All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet Being Sixty and three in Number. Collected into one Volume by the Author [i.e. John Taylor]: With sundry new Additions, corrected, reuised, and newly Imprinted |
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| Loues labyrinth, with the description of the seuen Planets. |
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 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
Loues labyrinth, with the description of the seuen Planets.
I trauel'd through a wildernesse of late,
Ashady, darke, vnhaunted desart groue:
Wheras a wretch explain'd his piteous state,
Whose mones the Tygers vnto ruthe would moue:
Yet though he was a man cast downe by Fate,
Full manly with his miseries hee stroue:
And dar'd false Fortune to her vtmost worst,
And e'r he meant to bend, would brauely burst.
Ashady, darke, vnhaunted desart groue:
Wheras a wretch explain'd his piteous state,
Whose mones the Tygers vnto ruthe would moue:
Yet though he was a man cast downe by Fate,
Full manly with his miseries hee stroue:
And dar'd false Fortune to her vtmost worst,
And e'r he meant to bend, would brauely burst.
Yet swelling griefe so much o'r-charg'd his heart,
In scalding sighes, he needs must vent his woe,
Where groans, and teares, and sighes, all beare a part,
As partners in their masters ouerthrow:
Yet spight of griefe, he laught to scorne his smart,
And midst his depth of care demean'd him so,
As if sweet concord bore the greatest sway,
And snarling discord was inforc'd t'obey.
In scalding sighes, he needs must vent his woe,
Where groans, and teares, and sighes, all beare a part,
As partners in their masters ouerthrow:
Yet spight of griefe, he laught to scorne his smart,
And midst his depth of care demean'd him so,
As if sweet concord bore the greatest sway,
And snarling discord was inforc'd t'obey.
Thou Saint (quoth he) I whilome did adore,
Thinke not thy youthfull feature still can last,
In winters age, thou shalt in vaine implore,
That thou on me, such coy disdaine didst cast:
Then, then remember old said sawes of yore.
Time was, Time is, but then thy Time is past:
And in the end, thy bitter torments be:
Because that causelesse, thou tormentedst me
Thinke not thy youthfull feature still can last,
In winters age, thou shalt in vaine implore,
That thou on me, such coy disdaine didst cast:
Then, then remember old said sawes of yore.
Time was, Time is, but then thy Time is past:
And in the end, thy bitter torments be:
Because that causelesse, thou tormentedst me
Oh you immortall, high Imperious pow'rs,
Haue you in your resistlesse doomes decreed,
To blast with spight, & scorne my pleasant houres,
To starue my hopes, and my despaire to feed?
Once more let me attaine those sunshine showres:
Whereby my withered ioyes againe may breed.
If gods no comfort to my cares apply,
My comfort is, I know the way to dye.
Haue you in your resistlesse doomes decreed,
To blast with spight, & scorne my pleasant houres,
To starue my hopes, and my despaire to feed?
Once more let me attaine those sunshine showres:
Whereby my withered ioyes againe may breed.
If gods no comfort to my cares apply,
My comfort is, I know the way to dye.
1 To Saturne.
With wits distracted here I make my will,I doe bequeath to Saturne, all my sadnesse,
When Melancholy first my heart did fill,
My sences turne from sobernesse to madnesse:
Since Saturne, thou wast Authour of my ill,
To giue me griefe, and take away my gladnesse:
Malignant Planet, what thou gau'st to me,
I giue againe, as good a gift to thee.
2 To Ioue.
I doe surrender backe to thundring Ioue,All state, which erst my glory did adorne:
My frothy pomp, and my ambitious loue,
To thee, false Iupiter, I backe returne
All Iouiall thoughts, that first my heart did moue,
In thy Maiesticke braine was bred and borne:
Which by thy inspiration caus'd my wracke,
And therefore vnto thee, I giue it backe.
3 To Mars.
To Mars I giue my rough robustious rage,My anger, fury, and my scarlet wrath:
Man-slaughtring murder, is thy onely page,
Which to thy bloudy guidance I bequeath,
Thy seruants all, from death should haue their wage,
For they are executioners for death:
Great Mars, all fury, wrath, and rage of mine,
I freely offer to thy Goary shrine.
4 To Sol.
All-seeing Sol, thy bright reflecting eyeDid first with Poets Arte inspire my braines:
Tis thou that me so much didst dignifie,
To wrap my soule with sweet Poetike straines,
And vnto thee, againe before I dye,
I giue againe, a Poets gainelesse gaines,
Though wit and arte are blessings most diuine,
Yet here, their iems, amongst a heard of swine.
5 To Venus.
To thee, false Goddesse, loues adultrous Queene,My most inconstant thoughts I doe surrender:
For thou alone, alone hast euer beene
True louers bane, yet seemest loues defender,
And were thy Bastard blinde, as fooles doe weene,
So right he had not spilt my heart so tender:
Fond Vulcans pride, thou turn'st my ioy to paine,
Which vnto thee, I render backe againe.
6 To Mercury.
To Mercury, I giue my sharking shifts,My two-fold false equiuocating tricks:
All cunning sleights, and close deceiuing drifts,
Which to deceitfull wrong my humour pricks:
251
No birdlime henceforth to my fingers sticks.
My thoughts, my words, my actions that are bad,
To thee I giue, for them from thee I had.
7 To Luna.
And last and low'st of all these Planets seuen,My wau'ring thoughts, I giue to Lunae's guiding:
My senslesse braines, of wit and sence bereauen,
My stedfast change, and my most certaine sliding,
All various alterations vnder heauen,
All that is mine, ore mouing or abyding,
My woes, my ioyes, my mourning and my mirth,
I giue to thee, from whence they had their birth.
Thus he against the higher powers contends,
And threats, and bans, and beats his care crazd brest,
The birds harmonious musicke to him lends,
Which addes no rest vnto his restlesse rest:
Yea eu'ry thing in louing sort attends:
Al senceable, and sencelesse doe their best.
With helplesse helps do helpe to mone his mone,
And her he loues, remaines vnkinde alone.
And threats, and bans, and beats his care crazd brest,
The birds harmonious musicke to him lends,
Which addes no rest vnto his restlesse rest:
Yea eu'ry thing in louing sort attends:
Al senceable, and sencelesse doe their best.
With helplesse helps do helpe to mone his mone,
And her he loues, remaines vnkinde alone.
At last he rose from out the place he lay,
And frantickly ran woodly through the wood:
The scratching brambes in the wailesse way,
Intreate his stay, but in a hare-braind mood,
He fled, till weary he at last did stay,
To rest him, where a ragged rocke there stood
With resolution to despaire and dye,
Whil'st Eccho to his mone did thus reply. Eccho.
May humane mischiefes be compar'd with mine? Eccho. mine.
And frantickly ran woodly through the wood:
The scratching brambes in the wailesse way,
Intreate his stay, but in a hare-braind mood,
He fled, till weary he at last did stay,
To rest him, where a ragged rocke there stood
With resolution to despaire and dye,
Whil'st Eccho to his mone did thus reply. Eccho.
Thine, babbling Eccho, would thy tongue told true: Eccho. true.
I rue, that I alone must weepe and pine: Eccho. pine.
I pine for her, from whom my cares ensue, Eccho. sue.
I sue, I serue a marble-hearted faire, Eccho. ayre.
And ayre is all the fruit of fruitlesse loue: Eccho. loue.
Lou's hope is past, then welcom black despaire Eccho. despair.
Shall there despaire my causeles curse remoue? Eccho. moue.
Oh whither shall I moue, to ioy or paine? Eccho. paine.
Must paine be my reward for paine for aye? Eccho. aye.
Aye must my torment feed her scornfull vain? Eccho. vaine.
To ease me griefe, wil she say yea or nay? Eccho. nay.
Nay, then from loue and all his lawes I fly. Eccho. fly.
I fly, I search, I seeke the way to die. Eccho. die.
Thus brabbling 'gainst all things he heares or sees,
Impatient at his froward fortunes wrongs:
No sensu'all obiect with his sence agrees.
All pleasures his dispeasure more prolongs:
At length he carues vpon the thick-bark'd trees
These vnder written sad lamenting songs.
And as my weake inuention vnderstood,
His farewell thus, was grau'd vpon the wood.
Sonnet.
Like a decrepit wretch, deform'd and lame
My verse approaches to my dearest Dame
Whose dire disdaine, makes my laments her game
Whose scornfull eies adde fuell to my flame.
But whether shee, or I, are most too blame
I for attempting to exalt her fame
With fruitlesse Sonnets; which my wit did frame:
Or shee whose piercing lookes my heart o'r-came.
Her feature can both men and monsters tame
The gods, and fiends adore and dread her name
Whose matchlesse forme doth Citherea shame,
Whose cruell heart remaineth still the same
And in a word, I striue against the streame
My state's too low, and hers is too supreme.
My verse approaches to my dearest Dame
Whose dire disdaine, makes my laments her game
Whose scornfull eies adde fuell to my flame.
But whether shee, or I, are most too blame
I for attempting to exalt her fame
With fruitlesse Sonnets; which my wit did frame:
Or shee whose piercing lookes my heart o'r-came.
Her feature can both men and monsters tame
The gods, and fiends adore and dread her name
Whose matchlesse forme doth Citherea shame,
Whose cruell heart remaineth still the same
And in a word, I striue against the streame
My state's too low, and hers is too supreme.
Then since so scornefull is her high disdaine,
Since all my loue is but bestow'd in vaine
Curbe fancie then, with true discretions Reine,
Let reason cure my tor-tormenting paine,
Suppose I should at last, my suit attaine,
And then sit downe and count my losing gaine:
My haruest would be tares in stead of graine.
Then Ile no longer vexe my vexed braine
To seeke her loue, who ioyes when I complaine
No longer I, loues vassall will remaine,
I'l be no more of Cupids witlesse traine,
Whose partiall blindenesse hath so many slaine.
Proud Dame, whose brest my loue didst earst refrain
Despight loues lawes, I'le be no more thy swaine.
Since all my loue is but bestow'd in vaine
Curbe fancie then, with true discretions Reine,
Let reason cure my tor-tormenting paine,
Suppose I should at last, my suit attaine,
And then sit downe and count my losing gaine:
My haruest would be tares in stead of graine.
Then Ile no longer vexe my vexed braine
To seeke her loue, who ioyes when I complaine
No longer I, loues vassall will remaine,
I'l be no more of Cupids witlesse traine,
Whose partiall blindenesse hath so many slaine.
Proud Dame, whose brest my loue didst earst refrain
Despight loues lawes, I'le be no more thy swaine.
Thus like a man, whose wits were quite bereft him,
I found him mad with loue, and so I left him.
I found him mad with loue, and so I left him.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |