University of Virginia Library

[Alas how long this pilgrimage doth last?]

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plangus.
If through mine eares pearce any consolation
By wise discourse, sweete tunes, or Poets fiction;
If ought I cease these hideous exclamations,
While that my soule, she, she lives in affliction;
Then let my life long time on earth maintained be,
To wretched me, the last worst malediction.
Can I, that know her sacred parts restrained be,
For any joy, know fortunes vile displacing her,
In morall rules let raging woes contained be?
Can I forget, when they in prison placing her,
With swelling hart in spite and due disdainfulnes
She lay for dead, till I helpt with unlasing her?
Can I forget, from how much mourning plainfulnes
With Diamond in window-glasse she graved,
Erona dye, and end thy ougly painefulnes?
Can I forget in how straunge phrase she craved
That quickly they would her burne, drowne, or smother,
As if by death she onely might be saved?
Then let me eke forget one hand from other:
Let me forget that Plangus I am called:
Let me forget I am sonne to my mother,
But if my memory must thus be thralled
To that strange stroke which conquer'd all my senses,
Can thoughts still thinking so rest unappalled?

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