this woman bad,
To sit also by him adowne on it.
She doth as he commandeth and bit;
Had she this thought and vertue of the cloth
Wist, to han set on it had she been loth.
She for a while was full sore affesed.
This Ionathas wish in his heart gan:
Would God that I might thus been eased,
That as on this cloth I and this woman
Sit heare, as farre were, as that neuer man
Or this came: & vnneth had he so thought,
But they with the cloth thither weren brought.
Right to the worlds end, as that it were.
When apparceiued had she this, she cry'd
As thogh she through girt had be with a spere.
Harrow! alasse! that euer shope this tide!
How came we hither? Nay, he said, abide,
Worse is coming; here sole wole I thee leaue,
Wild beasts shallen thee deuoure or eaue.
For thou my Ring & Brooch hast fro me holden.
O reuerent Sir! haue vpon me pittee,
Quoth she, if yee this grace do me wolden,
As bring me home againe to the Cittee
Where as I this day was, but if that yee
Them haue againe, of foule death do me dye:
Your bountee on me kythe, I mercy cry,

188

This Ionathas could nothing beware,
Ne take ensample of the deceites tweine
That she did him beforne, but feith him bare,
And her he commanded on deaths peine
Fro such offences thenceforth her restreine.
She swore, and made thereto foreward;
But herkneth how she bore her afterward.
Whan she saw and knew that the wrath and ire
That he to her had borne, was gone and past,
And all was well: she thought him eft to fire,
In her malice aye stood she stedfast,
And to enquire of him was not agast
In so short time how that it might be
That they came thither out of her contree.
Such vertue hath this cloth on which we sit,
Said he, that where in this world vs be list
Sodeinly with the thought shallen thither flit,
And how thither come vnto vs vnwist:
As thing fro farre vnknowne in the mist.
And therwith to this woman fraudulent,
To sleep, he said, haue I good talent.
Let see, quoth he, stretch out anon thy lap,
In which wole I my head downe lay and rest.
So was it done, and he anon gan nap,
Nap? nay, he slept right well at best.
What doth this woman, one the ficklest
Of women all, but that cloth that lay
Vnder him, she drew lyte and lyte away.
Whan she it had all: would God, quoth she,
I were as I was this day morning!
And therewith this root of iniquitee
Had her wish, and sole left him there sleeping.

189

O Ionathas! like to thy perishing
Art thou, thy paramour made hath thy berd;
Whan thou wakest, cause hast thou to be ferd.
But thou shalt do full well; thou shalt obteene
Victory on her; thou hast done some deed
Pleasant to thy mother, well can I weene,
For which our Lord quite shall thy meed,
And thee deliuer out of thy wofull dreed.
The child whom that the mother vseth blesse,
Full often sythe is eased in distresse.
Whan he awoke, and neither he ne fond
Woman ne Cloth, he wept bitterly,
And said, Alasse! now is there in no lond
Man worse I know begon then am I
On euery side his looke he cast, and sy
Nothing but birds in the aire flying,
And wild beasts about him renning.
Of whose sight he full sore was agrysed.
He thought, all this well deserued I haue,
What ayled me to be so euill auised,
That my counsell could I nat keepe and saue?
Who can foole play? who can mad and raue?
But he that to a woman his secree
Discouereth: the smart cleaueth now on me.
He thus departeth as God would harmlesse,
And forth of auenture his way is went,
But whitherward he draw, he conceitlesse
Was, he nat knew to what place he was bent.
He past a water which was so feruent
That flesh vpon his feet left it him none,
All cleane was departed from the bone.

190

It shope so that hee had a little glasse,
Which with that water anon filled he,
And whan he further in his way gone was,
Before him he beheld and saw a tree
That faire fruit bore, and in great plentee:
He eate thereof, the taste him liked well,
But he there-through became a foule mesel.
For which vnto the ground for sorrow and wo
He fell, and said, cursed be that day
That I was borne, and time and houre also
That my mother conceiued me, for ay
Now am I lost, alasse and well away!
And when some deel slaked his heauinesse,
He rose, and on his way he gan him dresse.
Another water before him he sye,
Which sore to comen in he was adrad:
But nathelesse, since thereby other way
Ne about it there could none be had,
He thought, so streitly am I bestad,
That though it sore me affese or gast,
Assoile it wole I; and through it he past.
And right as the first water his flesh
Departed from his feet, so the secownd
Restored it, and made all whole and fresh:
And glad was he, and ioyfull that stownd,
Whan he felt his feet whole were and sound:
A violl of the water of that brooke
He fild, and fruit of the tree with him tooke.
Forth his iourney this Ionathas held,
And as he his looke about him cast,
Another tree from a farre he beheld,
To which he hasted, and him hied fast.

191

Hungry he was, and of the fruit he thrast
Into his mouth, and eate of it sadly,
And of the lepry he purged was thereby.
Of that fruit more he raught, & thence is gone;
And a faire Castle from a farre saw he
In compasse of which heads many one
Of men there hung, as he might well see,
But not for that he shun would or flee;
He thither him dresseth the streight way
In that euer that he can or may.
Walking so, two men came him ageine,
And saiden thus: deere friend, we you pray
What man be ye? Sirs, quoth he, certeine
A leech I am, and though my selfe it say,
Can for the health of sicke folkes well puruay.
They said him: of yonder castle the King
A leper is, and can whole be for nothing.
With him there hath bin many a sundry leech
That vndertooke him well to cure and heale
On paine of their heads, but all to seech
Their Art was; 'ware that thou not with him deale,
But if thou canst the charter of health enseale;
Least that thou leese thy head, as didden they,
But thou be wise: thou finde it shall no pley.
Sirs, said he, you thanke I of your reed,
For gently ye han you to me quit:
But I nat dread to loose mine heed,
By Gods helpe full safe keepe I will it;
God of his grace such cunning and wit
Hath lent me, that I hope I shall him cure,
Full well dare I me put in auenture.

192

They to the kings presence han him lad,
And him of the fruit of the second tree
He gaue to eate, and bad him to be glad,
And said: anon your health han shall yee;
Eke of the second water him gaue he
To drinke, & whan he those two had receiued,
His Lepry from him voided was and weiued.
The King (as vnto his high dignity
Conuenient was) gaue him largely,
And to him said: If that it like thee,
Abiden here, I more habundantly
Thee giue wole. My Lord, sickerly,
Quoth he, faine would I your pleasure fulfill,
And in your high presence abide still.
But I no while may with you abide,
So mochill haue I to done elsewhere.
Ionathas euery day to the sea side
Which was nye, went to look and enquere
If any ship drawing hither were
Which him home to his country lead might,
And on a day of ships had he sight
Well a thirty toward the Castle draw,
And at time of Euensong they all
Arriueden, of which he was full faw,
And to the shipmen cry he gan and call,
And said: if it so hap might and fall,
That some of you me home to my countree
Me bring would, well quit should he bee.
And told them whither that they shoulden go.
One of the shipmen forth start at last,
And to him said: my ship and no moe
Of them that here been, doth shope and cast

193

Thither to wend; let see, tell on fast,
Quoth the shipman, that thou for my trauaile
Me giue wilt, if that I thither saile.
They were accorded; Ionathas forth goeth
Vnto the King to aske him licence
To twine thence, to which the king was loth,
And nathlesse with his beneuolence,
This Ionathas from his magnificence
Departed is, and forth to the shipman
His way he taketh, as swyth as he can.
Into the ship he entreth, and as bliue
As winde and wether good shope to be,
Thither as he purposed him arriue
They sailed forth, and came to the Cittee
In which this Serpentine woman was, shee
That had him terned with false deceitis,
But where no remedy followeth, streit is.
Turnes been quit, all be they good or bad
Sometime, though they put been in delay.
But to my purpose: she deemed he had
Been deuoured with beasts many a day
Gone, she thought he deliuered was for ay.
Folke of the Citty knew not Ionathas,
So many a yeare was past, that he there was.
Misliking and thought changed eke his face,
Abouten he go'th, and for his dwelling
In the Cittie, he hired him a place,
And therein exercised his cunning
Of Physicke, to whom weren repairing
Many a sicke wight, and all were healed,
Well was the sick man that with him dealed.
Now shope it thus that this Fellicula,
(The well of deceiuable doublenesse,

194

Follower of the steps of Dallida)
Was than exalted vnto high richesse,
But she was fallen into great sicknesse
And heard seine, for not might it been hid
How masterfull a leech he had him kid.
Messages solemne to him she sent,
Praying him to do so mochill labour
As come and see her; and he thither went.
Whan he her saw, that she his Paramour
Had been he well knew, and for that dettour
To her he was, her he thought to quite
Or he went, and no longer it respite.
But what that he was, she ne wist nat:
He saw her vrine, and eke felt her pous,
And said, the sooth is this plaine and flat,
A sicknesse han yee strange and meruailous,
Which to auoid is wonder dangerous:
To heale you there is no way but one,
Leech in this world other can finde none.
Auiseth you whether you list it take
Or not, for I told haue you my wit.
Ah sir, said she, for Gods sake,
That way me shew, and I shall follow it,
What euer it be: for this sicknesse sit
So nigh mine heart, that I wot not how
Me to demene: tell on, I pray yow.
Lady, yee must openly you confesse,
And if against good conscience and right,
Any good han ye take more or lesse,
Beforne this houre, of any manner wight,
Yeeld it anon; else not in the might
Of man is it, to giue a medicine
That you may heale of your sicknes & pine.

195

If any such thing be, tell out thy reed,
And yee shall been all whole I you beheet;
Else mine Art is naught, withouten dreed.
O Lord, she thought, health is a thing ful sweet:
Therewith desire I souerainly to meet:
Since I it by confession may recouer,
A foole am I but I my guilt discouer.
How falsely to the sonne of th' Emperour
Ionathas, had she done, before them all
As yee han heard aboue, all that errour
By knew she; ô Fellicula thee call
Well may I so, for of the bitter gall
Thou takest the beginning of thy name,
Thou root of malice and mirrour of shame.
Than said Ionathas: where are those three
Iewels, that thee fro the Clerke with-drew?
Sir, in a Coffer at my beds feet yee
Shall finde them; open it, and so pray I you.
He thought not to make it queint and tow,
And say nay, and streine courtesie,
But with right good will thither he gan hye.
The Coffer he opened, and them there fond.
Who was a glad man but Ionathas? who
The ring vpon a finger of his hond
He put, and the brooch on his breast also,
The cloth eke vnder his arme held he tho;
And to her him dresseth to done his cure.
Cure mortall, way to her sepulture.
He thought rue she should, and fore-thinke
That she her had vnto him mis bore.
And of that water her he gaue to drinke,
Which that his flesh from his bones before

196

Had twined, wherethrough he was almost lore,
Nad he relieued been, as ye aboue
Han heard, and this he did eke for her loue.
Of the fruit of the tree he gaue her ete,
Which that him made into the Leper stert,
And as bliue in her wombe gan they fret
And gnaw so, that change gan her hert,
Now harkneth how it her made smert.
Her wombe opened, & out fell each intraile
That in her was, thus it is said, sans faile.
Thus wretchedly (lo) this guile-man dyde,
And Ionathas with iewels three
No lenger there thought to abide,
But home to the Empresse his mother hasteth he,
Whereas in ioy and in prosperitee
His life led he to his dying day,
And so God vs grant that we doe may.

Willy.
By my hooke this is a Tale
Would befit our Whitson-ale:
Better cannot be, I wist,
Descant on it he that list.
And full gladly giue I wold
The best Cosset in my fold
And a Mazor for a fee,
If this song thou'lt teachen me.
Tis so quaint and fine a lay,
That vpon our reuell day
If I sung it, I might chance
(For my paines) be tooke to dance
With our Lady of the May.

Roget.
Roget will not say thee nay,
If thou deem'st it worth thy paines.
Tis a song, not many Swaines

197

Singen can, and though it be
Not so deckt with nycetee
Of sweet words full neatly chused
As are now by Shepheards vsed:
Yet if well you sound the sence,
And the Morals excellence,
You shall finde it quit the while,
And excuse the homely stile.
Well I wot, the man that first
Sung this Lay, did quench his thirst,
Deeply as did euer one
In the Muses Helicon.
Many times he hath been seen
With the Fairies on the greene,
And to them his Pipe did sound,
Whilst they danced in a round.
Mickle solace would they make him,
And at mid-night often wake him,
And convey him from his roome
To a field of yellow broome;
Or into the Medowes where
Mints perfume the gentle Aire,
And where Flora spends her treasure:
There they would begin their measure.
If it chanc'd nights sable shrowds
Muffled Cinthia vp in clowds,
Safely home they then would see him,
And from brakes and quagmires free him.
There are few such swaines as he
Now adayes for harmony.

Willie.
What was he thou praisest thus?

Roget.
Scholler vnto Tityrus:
Tityrus the brauest Swaine

198

Euer liued on the plaine,
Taught him how to feed his Lambes,
How to cure them, and their Dams:
How to pitch the fold, and then
How he should remoue agen:
Taught him when the Corne was ripe,
How to make an Oaten Pipe,
How to ioyne them, how to cut them,
When to open, when to shut them,
And with all the skill he had
Did instruct this willing lad.

Willie.
Happy surely was that Swaine!
And he was not taught in vaine:
Many a one that prouder is,
Han not such a song as this,
And haue garlands for their meed,
That but iarre as Skeltons reed.

Roget.
Tis too true: But see the Sunne
Hath his iourney fully run;
And his horses all in sweate
In the Ocean coole their heate;
Seuer we our sheepe and fold them,
T'will be night ere we haue told them.

Thomas Occleeve, one of the priuy Seale, composed first this tale, and was neuer till now imprinted. As this shall please, I may be drawne to publish the rest of his workes, being all perfect in my hands. Hee wrote in Chavcers time.


199

The second Eglogue. Two Shepheards here complaine the wrong

The Argvment.

Two Shepheards here complaine the wrong
Done by a swinish Lout,
That brings his Hogges their Sheepe among,
And spoyles the Plaine throughout.
Willie. Iockie.
Willie.
Iockie, say: what might he be
That sits on yonder hill?
And tooteth out his notes of glee
So vncouth and so shril?

Iockie.
Notes of glee? bad ones I trow,
I haue not heard beforne

200

One so mistooke as Willie now,
Tis some Sow-gelders horne.
And well thou asken mightst if I
Do know him, or from whence
He comes, that to his Minstralsie
Requires such patience.
He is a Swinward, but I thinke
No Swinward of the best.
For much he reketh of his swinke,
And carketh for his rest.

Willie.
Harme take the Swine! What makes he heere?
What lucklesse planets frownes
Haue drawne him and his Hogges in feere
To root our daisied downes.
Ill mote hee thriue! and may his Hogges
And all that ere they breed
Be euer worried by our Dogges,
For so presumptuous deed.
Why kept hee not among the Fennes,
Or in the Copses by,
Or in the Woods and braky glennes,
Where Hawes and Acornes lye?
About the Ditches of the Towne,
Or Hedge-rowes hee might bring them.

Iockie.
But then some pence 'twould cost the Clowne
To yoke and eke to ring them;
And well I weene he loues no cost
But what is for his backe:
To goe full gay him pleaseth most,
And lets his belly lacke.
Two sutes he hath, the one of blew,
The other home-spun gray:

201

And yet he meanes to make a new
Against next reuell day;
And though our May-lord at the feast
Seem'd very trimly clad,
In cloth by his owne mother drest,
Yet comes not neere this lad.
His bonnet neatly on his head,
With button on the top,
His shooes with strings of leather red,
And stocking to his slop.
And yet for all it comes to passe,
He not our gybing scapes:
Some like him to a trimmed Asse,
And some to Iacke-an-Apes.

Willie.
It seemeth then by what is said,
That Iockie knowes the Boore;
I would my scrip and hooke haue laid
Thou knewst him not before.

Iockie.
Sike lothed chance by fortune fell
(If fortune ought can doe):
Not kend him? Yes. I ken him well
And sometime paid for't too.

Willie.
Would Iockie euer stoope so low,
As conissance to take
Of sike a Churle? Full well I know
No Nymph of spring or lake,
No Heardesse, nor no shepheards gerle
But faine would sit by thee,
And Sea-nymphs offer shells of perle
For thy sweet melodie.

202

The Satyrs bring thee from the woods
The Straw-berrie for hire,
And all the first fruites of the budds
To wooe thee to their quire.
Siluanus songsters learne thy straine,
For by a neighbour spring
The Nightingale records againe
What thou dost primely sing.
Nor canst thou tune a Madrigall,
Or any drery mone,
But Nymphs, or Swaines, or Birds, or all
Permit thee not alone.
And yet (as though deuoid of these)
Canst thou so low decline,
As leaue the louely Naides
For one that keepeth Swine?
But how befell it?

Iockie.
Tother day
As to the field I set me,
Neere to the May-pole on the way
This sluggish Swinward met me.
And seeing Weptol with him there,
Our fellow-swaine and friend,
I bad, good day, so on did fare
To my preposed end.
But as backe from my wintring ground
I came the way before,
This rude groome all alone I found
Stand by the Ale-house dore.
There was no nay, but I must in
And taste a cuppe of Ale;
Where on his pot he did begin
To stammer out a tale.
He told me how he much desir'd

203

Th' acquaintance of vs Swaines,
And from the forrest was retir'd
To graze vpon our plaines:
But for what cause I cannot tell,
He can nor pipe nor sing,
Nor knowes he how to digge a well,
Nor neatly dresse a spring:
Nor knowes a trappe nor snare to till,
He sits as in a dreame;
Nor scarce hath so much whistling skill
Will hearten-on a teame.
Well, we so long together were,
I gan to haste away,
He licenc'd me to leaue him there,
And gaue me leaue to pay.

Willie.
Done like a Swinward! may you all
That close with such as he,
Be vsed so! that gladly fall
Into like company.
But if I faile not in mine Art,
Ile send him to his yerd,
And make him from our plaines depart
With all his durty herd.
I wonder he hath suffred been
Vpon our Common heere,
His Hogges doe root our yonger trees
And spoyle the smelling breere.
Our purest welles they wallow in,
All ouer-spred with durt,
Nor will they from our Arbours lin,
But all our pleasures hurt.
Our curious benches that we build
Beneath a shady tree,
Shall be orethrowne, or so defilde

204

As we would loath to see.
Then ioyne we, Iockie; for the rest
Of all our fellow Swaines,
I am assur'd, will doe their best
To rid him fro our plaines.

Iockie.
What is in me shall neuer faile
To forward such a deed.
And sure I thinke wee might preuaile
By some Satyricke reed.

Willie.
If that will doe, I know a lad
Can hit the maister-vaine.
But let vs home, the skyes are sad,
And clouds distill in raine.


205

The Third Eglogve. Old Neddy's pouertie they mone

The Argvment.

Old Neddy's pouertie they mone,
Who whilome was a Swaine
That had more Sheepe himselfe alone,
Then ten vpon the plaine.
Piers. Thomalin.
Thomalin.
Where is euery piping lad
That the fields are not yclad
With their milk-white sheep?
Tell me: Is it Holy-day,
Or if in the Month of May
Vse they long to sleepe?


206

Piers.
Thomalin, 'tis not too late,
For the Turtle and her mate
Sitten yet in nest:
And the Thrustle hath not been
Gath'ring worms yet on the green
But attends her rest.
Not a bird hath taught her yong,
Nor her mornings lesson sung
In the shady groue:
But the Nightingale in darke
Singing woke the mounting Larke:
She records her loue.
Not the Sun hath with his beames
Guilded yet our christall streames,
Rising from the Sea,
Mists do crowne the mountaines tops,
And each pretty mirtle drops:
Tis but newly day.
Yet see, yonder (though vnwist)
Some man commeth in the mist;
Hast thou him beheld?
See he crosseth or'e the land
With a dogg and staffe in hand,
Limping for his eld.

Thomalin.
Yes, I see him, and doe know him,
And we all do reu'rence owe him,
Tis the aged Sire
Neddy; that was wont to make
Such great feasting at the wake,
And the blessing-fire.
Good old man! see how he walkes
Painfull and among the balkes
Picking lockes of wull!

207

I haue knowne the day when he
Had as much as any three,
When their lofts were full.
Vnderneath yond hanging rockes
All the valley with his Flockes
Was whilome ouer-spread:
Hee had milch-goates without peeres,
Well-hung kine, and fatned steeres
Many hundred head.
Wilkins cote his Dairy was,
For a dwelling it may passe
With the best in towne.
Curds and Creame with other cheare
Haue I had there in the yeare
For a greeny gowne.
Lasses kept it, as againe
Were not fitted on the plaine
For a lusty dance:
And at parting, home would take vs,
Flawnes or Sillibubs to make vs
For our iouisance.
And though some in spight would tell,
Yet old Neddy tooke it well;
Bidding vs againe
Neuer at his Cote be strange:
Vnto him that wrought this change,
Mickle be the paine!

Piers.
What disaster, Thomalin
This mischance hath cloth'd him in,
Quickly tellen me?
Rue I doe his state the more,
That hee clipped heretofore
Some felicity.
Han by night accursed theeues

208

Slaine his Lambs, or stolne his Beeues,
Or consuming fire
Brent his shearing-house, or stall;
Or a deluge drowned all,
Tell me it intire?
Haue the Winters been so set
To raine and snow, they haue wet
All his driest Laire:
By which meanes his sheepe haue got
Such a deadly curelesse rot,
That none liuing are?

Thomalin.
Neither waues, nor theeues, nor fire,
Not haue rots impoor'd this Sire,
Suretiship, nor yet
Was the vsurer helping on
With his damn'd extortion,
Nor the chaines of debt.
But deceit that euer lies
Strongest arm'd for treacheries
In a bosom'd friend:
That (and onely that) hath brought it:
Cursed be the head that wrought it,
And the basest end!
Groomes he had, and he did send them
With his heards a-field, to tend them,
Had they further been;
Sluggish, lazy, thriftlesse elues,
Sheep had better kept themselues
From the Foxes teen.
Some would kill their sheepe, and then
Bring their maister home agen
Nothing but the skin;
Telling him, how in the morne
In the fold they found them torne,

209

And nere lying lin.
If they went vnto the faire
With a score of fatned ware,
And did chance to sell:
If old Neddy had againe
Halfe his owne, I dare well saine,
That but seldome fell.
They at their returne would say,
Such a man or such would pay,
Well knowne of your Hyne.
Alas poore man! that subtill knaue
Vndid him, and vaunts it braue,
Though his Maister pine.
Of his maister he would begg
Such a lambe that broke his legg,
And if there were none:
To the fold by night hee'd hye,
And them hurt full rufully
Or with staffe or stone.
Hee would haue petitions new,
And for desp'rate debts would sue
Neddy had forgot:
He would grant: the other then
Tares from poore and aged men:
Or in Iayles they rot.
Neddy lately rich in store,
Giuing much, deceiued more,
On a sudden fell;
Then the Steward lent him gold,
Yet no more then might bee told
Worth his maisters Cell.
That is gone, and all beside
(Well-a-day, alacke the tide):
In a hollow den
Vnderneath yond gloomy wood
Wons he now, and wails the brood

210

Of ingrateful men.

Piers.
But alas! now hee is old,
Bit with hunger, nipt with cold,
What is left him?
Or to succour, or releeue him,
Or from wants oft to repreeue him.

Thomalin.
Al's bereft him,
Saue he hath a little crowd,
(Hee in youth was of it prowd)
And a dogge to dance:
With them he on holy-dayes
In the Farmers houses playes
For his sustenance.

Piers.
See; he's neere, let's rise and meet him,
And with dues to old age greet him,
It is fitting so.

Thomalin.
Tis a motion good and sage,
Honour still is due to age:
Vp, and let vs go.

 

The Midsummer fires are tearmed so in the West parts of England.


211

The Fovrth Eglogve. Vnder an aged Oke was Willy laid

The Argvment.

In this the Author bewailes the death of one whom he shadoweth vnder the name of Philarete, compounded of the Greeke words φιλος and αρετη, a louer of vertue, a name well befitting him to whose memory these lines are consecrated, being sometime his truly loued (and now as much lamented) friend Mr Thomas Manvvood sonne to the worthy Sir Peter Manvvood Knight.

Vnder an aged Oke was Willy laid,
Willy, the lad who whilome made the rockes
To ring with ioy, whilst on his pipe he plaid,
And from their maisters wood the neighbring flockes:
But now o're-come with dolors deepe
That nye his heart-strings rent,

212

Ne car'd he for his silly sheepe,
Ne car'd for merriment.
But chang'd his wonted walkes
For vncouth paths vnknowne,
Where none but trees might heare his plaints,
And eccho rue his mone.
Autumne it was, when droop't the sweetest floures,
And Riuers (swolne with pride) orelook'd the bankes;
Poore grew the day of Summers golden houres,
And void of sapp stood Ida's Cedar-rankes,
The pleasant meadows sadly lay
In chill and cooling sweats
By rising fountaines, or as they
Fear'd Winters wastfull threats.
Against the broad-spred Oke,
Each winde in fury beares;
Yet fell their leaues not halfe so fast
As did the Shepheards teares.
As was his seate, so was his gentle heart,
Meeke and deiected, but his thoughts as hye
As those aye-wandring lights, who both impart
Their beames on vs, and heauen still beautifie.
Sad was his looke, (ô heauy Fate!
That Swaine should be so sad
Whose merry notes the forlorne mate
With greatest pleasure clad.)
Broke was his tunefull pipe
That charm'd the Christall Floods,
And thus his griefe tooke airie wings
And flew about the woods.

213

Day, thou art too officious in thy place,
And night too sparing of a wished stay,
Yee wandring lampes, ô be ye fixt a space!
Some other Hemisphere grace with your ray.
Great Phœbus! Daphne is not heere,
Nor Hyacinthus faire;
Phœbe! Endimion and thy deere
Hath long since cleft the aire.
But yee haue surely seene
(Whom we in sorrow misse)
A Swaine whom Phœbe thought her loue,
And Titan deemed his.
But he is gone; then inwards turne your light,
Behold him there: here neuer shall you more;
O're-hang this sad plaine with eternall night!
Or change the gaudy green she whilome wore
To fenny blacke. Hyperion great
To ashy palenesse turne her!
Greene well befits a louers heate
But blacke beseemes a mourner.
Yet neither this thou canst,
Nor see his second birth,
His brightnesse blindes thine eye more now,
Then thine did his on earth.
Let not a shepheard on our haplesse plaines
Tune notes of glee, as vsed were of yore!
For Philaret is dead, let mirthfull straines
With Philarete cease for euermore!
And if a fellow swaine doe liue
A niggard of his teares,
The Shepheardesses all will giue
To store him part of theirs.
Or I would lend him some,
But that the store I haue

214

Will all be spent before I pay
The debt I owe his graue.
O what is left can make me leaue to mone,
Or what remains but doth increase it more?
Looke on his sheepe: alas! their masters gone.
Looke on the place where we two heretofore
With locked arms haue vowd our loue,
(Our loue which time shall see
In shepheards songs for euer moue,
And grace their harmony)
It solitary seemes.
Behold our flowrie beds;
Their beauties fade, and Violets
For sorrow hang their heads.
Tis not a Cypresse bough, a count'nance sad,
A mourning garment, wailing Elegie,
A standing herse in sable vesture clad,
A Toombe built to his names eternitie,
Although the shepheards all should striue
By yearly obsequies,
And vow to keepe thy fame aliue
In spight of destinies
That can suppresse my griefe:
All these and more may be,
Yet all in vaine to recompence
My greatest losse of thee.
Cypresse may fade, the countenance bee changed,
A garment rot, an Elegie forgotten,
A herse 'mongst irreligious rites bee ranged,
A toombe pluckt down, or else through age be rotten:

215

All things th' vnpartiall hand of Fate
Can raze out with a thought,
These haue a seu'rall fixed date
Which ended, turne to nought.
Yet shall my truest cause
Of sorrow firmly stay,
When these effects the wings of Time
Shall fanne and sweepe away.
Looke as a sweet Rose fairely budding forth
Bewrayes her beauties to th' enamour'd morne,
Vntill some keene blast from the enuious North
Killes the sweet budd that was but newly borne;
Or else her rarest smels delighting
Make her her selfe betray,
Some white and curious hand inuiting
To plucke her thence away.
So stands my mournfull case,
For had he beene lesse good,
He yet (vncropt) had kept the stocke
Whereon he fairely stood.
Yet though so long hee liu'd not as hee might,
Hee had the time appointed to him giuen.
Who liueth but the space of one poore night,
His birth, his youth, his age is in that Eeuen.
Who euer doth the period see
Of dayes by heau'n forth plotted,
Dyes full of age, as well as hee
That had more yeares alotted.
In sad Tones then my verse
Shall with incessant teares
Bemoane my haplesse losse of him,
And not his want of yeares.

216

In deepest passions of my griefe-swolne breast
(Sweete soule!) this onely comfort seizeth me,
That so few yeares did make thee so much blest,
And gaue such wings to reach Eternity.
Is this to dye? No: as a shippe
Well built with easie winde
A lazy hulke doth farre out-strippe,
And soonest harbour finde:
So Philarete fled,
Quicke was his passage giuen,
When others must haue longer time
To make them fit for heauen.
Then not for thee these briny teares are spent,
But as the Nightingale against the breere
Tis for my selfe I moane, and doe lament
Not that thou left'st the world, but left'st mee heere:
Heere, where without thee all delights
Faile of their pleasing powre,
All glorious dayes seeme vgly nights;
Me thinkes no Aprill showre
Embroder should the earth,
But briny teares distill,
Since Flora's beauties shall no more
Be honour'd by thy quill.
And yee his sheepe (in token of his lacke),
Whilome the fairest flocke on all the plaine,
Yeane neuer Lambe, but bee it cloath'd in blacke:
Yee shady Sicamours, when any Swaine

217

To carue his name vpon your rinde
Doth come, where his doth stand,
Shedde droppes, if he be so vnkinde
To raze it with his hand.
And thou, my loued Muse,
No more should'st numbers moue,
But that his name should euer liue,
And after death my loue.
This said, he sigh'd, and with o're-drowned eyes
Gaz'd on the heauens for what he mist on earth,
Then from the earth full sadly gan arise
As farre from future hope as present mirth;
Vnto his Cote with heauy pace
As euer sorrow trode
He went with minde no more to trace,
Where mirthfull Swaines abode,
And as he spent the day,
The night he past alone,
Was neuer Shepheard lou'd more deere,
Nor made a truer mone.

218

TO THE VERTVOVS and much lamenting Sisters of my euer admired friend, Mr Thomas Manvvood.

illustration
To me more known then you, is your sad chance,
Oh! had I still enjoy'd such ignorance;
Then I by these spent teares had not bin known,
Nor left anothers griefe to sing mine owne.
Yet since his fate hath wrought these throes
Permit a Partner in your woes:
The cause doth yeeld, and still may do
Ynough for Yov, and others too
But if such plaints for Yov are kept,
Yet may I grieue since you haue wept.
For hee more perfect growes to bee
That feeles anothers Miserie.
And thogh these drops wch mourning run,
From seuerall Fountaines first begun:
And some farre off, some neerer fleete,
They will (at last) in one streame meete.
Mine shal with yours, yours mix wth mine
And make one Offring at his Shrine:
For whose Eternitie on earth, my Muse
To build this Altar, did her best skill vse;
And that you, I, and all that held him deere,
Our teares and sighes might freely offer heere.

219

The Fifth Eglogve.

To his ingenious friend Mr. Christopher Brooke.

The Argvment.

Willy incites his friend to write
Things of a higher fame
Then silly Shephards vse endite
Vaild in a Shepheards name.
Willy and Cvtty.
Morne had got the start of night,
Lab'ring men were ready dight
With their shouels and their spades
For the field, and (as their trades)
Or at hedging wrought or ditching
For their food more then enritching.
When the shepheards from the fold

220

All their bleating charges told,
And (full carefull) search'd if one
Of all their flocke were hurt or gone,
Or (if in the night-time cul'd)
Any had their fleeces pul'd:
'Mongst the rest (not least in care)
Cvtty to his fold gan fare,
And yong Willy (that had giuen
To his flocke the latest euen
Neighbourhood with Cvtty's sheep)
Shaking off refreshing sleepe,
Hy'd him to his charge that blet;
Where he (busied) Cvtty met.
Both their sheepe told, and none mist
Of their number; then they blist
Pan and all the Gods of plaines
For respecting of their traines
Of silly sheepe, and in a song
Praise gaue to that holy throng.
Thus they draue their flockes to graze,
Whose white fleeces did amaze
All the Lillies, as they passe
Where their vsuall feeding was.
Lillies angry that a creature
Of no more eye-pleasing feature
Then a sheepe, by natures duty
Should be crownd with far more beauty
Then a Lilly, and the powre
Of white in sheepe outgoe a flowre,
From the middle of their sprout
(Like a Furies sting) thrust out
Dart-like forks in death to steep them;
But great Pan did safely keepe them,
And affoorded kinde repaire
To their dry and wonted laire,
Where their maisters (that did eye them)

221

Vnderneath a Haw-thorne by them,
On their pipes thus gan to play,
And with rimes weare out the day.
Willie.
Cease, Cvtty, cease, to feed these simple Flockes,
And for a Trumpet change thine Oaten-reeds;
O're-looke the vallies as aspiring rockes,
And rather march in steele then shepheards weeds.
Beleeue me, Cvtty! for heroicke deeds
Thy verse is fit, not for the liues of Swaines,
(Though both thou canst do well) and none proceeds
To leaue high pitches for the lowly plaines:
Take thou a Harpe in hand, striue with Apollo;
Thy Muse was made to lead, then scorne to follow.

Cuttie.
Willy, to follow sheepe I ne're shall scorne,
Much lesse to follow any Deity;
Who 'gainst the Sun (though weakned by the morne)
Would vie with lookes, needeth an Eagles eye,
I dare not search the hidden mistery
Of tragicke Scenes; nor in a buskin'd stile
Through death and horror march, nor their height fly
Whose pens were fed with blood of this faire Ile.
It shall content me on these happy downes
To sing the strife for garlands, not for crownes.

Willie.
O who would not aspire, and by his wing
Keep stroke with fame, and of an earthly iarre
Another lesson teach the Spheres to sing?
Who would a shepheard that might be a star?

222

See, learned Cutty, on yond mountaines are
Cleere springs arising, and the climbing goat,
That can get vp, hath water cleerer farre
Then when the streames do in the vallies float.
What mad-man would a race by torch-light run
That might his steps haue vsher'd by the Sunne?
We Shepheards tune our layes of Shepheards loues,
Or in the praise of shady groues or springs;
We seldome heare of Citherea's Doues,
Except when some more learned Shepheard sings;
And equall meed haue to our sonetings:
A Belt, a sheep-hooke, or a wreath of flowres,
Is all we seeke, and all our versing brings;
And more deserts then these are seldome ours.
But thou whose muse a falcons pitch can sore
Maist share the bayes euen with a Conqueror.

Cuttie.
Why doth not Willy then produce such lines
Of men and armes as might accord with these?

Willie.
'Cause Cutties spirit not in Willy shines,
Pan cannot weild the Club of Hercules,
Nor dare a Merlin on a Heron seise.
Scarce know I how to fit a shepheards eare:
Farre more vnable shall I be to please
In ought, which none but semi-gods must heare.
When by thy verse (more able) time shall see,
Thou canst giue more to kings then kings to thee.

Cuttie.
But (wel-a-day) who loues the muses now,
Or helpes the climber of the sacred hill?

223

None leane to them, but striue to disalow
All heauenly dewes the goddesses distill.

Willie.
Let earthly mindes base mucke for euer fill,
Whose musicke onely is the chime of gold,
Deafe be their eares to each harmonious quil!
As they of learning thinke, so of them hold.
And if ther's none deserues what thou canst doe,
Be then the Poet and the Patron too.
I tell thee, Cuttie, had I all the sheepe,
With thrice as many moe, as on these plaines
Or shepheard or faire maiden sits to keepe,
I would them all forgoe, so I thy straines
Could equalize. O how our neatest swaines
Do trim themselues, when on a holy-day
They hast to heare thee sing, knowing the traines
Of fairest Nymphs wil come to learne thy lay.
Well may they run and wish a parting neuer,
So thy sweet tongue might charme their eares for euer.

Cuttie.
These attributes (my lad) are not for me,
Bestow them where true merit hath assign'd—

Willie.
And do I not, bestowing them on thee?
Beleeue me, Cuttie, I doe beare this minde,
That whereso'ere we true deseruing finde,
To giue a silent praise is to detract;
Obscure thy verses (more then most refin'd)
From any one of dulnesse to compact.
And rather sing to trees then to such men,
Who know not how to crowne a Poets pen.


224

Cuttie.
Willy, by thy incitement I'le assay
To raise my subiect higher than tofore,
And sing it to our Swaines next holy-day,
Which (as approu'd) shall fill them with the store
Of such rare accents; if dislik'd, no more
Will I a higher straine then shepheards vse,
But sing of Woods and Riuers, as before.

Willie.
Thou wilt be euer happy in thy Muse.
But see, the radiant Sun is gotten hye,
Let's seeke for shadow in the groue hereby.


225

The Sixth Eglogve.

The Argvment.

Philos of his Dogge doth bragge
For hauing many feates;
The while the Curre vndoes his bagge,
And all his dinner eates.
Willy. Iockie. Philos.
Willy.
Stay, Iockie, let vs rest here by this spring,
And Philos too, since we so well are met;
This spreading Oke will yeeld vs shadowing
Till Phæbus steeds be in the Ocean wet.

Iockie.
Gladly (kind swaine) I yeeld, so thou wilt play,
And make vs merry with a Roundelay.


226

Philos.
No, Iockie, rather wend we to the wood,
The time is fit, and Filberds waxen ripe,
Let's go and fray the Squirrell from his food;
We will another time heare Willie pipe.

Willie.
But who shall keepe our flockes when we are gone?
I dare not go, and let them feed alone.

Iockie.
Nor I: since but the other day it fell,
Leauing my sheep to graze on yonder plaine,
I went to fill my bottle at the well,
And ere I could return two lambs were slaine.

Philos.
Then was thy dogg ill taught, or else a sleepe;
Such Curres as those shall neuer watch my sheepe.

Willie.
Yet Philos hath a dogg not of the best:
He seemes too lazy, and will take no paines,
More fit to lye at home and take his rest,
Then catch a wandring sheep vpon the plains.

Iockie.
Tis true indeed: and Philos, wot ye what?
I thinke he playes the Fox, he growes so fat!

Philos.
Yet hath not Iockie nor yet Willie seene
A dogge more nimble then is this of mine,
Nor any of the Fox more heedfull beene,
When in the shade I slept, or list to dine.

227

And though I say't, hath better tricks in store
Then both of yours, or twenty couple more.
How often haue the maidens stroue to take him,
When he hath crost the plaine to barke at Crowes?
How many Lasses haue I knowne to make him
Garlands to gird his necke, with which he goes
Vaunting along the lands so wondrous trim,
That not a dog of yours durst barke at him.
And when I list (as often-times I vse)
To tune a Horne-pipe or a Morris-dance,
The dogge (as hee by nature could not chuse)
Seeming asleepe before, will leap and dance.

Willie.
Belike your dog came of a Pedlers brood,
Or Philos musicke is exceeding good.

Philos.
I boast not of his kin, nor of my Reed,
(Though of my reed and him I wel may boast)
Yet if you will aduenture that some meed
Shall be to him that is in action most,
As for a Coller of shrill sounding bels
My dog shall striue with yours, or any's els.

Iockie.
Philos, in truth I must confesse your Wagge
(For so you call him) hath of trickes good store,
To steale the vittailes from his maisters bagge
More cunningly I nere saw dogge before.
See, Willy, see! I prithee, Philos, note
How fast thy bread & cheese goes down his throte.

Willie.
Now, Philos, see how mannerly your Curre,

228

Your well-taught dog, that hath so many trickes,
Deuoures your Dinner.

Philos.
I wish 'twere a burre
To choke the Mungrell!

Iockie.
See how cleane he lickes
Your Butter-boxe; by Pan, I doe not meanly
Loue Philos dog that loues to be so cleanly.

Philos.
Well flouted, Iockie.

Willie.
Philos! run amaine,
For in your scrip hee now hath thrust his head
So farre, he cannot get it forth againe;
See how he blind-fold strags along the mead,
And at your scrip your bottle hangs, I thinke.
He loues your meat, but cares not for your drinke.

Iockie.
I, so it seemes: and Philos now may goe
Vnto the wood, or home for other cheere.

Philos.
Twere better he had neuer seru'd me so:
Sweet meat, sowre sauce, he shal abye it deere.
What, must he be aforehand with his maister?

Willie.
Onely in kindnesse hee would be your taster.


229

Philos.
Well, Willy, you may laugh, and vrge my spleen;
But by my hooke I sweare he shall it rue,
And had far'd better had hee fasting been.
But I must home for my allowance new.
So farewell, lads. Looke to my fleeced traine
Till my returne.

Iockie.
We will.

Willie.
Make haste againe.


230

The Seventh Eglogve.

The Argvment.

Palinode intreates his friend
To leaue a wanton Lasse;
Yet hee pursues her to his end
And lets all Councell passe.
Palinode. Hobbinol.
Whither wends Hobbinoll so early day?
What, be thy Lamkins broken from the fold,
And on the plaines all night haue run astray?
Or are thy sheepe and sheep-walkes both yfold?
What mister-chance hath brought thee to the field
Without thy sheepe? thou wert not wont to yeeld

231

To idle sport,
But didst resort
As early to thy charge from drowzy bed
As any shepheard that his flocke hath fed
Vpon these downes.
Hobbinoll.
Such heauy frownes
Fortune for others keepes; but bends on me
Smiles would befit the seat of maiestie.
Hath Palinode
Made his abode
Vpon our plaines, or in some vncouth Cell,
That heares not what to Hobbinoll befell?
Phillis the faire, and fairer is there none,
To morrow must be linkt in marriage bands,
Tis I that must vndo her virgin Zone:
Behold the man, behold the happy hands.

Palinode.
Behold the man! Nay then the woman too:
Though both of them are very smal beholding
To any powre that set them on to wooe.
Ah Hobbinoll! it is not worth vnfolding
What shepheards say of her; thou canst not chuse
But heare what language all of Phillis vse;
Yet, then such tongues
To her belongs
More men to sate her lust. Vnhappy elfe!
That wilt be bound to her to loose thy selfe.
Forsake her first.

Hobinoll.
Thou most accurst!
Durst thou to slander thus the innocent,
The graces patterne, Vertues president?

232

She in whose eye
Shines modesty:
Vpon whose brow lust neuer lookes with hope?
Venus rul'd not in Phillis Horoscope.
Tis not the vapour of a Hemblocke stem
Can spoile the perfume of sweet Cynnamon;
Nor vile aspersions, or by thee or them
Cast on her name, can stay my going on.

Palinode.
On maist thou goe, but not with such a one,
Whom (I dare sweare) thou knowst is not a maid:
Remember, when I met her last alone,
As wee to yonder Groue for filberds straid,
Like to a new-strook Doe from out the bushes
Lacing herselfe, and red with gamesome blushes
Made towards the greene,
Loth to be seene:
And after in the groue the goatheard met:
What saidst thou then? If this preuaile not, yet
I'le tell thee moe.
Not long agoe
Too long I lou'd her, and as thou dost now,
Would sweare Diana was lesse chaste then she,
That Iupiter would court her, knew he how
To finde a shape might tempt such chastity:
And that her thoughts were pure as new-falne snow,
Or siluer swans that trace the bankes of Poe,
And free within
From spot of sin:
Yet like the flinte her lust-swolne breast conceal'd
A hidden fire; and thus it was reueal'd:
Cladon, the Lad
Who whilome had
The Garland giuen for throwing best the barre,
I know not by what chance or lucky star,

233

Was chosen late
To bee the mate
Vnto our Lady of the gleesome May,
And was the first that danc'd each holyday.
None would hee take but Phillis forth to dance,
Nor any could with Phillis dance but hee,
On Palinode shee thenceforth not a glance
Bestowes, but hates him and his pouerty,
Cladon had sheepe and lims for stronger lode
Then ere shee saw in simple Palinode;
Hee was the man
Must clip her than;
For him shee wreathes of flowers and chaplets made,
To strawberries inuites him in the shade
In sheering time:
And in the prime
Would helpe to clip his sheepe and gard his lambs,
And at a need lend him her choicest rams;
And on each stocke
Worke such a clocke
With twisted couloured thred, as not a Swaine
On all these downes could shew the like againe.
But as it seemes, the Well grew dry at last,
Her fire vnquench'd; and shee hath Cladon left.
Nor was I sorry; nor do wish to taste
The flesh whereto so many flyes haue cleft.
Oh Hobbinoll! Canst thou imagine shee
That hath so oft beene tryde, so oft misdone,
Can from all other men bee true to thee?
Thou knowst with mee, with Cladon, shee hath gone
Beyond the limites that a maiden may,
And can the name of wife those rouings stay?
Shee hath not ought
That's hid, vnsought:
These eyes, these hands, so much know of that woman
As more thou canst not; can that please that's cōmon?

234

No: should I wed,
My marriage bed
And all that it containes should as my heart
Be knowne but to my selfe; if wee impart
What golden rings
The Fairie brings,
Wee loose the Iem: nor will they giue vs more.
Wiues loose their value, if once knowne before.
Behold this Violet that cropped lyes,
I know not by what hand, first from the stem,
With what I plucke my selfe shall I it prise?
I scorne the offals of a Diadem.
A Virgins bed hath millions of delights,
If then good parents please shee know no more:
Nor hath her seruants nor her fauorites
That waite her husbands issuing at dore.
Shee that is free both from the act and eye
Onely deserues the due of Chastitie.
But Phillis is
As farre from this,
As are the Poles in distance from each other:
Shee well beseemes the daughter of her mother.
Is there a brake
By Hill or Lake
In all our plaines that hath not guilty beene
In keeping close her stealths; the Paphian Queene
Ne're vs'd her skill
To win her will
Of yong Adonis with more heart then shee
Hath her allurements spent to work on mee.
Leaue, leaue her, Hobinol; shee is so ill
That any one is good that's nought of her,
Though she be faire, the ground which oft we till
Growes with his burden old and barrenner.

Hobbinoll.
With much ado, and with no little paine

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Haue I out-heard thy railing 'gainst my loue:
But it is common, what wee cannot gaine
Wee oft disualew; sooner shalt thou moue
Yond lofty Mountain from the place it stands,
Or count the Medowes flowers, or Isis sands,
Then stirre one thought
In mee, that ought
Can be in Phillis which Diana faire
And all the Goddesses would not wish their.
Fond man, then cease
To crosse that peace
Which Phillis vertue and this heart of mine
Haue well begun; and for those words of thine
I do forgiue,
If thou wilt liue
Heereafter free from such reproaches moe,
Since goodnesse neuer was without her foe.

Palinode.
Beleeue mee, Hobinoll, what I haue said
Was more in loue to thee then hate to her:
Thinke on thy liberty; let that bee weigh'd;
Great good may oft betide, if wee deferre,
And vse some short delayes ere marriage rites;
Wedlocke hath daies of toile as ioysome nights.
Canst thou bee free
From iealousy?
Oh no: that plague will so infect thy braine
That onely death must worke thy peace againe.
Thou canst not dwell
One minute well
From whence thou leau'st her; locke on her thy gate,
Yet will her minde bee still adulterate.
Not Argos eyes
Nor ten such spies
Can make her onely thine; for shee will do
With those that shall make thee mistrust them too.


236

Hobbinoll.
Wilt thou not leaue to taint a virgines name?

Palinode.
A virgine? yes: as sure as is her mother.
Dost thou not heare her good report by fame.

Hobbinoll.
Fame is a lyer, and was neuer other.

Palinode.
Nay, if shee euer spoke true, now shee did:
And thou wilt once confesse what I foretold:
The fire will bee disc[l]os'd that now lies hid,
Nor will thy thought of her thus long time hold.
Yet may shee (if that possible can fall)
Bee true to thee, that hath beene false to all.

Hobbinoll.
So pierce the rockes
A Red-breasts knockes
As the beleefe of ought thou tell'st mee now.
Yet bee my guest to morrow.

Pallinode.
Speed your plough.
I feare ere long
You'le sing a song
Like that was sung heereby not long ago:
Where there is carrion neuer wants a crow.

Hobinoll.
Ill tutor'd Swaine,
If on the plaine

237

Thy sheep hence-forward come where mine do feed,
They shall bee sure to smart for thy misdeed.

Palinode.
Such are the thankes a friends fore-warning brings.
Now by the loue I euer bore thee, stay!
Meete not mishaps! themselues haue speedy wings.

Hobbinoll.
It is in vaine. Farewell. I must away.

Finis. W. B.

239

THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE.

pesented by the gentlemen there. Jan. 13. 1614. Written by W. BROWNE.
------ Non semper Gnosius arcus
Destinat, exemplo sed laxat cornua nervo.
Ovid. ad Pisonem.


241

To the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple.

243

THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE.

[THE FIRSTE SCENE.]

The Description of THE FIRSTE SCENE.

On one side the hall towardes the lower end was discovered a cliffe of the sea done over in parte white accordinge to that of Virgill, lib. 5.

Jamque adeo scopulos Syrenum advecta subibat
Difficiles quondam multorumque ossibus albos.

Upon yt were seated two Syrens as they are described by Hyginus & Servius wth their upper parts like woemen to the navell and the rest like a hen. One of theese at the firste discouery of the scene (a sea being done in perspective on one side the cliffe) began to singe this songe, beinge as lasciuious perper to them & beginninge as that of theirs in Hom. lib. μ. Οδ. Δευρ' αγ ιων παλυαιν Οδυσευ μεγα κυδος Αχαιων.

Steere hither, steere, your winged pines,
All beaten mariners,
Here lye Loves undiscovred mynes,
A prey to passengers;
Perfumes farre sweeter than the best
Which make ye Phœnix urne and nest.

244

Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips,
But come on shore,
Where no joy dyes till love hath gotten more.
The last two lines were repeated as from a groue nere by a full Chorus, & ye Syren about to sing againe, Triton (in all parts as Apollonius, lib. 4. Argonautis. shewes him) was seene interruptinge her thus:
Triton.
Leaue, leaue, alluring Syren, wth thy song
To hasten wt ye Fates would faine p̄long:
Your sweetest tunes but grones of Mandrakes be;
He his owne traytore is yt heareth thee.
Tethys commaunds, nor is it fit yt you
Should ever glory you did him subdue
By wyles whose pollicyes were never spread
'Till Flaming Troy gave light to haue ym read.
Ulysses now furrowes ye liquid plaine
Doubtfull of seeing Ithaca againe,
For in his way more stops are thrust by time,
Then in ye path where vertue comes to climbe:
She yt wth silver springs for ever fills
The shady groues, sweet meddowes, and ye hills,
From whose continuall store such pooles are fed
As in ye land for seas are famosed.
'Tis she whose favoe to this Grecian tends
And to remove his ruine Triton sends.

Syren.
But 'tis not Tethys, nor a greater powre,
Cynthia, that rules the waues; scearce he (each howre)
That weilds the thunderboltes, can thinges begun
By mighty Circe (daughter to the Sun)
Checke or controule; she yt by charmes can make

245

The scalled fish to leaue the brinye lake,
And on the seas walke as on land she were;
She that can pull ye pale moone from her spheare,
And at mid-day the worlds all glorious eye
Muffle wth cloudes in longe obscuritie;
She that can cold December set on fire,
And from the graue bodyes wth life inspire;
She that can cleaue the center, & wth ease
A prospect make to our Antipodes;
Whose mystique spelles haue fearfull thunders made,
And forc't braue riuers to run retrograde.
She wthout stormes that sturdy oakes can tare
And turne their rootes where late their curl'd toppes were.
She that can wth the winter solstice bringe
All Flora's daintyes, Circe: bids me singe;
And till some greater hand her power can staye,
Who'ere commaunde, I none but her obaye.

Triton.
Then Nereus daughter thus you'le haue me telle.

Syren.
You maye.

Triton.
Thinke on her wrath.

Siren.
I shall. Triton! farewelle.

Siren.
Vaine was thy message, vaine her haste, for I
Muste tune againe my wanton Melodye.

246

Here she went on wth her SONGE thus:
For swellinge waues, our panting brestes
Where neuer stormes arise
Exchange; and be awhile our guestes:
For starres gaze on our eyes.
The compasse loue shall hourely singe,
And as he goes aboute the ringe,
We will not misse
To telle each pointe he nameth wth a kisse.

CHORUS.

Then come on shore,
Where no ioye dyes till loue hath gotten more.
At ye end of this songe Circe was seene upon the rocke, quaintly attyr'd, her haire loose about her shoulders, an Anadem of flowers on her head, wth a wand in her hand, & then makinge towardes the Syrens, cald them thence wth this speech:
Sirens, ynouk; cease; Circe hath prevayld,
The Greeks wch on ye dauncinge billowes sayld,
About whose shippes a hundred Dolphins clunge
Wrapt wth the musicke of Ulysses tongue
Haue wth their guide by powrfull Circes hand
Cast their hookd anchors on Æœa's strand.
Yonde standes a hille crown'd wth high wauinge trees
Whose gallant toppes each neighb'ringe countrye sees,
Under whose shade an hundred Syluans playe,
Wth Gaudy Nymphes farre fairer then ye daye;
Where euerlastinge Springe wth silver showres,
Sweet roses doth encrease to grace our bowres;
Where lauish Fflora prodigall in pride
Spendes what might well enrich all earth beside,
And to adorne this place shee loues so deare,
Stays in some clymats scearcely halfe ye yeare.

247

When would shee to the world indifferent bee,
They should continuall Aprill haue as wee.
Midway ye wood and from ye leueld lands
A spatious yet a curious arbor standes,
Wherein should Phœbus once to pry beginne,
I would benight him 'ere he gette his inne,
Or turne his steedes awrye, so drawe him on
To burne all landes but this like Phaeton.
Ulysses neare his mates by my stronge charmes
Lyes there till my returne in sleepes soft armes:
Then, Syrens, quickly wend we to the bowre
To fitte their well-come, & shew Circes powre.
Siren.
What all the elements doe owe to thee
In their obedience is perform'd in mee.

Circe.
Circe drinkes not of Lethe: then awaye
To helpe ye Nymphes who now begin their laye.

The Seconde Scene.

While Circe was speakinge her first speech, & at these words, ‘Yond standes a hill, &c.’ a trauers was drawne at ye lower end of the hall, & gaue way for the discouery of an artificiall wood so nere imitatinge nature yt I thinke had there been a grove like yt in ye open plaine, birds would have been faster drawne to that than to Zeuxis grapes. Ye trees stood at the climbinge of an hill, & lefte at their feete a little plaine, wch they circled like a crescente. In this space vpon hillockes were seen eight musitians in crimsen taffity robes wth chaplets of lawrell on their heades their lutes by them, wch beinge by them toucht as a warninge to ye Nymphes of ye wood, from amonge the trees was heard this songe.......

248

The Songe in the Wood.

What singe the sweete birdes in each grove?
Nought but loue.
What sound our Ecchos day and night?
All delighte.
What doth each wynd breath vs that fleetes?
Endlesse sweets.

Chorus.

Is there a place on earth this Isle excelles,
Or any Nymphes more happy liue than wee.
When all our songes, our soundes, & breathinges bee,
That here all Loue, Delighte, and Sweetenes dwells.
By this time Circe & ye Syrens being come into ye wood, Vlysses was seene lyeing as asleepe, undr ye couverte of a fair tree, towards whom Circe coming bespake thus:—
Circe.
Yet holdes soft sleepe his course. Now Ithacus
Aiax would offer Hecatombes to vs,
And Iliums rauish'd wifes, & childlesse sires,
Wth incense dym ye bright æthereall fires,
To haue thee bounde in chaynes of sleepe as heere;
But yt [those] mayst behold, & knowe how deare
Thou art to Circe, wth my magicke deepe
And powerfull verses thus I banish sleepe.

The Charme.

Sonne of Erebus & Nighte,
Hye away; and aime thy flighte,
Where consorte none other fowle
Than the batte & sullen owle;
Where upon thy lymber grasse
Poppy & Mandragoras

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Wth like simples not a few
Hange for euer droppes of dewe.
Where flowes Lethe wthout coyle
Softly like a streame of oyle.
Hye thee thither, gentle Sleepe:
Wth this Greeke no longer keepe.
Thrice I charge thee by my wand,
Thrice wth Moly from my hand;
Doe I to touch Vlysses eyes,
And wth the Jaspis: Then arise,
Sagest Greeke........
Vlysses (as by ye power of Circe) awakinge thus began:
Ulysses.
......Thou more than mortalle mayde
Who when thou listes canst make (as if afraide)
The mountaines tremble & wth terrour shake
The seate of Dis; & from Avernus lake
Grim Hecate wth all the Furyes bringe
To worke reuenge; or to thy questioninge
Disclose the secretes of th' infernall shades
Or raise the ghostes yt walke the vnder-glades.
To thee, whom all obey, Ulysses bendes,
But may I aske (greate Circe) whereto tendes
Thy neuer-failinge handes? Shall we be free?
Or must thyne anger crush my mates and mee?

Circe.
Neyther, Laertes' sonne wth winges of loue
To thee, & none but thee, my actions moue.
My arte went wth thee & thou me mayst thanke
In winninge Rhesus horses, e're they dranke
Of Xanthus streame; & when wth human gore
Cleare Hebrus channell was all stayned 'ore;

250

When some braue Greekes, companions then wth thee,
Forgot their country through the Lotos tree;
I tyn'd the firebrande that (beside thy flight)
Left Polyphemus in eternall nighte;
And lastly to Æœa brought thee on,
Safe from the man-deuouring Læstrigon.
This for Ulysses loue hath Circe done,
And if to live wth mee thou shalt be wonne;
Aurora's hand shall neuer drawe awaye
The sable vale yt hides ye gladsome daye.
But we new pleasures will beginne to taste,
And, better stille, those we enjoyed laste.
To instance what I canne: Musicke, thy voyce,
And of all those haue felt or wrath the choyce
Appeare; and in a dance 'gin that delight
Which wth the minutes shall growe infinite.

Here one attir'd like a woodman in all poyntes came forth of ye wood & goeinge tow'ds ye stage sunge this songe, to call away ye firste Antimasque.

Songe.

Come yee whose hornes the cuckold weares,
The whittoll too, wth asses eares;
Let the wolfe leaue howlinge,
The Baboone his scowlinge,
And Grillus hye
Out of his stye.
Though gruntinge, though barking, though brayeing, yee come,
We'ele make yee daunce quiet and so send yee home.
Nor ginne shall snare you
Nor mastiue scare you,

251

Nor learne the baboones trickes
Nor Grillus scoffe
From the hogge troughe,
But turne againe vnto the thickes.
Here's none ('tis hop'd) so foolish, scornes
That any els should weare the hornes,
Here's no curre wth howlinge
Nor an ape wth scowlinge
Shall mocke or moe
At what you showe.
In jumpinge, in skippinge, in turninge, or oughte
You shall doe to please vs, how well or how noughte.
If there be any
Amonge this many,
Whom such an humour steares,
May he still lye,
In Grillus' stye,
Or weare for euer the Asses eares.
While ye first staffe of this songe was singinge out of ye thickets on eythr side of ye passage came rushinge ye Antimasque, beinge such as by Circe were supposed to haue beene transformed (havinge ye mindes of men still) into theese shapes followinge:
  • 2. wth heartes, heades & bodyes as Actæon is pictur'd.
  • 2. like Midas wth Asses eares.
  • 2. like wolues as Lycaon is drawne.
  • 2. like Baboons.
  • Grillus (of whom Plutarche writes in his morralles) in ye shape of a hogge.
These together dancinge an antike measure tow'rdes ye latter end of yt missd Grillus who was newly slipte away & whilst they were at a stand wondringe what was become of him, the woodman stepte forth & sunge this songe:

252

Songe.

Grillus is gone, belyke he hath hearde
The dayry-maid knocke at ye trough in ye yearde:
Through thicke & thinne he wallowes
And weighes nor depths nor shallowes.
Harke how he whynes
Run all 'e're he dines
Then serue him a tricke
For beinge so quicke,
And lette him for all his paines
Behold you turne cleane of
His troughe,
And spill all his wash and his graines. Wth this ye Triplex of yeir tune was plaid twice or thrice our, & by turnes brought thē from ye stage; when ye woodman sung this othr staffe of ye last songe, & then ran after them:

And now 'tis wish'd yt all such as hee
Were rooting wth him at ye troughe or ye tree.
Ffly, fly, from our pure fountaines,
To the darke vales or the mountaines,
Liste some one whines
Wth voyce like a swines,
As angry yt none
Wth Grillus is gone,
Or that he is lefte behinde.
O let there be no staye
In his waye,
To hinder the boare from his kinde.
Circe.
How likes Ulysses this!


253

Ulysses.
........Much like to one
Who in a shipwracke being cast vpon
The froathy shores, and safe beholdes his mates
Equally cross'd by Neptune and the fates.
You might as well haue ask'd how I would like
A straine whose æquall Orpheus could not strike,
Upon a harpe whose stringes none other be,
Then of the harte of chaste Penelope.
O let it be enough that thou in theese
Hast made most wretched Laertiades:
Let yet the sad chance of distressed Greekes
Wth other teares than Sorrowes dewe your cheekes!
Most abiect basenesse hath enthral'd that breste
Wch laughs at men by misery oppreste.

Circe.
In this, as lyllies, or ye new-falne snowe
Is Circe spotlesse yet, what though the bowe
Wch Iris bendes, appeareth to each sight
In various hewes & colours infinite?
The learned knowe that in itselfe is free
And light and shade make that varietye.
Thinges farre off seene seeme not the same they are,
Fame is not ever truth's Discouerer;
For still where enuy meeteth a reporte
Ill she makes worse, & what is Good come shorte.
In whatso'ere this land hath passiue beene
Or she that here 'ore other raigneth Queene
Let wise Ulysses judg. Some I confesse
That tow'rds this Isle not long since did addresse
Their stretched oares, no sooner landed were,
But (carelesse of themselues) they heere & there
Fed on strange fruites, inuenominge their bloodes,
And now like monsters range about the woods.

254

If those thy mates were, yet is Circe free:
For their misfortunes haue not byrth from mee
Who in th' Apothecaries shoppe hath ta'ne
(Whilst he is wantinge) that wch breeds his bane,
Should neuer blame the man who there had plac'd it
But his owne folly urginge him to taste it.

Vlysses.
Æœas Queene and great Hyperions pride,
Pardon misdoubtes; and we are satisfide.

Circe.
Swifter the lightninge comes not from aboue,
Then doe our grants borne on the winges of Loue.
And since what's past doth not Ulysses please,
Call to a dance the fair Nereides,
Wth other Nymphes wch doe in euery creeke,
In woods, on plaines, on mountaines, symples seeke
For powerfull Circe, and let in a songe
Ecchos be aydinge that they may prolonge
My now com̄and to each place where they be,
To bringe them hither all more speedilye.

Presently in ye wood was heard a full musicke of lutes wch descendinge to the stage had to them sung this followinge songe, the Ecchos being plac'd in seueral pts of the passage.

Songe.

Circe bids you come awaye.
Ecch:
Come awaye, come awaye.
From ye riuers, from the sea.

Ecch:
From the sea, from the sea.
From the greene woods euery one.

Ecch:
Euery one, euery one.
Of her maides be missinge none.

Ecch:
Missinge none, missinge none.

255

No longer stay, except it bee to bringe
A med'cine for loues stinge.
That would excuse you & be held more deare
Then witte or Magicke, for both they are heere.

Ecch:
They are here, they are here.

The Eccho had no sooner answered to ye last line of the songe, They are here, but the second Antimasque came in, being seuen Nymphs & were thus attir'd: Fower in white taffita robes long tresses & chaplets of flowers, herbs & weeds on their heades wth little wicker baskets in yeir hands, neatly painted. These were supposed to be maids attending vpon Circe, & usd in gatheringe simples for their mistresses enchantments.—(Pausanias in prioribus Eliacis.) Three in sea greene robes, greenish haire hanging loose wth leaues of corrall & shelles intermixte vpon it. These are by Ouid affirmed to helpe the Nymphes of Circe in their collections by throse: These hauinge danc'd a most curious measure to a softer tune then ye first Antimasque as most fitting returned as they came; the Nereides tow'rds ye cliffes & ye other maides of Circe to ye woods & plaines, after wch Ulysses, thus:
Ulysses.
Fame addes not to thy ioyes, I see in this,
But like a high & stately Pyramis

256

Growes least at farthest; now, faire Circe, grante
Although the faire-hair'd Greeks do neuer vaunte,
That they in measur'd paces ought haue done,
But where the god of battailes ledd them on;
Give leaue that (freed from sleepe) ye small remaine
Of my companions on the under plaine
May in a dance striue how to pleasure thee
Eyther wth skill or wth varietye.

Circe.
Circe is pleas'd; Ulysses, take my wand
And from their eyes each child of sleepe com̄and;
Whilst my choyce maides wth their harmonious voyces
(Whereat each byrd and dancinge springe reioyces)
Charminge the windes when they contrary meete,
Shall make their spirits as nimble as their feete.

The THIRD SCENES

Description. Circe wth this speech deliueringe her wande to Ulysses rests on ye lower parte of ye hill, while he goeing up the hill & striking ye trees wth his wande, suddenly two greate gates flew open, makinge as it were a large glade through the wood, & alonge ye glade a faire walke; two seeminge bricke walles on eyther side, over wch the trees wantonly hunge; a great light (as ye Suns suddaine unmaskinge) being seene upon this discouery. At ye further end was descride an arbor, very curiously done, havinge one entrance under an architreave borne vp by two pillers wth their chapters & bases guilte; ye top of ye entrance beautifide wth postures of Satyres, Wood-Nymphes, & othe anticke worke; as also ye sides & corners: the coveringe archwise interwove wth boughes, ye backe of it girt round wth a vine, & artificially done

257

vp in knottes towrds ye toppe; beyond it was a wood-scene in perspective, the fore part of it opening at Ulysses his approach, the maskers were discouered in severall seates leaninge as asleape.

THEIR ATTIRE. Doublets of greene taffita, cut like oaken leaves, as upon cloth of siluer; their skirtes & winges cut into leaues, deepe round hose of ye same, both lin'd wth sprigge lace spangled; long white sylke stockings; greene pumps, & roses done oue wth syluer leaues; hattes of ye same stuffe, & cut narrowe-brim'd, & risinge smaller compasse at ye crowne, white wreath hatbandes, white plumes, egrettes wth a greene fall, ruffe bands & cuffes. Ulysses seuerally came & touch't euery one of them wth ye wand while this was sunge.

Songe.

Shake of sleepe, yee worthy knights,
Though yee dreame of all delights;
Shew that Venus doth resorte
To the campe as well as courte
By some well-timed measure,
And on your gestures & your paces
Let the well-composed graces,
Lokinge like, and parte wth pleasure.
By this ye knights beinge all risen from their seats were by Ulysses (ye loud musicke soundinge) brought to ye stage; and then to the violins danced their first measure aftewch this songe brought them to the second:

Songe.

On & imitate the Sun,
Stay not to breath till you haue done:

258

Earth doth thinke, as other where
Do some woemen she doth beare:
Those wifes whose husbands only threaten
Are not lou'd like those are beaten.
Then wth your feete to suffringe moue her,
For whilst you beate earth thus, you love her.
Here they danc'd theire second measure, & then this songe was sunge during wch time they take out ye ladyes:

Songe.

Choose now amonge this fairest number,
Upon whose brestes love would for euer slumber:
Choose not amisse since you may where you wylle,
Or blame yourselues for choosinge ille.
Then doe not leaue, though ofte the musicke closes,
Till lillyes in their cheekes be turn'd to roses.

Chorus.

And if it lay in Circes power,
Your blisse might so perseuer,
That those you choose but for an hower
You should enioy for ever.
The knights, wth the ladyes dance here ye old measures, Galliards, Corantoes, the Braules, &c. and then (havinge lead them againe to their places) danced their last measure; after wch this songe called them awaye.

Songe.

Who but Tyme so hasty were
To fly away & leaue you here?
Here where delight
Might well allure

259

A very Stoicke from this night
To turne an Epicure.
But since he calles away; and Time will soone repente,
He staid not longer here, but ran to be more idly spente.
Τελος. Finis. The end.

261

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
[_]

FROM LANSDOWNE MS. 777 AND OTHER SOURCES.


263

I. Love Poems.

[Loue who will, for Ile loue none]

1

Loue who will, for Ile loue none,
Theres fooles enough besides me:
Yet if each woman haue not one,
Come to me where I hide me,
And if she can the place attain,
For once Ile be her foole againe.

2

It is an easye place to find,
And women sure should know it;
Yet thither serues not euery wind,
Nor many men can show it:
It is the storehouse, where doth lye
All womens truth & constancy.

3

If the Jorney be so long,
No woman will aduentvr;

264

But dreading her weake vessels wrong,
Ye voiage will not enter:
Then may she sigh & lye alone,
In loue with all, yet loude of none.

ON A FAIRE LADYES YELLOW HAIRE POWDRED WITH WHITE.

WRITTEN IN THE DISSOLUING OF A SNOW.

Say, why on your hayre yet stayes
That Snow resembling white;
Since the Suns lesse powerfull rayes
Thawd that wch fell last night?
Sure to hinder those extreames
Of Loue they might bestow;
Art hath hid your Golden Beames
Within a fleece of Snow.
Yet as on a Cloth of gould,
With siluer flowers wrought ore,
We doe now and then beholde
A radyant wyre or more:
So sometymes the amorous ayre
Doth with youre faire lockes playe,
And vncloudes a Golden hayre;
And then breakes forth the daye.
On your Cheekes the Rosy Morne
We plainly then descry;
And a thousand Cupids borne,
And playing in each eye.

265

Now we all are at a staye,
And know not where to turne vs;
If we wish that Snow awaye,
Those Glorious beames would burne vs.
If it should not fall amayne,
And cloud your louefull eyes,
Each gentle heart would sone be slayne,
And made their Sacrifice.

[Not longe agone a youthfull swayne]

Not longe agone a youthfull swayne,
Much wronged by a maid's disdayne,
Before Loues Altar came & did implore
That he might like her lesse, or she loue more.
The god him heard, & she began
To doate on him, he (foolish man)
Cloyde with much sweets, thus changde his note before,
O let her loue me lesse, or I like more.

[Shall I loue againe, & try]

1

Shall I loue againe, & try
If I still must loue to lose,
And make weake mortalitye
Giue new birth vnto my woes?
No, let me euer liue from Loues enclosing,
Rather yn loue to liue in feare of loosing.

2

One whom hasty Nature giues
To the world without his sight,

266

Not so discontented lives,
As a man deprived of light:
'Tis knowledge that gives vigour to our woe,
And not the want, but losse that paines us soe.

3

With the Arabian Bird then be
Both the Louer and belou'd;
Be thy lines thy progeny
By some gracious faire approu'd;
So may'st thou live, & be belov'd of many,
Without the feare of losse, or want of any.

[Deepe are the wounds which strike a vertuous name]

Deepe are the wounds which strike a vertuous name;
Sharpe are the darts Reuenge still sets on wing:
Consumeing Jealousies abhorred flame!
Deadly the frownes of an enraged King.
Yet all these to Disdaynes heart-searching string
(Deepe, sharpe, consuming, deadlye) nothing be,
Whose darts, wounds, flames, and frownes, meet all in me.

[Poore silly foole! thou striv'st in vaine to knowe]

1

Poore silly foole! thou striv'st in vaine to knowe
If I enioy, or loue whom thou lou'st soe;
Since my affection euer secret tryde
Bloomes like the ferne, & seeds still vnespide.

2

And as the subtill flames of Heauen, that wound
The inward part, yet leaue the outward sound:

267

My loue warres on my heart, kills that within,
When merry are my lookes, & fresh my skin.

3

Of yellow Jaundice louers as you be,
Whose Faces straight proclaime their maladye,
Thinke not to find me one; who knowe full well,
That none but french & fooles loue now & tell.

4

His griefes are sweet, his Joyes (o) heauenly move,
Whoe from the world conceales his honest loue;
Nay, letts his Mistris know his passions source,
Rather by reason then by his discourse.

5

This is my way, and in this language new
Shewing my merit, it demands my due;
And hold this Maxim, spight of all dispute,
He askes enough that serues well & is mute.

[Wellcome, wellcome, doe I sing]

Wellcome, wellcome, doe I sing,
Far more wellcome yn ye spring;
He that parteth from you neuer,
Shall enioy a spring for euer.
Love, that to ye voice is nere
Breaking from your Iu'ry pale,
Need not walke abroad to heare
The delightfull Nightingale.
Wellcome, wllc ome, then I sing,
Far more welcome yn ye spring;

268

He that parteth from you neuer,
Shall enioy a spring for euer.
Love, that lookes still on your eyes,
Though ye winter haue begun
To benumbe our Arteryes,
Shall not want the Summers Sun.
Wellcome, wellcome, yn I sing, &c.
Love that still may see your cheekes,
Where all rarenes still reposes,
Is a foole, if ere he seekes
Other Lillyes, other roses.
Wellcome, wellcome, &c.
Love, to whom your soft lips yeelds,
And perceiues your breath in kissing,
All the Odours of the fields
Neuer, neuer shall be missing.
Wellcome, &c.
Love that question would anew
What faire Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a briefe of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, yn I, &c.

[Ye merry birds, leaue of to sing]

Ye merry birds, leaue of to sing,
And lend your eares a while to me;
Or if you needs will court the Spring
With your enticing harmonye,
Flye from this groue, leaue me alone;
Your mirth cannot befit my mone.

269

But if yt any be inclyned
To sing as sad a song as I;
Let that sad bird be now so kind,
As stay & beare me companye:
And we will striue, which shall outgoe
Loues heauy straines, or my sad woe.
Ye Nimphes of Thames, if any Swan
Be readye now her last to sing;
O bring her hither, if yee can,
And sitting by vs in a ring,
Spend each a sigh, while she & I
Together sing, together dye.
Alas! how much I erre to call
More sorrow, where there is such store;
Ye gentle Birds, come not at all,
And Isis' Nimphes forbeare ye shore.
My sighs as groues of mandrakes be,
And would kill any one but me.
To me my griefes none other are,
Then poison is to one, that long
Had fed on it without impaire
Vnto his health, or Natures wrong;
What others liues would quickly spill,
I take, but cannot take to kill.
Then sorrow, since thou wert ordaind
To be ye inmate of my hart,
Thriue there so long, till thou hast gaind
In it then life a greater part:
And if thou wilt not kill, yet be
The means that some one pitye mee.

270

Yet would I not that pitty haue
From any other heart then hers,
Who first my wound of sorrowe gaue;
And if she still that cure deferres,
It was my ffate that did assure
A hand to wound, but none to cure.

A SIGH FROM OXFORD.

Goe, and if thou chance to finde
That is southwardes bent a wynde,
Take it vp on any hire,
But be sure it doe not tyre:
If with Loue-sighes mixt it bee,
Be secure 'twill carry thee;
Spurre it on, and make more haste,
Then ye Fleet that went out last;
Doe not stay to curle a Rill,
Clense a Corne, or driue a Mill;
Nor to crispe a locke, or turne it:
Thou hast fire, and so mayst burne it.
For thy lodging doe not come
In a bagpipe or a drumme:
In the belly of some Lute
That hath strooke Apollo mute;
Or a gentle ladyes eare,
That might dreame, whilst thou art there,
Of such vowes as thou dost carry,
There for one night thou mayst tarry;
Whisper there thy Message to her;
And if she haue any woor,
In her sleepe perhaps she maye
Speake what she denyes the daye,
And instruct thee to replye
To my Cælia more then I.

271

For thy lodging (the next daye)
Doe not thankelesse goe awaye;
Giue the Lute a Test of Ayre,
That a Poets Sigh lay there;
And informe it with a soule
Of so high diuine controule,
That whoeuer heares it next
Shall be with a Muse perplext;
And a Lawyer shall reherse
His Demurres and Pleas in verse.
In the Ladyes Labrynth leaue
Not a sound that may deceaue;
Driue it thence; and after see
Thou there leaue some part of thee,
By which shee maye well descry
Any louers forgery:
For yt neuer will admit
Ought that is not true as it.
When that office thou hast done,
And the Lady lastly wonne,
Let the ayre thou leftst the Girle,
Twine a dropp, and then a pearle;
Which I wish that she would weare
For a pendant in her Eare;
And its vertue still shall be,
To detect all flatterie.
Could I giue each Monarch such,
None would say I sighd to much.
When thy largesse thou hast giuen,
(My best sigh next that for heauen)
Make not any longer stay;
Kisse thine Hostesse, and awaye.
If thou meet, as thou dost stirre,
Any Sigh a Passenger,
Stand vpon thy Guard, and be
Jealous of a Robberye;

272

For the sighes that trauell now,
Beare not so much truth as thou;
Those may robbe thee to supply
That defect of constancye
Which their Masters left to be
Filld by what was stolne from thee:
Yet aduenture, for in soothe
Few dare meddle now with truthe;
'Tis a coyne that will not paye
For their Meat or horses haye;
'Tis cride downe, & such a coyne
As no great Thiefe will purloyne.
Petty-foot-sighes thou mayst meet,
From the counter or the Fleet,
To a Wife or Mistresse sent,
That her Louers meanes hath spent,
Of such ones beware, for those,
Much spent on their masters woes,
May want of that store which thou
Carry'st to my Cælia nowe:
And so robbe thee, and then spend thee,
Soe as I did nere intend thee;
With dishonor thou shalt moue
To begg an Almes, not get a loue.
Shun them, for they haue noe ruthe,
And know that few are hang'd for Truthe:
Naye the Lawes haue bin more briefe
To iayle that theft, more then a thiefe;
The Hue and Cry will not goe post
For the worth which thou hast lost.
Yet for Faith and Truth betrayde
Countryes heretofore haue payde.
Warye be, and fearing Losse,
Like those of the Rosy-Crosse,
Be not seen, but hye thee on
Like an Inspiration;

273

And as ayre, ascending hyer,
Turnes to drops, or else to fire;
So when thou art neerer come
To my Starre, and to thy Home,
If thou meet a Sigh, which she
Hath but coldly sent to me,
Kisse it, for thy warmer ayre
Will dissolue into a teare;
As the steame of Roses will
At the Cold top of a Still:
Nor shalt thou be lost; her eyes
Haue Apollo's facultys;
Their faire Rayes will work amayne,
And turne thee to a Sigh againe.
What thou art yet closely shroude,
Rise vp like a fleecy cloude;
And as thou doest so aspire,
To her Element of fire,
(Which afarre its forces darte,
And exhal'd thee from my heart).
Make thyne owne shape, iust as we
Fashion Clouds by phantasie;
Be a Cupid, be a Heart
Wounded, and her rayes the dart;
Have a Chasma too, and there
Only let our vowes appeare:
Lastly, I would wish thee be
Such a clowd resembling me,
That Ixion-like she might
Claspe thee with his appetite;
Yet more temperate and chaste,
And whilst thou art so imbrac't,
And afforded some sweet sipps
From her Muse inspiring lipps,
Vanish! and then slip by Art
Through those Rubyes to her heart.

274

Wynde yt round, and let yt be
Thoughtles of all earth, but mee;
Grow acquainted with that ayre,
Which doth to her heart repayre;
And so temper and so blysse yt,
And so fanne yt, and so kysse yt,
That the new borne Rose may be,
Not so truly chast as she.
With that Regent, from that howre,
Lieger lye Embassadour:
Keepe our truce vnbroke, preferre
All the suites I send to her:
Get Dyspatches, that may stand
With the good of either hand;
Soe that you be bold and true,
Neuer feare what may ensue;
For there is noe pollicy
Like to that of Honesty.
Gett into her Mynion thought,
Howsoeuer dearly bought;
And procure that she dispense
To transport some kisses thence:
These are Rarityes and deare,
For like hers I meet none heere.
This thy charge is; then begonne
With thy full Cōmission:
Make her myne, and cleere all doubts;
Kill each jealousye that sprouts;
Keepe the honor of thy place;
Let no other sigh Disgrace
Thy iust worth, and neuer sitt
To her, though [s]he brybe for it.
And when I shall call thee home,
To send another in thy roome;
Leaue these thoughts for Agents there:

275

Ffirste, I thinke her pure and chaste,
As the Ice congealed last;
Next, as Iron (though it glowes)
Neuer melts but once, and flowes;
So her loue will only be
Fluent once, and that to me:
Lastly, as the glow-wormes might
Neuer kindled other light,
I belieue that fire which she
Haplye shewes in louing mee,
Neuer will encorage man,
(Though her loues meridian
Heat him to it) once to dare
To mention Loue, though vnaware;
Much lesse fire a Sigh that may
Incorporate with my faire Raye.
I haue read of two erewhile,
Enemyes burnt in one pyle;
That their flames would neuer kisse,
But made a seuerall Pyramis.
Lett all Sighes that come to thee,
By thy loue inlightened be;
If they ioyne and make one flame,
Be secure from me they came.
If they seperate, beware,
There is Craft that would ensnare;
Myne are rarifyde and iust;
Truth and loue: the others lust.
With this charge, farewell, and try
What must be my destenye:
Wooe, secure her; pleade thy due;
This sigh is not so long as true:
And whoever shall enclyne
To send another after myne,
Though he haue more cunning farre,
Then the Jugler Gondimar,

276

All his sleights, and all his faults,
Hollownesse of heart, and halts;
By thy chaster fire will all
Be so wrought diaphanall;
She shall looke through them, and see
How much he comes short of mee:
Then my sigh shall be approud,
And kisse that heart whome I haue loude.

[A haples shepherd on a daye]

A haples shepherd on a daye
Yede to St. Michaels Mounte,
And spent more teares vpon the waye,
Then all the sands could counte.
Ffull was the Sea (so were the eyes
Of the vnhappy Louer)
Yet without Oare or Wynd in Skies,
His sighs did waft him over.

[Coelia is gone, & now sit I]

Coelia is gone, & now sit I
As Philomela, (on a thorne,
Turn'd out of natures liverye)
Mirthles, alone, & all forlorne;
Onelye she sings not, while my sorrowes can
Afford such notes as fit a dying swan.
So shuts the Marygold her leaues
At the departure of ye sunne;
Soe from honeysuckle sheaues
The Bee goes, when ye day is done.
Soe sits the Turtle, when she is but one;
So is all woe; as I, now she is gone.
To some few Birds, kind Nature hath
Made all the summer as one daye,
Which once enioyde, cold winters wrath,
As night, they sleeping passe away:

277

Those happy creatures are, that know not yet
The paines to be deprivde, or to forgett.
I oft haue heard men saye there be
Some, that with confidence professe
The helpefull art of memorie;
But could they teach Forgetfulnes,
I'd learne and trye what further art could doe,
To make me loue her, & forget her to.
Sad Melancholy that perswades
Men from themselues, to think they be
Headles or other bodyes shades,
Hath long & bootles dwelt with me;
For could I thinke she some Idea were,
I still might loue, forget, & haue her heere;
But such she is not: nor would I,
For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaued company
Hath brought to those I felt before;
For then noe future time might hap to know,
That she deseru'd, or I did loue her soe.
Ye howres then but as minutes be,
(Though soe I shall be sooner old,)
Till I those louely graces see,
Which but in her can none behold.
Then be an age that wee may neuer trye
More griefe in parting, but grow old & dye.

278

II. Odes, Songs, and Sonnets.

An Ode.

I

Awake, faire Muse; for I intend
These everlasting lynes to thee,
And, honord Drayton, come & lend
An eare to this sweet melodye:
For on my harpes most high & siluer string,
To those Nine Sisters whom I loue, I sing.

2

This man through death & horror seekes
Honor, by the Victorious Steele;
Another in vnmapped creekes
For Jewells moares his winged keele.
The clamrous Barre wins some, & others byte
At lookes throwne from a mushrome Fauorite.

3

But I, that serue the louely Graces,
Spurne at that drosse, which most adore;
And tytles hate, like paynted faces,
And heart-fed Care for euermore.
Those pleasures I disdaine, which are pursude
With praise & wishes by the multitude.

279

4

The Bayes, which deathles Learning crownes,
Me of Appollo's troope installs:
The Satyres following ore the downes
Fair Nymphs to rusticke festiualls,
Make me affect (where men no traffique haue)
The holy horror of a Sauage Caue.

5

Through the faire skyes I thence intend,
With an vnusd & powerfull wing,
To beare me to my Jorneyes end:
And those that taste the Muses spring,
Too much celestiall fire haue at their birth,
To lyue long tyme like cōmon soules in Earth.

6

From faire Aurora will I reare
My selfe vnto the source of floods;
And from the Ethiopian Beare,
To him as white as snowy woods;
Nor shall I feare (for this daye taking flight)
To be wounde vp in any vayle of night.

7

Of Death I may not feare the dart,
As is the vse of Humane State;
For well I knowe my better part
Dreads not the hand of Tyme or Fate.
Tremble at Death, Enuye, & fortune whoe
Haue but one life: Heauen giues a Poet two.

8

All costly obsequies invaye,
Marble & paintyng too, as vayne;

280

My ashes shall not meet with Clay,
As those doe of the vulgar trayne.
And if my Muse to Spencers glory come
No King shall owne my verses for his Tombe.”

A ROUNDE.

All.
Now that the Spring hath filld our veynes
With kinde and actiue fire,
And made green liuryes for the playnes,
And euery groue a Quire.
Sing we a Song of merry glee,
And Bacchus fill the bowle:

1.
Then heres to thee;

2.
And thou to mee
And euery thirsty soule.

Nor Care nor Sorrow ere payd debt,
Nor never shall doe myne;
I haue no Cradle goeing yet,
Not I, by this good wyne.
No wyfe at home to send for me,
Noe hoggs are in my grounde,
Noe suite at Law to pay a fee,
Then round, old Jocky, round.

281

All.
Sheare sheepe that haue them, cry we still,
But see that noe man scape
To drinke of the Sherry,
That makes us so merry,
And plumpe as the lusty Grape.

[Vnhappy Muse, that nothing pleasest me]

Vnhappy Muse, that nothing pleasest me,
But tyr'st thyself to reape anothers blisse,
She that as much forbeares thy melodye,
As feareful maydens doe the serpents hisse,
Doth she not fly away when I would sing?
Or doth she staye, when I with many a teare
Keepe solemne tyme to my woes vttering;
And aske what wilde Birds grant to lend an Eare?
O haples Tongue, in silence euer live,
And ye, my founts of teares, forbeare supply:
Since neither words, nor teares, nor muse can give
Ought worth the pittying such a wretch as I.
Grieue to your selues, if needs you will deplore,
Till teares & words are spent for euermore.
Vnhappy I, in whom no Joye appeares,
And but for sorrowe of all else forlorne;
Mishaps encreasing faster then my yeares,
As I to grieue & dye were onely borne.
Dark sullen night is my too tedious daye;
In it I labour when all others rest,
And wear in discontent those howres awaye,
Which make some lesse deseruing greater blest.
The rose cheekt morne I hate, because it brings
A sad remembrance of my fairer Faire,
From whose deare graue arise continuall springs,
Whose mistye vapours cloude the lightsome ayre.
And onely now I to my Loue preferre
Those Clouds which shed their rayne, & weepe for her.

282

THIRSIS' PRAISE OF HIS MISTRESSE.

On a hill that grac'd the plaine
Thirsis sate, a comely Swaine,
Comelier Swaine nere grac'd a hill:
Whilst his Flocke that wandred nie,
Cropt the green grasse busilie,
Thus he tun'd his Oaten quill:
Ver hath made the pleasant field
Many seu'rall odours yeeld,
Odors aromaticall:
From faire Astra's cherrie lip,
Sweeter smells for euer skip,
They in pleasing passen all.
Leauie Groues now mainely ring,
With each sweet birds sonnetting,
Notes that make the Eccho's long:
But when Astra tunes her voyce,
All the mirthfull birds reioyce,
And are list'ning to her Song.
Fairely spreads the Damaske Rose,
Whose rare mixture doth disclose
Beauties pensills cannot faine.
Yet if Astra passe the bush,
Roses haue beene seen to blush
She doth all their beauties staine.
Phœbus, shining bright in skie,
Gilds the floods, heates mountaines hie
With his beames all quick'ning fire:

283

Astra's eyes (most sparkling ones)
Strikes a heat in hearts of stones,
And enflames them with desire.
Fields are blest with flowrie wreath,
Ayre is blest when she doth breath,
Birds make happy eu'ry Groue,
She, each Bird, when she doth sing:
Phœbus heate to Earth doth bring,
She makes Marble fall in loue.
Those blessings of the earth we Swaines doe call,
Astra can blesse those blessings, earth and all.

CŒLIA.

SONNETS.

1.

[Loe, I the man, that whilome lou'd & lost]

Loe, I the man, that whilome lou'd & lost,
Not dreading losse, doe sing againe of loue;
And like a man but latelie tempest-tost,
Try if my starres still inauspicious proue:
Not to make good, that poets neuer can
Long time without a chosen Mistris be,
Doe I sing thus; or my affections ran
Within the Maze of Mutabilitie;
What best I lov'de, was beauty of the mind,
And that lodgd in a Temple truely faire,
Which ruyn'd now by death, if I can finde
The Saint that livd therein some otherwhere,
I may adore it there, and love the Cell
For entertaining what I lov'd so well.

284

2.

[Why might I not for once be of that Sect]

Why might I not for once be of that Sect,
Which hold that soules, when Nature hath her right,
Some other bodyes to themselues elect;
And sunlike make the daye, and license Night;
That soul, whose setting in one Hemispheare
Was to enlighten streight another part;
In that Horizon, if I see yt there,
Calls for my first respect and its desert;
Her vertue is the same and may be more;
For as the Sun is distant, so his powre
In operation differs, and the store
Of thick clowds interposed make him lesse owr.
And verely I thinke her clymate such,
Since to my former flame it adds soe much.

3.

[Fairest, when by ye rules of palmistrye]

Fairest, when by ye rules of palmistrye
You tooke my hand to trye if you could guesse,
By lines therein, if anye wight there be
Ordain'd to make me know some happines;
I wish't that those Characters could explaine,
Whom I will neuer wrong with hope to win;
Or that by them a coppy might be sene,
By you, o loue, what thoughts I haue within.
But since the hand of Nature did not sett
(As providentlie loth to haue it knowne)
The meanes to finde that hidden Alphabet,
Mine Eyes shall be th' interpreters alone;
By them conceiue my thoughts, & tell me, faire,
If now you see her, that doth love me there?

285

4.

[Soe sat the Muses on the Bankes of Thames]

Soe sat the Muses on the Bankes of Thames,
And pleas'd to sing our heauenly Spencers wit,
Inspireing almost trees with powrefull flames,
As Cælia when she sings what I haue writ:
Me thinkes there is a Spirrit more diuine,
An Elegance more rare when ought is sung
By her sweet voice, in euery verse of mine,
Then I conceiue by any other tongue:
So a musitian sets what some one playes
With better rellish, sweeter stroke, then he
That first composd; nay oft the maker weighes,
If what he heares, his owne, or others be.
Such are my lines: the highest, best of choice,
Become more gratious by her sweetest voice.

5.

[Wer't not for you, here should my pen haue rest]

Wer't not for you, here should my pen haue rest
And take a long leaue of sweet Poesye;
Britannias swaynes, & riuers far by west,
Should heare no more mine oaten melodye;
Yet shall the song I sing of them, awhile
Vnperfect lye, and make noe further knowne
The happy loves of this our pleasant Ile;
Till I haue left some record of mine owne.
You are the subiect now, and, writing you,
I well may versify, not poetize:
Heere needs no fiction: for the graces true
And vertues clipp not with base flatteryes.
Heere should I write what you deserue of praise,
Others might weare, but I should win the bayes.

286

6.

[Sing soft, ye pretty Birds, while Cælia sleepes]

Sing soft, ye pretty Birds, while Cælia sleepes,
And gentle gales play gently with the leaues;
Learne of the neighbour brookes, whose silent deepes
Would teach him feare, that her soft sleep bereaues.
Myne Oaten reed, devoted to her praise,
(A theame that would befit the Delphian Lyre)
Give way, that I in silence may admire.
Is not her sleepe like that of innocents,
Sweet as her selfe; and is she not more faire,
Almost in death, then are the Ornaments
Of fruitfull trees, which newly budding are?
She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lye,
And sleep for euer, for she cannot dye.

7.

[Fairest, when I am gone, as now the Glasse]

Fairest, when I am gone, as now the Glasse
Of Time is mark't how long I haue to staye,
Let me intreat you, ere from hence I passe,
Perhaps from you for euermore awaye,
Thinke that noe common Loue hath fir'd my Breast,
No base desire, but Vertue truely knowne,
Which I may love, & wish to haue possest,
Were you the high'st as fair'st of any one;
'Tis not your louely eye inforcing flames,
Nor beautious redd beneath a snowy skin,
That so much bindes me yours, or makes you Flames,
As the pure light & beauty shryn'd within:
Yet outward parts I must affect of duty,
As for the smell we like the Roses beauty.

287

8.

[As oft as I meet one that comes from you]

As oft as I meet one that comes from you,
And aske your health, not as the usual fashion,
Before he speakes, I doubt there will insue,
As oft there doth, the com̄on commendacōn:
Alas, thinke I, did he but know my minde
(Though for the world I would not haue if soe)
He would relate it in another kinde,
Discourse of it at large, and yet but slowe;
He should th' occasion tell, & with it too
Add how you charg'd him he should not forget;
For this you might, as sure some louers doe,
Though such a Messenger I haue not mett:
Nor doe I care, since 'twill not further moue me,
Love me alone, and say, alone you love me.

9.

[Tell me, my thoughts (for you each Minute fly]

Tell me, my thoughts (for you each Minute fly,
And see those beautyes which mine eyes haue lost,)
Is any worthier Loue beneath the sky?
Would not the cold Norwegian mixt with frost
(If in their clyme she were) from her bright Eyes
Receiue a heat, so powrefully begun,
In all his veynes & nummed arteryes,
That would supply the lowenes of the sun?
I wonder at her harmony of words,
Rare (and as rare as seldome doth she talke)
That Riuers stand not in their speedy fords,
And downe the hills the trees forbeare to walke.
But more I muse, why I should hope in fine,
To get alone a Beauty so divine.

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10.

[To gett a Love & Beauty so devine]

To gett a Love & Beauty so devine,
(In these so warye times) the fact must be,
Of greater fortunes to the world then myne;
Those are the stepps to that felicitye;
For love no other gate hath then the Eyes,
And inward worth is now esteem'd as none;
Mere outsides onely to that blessing rise,
Which Truth & Love did once account their owne;
Yet as she wants her fairer, she may misse
The common cause of Loue, and be as free
From Earth, as her composure heauenly is;
If not, I restles rest in miserie,
And daily wish to keepe me from despaire,
Fortune my Mistris, or you not so faire.

11.

[Fair Laurell, that the onelye witnes art]

Fair Laurell, that the onelye witnes art
To that discourse, which vnderneath thy shade
Our griefe swolne brests did lovinglie impart,
With vowes as true as ere Religion made:
If (forced by our sighs) the flame shall fly
Of our kinde Love, and get within thy rind,
Be warye, gentle Baye, & shrieke not hye,
When thou dost such vnusual feruor finde;
Suppresse the fire; for should it take thy leaues,
Their crackling would betraye vs, & thy glorye

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(Honors faire symbole) dyes; Thy trunke receiues
But heate sufficient for our future story.
And when our sad misfortunes vanquish'd lye,
Imbrace our fronts in signe of memorie.

12.

[Had not the soyle, that bred me, further donne]

Had not the soyle, that bred me, further donne,
And fill'd part of those veynes which sweetlye doe,
Much like the living streames of Eden, run,
Embracing such a Paradise as you;
My Muse had fail'd me in the course I ran,
But that she from your vertues tooke new breath,
And from your Eyes such fire that, like a Swan,
She in your praise can sing her selfe to death.
Now could I wish those golden howres vnspent,
Wherein my Fancy led me to the woods,
And tun'd soft layes of rurall merriment,
Of shepherds Loues & neuer resting Floods:
For had I seen you then, though in a dreame,
Those songs had slept, and you had bin my Theame.

13.

[Night, steale not on too fast: wee haue not yet]

Night, steale not on too fast: wee haue not yet
Shed all our parting teares, nor paid the kisses,
Which foure dayes absence made vs run in debt,
(O, who would absent be where growe such blisses?)
The Rose, which but this morning spred her leaues,
Kist not her neighbour flower more chast then wee:
Nor are the timelye Eares bound vp in sheaues
More strict then in our Armes we twisted be;

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O who would part vs then, and disvnite
Twoo harmeles soules, so innocent and true,
That were all honest Love forgotten quite,
By our Example men might Learne Anew.
Night seuers vs, but pardon her she maye,
And will once make us happyer then the daye.

14.

[Divinest Cælia, send no more to aske]

Divinest Cælia, send no more to aske
How I in absence doe; your seruant may
Be freed of that vnnecessary Taske:
For you may knowe it by a shorter waye.
I was a shaddow when I went from you;
And shaddowes are from sicknes euer free.
My heart you kept (a sad one, though a true)
And nought but Memorie went home with me.
Looke in your brest, where now two hearts you haue,
And see if they agree together there:
If mine want ayde, be mercifull & save,
And seek not for me any other where:
Should my physitian question how I doe,
I cannot tell him, till I aske of you.

291

III. Epistles.

AN EPISTLE.

Deare soule, ye time is come, & we must part,
Yet, ere I goe, in these lynes read my heart;
A heart so iust, so louing, & so true,
So full of sorrow & so full of you.
That all I speake, or write, or pray, or meane,
And (which is all I can) all yt I dreame,
Is not wthout a sigh, a thought for you,
And as your beautyes are, so are they true.
Seauen summers now are fully spent & gone,
Since first I lou'd, lov'd you, & you alone;
And should myne eyes as many hundreds see,
Yet none but you should clayme a right in me;
A right so plac'd that time shall neuer heare
Of one so vow'd, or any lov'd so deare.
When I am gone (if euer prayers mov'd you)
Relate to none yt I so well haue lov'd you;
Ffor all that know your beauty & desert,
Would sweare he neuer lov'd, that knew to part.
Why part we then? that spring which but this daye
Met some sweet Riuer, in his bed can playe,
And with a dimple cheek smile at their blisse,
Who never know what separation is.

292

The amorous vine with wanton interlaces
Clips still the rough Elme in her kind embraces:
Doues with their doues sit billing in ye groues,
And wooe the lesser birds to sing their loues;
Whilst haples we in grieffull absence sit,
Yet dare not ask a hand to lessen it.

AN EPISTLE

OCCASIONED BY THE MOST INTOLLERABLE JANGLING OF THE PAPISTS' BELLS ON ALL SAINTS' NIGHT, THE EVE OF ALL SOULES' DAYE, BEING THEN VSED TO BE RUNG ALL NIGHT (AND ALL AS IF THE TOWNE WERE ON FIRE) FOR THE SOULES OF THOSE IN PURGATORYE. WRITTEN FROM THOUARS TO SAUMUR, TO MR. BRYAN PALMES.

Palmes and my friend, this night of Hollantide,
Left all alone, and no way occupyed:
Not to be idle, though I idle be
In writeing verse, I send these lynes to thee:
Aske me not how I can be left alone,
For all are heere so in devotion,
So earnest in their prayers for the dead,
And with their De profundis soe farr led,
And so transported (poore night-seeing fowles)
In their oraisons for all Christian sowles,
That knowing me for one but yesterdaye,
May be they dreamt me dead, & for me praye.
This maye coniectur'd be the reason why
I haue this night with me noe company,

293

I meane of that Religion; for indeed
But to consort with one that sayes his creed
In his owne Mother tongue, this daye for them
Were such a crime, that nor Jerusalem,
Not yet Romes voyage (for which I am sorry)
Could free those friends of mine from purgatorie.
And had I gone to visit them may be
They at my entrance might haue taken me,
(If that I spoke in English,) for some one
Of their good friends, new come from Phlegeton;
And so had put them to the pains to wooe
My Friend Fryer Guy and Bonaventure to;
To publish such a Miracle of theirs,
By ringing all the Bells about mine eares.
But peace be to their Bells, say I, as is
Their prayer euery day pax defunctis;
For I am sure all this long night to heare
Such a charauary, that if ther were
All the Tom Tinkers since the world began,
Inhabiting from Thule to Magellan;
And those that beat their kettles, when the Moone
Darkning the sun, brings on the Night ere Noone:
I thinke all these together would not make
Such a curs'd noyse as these for all soules sake.
Honest John Helms, now by my troth I wish,
(Although my popish hostess hath with fish
Fed me three dayes) that thou wert here with speed,
And some more of thy crue, not without need,
To teache their Bells some rime or tune in swinging,
For sure they haue no reason in their ringing.
For mine owne part, heareing so strange a coyle,
Such discord, such debate, & such turmoil,
In a high steeple, when I first came hither,
And had small language, I did doubt me whether

294

Some had the Towre of Babell new begun,
And god had plagued them with confusion:
For which I was not sorry, for I thought
To catch some tongue among them, & for nought.
But being much deceiu'd, good Lord! quoth I,
What pagan noise is this? One that stood by,
Swore I did wrong them, for he me aduised
The Bells vpon his knowledge were baptizd.
My friend, quoth I, y'are more to blame by farre,
To see poore Christian creatures so at jarr,
And seeke not to accord them; as for me,
Although they not of my acquaintance be,
Nor though we never have shooke hands as yet,
Out of my Love to peace, not out of debt,
See theres eight soulz, or ten, it makes not whether;
Get them some wyne, see them drinke together:
Or if the Sexton cannot bring them to it,
As he will sure have much adoe to doe it;
Tell him he shall be thank'd, if soe he strives
With special care to take away their knives;
And for their cause of stirre that he record it,
Untill a gen'ral councell doe accord it.
Till when, Ile hold, what ere the Jesuits say:
Although their church erre not, their steeple may.
W. B.

AN EPISTLE THROWNE INTO A RIUER, IN A BALL OF WAX.

Goe, gentle paper; happy (happier farre
Then he that sends thee) with this character:
Goe, view those blessed Banks, enriched by
A faire but faithles Maidens company;
And if consorted with my teares of bryne,
Which (Gentle floud) add waues to those of thyne,

295

Thou chance to touch the sand in thy progression,
Made valuable by her stepps impression:
Stay, stay thy course; and fortunate from danger
Dwell there, where my ill fate makes me a Stranger.
If, faithfull paper which holdst nought of Art,
Thou come into her hands who kylls my heart;
And she demands thee, how I spend my howres,
Tell her, O tell her! how in gloomy bowers,
In cauernes yet vnknowne euen to the sun,
And places free from all confusion
Except my thoughts, there sit I girt with feares;
Where day and night I turne my selfe to teares,
Onelye to wash away that stayne which she
Hath (carelesse) throwne vpon her constancye;
And if (touch'd with repentance) she bedewe
Thee with some christall drops, I would she knewe
Her Sorrowes or the breakyng of the dart
Heales not her wounded faith, nor my slaine hart.
And my iust Griefes of all redresse bereauen
Shall euer witnes before men and heauen,
That as she is the fair'st and most vntrue
Of those that euer man or read or knewe,
So am I the most constant without mate
Of all that breathe, and most affectionate;
Although assurd, that nor my loue nor Faith
Shall reape one Joye but by the hand of death.

AN EPISTLE.

Hasten, o hasten, for my loues sake haste:
The Spring alreadye hath your Beachworth grac'd.
What need you longer stay to grace it more;
Or adde to that which had enough before?
The heauens admit no suns: why should your Seate
Haue two, then, equall good & as complete?

296

Hasten, o hasten then; for till I see
Whom most I loue, 'tis Winter still with mee.
I feele no Spring; nor shall I, till your light
Repell my too too long and lonely Night:
Till you haue quicken'd with your happy shine
A drooping discontented hart of mine,
No mirth, but what is forc'd, shall there be plac'd.
Hasten, o hasten then: for loues sake haste.
Soe longing Hero oftentymes was wont
Vpon the flowry bankes of Hellespont
To walke, expecting when her loue should land,
As I haue done on siluer Isis strand.
I aske the snowy swans, that swim along,
Seeking some sad place for their sadder song,
Whether they came from Mole, or heard her tell
What worth doth neere her wanton riuer dwell;
And naming you, the gentle spotlesse birds,
As if they vnderstood the power of words,
To bend their stately necks doe straight agree;
And honoring the name, so answer me.
Those being gone, I aske the christall brooke,
Since pert of it vnwillinglie had took
An euer leaue of that more happy place
Then pleasant Tempe, which the gods did grace;
The streame I ask'd, if when it lately left
Those daisyed banks, & grieu'd to be berefte
So sweet a channell, you did meane to stay
Still in that vale, whence they were forc'd away;
Hereat the waue a little murmur makes,
And then another waue that overtakes;
And then a third comes on, & then another,
Rowling themselues vp closely each to other—
(As little lads, to know their fellowes minde,
While he is talking, closely steale behinde;)
I aske them all, & each like murmur keepes;
I aske another, & that other weepes.

297

What they should meane by this, I doe not know,
Except the mutterings & the teares they showe
Be from the dear remembrance of that scite
Where, when they left you, they forsooke delight.
That this the cause was, I perceiued plaine;
For going thence, I thither came againe,
What time it had bin flood, a pretty while;
And then the dimpled waters seem'd to smile;
As if they did reioice, & were full faine,
That they were turning back to Mole againe.
In such like thoughts, I spend the tedious day;
But when the night doth our half-Globe array
In mournfull black, I leaue the curled streame,
And by the kindnes of a happy dreame,
Enioy what most I wish; your selfe & such,
Whose worth, whose loue, could I as highly touch
As I conceiue, some houres should still be spent
To raise your more then earthly Monument.
In sleepe I walk with you, & doe obtayne
A seeming conference: but, alas, what paine
Endures that man, which euermore is taking
His ioyes in sleepe, & is most wretched waking?
To make me happy then, be you my Sun,
And with your presence cleere all clouds begun;
My mists of Melancholy will outweare,
By your appearing in our Hemispheare;
Till which, within a vale as full of woe,
As I haue euer sung, or eye can knowe,
Or you can but imagine, reading this,
Inthralled lyes the heart of him that is
Careles of all others' loue without your respect, W. B. From an Inner Temple, then ye Inner Temple, May the third 1615.

298

FIDO: AN EPISTLE TO FIDELIA.

Sittyng one day beside a siluer Brooke,
Whose sleepy waues vnwillingly forsooke
The strict imbraces of the flowry shore,
As loath to leaue what they should see no more:
I read (as Fate had turned it to my hand)
Among the famous Layes of faierie Land,
Bœlphæbes fond mistrust, when as she mett
Her gentle Squire with louely Amorett.
And laying by the booke, poore Lad, quoth I,
Must all thy ioyes, like Eues posterity,
Receiue a doome, not to be chang'd by Suite,
Onely for tasting the forbidden fruite?
Had faire Belphæbe licenc'd thee some tyme
To kysse her cherry lipp, thou didst a cryme;
But since she for thy thirst noe help would bring,
Thou lawfully mightst seeke another spring;
And had those kisses stolne bin melting sipps,
Tane by consent from Amoretts sweet lipps,
Thou mightst haue answer'd, if thy loue had spyde,
How others gladly gaue what she denyde;
But since they were not such, it did approue
A jealousie not meritinge thy loue,
And an iniustice offerd by the mayde
In giuing iudgment ere she heard thee pleade.
I haue a Loue, (and then I thought of you,
As heauen can witnesse I each minute doe,)
Soe well assurd of that once promised faith,
Which my vnmoud Loue still cherisheth,
That should she see me priuate with a dame,
Fair as her selfe, and of a house whose name,
From Phæbus' rise to Tagus where he setts,
Hath bin as famous as Plantagenetts.

299

Whose eyes would thawe congealed harts of Ice,
And as we now dispute of Paradise,
And question where Faire Eden stood of olde,
Among so many sweet plots we beholde,
Which by the armes of those braue Riuers bin,
Inbraced which of yore did keepe it in:
So were she one, who did so much abounde
In graces, more then euer mortal crownde,
That it might fitly for a question passe,
Where or wherein her most of beauty was.
I surely could belieue, nay, I durst sweare,
That your sweet goodnesse would not stoope to feare,
Though she might be to any that should wyn it
A Paradise without a Serpent in it.
Such were my thoughts of you, and thynking soe,
Much lyke a man, who running in the Snowe
From the Surprisall of a murdrous Elfe,
Beates out a Path, and so betrayes him selfe.
I in securitie was further gone,
And made a Path for your Suspition
To finde me out. Tyme being nigh the same,
When thus I thought, and when your letters came.
But, oh, how farre I err'd, how much deceiu'd
Was my belief! your selfe, that haue bereau'd
Me of that confidence, my loue had got.
Judge if I were an Infidell or not;
And let me tell you, Faire, the Fault was thyne,
If I did misbelieue, and none of myne.
That man which sees, as he along doth passe
Some beaten way, a piece of sparklyng glasse,
And deemes far of that it a dyamond is,
Adds to the glasse by such a thought of his;
But when he findes it wants, to quit his paine,
The value soone returnes to him agayne.
If in the ruder North some country clowne,
That stands to see the kyng ride through the town,

300

Spyeing some gaye & gold belaced thyng,
Should cry, See, neighbors, yonder comes the Kyng:
And much mistaken both in state and age,
Points at some lord, and for a lord a page:
Is not that lord or page beholding much
To him that thynkes them worthy to be such
He tooke them for? And are not you to me
Indebted much, since my credulitie
Made you the same I thought you, and from thence
Rais'd an assurance of your confidence?
These were the thoughts of you I still was in,
Nor shall your Letters so much of me wynne;
I will not trust myne eyes so much to thynke
Your white hand wrote with such a stayning inke;
Or if I ever take yt for your hand,
I sure shall thinke I doe not vnderstand
In reading as you meant, and fall from thence
To doubt if points puerted not the sense!
For such a constant faith I haue in thee,
That I could dye euen in that heresye.
In this beliefe of you I stand as yet,
And thinke as those that followe Mahomet:
He merits much that doth continue still
In his first faith, although that faith be ill.
A vaine inconstant dame, that counts her loues
By this enamell'd ring, that paire of gloues,
And with her chamber-mayd when closely set,
Turning her Letters in her Cabinett,
Makes knowne what Tokens haue byn sent vnto her,
What man did bluntly, who did courtly wooe her;
Who hath the best face, neatest legg, most Lands,
Who for his Carriage in her fauour stands.
Opening a Paper then she shewes her wytt
In an Epistle that some foole had wrytt:
Then meeting with another which she lykes,
Her Chambermayds great readyng quickly strykes

301

That good opinyon dead, & sweares that this
Was stolne from Palmerin or Amadis.
Next come her Sonnetts, wch they spelling reade,
And say the man was very much afrayde
To haue his meaning knowne, since they from thence
(Saue Cupids darts) can picke no iot of sense;
And in conclusion, with discretion small,
Scoffe thys, scorne that, and so abuse them all.
If I had thought you such an empty prise,
I had not sought nowe to apologize,
Nor had these Lynes the virgin paper staynde
But, as my Loue, vnspotted had remayned;
And sure I thinke to what I am about,
My inke then it was wont goes slower out,
As if it told me I but vaguelye writt
To her that should, but will not, credyt it.
Yet goe, ye hopeless lines, and tell that faire,
Whose flaxen tresses with the wanton ayre
Intrappe the darling Boy, that daily flyes
To see his sweet face in her sweeter eyes;
Tell my Fidelia, if she doe averre
That I with borrowde phrases courted her,
Or sung to her the layes of other men;
And lyke the cag'd thrush of a cittizen,
Tyr'd with a Note contynually sung ore
The eares of one that knew that all before.
If this she thinke, (as I shall nere be wonne
Once to imagine she hath truly done,)
Let her then know, though now a many be
Parrots, which speak the tongue of Arcadye,
Yet in themselues not so much language knowe,
Nor wit sufficient for a Lord Maiors showe.
I neuer yet but scorn'd a tast to bring
Out of the Channell when I saw the Spring,
Or like a silent Organ been soe weake,
That others' fingers taught me how to speake.

302

The sacred Nyne, whose powrefull songs haue made
In way-les deserts trees of mightye shade
To bend in admiracōn, & alayde
The wrath of Tigers with the notes they plaide,
Were kind in some small measure at my birth,
And by the hand of Nature to my Earth
Lent their eternall heat, by whose bright flame
Succeeding time shall read & know your name,
And pine in envye of your praises writ,
Though now your brightnes strive to lessen it.
Thus haue I done, & like an Artist spent
My dayes to build another's Monument;
Yet you those paines so careles ouerslip,
That I am not allow'd the workmanship.
Some haue done lesse, and haue been more rewarded;
None hath lov'd more, & hath bin lesse regarded:
Yet the poore silkenworme & onely I
Like parallells run on to worke & dye.
Why write I then againe, since she will thinke
My heart is limned with anothers inke?
Or if she deeme these lines had birth from me,
Perhaps will thinke they but deceiuers be,
And, as our flattering painters doe impart,
A fair made Copy of a faithles heart,
O, my Fidelia, if thou canst be wonne
From that mistrust my absence hath begun,
Be now converted, kill those iealous feares,
Creddit my lines: if not, belieue my teares,
Which with each word, nay, euery letter, stroue
That in their number you might read my love.
And where (for one distracted needs must misse)
My language not enough persuasive is,
Be that supplyed with what each eye affords,
For teares haue often had the powre of words.
Grant this, faire saint, since their distilling rayne
permits me not to read it ore againe;

303

For as a Swan more white then Alpine Snow,
Wandring vpon the sands of siluer Po,
Hath his impression by a fuller sea
Not made so soone as quickly washt awaye.
Such in my writeing now the state hath been,
For scarce my pen goes of the inke yet green,
But flouds of teares fall on it in such store,
That I perceiue not what I writt before.
Can any man do thus, yet that man be
Without the fire of Loue & Loialtie?
Know then in breach of Natures constant Lawes,
There may be an effect & yet no cause.
Without the Sun we may haue Aprill showers,
And wanting moysture know no want of flowers;
Causeles the Elements could cease to war:
The seaman's needle to the Northern Starr
Without the Loadstone would for ever move.
If all these teares can be & yet no love:
If you still deeme I onelye am the man,
Which in the Maze of Loue yet never ranne:
Or if in love I surely did persue
The Favour of some other, not of you;
Or loving you, would not be strictly tyde
To you alone, but sought a Saint beside:
Know then by all the vertues we inthrone,
That I haue lov'd, lov'd you, & you alone.
Read ore my lines where truthful passion mov'd,
And hate it selfe will say that I have lov'd.
Thinke on my Vowes which have been ever true,
And know by them that I affected you.
Recount my tryalls, & they will impart
That none is partner with you in my heart.
Lines, vows, & tryalls will conclude in one,
That I haue lov'd, lov'd you, & you alone.
Lines, seeke no more then to that doubtfull faire,
And ye, my vowes, for euer more forbeare:

304

Trialls, to her prove never true againe;
Since lines, vowes, tryalls striue all but in vaine.
Yet when I writt, the ready tongue of Truth
Did euer dictate not deceiving youth.
When I have sworn my tongue did never erre
To be my harts most true interpreter,
And proofe confirm'd when you examin'd both,
Love caused those lines, & Constancy that Oath;
And shall I write, protest (you proue) & then
Be left the most vnfortunate of men?
Must Truth be still neglected? Faith forgot?
And Constancy esteem'd as what is not?
Shall deare Regard and Love for euer be
Wrong'd with the name of lust & flatterie?
It must; for this your last suspicion tells,
That you intend to worke noe miracles.
W. B.

305

IV. Elegies.

AN ELEGYE ON MR. WILLM. HOPTON.

When shall myne eyes be dry? I daily see
Proiects on foot; and some haue falne on mee:
Yet (with my fortune) had they tane awaye
The sense I haue to see a friend turne Claye;
They had done something worth the name of Spite;
And (as the grymme and vgly vayle of Night,
Which hydes both good and bad) their malyce then
Had made me worthlesse more the Loue of men
Then are their manners. I had dyde with those,
Who once intombde shall scarce be read in prose:
But whilst I haue a teare to shed for thee,
A Starr shall drop, and yet neglected bee,
For as a thrifty Pismire from the plaine
Busily dragging home some little graine
Is in the midway to her pretty chamber
Fatally wept on by some drop of Amber,
Which straight congealed (to recompence her doome)
The instrument to kill becomes her toombe;
And such a one, that she may well compare
With Egypts Monarchs for a Sepulcher.
Soe as I homewards wend to meet with dust,
Bearing this Griefe along, and it is iust,

306

Each eye that knew, and knowing held thee deare,
On these sad lines shall shed so true a teare:
It shall beget a second: that, a third:
And propagate so many, that the Bird
Of Araby shall lacke a Sun to burne her,
Ere I shall want a Tombe, or thou a Morner.
For in those teares we will embalmed be,
And proue such Remora's to memorye,
That some malicious at our fame grown sick
Shall dye, and haue their dust made into brick;
And onleye serue to stop some prisons holes,
That hydes as wretched bodyes as their soules.
When (though the earth benight vs at our Noone,)
Wee there will lye like shadowes in the moone;
And euery dust within our graues shall be
A Star to light vs to posteritie.
But (haples Muse), admitt that this may come,
And men may reade I wept vpon his tombe;
What comfort brings it me? Princes haue tryde
To keep their Names, yet scarce are known they dyde,
So weake is brasse and Marble; & I pierce
His memorye, while that I write this verse;
Since I (his liuing Monument) endyte
And moulder into dust the whyle I write.
Such is the Griefe thy losse hath brought on mee,
I cut some lyfe of in each lyne on thee:
The cold stone that lyes on thee I suruaye,
And, looking on it, feele my selfe turne claye;
Yet grieue not but to thinke, when I am gone,
The Marble will shed teares, when I shed none.
This vexeth mee, that a dead stone shall be
My Riuall in thy Losse and memorye;
That it should both outweepe me and reherse,
When I am dust, thy Glory in my verse.
And much good may it do thee, thou dead stone,
Though not so dead as he thou lyst vpon.

307

Thou mayst instruct some after age to saye
This was the last bed whereon Hopton laye;
Hopton that knew to chuse & keepe a friend:
That scorn'd as much to flatter as offend:
That had a soule as perfect as each Lymme,
That serud Learnd Pembroke, & did merit him;
And to name Hopton with his Master is
More then a Tombe, although a Pyramis.

AN ELEGIE ON THE COUNTESSE DOWAGER OF PEMBROOKE.

Time hath a long course run, since thou wert claye;
Yet had'st thou gone from vs but yesterdaie,
We in no neerer distance should haue stood,
Then if thy fate had call'd thee ere the flood;
And I that knewe thee, shall noe lesse cause haue
To sit me downe, & weepe beside thy Graue.
Many a yeare from hence then, in that howre,
When, all amazed, we had scarce the power
To say, that thou wert dead: my latest breath
Shall be a sigh for thee; & when cold death
Shall giue an end to my iust woes & mee,
I consecratt to thy deare memorie.
Soe many teares; if on thy Marble shed,
Each hand might write with them, who there lyes dead:
And so much griefe, that some from sicknes free
Would gladlye dye to be bewail'd like thee.
Yet (could I choose) I would not any knewe
That thou wert lost but as a pearle of dewe,
Which in a gentle Euening mildly cold
Fallne in the Bosome of a Marigold,

308

Is in her golden leaues shut vp all night,
And seen againe, when next wee see the light.
For should the world but know that thou wert gone,
Our Age too prone to Irreligion,
Knoweing soe much divinitie in thee,
Might thence conclude noe immortalitye.
And I belieue the Puritans themselues
Would be seduc'd to thinke, that Ghostes & Elves
Doe haunt vs yet, in hope that thou would'st deigne
To visitt vs, as when thou liv'd'st againe.
But more, I feare, (since we are not of France,
Whose gentry would be knowne by Ignorance)
Such Witts & Noble as could merrit thee,
And should read this, spyght of all penaltye,
Might light vpon their studyes, would become
Magicians all, and raise the from thy Tombe.
Naye I believe, all are alreadye soe;
And now half madd or more with inward woe,
Doe thinke great Drake maliciously was hurl'd,
To cast a Circle round about the world,
Onley to hinder the Magicians lore,
And frustrate all our hopes to see thee more.
Pardon my sorrowe: is that man aliue,
Who for vs first found out a prospective
To search into the Moone, and hath not he
Yet found a further skill to looke on thee?
Thou goodman, whoe thou be'st that ere hast found
The meanes to looke on one so good, so crown'd,
For pitty find me out! & we will trace
Along together to that holye place
Which hides so much perfection; there will wee
Stand fixt & gaze on her Felicitye.
And should thy Glasse a burning one become,
And turne vs both to ashes on her Tombe;
Yet to our glorye, till the latter daye,
Our dust shall dance like atomes in her raye.

309

And when the world shall in confusion burne,
And kings with peasants scramble at an vrne;
Like tapers new blowne out, wee, blessed then,
Will at her beames catch fire & live againe.
But this is sure, and some men (may be) glad
That I soe true a cause of sorrowe had,
Will wish all those whom I affect might dye,
So I might please him with an Elegye.
O let there neuer line of witt be read
To please the living, that doth speake thee dead;
Some tender-hearted mother, good & milde,
Who on the dear Grave of her onelye Child
So many sad teares hath been knowne to rayne,
As out of dust could molde him vp againe;
And with her plaints inforce the wormes to place
Themselues like veynes so neatly on his face
And euery limme; as if that they were striving
To flatter her with hope of his reviving.
She should read this; and her true teares alone
Should coppy forth these sad lines on the stone,
Which hydes thee dead. And every gentle heart
That passeth by should of his teares impart
So great a portion, that (if after times
Ruyne more churches for the clergyes crimes,)
When any shall remove thy Marble hence,
Which is lesse stone then he that takes it thence,
Thou shalt appeare within thy teareful cell,
Much like a faire Nymph bathing in a well:
But when they find thee dead so lovelie faire,
Pitty and Sorrow then shall streight repaire,
And weep beside thy graue with cypresse crown'd,
To see the second world of beauty drown'd;
And add sufficient teares, as they condole,
Would make thy body swim vp to thy soule.
Such eyes shall read the lines are writ on thee;
But such a losse should haue no Elegye

310

To palliate the wound wee tooke in her.
Who rightly grieves, admits no comforter.
He that had tane to heart thy parting hence,
Should haue bin chain'd in Bethlem two howres thence;
And not a friend of his ere shed a teare,
To see him for thy sake distracted there;
But hugg'd himselfe for loveing such as he,
That could run mad with griefe for loseing thee.
I, haples soule, that never knew a friend
But to bewayle his too vntimelye end:
Whose hopes, cropt in the Bud, have neuer come,
But to sit weeping on a senseles tomb,
That hides not dust enough to count the teares,
Which I haue fruitles spent, in so fewe yeares.
I, that haue trusted those, that would haue given
For our deare Sauyor & the son of heauen,
Ten times the value Judas had of yore,
Onely to sell him for three pieces more:
I that haue lou'd & trusted thus in vayne,
Yet weepe for thee: and till the Clowds shall deigne
To showre on Egipt more then Nile ere swell'd,
These teares of mine shall be vnparalleld.
He that hath love enioy'd, & then been crost,
Hath teares at will to mourn for what he lost;
He that hath trusted, & his hope appeares
Wrong'd but by Death, may soon dissolue in teares;
But he, vnhappy man, whose love & trust
Nere met fruition, nor a promise iust:
For him, vnles (like thee) he deadly sleepe,
'Tis easyer to run mad then 'tis to weepe.
And yet I can! Fall then, ye mournfull showres;
And as old Time leads on the winged howres,
Be you their minutes: and let men forgett
To count their Ages from the playne of sweat:
From Eighty eight, the Powder Plot, or when
Men were afraid to talk of it agen;

311

And in their Numeration, be it said,
Thus old was I, when such a Teare was shed,
And when that other fell, a Comet rose,
And all the world tooke notice of my woes.
Yet, finding them past cure, as doctors fly
Their patients past all hope of remedy,
Noe charitable soule will now impart
One word of comfort to soe sick a heart;
But as a hurt deare beaten from the heard,
Men of my shaddow almost now afeard,
Fly from my woes, that whilome wont to greet me,
And well nye think it ominous to meet me.
Sad lines, goe ye abroad: goe, saddest Muse:
And as some Nation formerly did vse
To lay their sick men in the streets, that those
Who of the same disease had scapt the throes,
Might minister reliefe as they went by,
To such as felt the selfe same Maladye;
So, haples lines, fly through the fairest Land;
And if ye light into some blessed hand,
That hath a heart as merry as the shyne
Of golden dayes, yet wrong'd as much as mine;
Pittye may lead that happy man to me,
And his experience worke a remedye
To those sad Fitts which (spight of Natures lawes)
Torture a poore heart that outlives the cause.
But this must never be, nor is it fit
An Ague or some sicknes lesse then it,
Should glorye in the death of such as he,
That had a heart of Flesh, & valued thee.
Brave Roman! I admire thee, that wouldst dye
At no lesse rate then for an emperie:
Some massye diamond from the center drawne,
For which all Europe were an equall pawne,

312

Should (beaten into dust) be drunke by him,
That wanted courage good enough to swym
Through seas of woe for thee; & much despise
To meet with death at any lower prise.
Whilst Griefe alone workes that effect in me;
And yet no griefe but for the losse of thee.
Fortune, now doe thy worst, for I haue got
By this her death soe strong an antidote,
That all thy future crosses shall not have
More then an angry smile. Nor shall the grave
Glorye in my last daye. These lines shall give
To vs a second life, and we will live
To pull the distaffe from the hands of Fate;
And spin our owne thriedds for so long a date,
That Death shall never seize vpon our fame,
Till this shall perish in the whole worlds flame.

ON AN INFANT VNBORNE, & THE MOTHER DYEING IN TRAUELL.

Within this Graue there is a Graue intomb'd:
Heere lyes a Mother & a Child inwomb'd;
'Twas strange that Nature so much vigour gaue
To one that nere was borne to make a Graue.
Yet, an iniunction stranger, Nature will'd her
Poore Mother, to be Tombe to that which kill'd her;
And not with soe much crueltye content,
Buryes the Childe, the Graue, & Monument.
Where shall we write the Epitaph? whereon?
The Childe, the Graue, the Monument is gone;
Or if vpon the Child we write a staff,
Where shall we cut the Tombs owne Epitaph?

313

Onely this way is left; & now we must,
As on a Table carpetted with dust,
Make chisells of our fingers, & ingraue
An Epitaph both on the Child & Graue
Within the dust: but when some dayes are gone,
Will not that Epitaph haue need of one?
I know it will; yet graue it there so deepe,
That those which know the lesse, & truly weepe,
May shedde their teares so iustly in that place,
Which we before did with a finger trace,
That filling vp the letters, they shall lye
As inlayde christall to posteritye:
Where (as on glass) if any write another,
Let him say thus: Heere lyes a haples Mother,
Whom cruell Fate hath made to be a Tombe,
And keepes in travell till the day of Doome.

ON THE R: H: CHARLES LORD HERBERT OF CARRDIFF & SHERLAND.

If there be a teare vnshedd,
On friend or child or parent dead,
Bestowe it here; for this sad stone
Is capable of such alone.
Custome showres swell not our deepes,
Such as those his Marble weepes;
Onely they bewaile his herse,
Whoe vnskill'd in powreful verse,
To bemoane him slight their eyes,
And let them fall for Elegyes.
All that Sweetnesse, all that Youth,
All that Vertue, all that Truth
Can, or speake, or wishe, or praise,

314

Was in him in his few dayes.
His blood of Herbert, Sydney, Vere
(Names great in either Hemispheare,)
Need not to lend him of their Fame:
He had enough to make a name;
And to their Gloryes he had come,
Had heauen but giuen a Later Tombe.
But the Fates his thred did spinne
Of a sleaue so fine & thinne
Mending still a Piece of wonder,
It vntimely broake in sunder;
And we of their Labours meet,
Nothing but a Winding Sheet.
What his mighty prince hath lost:
What his fathers hope & cost:
What his Sister, what his Kin,
Take to[o] all the Kingdome in:
'Tis a Sea wherein to Swimme,
Weary faint, & dye with him.
O let my priuate griefe haue roome,
Deare Lord, to wayte vpon thy Toombe;
And since my weake & saddest verse,
Was worthy thought thy Grandams Herse;
Accept of this! Just teares my sight,
Haue shut for thee—deare Lord—Good night.
Et, longum, formose vale vale, inquit, Iolla.

AN EPICED ON MR. FISHBOURNE.

As some, to farre inquisitiue, would fayne
Know how the Arke could so much lyfe contayne;
Where the Ewe fed, and where the Lyon lay,
Both hauing den & pasture, yet all Sea:

315

When fishes had our constellations true,
And how the hauke and partridge had one mewe;
So do I wonder, in these looser tymes,
When men commit more villanies then rymes,
How honord Fishbourne, in his lesser Arke,
Could so much immortality imbarke;

He gaue 20,000l. to pious vses.


And take in man too. How his good thoughts lay
With wealth & hazard both of them at sea:
Howe when his debtors thought of longer oweing,
His chiefest care was of that summes bestowing
In pious vses. But to question all;
Did this Rich man come to an Hospitall
To curbe the Incomes, or to beg the Leades,
Or turn to straw more charitable bedds?
Or gaz'd he on a prison with pretence,
More to inthrall then for a prayer thence?
Or on the Leuites part the churches living
Did he ere look wthout the thought of giuing?
Noe: (as the Angell at Bethesda) he
Came neuer in the Cells of Charitye,
Vnlesse his mynde by heauen had fraughted byn,
To helpe the next poore cripple that came in;
And he came often to them; and withall
Left there such vertue since his funerall,
That, as the Ancient Prophetts buryed bones,
Made one to knowe two Resurrections:
So after death it will be said of hym,
Fyshborne reuiued this man, gaue that a Lymme:
Such myracles are done in this sad age,
And yet we doe not goe in Pilgrimage.
When by the Graues of men alyue he trode,
Prisons where soules and bodyes haue abode
Before a judgment; and, as (there they lye,)
Speake their owne Epitaphs and Elogye:
Had he a deafe eare then? threw he on more
Irons or actions then they had before?

316

Nay: wish'd he not, he had sufficient worth
To bid these men (dead to the world) come forth?
Or since he had not, did not he anone
Prouide to keepe them from corruption?
Made them new shrowds (their cloths are sure no more,
Such had the desert wanderers heretofore)
Imbalmed them, not with spice and gums, whereby
We may lesse noysome, not more deadly lye;
But with a charitable food, and then
Hid him from thanckes to doe the like agen.
Me thinkes I see him in a sweet repaire,
Some walke (not yet infected wth the ayre
Of newes or Lybell) weighing what may be
(After all these) his next good Legacie;
Whither the Church that lyes wthin his ken,
With her Revenews feeds or beasts or men,
Whither (though it equiuocally keepe
A carefull shepherd and a flock of sheepe)
The patron haue a Soule, & doth intreate
His friends more to a Sermon then his meate.
In fine, if Church or Steeple haue a Tongue,
Bells by a Sexton or a Weather rung?
Or where depopulations were begun,
An almeshouse were for men by it vndone?
Those (Fishbourne) were thy thoughts: the pulse of these
Thou felt'st, and hast prescrib'd for the disease.
Some thou hast curd, and this thy Gilead Balme
Hath my præludium to thy Angells Psalme.
And now ye Oracles of Heauen for whome
He hath preparde a candle, stoole, and Roome,
That to St. Mary's, Pauls, or else where come,
To send vs sighing, and not laughing home.
Ye, that the howre may run away more free,
Bribe not the clerk, but wth your doctrine mee;
Keep ye on wing his euer honord fame,
And though our Learned Mother want his name,

317

'Twas modesty in him that his deare Browne

His partner.


Might haue place for his charity, and crowne
Their memoryes together. And though his
The Citty got, the Vniversityes
Might haue the others name. You need not call
A Herald to proclaime your funeral,
Nor load your graues with marble, nor expend
Vpon a Statue more then on a friend;
Or make Stones tell a Lye to after tymes,
In prose inscryptions, or in hyred rymes.
For whilst there shall a church vnruinde stand,
And fiue blest soules as yours preserue the Land;
Whilst a good preacher in them hath a Roome,
You liue, and need nor Epitaph, nor Tombe.

AN ELEGYE ON SR THOMAS OVERBVRYE,

POISONED IN THE TOWRE OF LONDON.

Had not thy wrong, like to a wound ill cur'd,
Broke forth in death, I had not bin assured
Of griefe enough to finish what I write;
These lynes, as those which doe in cold blood fight,
Had come but faintly on; for euer he
That shrines a name within an Elegye.
(Vnles some neerer cause doe him inspire,)
Kindles his bright flame at the Funeral fire.
For passion (after less'ning her extent,)
Is then more strong, & soe more eloquent.
How powerfull is the hand of Murther now!

318

Was't not enough to see his deare life bowe
Beneath her hate? but crushing that faire frame,
Attempt the like on his vnspotted Fame?
O base reuenge! more then inhumane fact!
Which (as the Romanes sometime would enact
No doome for Patricide, supposing none
Could euer so offend) the vpright Throne
Of Iustice salues not: leauing that intent
Without a Name, without a Punishment.
Yet through thy wounded Fame, as thorow these
Glasses which multiply the Species,
We see thy vertues more; and they become
So many Statues sleeping on thy Tombe.
Wherein confinement new thou shalt endure,
But so as, when to make a Pearle more pure
We giue it to a Doue, in whose wombe pent
Sometime, we haue it forth most orient.
Such is thy lustre now that venom'd Spight
With her blacke Soule dares not behold thy light,
But banning it, a course beginnes to runne
With those that curse the rising of the Sunne.
The poyson that workes vpwards now, shall striue
To be thy faire Fames true Preseruatiue.
And witch-craft that can maske the vpper shine,
With no one cloud shall blinde a ray of thine.
And as the Hebrewes in an obscure pit
Their holy Fire hid, not extinguish'd it,
And after time, that broke their bondage chaine,
Found it, to fire their sacrifice againe:
So lay thy Worth some while, but being found,
The Muses altars plentifully crownd
With sweete perfumes by it new kindled be,
And offer all to thy deare Memorie.
Nor haue we lost thee long: thou art not gone,
Nor canst descend into Obliuion.
But twice the Sunne went round since thy soule fled,

319

And onely that time men shall terme thee dead:
Hereafter (raisd to life) thou still shalt haue
An antidote against the silent Graue.
W. B. Int. Temp.

AN ELEGIE

ON THE UNTIMELYE DEATH OF HIS EUER HONOR'D AS MUCH BELOUED AS LAMENTED FRIEND, MR. THOMAS AYLEWORTH OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE, SLAYNE AT CROYDEN, & THERE BURYED.

Is Goodnes shortest liu'd? doth Nature bring
Her choicest flowres but to adorne the Spring?
Are all men but as Tarryers? first begun,
Made & together put to be vndone?
Will all the ranke of friends in whom I trust,
Like Sodome trees, yield me no fruit but dust?
Must all I love, as careles sparkes that flye
Out of a flint, but shew their worth & dye?
Will nature euer to things fleeting bowe?
Doth she but like the toyling Hine at plough
Sow to be in'd? then Ile begin a lore
Hard to be learn'd, loue still to wayle no more;
I euer will affect that good, which he
Made the firme steps to his eternitye.
I will adore no other light then shynes
From my best thoughts, to read his life; the mynes
Of richest India shall not buy from me
That booke one howre wherein I studye thee.
A booke, wherin mens lives so taxed bin,

320

That all men labour'd death to call it in.
What now as licens'd is dispers'd about,
Is no true coppy, or the best left out.
Noe ornaments Ile love brought from the Change,
But what's in it, & in the Court more strange,
Vertue; which clad thee well, [and] I may haue,
Without the danger of a living graue.
I will not wish fortune should make of me
A worshipp'd golden Calfe (as most rich be);
But let her (for all Lands else) grant me this,
To be an Inmate in that house now his.
One stone will serue, one Epitaph aboue,
So one shall be our dust, as was our loue.
O, if priuatōn be the greatest paine,
Which wretched soules in endles night susteyne,
What mortall torment can be worse then his,
That by enioyeing, knowes what loseing is?
Yet such is mine. Then if with sacred fire
A passion euer did a Muse inspire;
Or if a grief sick heart hath writt a lyne,
Then Art or Nature could more genuyne,
More full of Accents sad; Let it appeare
In what I write, if any drop a teare,
To this small payment of my latest debt
He witnes is, that 'twas not counterfet.
Maye this be neuer knowne to harts of stone,
That measure all mens sorrowes by their owne;
And thinke noe flood should euer drowne an Eye,
That hath not issue from an iniurye
Of some misfortune, tending more the losse
Of goods then goodnes. Let this haples crosse
Alone be read, & knowne by such as be
Apt to receiue that seale of miserie,
Which his vntimely death prints on my heart.
And if that Fatall hand (which did the part
That Fate should haue perform'd) shall euer chance

321

(Either of purpose or through ignorance)
To touch this paper may it rose-like wither.
Or as the plant Sentida shrink together!
Let him not read it; be the Letters dym,
Although the Ordinarie giue it him!
Or let the words transpose them & impart
A Crying Anagram for his desert.
Or maye the inke (now drye) grow green againe,
As wounds (before the Murdrer) of the slayne.
So these sad lynes shall (in the Judges Eye)
Be his accuser & mine Elegie.
But vayne are imprecations. And I feare
Almost to shew him in a Character,
Least some accursed hand the same should stayne,
Or by depraving murther him againe.
Sleepe then, sweet soule; and if thy vertues be
In any breast, by him wee'le portraict thee.
If thou hadst liv'd where heathen gods haue reign'd,
Thy vertues thee a Deitie had gain'd.
But now more blest! And though thy honord shryne
Be vnaddorn'd by stone, or Indyan mine:
Yet whilst that any good to Earth is lent,
Thou canst not lye without a Monument.

AN ELEGYE.

Is Death so great a gamester, that he throwes
Still at the fairest, & must I still loose?
Are we all but as tarryers first begunne,
Made & together put to be vndone?
Will all the ranke of friends, in whom I trust,
Like Sodomes Trees yeeld me no fruit but dust?
Must all I loue, as careles sparkes that fly
Out of a flint, but shew their worth & dye?

322

O, where do my for euer losses tend?
I could already by some buryed friend
Count my vnhappy yeares; & should the sun
Leaue me in darknes, as her losse hath done,
(By those few friends I haue yet to intombe)
I might, I feare, account my yeares to come.
What need our Cannons then be so precise
In Registers for our Natiuityes?
They keep vs but in bonds, & strike with feares
Rich parents, till their children be of yeares;
For should they loose & mourne, they might, as I,
Number their yeares by euery elegie.
These Bookes to sum our dayes might well haue stood
In vse with those that liued before ye flood,
When she indeed that forceth me to write,
Should haue byn borne, had Nature done her right;
And at fiue hundred yeares been lesse decayed,
Then now at fifteen is the fairest mayde.
But Nature had not her perfection then,
Or being lothe for such long liuing men,
To spend the treasure wch she held most pure,
She gaue them women apter to endure;
Or prouidently knowing there were more
Countryes & islands which she was to store,
Nature was thrifty, & did thinke it well,
If for some one pert each one did excell:
As this for her neat hand, that for her hayre,
A third for her sweet eyes, a fourth was faire:
And 'tis approu'd by him, who could not drawe
The Queen of Loue, till he a hundred sawe.
Seldom all beautyes met in one, till She
(All other Lands else storde) came finally
To people our sweet Isle: & seeing now
Her substance infinite, she gan to bowe
To lauishnes in euery Nuptiall bed,
And she her fairest was that now is dead;

323

Dead as a blossome forced from the tree,
And if a Mayden, faire & good as shee,
Tread on thy graue, O let her there professe
Her selfe for euermore an Anchoresse.
Let her be deathles! let her still be yong!
Without this meanes we haue no verse nor tongue.
To say how much I lou'd, or let vs see
How great our losse was in the losse of thee.
Or let the purple Violett grow there,
And feel noe reuolution of the yeare;
But full of dew with euer drooping head,
Shew how I liue, since my best hopes are dead.
Dead as the world to vertue! Murd'rers, Thieues
Can haue their Pardons, or at least Reprieues.
The Sword of Justice hath been often wonne
By letters from an Execution.
Yet vowes nor prayers could not keepe thee here,
Nor shall I see, the next returning yeare,
Thee with the Roses spring & liue againe.
Th' art lost for euer, as a drop of raine
Falne in a Riuer! for as soone I may
Take vp that drop, or meet the same at Sea,
And know it there, as ere redeeme thee gone,
Or know thee in the graue, when I haue one.
O! had that hollow Vault, where thou dost lye,
An Eccho in it, my strong phantasye
Would draw me soone to thinke her words were thine,
And I would hourely come, & to thy shrine
Talke as I often vsed to talke with thee,
And frame my words that thou mightst answer me
As when thou liuedst: Ide sigh, & say I loue,
And thou shouldst do so to, till we had moued
(With our complts) to teares each marble cell
Of those dead Neighbors which about thee dwell.
And when the holy father came to saye
His Orisons, Ide aske him if the daye

324

Of Miracles were past, or whether he
Knew any one whose faith & pietye
Could raise the dead; but he would answer, none
Can bring thee back to life; though many one
Our cursed days afford, that dare to thrust
Their hands prophane to raise the sacred dust
Of holy saints out of their beds of Rest.
Abhorred dayes! O maye there none molest
Thy quiet peace! but in thy Arke remayne
Vntouch'd, as those the old one did contayne,
Till he that can reward thy greatest worth,
Shall send the peacefull Doue to call thee forth.

ON A TWIN AT TWO YEARES OLD,

DEAD OF A CONSUMPTION.

Death! thou such a one hast smit,
Any stone can couer it;
'Twas an enuye more then sin,
If he had not been a Twin,
To haue kill'd him, when his herse
Hardly could contayne a verse.
Two faire Sisters, sweet and yong,
Minded as a prophets tongue,
Thou hadst kill'd, & since with thee
Goodnes had noe Amitie:
Nor could teares of Parents saue,
So much sweetnes from ye Graue;
Sicknes seem'd so small to fit him,
That thou shouldst not see to hit him;
And thou canst not truely saye,
If he be dead or flowne awaye.

325

AN ELEGIE

ON THE BEWAILED DEATH OF THE TRUELY-BELOVED AND MOST VERTUOUS HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES.

What time the world, clad in a mourning robe,
A stage made for a woefull tragedie,
When showres of teares from the celestiall globe,
Bewail'd the fate of sea-lov'd Brittanie;
When sighes as frequent were as various sights,
When Hope lay bed-rid, and all pleasures dying,
When Envie wept,
And Comfort slept,
When Cruelty itselfe sat almost crying;
Nought being heard but what the minde affrights:
When Autumn had disrob'd the Summer's pride,
Then England's honour, Europe's wonder dide.
O saddest straine that ere the Muses sung!
A text of woe for griefe to comment on;
Teares, sighs and sobs, give passage to my tongue,
Or I shall spend you till the last is gone.
And then my hart, in flames of burning love,
Wanting his moisture, shall to cinders turne,
But first by me,
Bequeathed be,
To strew the place, wherein his sacred urne
Shall be enclos'd. This might in many move
The like effect: (who would not doe it?) when
No grave befits him, but the harts of men.

326

The man whose masse of sorrowes have been such,
That, by their weight, laid on each severall part,
His fountaines are so drie, he but as much
As one poore drop hath left, to ease his hart:
Why should he keepe it? since the time doth call
That he n'ere better can bestow it in?
If so he feares,
That other teares
In greater number greatest prizes winne,
Know, none gives more then He who giveth all:
Then he which hath but one poore teare in store,
Oh let him spend that drop and weepe no more!
Why flowes not Hellicon beyond her strands?
Is Henrie dead, and doe the Muses sleepe?
Alas! I see each one amazed stands,
Shallow foords mutter, silent are the deepe:
Faine would they tell their griefes, but know not where.
All are so full, nought can augment their store.
Then how should they
Their griefes displey
To men so cloide they faine would heare no more.
Though blaming those whose plaints they cannot heare?
And with this wish their passions I allow,
May that muse never speake that's silent now!
Is Henrie dead? alas! and doe I live
To sing a scrich-owles note that he is dead?
If any one a fitter theame can give,
Come, give it now, or never to be read:
But let him see it doe of Horror taste,
Anguish, Distraction; could it rend in sunder
With fearefull grones
The fencelesse stones,

327

Yet should we hardly be inforc'd to wonder,
Our former griefes would so exceed their last:
Time cannot make our sorrowes ought compleater,
Nor add one griefe to make our mourning greater.
England stood ne're engirt with waves till now,
Till now it held part with the Continent;
Aye me! some one, in pittie show me how
I might in dolefull numbers so lament,
That any one, which lov'd him, hated me,
Might dearly love me for lamenting him;
Alas my plaint
In such constraint
Breakes forth in rage, that thoughe my passions swimme,
Yet are they drowned ere they landed be.
Imperfect lines: oh happy were I, hurl'd
And cut from life as England from the world.
O! happier had we beene, if we had beene
Never made happie by enjoying thee;
Where hath the glorious Eye of Heaven seene
A spectacle of greater miserie?
Time, turn thy course, and bring againe the spring!
Breake Nature's lawes! search the records of old!
If ought e're fell
Might paralel
Sad Albion's case: then note when I unfold
What seas of sorrow she is plunged in:
Where stormes of woe so mainly have beset her,
She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better.
Brittaine was whilome knowne (by more then fame)
To be one of the Islands Fortunate:
What franticke man would give her now that name,
Lying so ruefull and disconsolate?

328

Hath not her watrie zone in murmuring,
Fil'd every shoare with eccho's of her crie?
Yes, Thetis raves,
And bids her waves
Bring all the nimphes within her Emperie,
To be assistant in her sorrowing.
See where they sadly sit on Isis' shore,
And rend their haires as they would joy no more.

329

V. Visions.

[_]

The original numbering of poems in this section has been followed.

1.

[Sitting one day beside the bankes of Mole]

Sitting one day beside the bankes of Mole,
Whose sleepy streame by passages vnknowne
Conuayes the fry of all her finny shole;
(As of the fisher she were feareful growne;)
I thought vpon the various turnes of Time,
And suddaine changes of all humane state;
The Feare-mixt pleasvres of all such as clyme
To Fortunes merely by the hand of Fate,
Without desert. Then weighing inly deepe
The griefes of some whose neernes makes him myne;
(Wearyed with thoughts) the leaden god of sleepe
With silken armes of rest did me entwyne:
While such strange apparitions girt me round,
As need another Joseph to expovnd.

330

3.

[I saw a silver swan swim downe the Lee]

I saw a silver swan swim downe the Lee,
Singing a sad Farwell vnto the Vale,
While fishes leapt to hear her melodie,
And on each thorne a gentle Nightingale;
And many other Birds forbore their notes,
Leaping from tree to tree, as she along
The panting bosome of the torrent floates,
Rapt with the musick of her dyeing Song:
When from a thick & all-entangled spring
A neatheard rude came with noe small adoe,
(Dreading an ill presage to heare her sing,)
And quickly strooke her slender neck in t[w]oo;
Whereat the Birds (me thought) flew thence with speed,
And inly griev'd for such a cruell deed.

4.

[Within the compasse of a shadye grove]

Within the compasse of a shadye grove
I long time sawe a loving Turtle flye,
And lastlye pitching by her gentle Love,
Sit kindelie billing in his company:
Till (haples soules) a faulcon sharply bent,
Flew towards the place where these kind wretches stood,
And sev'ring them, a fatall accident,
She from her mate flung speedie through the wood;
And scapeing from the hawke, a fowler sett
Close & with cunning vnderneath the shade,
Entrapt the harmles creature in his net,
And nothing moved with the plaint she made,
Restraynde her from the groves & deserts wide,
Where overgone with griefe, poore Bird, she dyde.

331

5.

[A rose, as faire as euer saw the North]

A rose, as faire as euer saw the North,
Grew in a little Garden all alone;
A sweeter flowre did Nature ne're put forth,
Nor fairer Garden yet was never knowne:
The Maydens danc't about it more & more,
And learned Bards of it their ditties made;
The Nimble Fairyes, by the palefac'd moone,
Wattr'd the roote, & kiss'd her pretty shade.
But welladaye, the Gardner careles grewe;
The maids & Fairyes both were kept awaye,
And in a drought the caterpillers threw
Themselues vpon the Bird & euery spraye.
God shield the stock! if heaven send noe supplyes,
The fairest Blossom of the Garden dyes.

6.

[Downe in a vallye, by a Forestt side]

Downe in a vallye, by a Forestt side,
Neere where the christall Thames roules on her waves,
I saw a Mushrome stand in haughty pride,
As if the Lillyes grew to be his slaves;
The gentle daisye, with her silver crowne,
Worne in the brest of many a shepheards lasse;
The humble violett, that lowly downe
Salutes the gaye Nimphes as they trimly passe:
Those, with a many more, me thoughte complaind
That Nature should those needles things produce,
Which not alone the Sun from others gain'd,
But turne it wholy to their proper vse:
I could not chuse but grieve, that Nature made
So glorious flowers to live in such a shade.

332

7.

[A gentle shepherd, borne in Arcadye]

A gentle shepherd, borne in Arcadye,
That well could tune his pipe, and deftly playe
The Nimphs asleepe with rurall minstralsye,
Me thought I saw, vpon a summer's daye,
Take up a little Satyre in a wood,
All masterlesse forlorne as none did know him,
And nursing him with those of his owne blood,
On mightye Pan he lastlie did bestowe him;
But with the god he long time had not been,
Ere he the shepherd and himselfe forgott,
And most ingratefull, ever stept between
Pan and all good befell the poore mans lott:
Whereat all good men griev'd, [and] strongly swore,
They never would be fosterfathers more.

333

VI. Epigrams.

[It hapned lately at a Fair, or Wake]

It hapned lately at a Fair, or Wake,
(After a pott or two or such mistake)
Two iron-soled Clownes, and bacon-sided,
Grumbled: then left the formes wch they bestrided,
And with their crabb tree cudgels, as appeares,
Threshd (as they vse) at one anothers' eares:
A neighbor nere, both to their house and drinke,
(Who though he slept at sermons) could not winke
At this dissention, with a Spiritt bold
As was the ale that arm'd them, strong & old,
Stept in & parted them; but Fortunes frowne
Was such, that there our neighbor was knockdt downe.
For they, to recompence his paines at full,
Since he had broke their quarrell, broke his Scull.
People came in, & raise[d] him from his swound;
A Chirurgeon then was calld to search the wound,
Who op'ning it, more to endeare his paynes,
Cryde out, Allas, Looke, you may see his Braynes.
Nay, quoth the Wounded man, I tell you free,
Good Mr Surgeon, that can neuer bee;
For I should nere haue medled with ye Brall,
If I had had but any Braynes at all.

334

ON AN HOURE GLASSE.

The truest houre glasse lyes; for youle confes,
All holes grow bigger, and the sand growes lesse.

ON THE COUNTESSE OF SOMERSETS PICTURE.

The pitty'd fortune most men chiefly hate;
And rather thinke the envyde fortunate:
Yet I, if Miserie did looke as She,
Should quicklie fall in loue with Miserie.

ON JOHN TOOTH.

Heere lyeth in sooth
Honest John Tooth;
Whom Death on a daye
From vs drew awaye.

TO DON ANTONIO, KING OF PORTUGALL.

Between thee & thy kingdome, late with force,
Spaine happily hath sued a divorce;
And now thou maist, as Christ did once of his,
Say, that thy kingdome not of this world is.

335

[MAN.]

Like to a Silkeworme of one yeare,
Or like a wronged Louers Teare,
Or on the Waues a Rudders Dynt,
Or like the Sparkles of a Flint,
Or like to little Cakes perfum'd,
Or Fireworkes made to be consum'd;
Even such is Man, and all that trust
In weake and animated dust.
The Silkeworme droopes; the teares soon shed;
The Shipps waye lost; the Sparkle dead;
The Cake is burnt; the Fireworke done;
And Man as these as quickly gone.

[Give me three kisses, Phillis; if not three]

Give me three kisses, Phillis; if not three,
Giue me as many as thy sweet lips be;
You gave & tooke one, yet deny me twaine,
Then take back yours, or give me mine againe.

ON ONE BORNE BLYNDE, AND SOE DEAD.

Who (but some one like thee) could euer saye,
He master'd Death, from robbing him a day?
Or was Death euer yet soe kinde to any?
One Night she took from thee, from others many,
And yet, to recompence it, in thy Tombe,
Giues the a longer, till the daye of doome.

336

ON A ROPE-MAKER HANG'D.

Heere lyes a man, much wrong'd in his hopes,
Who got his wealth backwards by making of Ropes;
It was his hard chance in his fortunes to falter,
For he liv'd by the Rope, & dyde by the halter.

337

VII. Epitaphs.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. JOHN SMYTH, CHAPLAYNE TO THE RIGHT HOBLE THE EARLE OF PEMBROOKE.

Know thou, that treadst on learned Smyth invrn'd,
Man is an Houre-glasse that is neuer turn'd;
He is gone through; & we that stay behinde,
Are in the vpper Glasse, yet vnrefynde.
When we are fit, with him soe truely iust,
We shall fall downe, and sleepe with him in dust.

ON MRS. ANNE PRIDEAUX, DAUGHTER OF MR. DOCTOR PRIDEAUX, REGIUS PROFESSOR.

SHE DYDE AT THE AGE OF 6 YEARES.

Nature in this small Volume was about
To perfect what in woman was left out;
Yet fearefull least a Piece soe well begun
Might want Preseruatiues, when she had done;
Ere she could finish what she vndertooke,
Threw dust vpon yt, & shut vp the Booke.

338

AN EPITAPH ON MR. WM. HOPTON.

Reader, stay, & read a Truth:
Heere lyes Hopton, Goodnes, Youth.
Drop a teare, & let it be
True as thou would'st wish for thee;
Shed one more, thou best of soules;
Those two teares shall be new Poles:
By the first wee'le sayle & find
Those lost Jewells of his mynde;
By the Latter we will swymme
Back againe, & sleep with him.

AN EPITAPH ON SR. JOHN PROWDE.

(LIEUTENANT COLLONELL TO SR. CHARLES MORGAN), SLAYNE AT THE SIEDGE OF GROLL, & BURYED AT ZUTPHEN, 1627.

After a March of twenty yeares, & more,
I got me downe on Yssells warlike shore;
There now I lye intrench'd, where none can seize me,
Vntill an Hoste of Angells come to raise me:
Warre was my Mistresse, & I courted her,
As Semele was by the Thunderer;
The mutuall Tokens 'twixt vs two allow'd,
Were Bullets wrapt in fire, sent in a Clowd;
One I receiued, which made me passe so farre,
That Honor layde me in the Bed of Warre.

IN OBITUM M. S. xo MAIJ, 1614.

May! Be thou neuer grac'd with birds that sing,
Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers & Roses spring.
Mine onely dide.

339

ON MR. VAUX, THE PHYSITIAN.

Stay! this Graue deserues a Teare;
'Tis not a Coarse, but life lyes here:
May be thine owne, at least some part,
And thou the Walking Marble art.
'Tis Vaux! whom Art & Nature gaue
A powre to plucke men from the Graue;
When others druggs made Ghostes of men,
His gaue them back their flesh agen;
'Tis he lyes heere, & thou & I
May wonder he found time to dye;
So busyed was he, & so rife,
Distributing both health & life.
Honor his Marble with your Teares,
You, to whom he hath added yeares;
You, whose lifes light he was about
Soe carefull, that his owne went out.
Be you his liuing Monument! or we
Will rather thinke you in the Graue then he.

ON ONE DROWNED IN THE SNOWE.

Within a fleece of Silent waters drown'd,
Before I met with death a graue I found;
That which exilde my life from her sweet home,
For griefe streight froze it selfe into a Tombe.
One onely element my fate thought meet
To be my Death, Graue, Tombe, & Winding Sheet;
Phœbus himselfe my Epitaph had writ;
But blotting many, ere he thought one fit,
He wrote vntill my Tombe & Graue were gone,
And 'twas an Epitaph, that I had none;

340

For euery man that past along the waye
Without a Sculpture read, that there I laye.
Here now, the second time, entomb'd I lie,
And thus much haue the best of Destinye:
Corruption (from which onely one was free)
Deuour'd my grave, but did not feed on me.
My first Graue tooke me from the race of men;
My last shall giue me back to life agen.

ON MR. JOHN DEANE, OF NEW COLLEDGE.

Let no man walke neere this Tombe,
That hath left his Griefe at home.
Heere so much of Goodnesse lyes,
We should not weepe teares, but eyes,
And grope homeward from this stone
Blinde for contemplation
How to liue & dye as he.
Deane, to thy deare memorye
With this I would offer more,
Could I be secur'd before
They should not be frown'd vpon
At thy Resurrection.
Yet accept upon thy hearse
My Teares, far better then my Verse.
They may turne to eyes, & keepe
Thy bed vntouch'd, whilst thou dost sleepe.

AN EPITAPH.

Faire Canace this little Tombe doth hyde,
Whoe onely seuen Decembers told and dyde.
O Crueltie! O synne! yet no man heere
Must for so short a life let fall a Teare;

341

Then death the kind was worse, what did infect,
First seas'd her mouth, & spoil'd her sweet aspect:
A horrid Ill her kisses bitt away,
And gaue her almost liples to the Clay.
Is Destinye so swift a flight did will her,
It might haue found some other way to kill her;
But Death first strooke her dumb, in hast to haue her,
Lest her sweete tongue should force the Fates to save her.

ON MR. FRANCIS LEE OF THE TEMPLE, GENT.

Nature haueing seen the Fates
Give some births vntimely dates,
And cut of those threds (before
Halfe their web was twisted ore)
Which she chiefly had intended
With iust story should be friended,
Vnderhand shee had begun,
From those distaffes half-way-spun,
To haue made a piece to tarry,
As our Edward should, or Harry.
But the fatall Sisters spyeing
What a fair worke she was plying,
Curstly cut it from the Loome,
And hid it vnderneath this Tombe.

MY OWNE EPITAPH.

Loaden with earth, as earth by such as I,
In hopes of life, in Deaths cold arme I lye;
Laid vp there, whence I came, as shipps nere spilt
Are in the dock vndone to be new built.

342

Short was my course, & had it longer bin,
I had return'd but burthen'd more with Sin.
Tread on me he that list; but learne withall,
As we make but one crosse, so thou must fall,
To be made one to some deare friend of thine,
That shall surueigh thy graue, as thou dost myne.
Teares aske I none, for those in death are vayne,
The true repentant showres which I did rayne
From my sad soule, in time to come will bring,
To this dead roote an euerlasting spring.
Till then my soule with her Creator keepes,
To waken in fit time what herein sleepes.
Wm. Browne. 1614.

ON HIS WIFE, AN EPITAPH.

Thou needst no Tomb (my Wife) for thou hast one,
To which all Marble is but Pumix Stone.
Thou art engrau'd so deeply in my heart,
It shall out-last the strongest hand of Art.
Death shall not blott the thence, although I must
In all my other parts dissolue to dust;
For thy Deare Name, thy happy Memorie,
May so embalme it for Eternity,
That when I rise, the name of my deare Wife
Shall there be seen, as in the booke of life.

ON THE COUNTESSE DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE

Vnderneath this sable Herse
Lyes the subiect of all verse:
Sydneyes sister, Pembroke's Mother:
Death, ere thou hast slaine another,
Faire, & Learn'd, & good as she,
Tyme shall throw a dart at thee.”

343

ON THE R. H. SUSAN, COUNTESSE OF MONTGOMERIE.

Though we trust the earth with thee,
We will not with thy memorie;
Mines of Brasse or Marble shall
Speake nought of thy funerall;
They are veryer dust then we,
And do begg a Historye:
In thy Name there is a Tombe,
If the world can giue it Roome;
For a Vere, & Herberts wyfe
Outspeakes Tombes, out-liues all lyfe.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. THOMAS AYLEWORTH.

Heere wither'd lyes a flowre, which blowne,
Was cropt assone as it was knowne;
The loss was greate, & the offence,
Since one vnworthie took it hence.
W. Browne.

AN EPITAPH ON MRS. EL: Y.

Vnderneath this stone there lyes
More of Beauty then are eyes;
Or to read that she is gone,
Or alyue to gaze vpon.
She in so much fairenes clad,
To each Grace a Vertue had;
All her Goodnes cannot be
Cut in Marble. Memorie
Would be vseles, ere we tell
In a Stone her worth. Farewell.

344

ON MR TURNER OF ST. MARY-HALL.

I Rose, and coming downe to dyne,
I Turner met, a learn'd diuyne;
'Twas the first tyme that I was blest
With sight of him, & had possest
His company not three houres space,
But Oxford call'd him from that place.
Our friendship was begun (for Arts,
Or loue of them, cann marry hearts).
But see whereon we trust: eight dayes
From thence, a friend of mine thus sayes:
Turner is dead; (amaz'd) thought I,
Could so much health so quickly dye?
And haue I lost my hopes to be
Endear'd to so much industry?
O man! behold thy strength, and knowe
Like our first sight and parting, soe
Are all our liues, which I must say,
Was but a dinner, and away.

ON GOODMAN HURST OF THE GEORGE AT HORSHAM,

DYEING SUDDAINELY WHILE YE E. OF NOTTINGHAM LAYE THERE, 26 AUGUST, 1637.

See what we are: for though we often saye,
Wee are like guests that ride vpon the waye,
Trauell and lodge, & when the Morne comes on,
Call for a reck'ning, paye, & so are gone—
Wee err; and haue lesse time to be possest,
For see! the Hoste is gone before the guest.

345

[Heere lyes kind Tom, thrust out of dore]

Heere lyes kind Tom, thrust out of dore,
Nor hye nor low, nor rich nor poore;
He left the world with heauy cheere,
And neuer knew what he made heere.

346

VIII. Paraphrases, &c.

[Tell me, Pyrrha, what fine youth]

1

Tell me, Pyrrha, what fine youth,
All pfum'd and crown'd with Roses,
To thy chamber thee pursu'th,
And thy wanton Arme incloses?

2

What is he thou now hast got,
Whose more long & golden Tresses
Into many a curious knott
Thy more curious fingers dresses?

3

How much will he wayle his trust,
And (forsooke) begin to wonder,
When black wyndos shall billowes thrust,
And breake all his hopes in sunder?

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4

Ficklenes of wyndes he knows
Very little that doth loue thee;
Miserable are all those,
That affect thee ere they proue thee.

5

I as one from shipwrack freed
To the Oceans mighty Ranger,
Consecrate my dropping weed,
And in freedome thinke of danger.

THE HAPPY LIFE.

O blessed man! who, homely bredd,
In lowly Cell can passe his dayes,
Feeding on his well gotten bread;
And hath his Gods, not others wayes.
That doth into a prayer wake,
And Riseing (not to bribes or bands)
The powre that doth him happy make,
Hath both his knees, as well as hands.
His Threshold he doth not forsake,
Or for the Cittyes Cates, or Trymme;
His plough, his flock, his Sythe, and Rake,
Doe physicke, Clothe, and nourish him.
By some sweet streame, cleere as his thought,
He seates him wth his Booke & lyne;
And though his hand haue nothing caught,
His mynde hath wherevpon to dyne:

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He hath a Table furnisht strong,
To Feast a friend, no flattering Snare,
And hath a iudgment & a Tongue,
That know to wellcome & beware.
His afternoone spent as the prime
Inviting where he mirthfull supps;
Labour, & seasonable time,
Brings him to bedd & not his cupps.
Yet, ere he take him to his rest,
For this & for their last repayre,
He, with his houshold meek addrest,
Offer their sacrifice of prayer.
If then a louing wife he meets,
Such as A Good Man should lye by;
Blest Eden is, betwixt these sheets.
Thus would I liue, thus Would I Dye.

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IN URBEM ROMAM QUALIS EST HODIE.

[THE TRANSLATION.]

Thou, who to looke for Rome, to Rome art come,
And in ye midst of Rome find'st nought of Rome;
Behold her heapes of walls, her structures rent,
Her theatres orewhelm'd, of vast extent;
Those nowe are Rome. See how those Ruynes frowne,
And speak the threats yet of so braue a town.
By Rome (as once the world) is Rome orecome,
Least ought on Earth should not be quelld by Rome:
Now conqu'ring Rome, doth conquerd Rome interre;
And she the vanquisht is, and vanquisher.
To shew vs where she stood, there rests alone
Tiber; yet that too hastens to be gone.
Learne hence what fortune can: Townes glyde away;
And Rivers, wch are still in motion, stay.

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IX. Miscellaneous Pieces.

ON A DREAME.

Vaine dreames, forbeare, ye but deceiuers be;
For as, in flattering glasses, women see
More beauty then possesse, so I in you
Haue all I can desire, but no thing true.
Who would be rich, to be soe but an howre,
Eates a sweet fruite, to rellish more the soure;
If, but to lose againe, we things possesse,
Nere to be happy is a happines.
Men walking in the pitchye shades of night
Can keepe their certeyne way, but if a light
Oretake, & leaue them, they are blinded more,
And doubtfull goe, that went secure before:
For this (though hardly) I haue ofte forborne
To see her face faire as the rosye Morne;
Yet mine owne thoughts in night such Traytors be,
That they betray me to that miserie.
Then thinke no more of her! as soon I may
Command the sun to robbe vs of a day;
Or with a sive repell a liquid streame,
As lose such thoughts or hinder but a Dreame.
The lightsome ayre as easye hinder can
A glasse to take the forme of any man

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That stands before it, as or time or place
Can draw a vayle betweene me & her face;
Yet by such thoughts my Torments howrely strive;
For, as a prisoner by his prospective,
By them I am inform'd of what I want:
I envy none now but the ignorant.
He that nere saw of whom I dream'd last night,
Is one borne blynd, that knowes no want of light;
He that nere kist these lipps, yet saw her eyes,
Is Adam living still in Paradise.
But if he taste those sweets (as haples I)
He knowes his want & meets his miserie:
An Indian rude that neuer heard one sing
A heauenly sonnet to a siluer string,
Nor other sounds, but what confused heards
In pathles deserts make, or brooks, or Birds,
Should he heare Syms the sweet pandora touch
And loose his heareing, streight he would as much
Lament his knowledge, as doe I my chance,
And wish he still had liv'd in ignorance.
I am that Indian, and my soothing Dreames
In thirst haue brought me but to painted streames,
Which not allaye, but more increase desire.
A man, nere frozen with December's ire,
Hath from a heape of glowwormes as much ease,
As I can euer haue by such as these.
O leave me then! & strongest Memorie,
Keepe still with those that promise breakers be:
Goe! bid the Debtor mind his payment day,
Or helpe the ignorant-deuout to saye
Prayers they vnderstand not. Leade the Blynde,
And bid ingratefull wretches call to minde
Their Benefactors. And if vertue be
(As still she is) trod downe with miserie,
Shew her the Rich that they may free her want,
And leaue to nurse the fawning sycophant:

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Or if thou seest faire honor careles lye
Without a Tombe, for after memorye,
Dwell by the graue, & teach all those that passe
To imitate, by shewing who it was.
This way, remembrance, thou mayest doe some good,
And haue due thankes; but he that vnderstood
What throes thou bringst on me, would say I misse
The sleepe of him that did the pale moone kisse,
And that it were a blessing throwne on mee,
Somtimes to haue the hated Lethargie.
Then, darke forgetfulnes, that onely art
The friend of Lunatiques, seize on that part
Of Memorie which nightly shewes her me,
Or suffer still her wakeing Fantasie,
Euen at the instant that I dreame of her,
To dreame the like of me, that we may err
In pleasures endles Maze without offence;
And both connex, as soules in Innocence.

LIDFORD JOURNEY.

I ofte haue heard of Lidford Lawe,
How in the Morne they hang & drawe,
And sitt in iudgment after:
At first I wonderd at it much;
But now I find their reason such,
That it deserues no laughter.
They haue a Castle on a hill;
I tooke it for an old Windmill,
The Vanes blowne of by weather;
Then lye therein one night, 'tis guessd,
'Tis better to be stond and prest,
Or hang'd, now chuse you whether.

353

Ten men lesse room wthin this Caue,
Then fiue Mice in a Lanthorne haue,
The Keepers they are sly ones:
If any could deuise by Art,
To gett it vpp into a Cart,
Twere fitt to carry Lyons.
When I beheld it, Lord! thought I,
What Justice & what Clemency
Hath Lidford, when I spy all!
They know none there gladly would stay,
But rather hang out of the way,
Then tarry for the tryall.
The Prince a hundred pounds hath sent,
To mend the leades & planthings rent,
Within this liuinge Tombe:
Some forty fiue pounds more had paide
The debts of all that shalbe layde
There 'till the day of Dome.
One lyes there for a seame of Malt,
Another for three pecks of Salt,
Two Suretyes for a Noble;
If this be true, or else false newes,
You may goe aske of Mr Crewes,
John Vaughan, or John Doble.
Neere to the men that lye in lurch,
There is a Bridge, there is a Church,
Seuen Ashes, & an Oake;
Three houses standing, and ten downe;
They say the Parson hath a Gowne,
But I saw nere a Cloake.

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Whereby you may consider well,
That plaine Simplicity doth dwell
At Lidford without brauery;
For in that towne, both yong & graue
Do loue the Naked truth, and have
No Cloakes to hide theyr knauerye.
The people all, within this clyme,
Are frozen yn all Winter time,
Be sure I doe not faine;
And when the Summer is begun,
They lye like silkewormes in ye Sun,
And come to lyfe againe.
One told me in King Cæsars tyme,
The towne was built of Stone & Lyme,
But sure the walls were Claye:
For they are falne, for ought I see,
And since the howses were got free,
The Towne is Run away.
O Cæsar, if thou there didst Raigne,
Whilst one house stands, come there againe;
Come quickly, while there is One:
If thou but stay a little fitt,
But fiue yeares more, they may cōmitt
The whole Towne into Prison.
To see it thus, much grieued was I,
The prouerbe says, Sorrow is dry;
So was I at this matter:
When by great chance, I know not how,
There thither came a strange strayde Cow,
And we had Milke and Water.

355

Sure I belieue it then did rayne
A Cow or two from Charles his Wayne,
For none aliue did see
Such kynde of Creatures there before,
Nor shall from hence for euermore,
Saue Pris'ners, Geese, and we.
To Nyne good Stomacks (with our Whigg)
At last we got a Tything Pigg;
This Dyet was our bounds:
And that was iust as if 'twere knowne,
One pound of Butter had byn throwne
Amongst a pack of Hounds.
One Glasse of Drinke I gott by Chance,
'Twas Clarett when yt was in France;
But now from that nought wyder:
I thinke a man might make as good
With Green Crabs, boyled with Brasil Wood,
And halfe a pynte of Syder.
I kist the Mayors hand of the Towne,
Who though he weare no scarlett Gowne
Honors the ROSE & THISTLE:
A peece of Corrall to the Mace,
Which there I Saw to serue the place,
Would make a good Childes Whistle.
At sixe a Clock I came away,
And prayde for those that were to stay,
Within a place so Arrant:
Wild and ope to windes that rore,
By Gods Grace Ile come there no more,
Vnlesse by Some Tin Warrant.
W. B.

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[RELIGIOUS VERSES.]

Behold, O God, IN RIvers of my teares
I come to the: bow downe thy blessed eares
To heare me wretch, and let thine eyes (wth sleepe
Did neuer close) behold a Sinner weepe:
Let not, O God, My God, my faults though Great
And numberlesse, betw Ween thy mercyes Seat
And my poore soule be tHrown! since we are taught
Thou, Lord, Remember'st thyne, IF Thou be Sought.
I coME not, Lord, witH any o Ther meritt
Then What I by my SAviour Christ inheritt:
Be thEN his woundS my balm; his sTRIpes my blisse;
My crowne his Thornes; my deaTh be loSt in his.
And thOU, my blesT Redeemer, SAviour, God,
Quitt my AcCOMpts, withHold the vengefull rod.
O beg for ME! my hOpes on Thee are sett;
And ChriSt forgiVe, aswell as pay tHe debt.
The liviNg fount, the liFe, the waYe, I know,
And but To thee, O whither Should I goe?
All oTher helps aRe vaine: grantE thine to mee,
For in tHy Crosse my Sauing heaLth must bee.
O hearKen then whAt I with Faith implore,
Least Sin & Death sincke me for Evermore.
Lastly, O God, my wayes direct And guide;
In Death defeNd me, that I neuer slyde;
And at the dooME Let Me be raisd O then,
To liuE with theE; sweet JesVS, say Amen.

357

X. Commendatory Verses.

TO HIS WORTHY AND INGENIOUS FRIEND THE AUTHOR.

So farre as can a swayne (who then a rounde
On oaten-pipe no further boasts his skill)
I dare to censure the shrill trumpets sound,
Or other musick of the Sacred Hil:
The popular applause hath not so fell
(Like Nile's lowd cataract) possest mine eares
But others songs I can distinguish well
And chant their praise, despis'd vertue reares:
Nor shall thy buskind muse be heard alone
In stately pallaces; the shady woods
By me shall learn't, and eccho's one by one
Teach it the hils, and they the silver floods.
Our learned shepheards that have us'd tofore
Their happy gifts in notes that wooe the plaines,
By rural ditties will be knowne no more;
But reach at fame by such as are thy straines.
And I would gladly (if the Sisters spring
Had me inabled) beare a part with thee,

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And for sweet groves, of brave heroës sing,
But since it fits not my weake melodie,
It shall suffice that thou such means do'st give,
That my harsh lines among the best may live.
W. Browne, Int. Temp.

TO MY HONOR'D FRIEND MR. DRAYTON.

Englands braue Genius, raise thy head, and see,
We haue a Muse in this mortalitie
Of Vertue yet suruiues; All met not Death,
When wee intoomb'd our deare Elizabeth.
Immortall Sydney, honoured Colin Clout,
Presaging what wee feele, went timely out.
Then why liues Drayton, when the Times refuse,
Both Meanes to liue, and Matter sor a Muse?
Onely without Excuse to leaue vs quite,
And tell vs, Durst we act, he durst to write.
Now, as the people of a famish'd Towne,
Receiuing no Supply, seeke vp and downe
For mouldy Corne, and Bones long cast aside,
Wherewith their hunger may bee satisfide.
(Small store now left) we are inforc'd to prie
And search the darke Leaues of Antiquitie
For some good Name, to raise our Muse againe,
In this her Crisis, whose harmonious straine
Was of such compasse, that no other Nation
Durst euer venture on a sole Translation;
Whilst our full language, Musicall and hie,
Speakes as themselues their best of Poesie.

359

Drayton, amongst the worthi'st of all those,
The glorious Laurell, or the Cyprian Rose,
Haue euer crown'd, doth claime in euery Lyne,
An equall honor from the sacred Nyne:
For if old Time could like the restlesse Maine
Rock himselfe backe into his Spring againe,
And on his wings beare this admired Muse,
For Ovid, Virgil, Homer, to peruse,
They would confesse, that neuer happier Pen
Sung of his Loues, the Countrey, and the Men.
William Browne.

VPON THIS WORKE OF HIS BELOUED FRIEND THE AVTHOR.

I am snap't already, and may goe my way;
The Poet Critick's cane; I heare him say,
This Towne's mistooke, the Authors Worke's a Play.
He could not misse it; he will strait appeare
At such a baite; 'twas laid on purpose there
To take the vermine, and I haue him here.
Sirra, you wilbe nibling; a small bitt
(A sillable), when yo' are i' the hungry fitt,
Will serue to stay the stomacke of your witt.

360

Foole; Knaue; what's worse? for worse cannot depraue thee.
And were the diuell now instantly to haue thee,
Thou canst not instance such a worke to saue thee,
'Mongst all the ballets which thou dost compose,
And what thou stil'st thy Poems, ill as those,
And, void of rime and reason, thy worse Prose.
Yet like a rude Iack-sauce in Poesie,
With thoughts vnblest and hand vnmanerly,
Rauishing branches from Apollo's tree:
Thou mak'st a garland (for thy touch vnfit)
And boldly deck'st thy pig-brain'd sconce with it,
As if it were the Supreme Head of wit.
The blameles Muses blush, who not allow
That reuerend Order to each vulgar brow;
Whose sinfull touch prophanes the holy Bough.
Hence (shallow Prophet) and admire the straine
Of thine owne Pen, or thy poore Copesmat's veine:
This Piece too curious is for thy coarse braine.
Here witt (more fortvnate) is ioyn'd with Art,
And that most sacred Frenzie beares a part,
Infus'd by Nature in the Poet's heart.
Here may the Puny-wits themselues direct;
Here may the Vilest find what to affect;
And Kings may learne their proper Dialect.
On, then, deare friend: thy Pen thy Name shall spread,
And shal'st thou write, while thou shall not be read,
Thy Muse must labour, when thy Hand is dead.

361

THE AUTHORS FRIEND TO THE READER.

The Printers haste calls on; I must not driue
My time past Sixe, though I begin at Fiue.
One houre I haue entire; and 'tis enough.
Here are no Gipsie Iigges, or Drumming stuffe,
Dances, or other Trumpery to delight,
Or take, by common way, the common sight.
The Avthor of this Poem, as he dares
To stand th' austerest censure, so he cares
As little what it is. His owne best way
Is to be Iudge and Avthor of his Play.
It is his knowledge makes him thus secure;
Nor do's he write to please, but to endure.
And (Reader) if you haue disburs'd a shilling,
To see this worthy Story, and are willing
To haue a large encrease; (if rul'd by me)
You may a Marchant and a Poet be.
'Tis granted for your twelue-pence you did sit,
And See, and Heare, and Vnderstand not yet.
The Avthor (in a Christian pitty) takes
Care of your good, and prints it for your sakes.
That such as will but venter but Six-pence more,
May Know, what they but Saw, and Heard before;
'Twill not be money lost, if you can read,
(Ther's all the doubt now) but your gaines exceed,

362

If you can Vnderstand, and you are made
Free of the freest, and the noblest, Trade.
And in the way of Poetry, now adayes,
Of all that are call'd Workes, the best are Playes.