University of Virginia Library

THE COUNTESSE OF PEMBROKES ARCADIA

[THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE COUNTESSE OF PEMBROKES ARCADIA.]

[What length of verse can serve brave Mopsas good to show?]

What length of verse can serve brave Mopsas good to show?
Whose vertues strange, & beuties such, as no mā thē may know
Thus shrewdly burdned thē, how cā my Muse escape?
The gods must help, and pretious things must serve to shew her shape.
Like great god Saturn faire, and like faire Venus chaste:
As smothe as Pan, as Juno milde, like goddesse Iris faste.
With Cupid she fore-sees, and goes god Vulcans pace:
And for a tast of all these gifts, she steales god Momus grace.
Her forhead jacinth like, her cheekes of opall hue,
Her twinkling eies bedeckt with pearle, her lips as Saphir blew:
Her haire like Crapal-stone; her mouth O heavenly wyde;
Her skin like burnisht gold, her hands like silver ure untryde.
As for her parts unknowne, which hidden sure are best:
Happie be they which well beleeve, & never seeke the rest.

[Transformd in shew, but more transformd in minde]

[Pyrocles.]

[Come shepheards weedes, become your masters minde]

[Musidorus.]

[Now thanked be the great God Pan]

The first Eclogues.

[We love, and have our loves rewarded.]

[The Shepheards.]
We love, and have our loves rewarded.
We love, and are no whit regarded.
We finde most sweete affections snare,
That sweete, but sower despairefull care.
Who can despaire, whom hope doth beare?
And who can hope, that feeles despaire?

[Come Dorus, come, let songs thy sorowes signifie]

Lalus and Dorus.
Lalus.
Come Dorus, come, let songs thy sorowes signifie:
And if for want of use thy minde ashamed is,
That verie shame with Loves high title dignifie.
No stile is held for base, where Love well named is:
Ech eare suckes up the words, a true love scattereth,
And plaine speach oft, then quaint phrase, better framed is.

Dorus.
Nightingales seldome sing, the Pie still chattereth:
The wood cries most, before it throughly kindled be,
Deadly wounds inward bleed, ech sleight sore mattereth.
Hardly they heard, which by good hunters singled be.
Shallow brookes murmure most, deep silent slide away;
Nor true love loves those loves with others mingled be.

Lalus.
If thou wilt not be seene, thy face goe hide away,
Be none of us, or els maintaine our fashion:
Who frownes at others feastes, dooth better bide away.
But if thou hast a Love, in that Loves passion,
I challenge thee by shew of her perfection,
Which of us two deserveth most compassion.

Dorus.
Thy challenge great, but greater my protection:
Sing then, and see (for now thou hast inflamed me)
Thy health too meane a match for my infection.
No, though the heav'ns for high attempts have blamed me,
Yet high is my attempt, O Muse historifie
Her praise, whose praise to learne your skill hath framed me.

Lalus.
Muse hold your peace: but thou, my God Pan, glorifie
My Kalas giftes: who with all good gifts filled is.
Thy pipe, ô Pan, shall helpe, though I sing sorilie.
A heape of sweetes she is, where nothing spilled is;
Who though she be no Bee, yet full of honie is:
A Lillie field, with plowe of Rose which tilled is.
Milde as a Lambe, more daintie then a Conie is;
Her eyes my eyesight is, her conversation
More gladde to me, then to a miser monie is.
What coye account she makes of estimation?
How nice to touch, how all her speeches peized be?
A Nimph thus turnde, but mended in translation.

Dorus.
Such Kala is: but ah, my fancies raysed be
In one, whose name to name were high presumption,
Since vertues all, to make her title, pleased be.
O happie Gods, which by inward assumption
Enjoy her soule, in bodies faire possession,
And keep it joynde, fearing your seates consumption.
How oft with raine of teares skies make confession,
Their dwellers rapt with sight of her perfection
From heav'nly throne to her heav'n use digression?
Of best things then what world can yeeld confection
To liken her? Decke yours with your comparison:
She is her selfe, of best things the collection.

Lalus.
How oft my dolefull Sire cried to me, tarrie sonne
When first he spied my love? how oft he said to me,
Thou art no souldier fitte for Cupids garrison?
My sonne, keepe this, that my long toyle hath laide to me:
Love well thine owne: me thinkes, woolles whitenes passeth all:
I never found long love such wealth hath paide to me.
This winde he spent: but when my Kala glasseth all
My sight in her faire limmes, I then assure my selfe,
Not rotten sheepe, but high crownes she surpasseth all.
Can I be poore, that her golde haire procure my selfe?
Want I white wooll, whose eyes her white skinne garnished?
Till I get her, shall I to keepe enure my selfe?

Dorus
How oft, when reason saw, love of her harnised
With armour of my hart, he cried, O vanitie,
To set a pearle in steele so meanely varnished?
Looke to thy selfe; reach not beyond humanitie:
Her minde, beames, state farre from thy weake wings banished:
And Love, which lover hurts is inhumanitie.
Thus Reason said: but she came, Reason vanished;
Her eyes so maistering me, that such objection
Seemde but to spoyle the foode of thoughts long famished.
Her peereles height my minde to high erection
Drawes up; and if hope-fayling ende lives pleasure,
Of fayrer death how can I make election?

Lalus.
Once my well-waiting eyes espied my treasure,
With sleeves turnde up, loose haire, and brest enlarged,
Her fathers corne (moving her faire limmes) measure.
O cried I, of so meane worke be discharged:
Measure my case, how by thy beauties filling
With seede of woes my hart brimme-full is charged.
Thy father bids thee save, and chides for spilling.
Save then my soule, spill not my thoughts well heaped,
No lovely praise was ever got by killing.
These bolde words she did heare, this fruite I reaped,
That she, whose looke alone might make me blessed,
Did smile on me, and then away she leaped.

Dorus.
Once, ô sweete once, I saw with dread oppressed
Her whom I dread; so that with prostrate lying
Her length the earth in Loves chiefe clothing dressed.
I saw that riches fall, and fell a crying;
Let not dead earth enjoy so deare a cover,
But deck therewith my soule for your sake dying.
Lay all your feare upon your fearefull lover:
Shine eyes on me, that both our lives be guarded;
So I your sight, you shall your selves recover.
I cried, and was with open rayes rewarded:
But straight they fledde, summond by cruell honor,
Honor, the cause, desart is not regarded.

Lalus.
This mayde, thus made for joyes, ô Pan bemone her,
That without love she spends her yeares of love:
So faire a fielde would well become an owner.
And if enchantment can a harde hart move,
Teach me what circle may acquaint her sprite,
Affections charmes in my behalfe to prove.
The circle is my (round about her) sight:
The power I will invoke dwelles in her eyes:
My charme should be, she haunt me day and night.

Dorus.
Farre other care, ô Muse, my sorrow tries,
Bent to such one, in whom, my selfe must say,
Nothing can mend that point that in her lies.
What circle then in so rare force beares swaye?
Whose sprite all sprites can spoile, raise, damne, or save:
No charme holdes her, but well possesse she may;
Possesse she doth, and makes my soule her slave:
My eyes the bandes, my thoughts the fatall knot.
No thralles like them that inward bondage have.

Lalus.
Kala at length conclude my lingring lotte:
Disdaine me not, although I be not faire.
Who is an heire of many hundred sheep
Doth beauties keep, which never Sunne can burne,
Nor stormes doo turne: fairenes serves oft to wealth.
Yet all my health I place in your good-will.
Which if you will (ô doo) bestow on me,
Such as you see, such still you shall me finde.
Constant and kind: my sheep your foode shall breed,
Their wooll your weede, I will you Musique yeeld
In flowrie fielde; and as the day begins
With twenty ginnes we will the small birds take,
And pastimes make, as Nature things hath made.
But when in shade we meet of mirtle bowes,
Then Love allowes, our pleasures to enrich,
The thought of which doth passe all worldly pelfe.

Dorus.
Lady your selfe, whom nether name I dare,
And titles are but spots to such a worthe,
Heare plaints come forth from dungeon of my minde.
The noblest kinde rejects not others woes.
I have no shewes of wealth: my wealth is you,
My beauties hewe your beames, my health your deeds;
My minde for weeds your vertues liverie weares.
My foode is teares; my tunes waymenting yeeld:
Despaire my fielde; the flowers spirits warrs:
My day newe cares; my ginnes my daily sight,
In which do light small birds of thoughts orethrowne:
My pastimes none: time passeth on my fall:
Nature made all, but me of dolours made:
I finde no shade, but where my Sunne doth burne:
No place to turne; without, within it fryes:
Nor helpe by life or death who living dyes.

Lalus.
But if my Kala this my suite denies,
Which so much reason beares,
Let crowes picke out mine eyes, which saw too much:
If still her minde be such,
My earthy moulde will melte in watrie teares.

Dorus.
My earthy moulde doth melte in watrie teares,
And they againe resolve
To aire of sighes, sighes to the hartes fire turne,
Which doth to ashes burne:
So doth my life within it selfe dissolve,

Lalus.
So doth my life within it selfe dissolve,
That I am like a flower
New plucked from the place where it did breed,
Life showing, dead indeed:
Such force hath Love above poore Natures power.

Dorus.
Such force hath Love above poore Natures power,
That I growe like a shade,
Which being nought seems somewhat to the eyen,
While that one body shine.
Oh he is mard that is for others made.

Lalus.
Oh he is mard that is for others made.
Which thought doth marre my piping declaration,
Thinking how it hath mard my shepheards trade.
Now my hoarse voice doth faile this occupation,
And others long to tell their loves condition:
Of singing take to thee the reputation.

Dorus.
Of singing take to thee the reputation
New friend of mine; I yeeld to thy habilitie:
My soule doth seeke another estimation.
But ah my Muse I would thou hadst agilitie,
To worke my Goddesse so by thy invention,
On me to cast those eyes, where shine nobilitie.
Seen, and unknowne; heard, but without attention.

[As I my little flocke on Ister banke]

[A yong Shepheard.]

[In faith, good Histor, long is your delay]

Geron. Histor.
Geron.
In faith, good Histor, long is your delay,
From holy marriage sweete and surest meane:
Our foolish lust in honest rules to stay.
I pray thee doo to Lalus sample leane:
Thou seest, how friske, and jolly now he is,
That last day seem'd, he could not chew a beane.
Beleeve me man, there is no greater blisse,
Then is the quiet joy of loving wife;
Which who so wants, halfe of himselfe doth misse.
Friend without change, playfellow without strife,
Foode without fulnes, counsaile without pride,
Is this sweet doubling of our single life.

Histor.
No doubt to whom so good chance did betide,
As for to finde a pasture strawed with golde,
He were a foole, if there he did not bide.
Who would not have a Phœnix if he could?
The humming Waspe, if it had not a stinge,
Before all flies the Waspe accept I would.
But this bad world, few golden fieldes doth bring,
Phœnix but one, of Crowes we millions have:
The Waspe seemes gay, but is a combrous thing.
If many Kalaes our Arcadia gave,
Lalus example I would soone ensue,
And thinke, I did my selfe from sorrow save.
But of such wives we finde a slender crew;
Shrewdnes so stirres, pride so puffes up the hart,
They seldome ponder what to them is due.
With meager lookes, as if they still did smart;
Puiling, and whimpring, or else scolding flat,
Make home more paine then following of the cart.
Ether dull silence, or eternall chat;
Still contrarie to what her husband sayes;
If he do praise the dog, she likes the cat.
Austere she is, when he would honest playes;
And gamesome then, when he thinkes on his sheepe;
She bids him goe, and yet from jorney stayes.
She warre doth ever with his kinsfolke keepe,
And makes them fremb'd, who frinds by nature are,
Envying shallow toyes with malice deepe.
And if forsooth there come some new found ware,
The little coine his sweating browes have got,
Must goe for that, if for her lowres he care:
Or els; Nay faith, mine is the lucklest lot,
That ever fell to honest woman yet:
No wife but I hath such a man, God wot.
Such is their speech, who be of sober wit;
But who doo let their tongues shew well their rage,
Lord, what bywords they speake, what spite they spit?
The house is made a very lothsome cage,
Wherein the birde doth never sing but cry;
With such a will as nothing can asswage.
Dearely the servants doo their wages buy,
Revil'd for ech small fault, sometimes for none:
They better live that in a gaile doo lie.
Let other fowler spots away be blowne;
For I seeke not their shame, but still me thinkes,
A better life it is to lye alone.

Geron.
Who for ech fickle feare from vertue shrinkes,
Shall in his life embrace no worthy thing:
No mortall man the cuppe of suretie drinkes.
The heav'ns doo not good haps in handfuls bring,
But let us pike our good from out much bad:
That still our little world may know his king.
But certainly so long we may be glad,
While that we doo what nature doth require,
And for th'event we never ought be sad.
Man oft is plag'de with aire, is burnt with fire,
In water dround, in earth his buriall is;
And shall we not therefore their use desire?
Nature above all things requireth this,
That we our kind doo labour to maintaine;
Which drawne-out line doth hold all humane blisse.
Thy father justly may of thee complaine,
If thou doo not repay his deeds for thee,
In granting unto him a grandsires gaine.
Thy common-wealth may rightly grieved be,
Which must by this immortall be preserved,
If thus thou murther thy posteritie.
His very being he hath not deserved,
Who for a selfe-conceipt will that forbeare,
Whereby that being aye must be conserved.
And God forbid, women such cattell were,
As you paint them: but well in you I finde,
No man doth speake aright, who speakes in feare.
Who onely sees the ill is worse then blind.
These fiftie winters maried have I beene;
And yet finde no such faults in womankind.
I have a wife worthie to be a Queene,
So well she can command, and yet obay;
In ruling of a house so well shee's seene.
And yet in all this time, betwixt us tway,
We beare our double yoke with such consent,
That never past foule word, I dare well say.
But these be your love-toyes, which still are spent
In lawlesse games, and love not as you should,
But with much studie learne late to repent.
How well last day before our Prince you could
Blinde Cupids workes with wonder testifie?
Yet now the roote of him abase you would.
Goe to, goe to, and Cupid now applie
To that where thou thy Cupid maist avowe,
And thou shalt finde, in women vertues lie.
Sweete supple mindes which soone to wisdome bowe
Where they by wisdomes rule directed are,
And are not forst fonde thraldome to allow.
As we to get are fram'd, so they to spare:
We made for paine, our paines they made to cherish:
We care abroad, and they of home have care.
O Histor, seeke within thy selfe to flourish:
Thy house by thee must live, or els be gone:
And then who shall the name of Histor nourish?
Riches of children passe a Princes throne;
Which touch the fathers hart with secret joy,
When without shame he saith, these be mine owne.
Marrie therefore; for marriage will destroy
Those passions which to youthfull head doo clime
Mothers and Nurses of all vaine annoy.

[You Gote-heard Gods, that love the grassie mountaines]

Strephon. Klaius.
Strephon.
You Gote-heard Gods, that love the grassie mountaines,
You Nimphes that haunt the springs in pleasant vallies,
You Satyrs joyde with free and quiet forrests,
Vouchsafe your silent eares to playning musique,
Which to my woes gives still an early morning:
And drawes the dolor on till wery evening.

Klaius.
O Mercurie, foregoer to the evening,
O heavenlie huntresse of the savage mountaines,
O lovelie starre, entitled of the morning,
While that my voice doth fill these wofull vallies,
Vouchsafe your silent eares to plaining musique,
Which oft hath Echo tir'd in secrete forrests.

Strephon.
I that was once free-burges of the forrests,
Where shade from Sunne, and sports I sought at evening,
I that was once esteem'd for pleasant musique,
Am banisht now among the monstrous mountaines
Of huge despaire, and foule afflictions vallies,
Am growne a shrich-owle to my selfe each morning.

Klaius.
I that was once delighted every morning,
Hunting the wilde inhabiters of forrests,
I that was once the musique of these vallies,
So darkened am, that all my day is evening,
Hart-broken so, that molehilles seeme high mountaines,
And fill the vales with cries in steed of musique.

Strephon
Long since alas, my deadly Swannish musique
Hath made it selfe a crier of the morning,
And hath with wailing strēgth clim'd highest mountaines:
Long since my thoughts more desert be then forrests:
Long since I see my joyes come to their evening,
And state throwen downe to over-troden vallies.

Klaius.
Long since the happie dwellers of these vallies,
Have praide me leave my strange exclaiming musique,
Which troubles their dayes worke, and joyes of evening:
Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:
Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forrests,
And make me wish my selfe layd under mountaines.

Strephon.
Me seemes I see the high and stately mountaines,
Transforme themselves to lowe dejected vallies:
Me seemes I heare in these ill-changed forrests,
The Nightingales doo learne of Owles their musique:
Me seemes I feele the comfort of the morning
Turnde to the mortall serene of an evening.

Klaius.
Me seemes I see a filthie clowdie evening,
As soon as Sunne begins to clime the mountaines:
Me seemes I feele a noysome sent, the morning
When I doo smell the flowers of these vallies:
Me seemes I heare, when I doo heare sweete musique,
The dreadfull cries of murdred men in forrests.

Strephon.
I wish to fire the trees of all these forrests;
I give the Sunne a last farewell each evening;
I curse the fidling finders out of Musicke:
With envie I doo hate the loftie mountaines;
And with despite despise the humble vallies:
I doo detest night, evening, day, and morning.

Klaius.
Curse to my selfe my prayer is, the morning:
My fire is more, then can be made with forrests;
My state more base, then are the basest vallies:
I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;
Shamed I have my selfe in sight of mountaines,
And stoppe mine eares, lest I growe mad with Musicke.

Strephon.
For she, whose parts maintainde a perfect musique,
Whose beautie shin'de more then the blushing morning,
Who much did passe in state the stately mountaines,
In straightnes past the Cedars of the forrests,
Hath cast me wretch into eternall evening,
By taking her two Sunnes from these darke vallies.

Klaius.
For she, to whom compar'd, the Alpes are vallies,
She, whose lest word brings from the spheares their musique,
At whose approach the Sunne rose in the evening,
Who, where she went, bare in her forhead morning,
Is gone, is gone from these our spoyled forrests,
Turning to desarts our best pastur'de mountaines.

Strephon. Klaius.
These mountaines witnesse shall, so shall these vallies,
These forrests eke, made wretched by our musique,
Our morning hymne is this, and song at evening.

[If mine eyes can speake to doo harty errande]

[Zelmane.]
If mine eyes can speake to doo harty errande,
Or mine eyes language she doo hap to judge of,
So that eyes message be of her receaved,
Hope we do live yet.

THE SECOND BOOKE OF THE COUNTESSE OF PEMBROKES ARCADIA.

[In vaine, mine Eyes, you labour to amende]

[Zelmane.]

[Let not old age disgrace my high desire]

[Zelmane.]

[Since so mine eyes are subject to your sight]

[Dorus.]

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

[Dorus.]
My sheepe are thoughts, which I both guide and serve:
Their pasture is faire hilles of fruitlesse Love:
On barren sweetes they feede, and feeding sterve:
I waile their lotte, but will not other prove.
My sheepehooke is wanne hope, which all upholdes:
My weedes, Desire, cut out in endlesse foldes.
What wooll my sheepe shall beare, whiles thus they live,
In you it is, you must the judgement give.

[You living powres enclosed in stately shrine]

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

[What toong can her perfections tell]

[Zelmane.]

[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.

[Poore Painters oft with silly Poets joyne]

Poore Painters oft with silly Poets joyne,
To fill the world with strange but vaine conceits:
One brings the stuffe, the other stamps the coine,
Which breeds nought else but gloses of deceits.
Thus Painters Cupid paint, thus Poets do
A naked god, young blind, with arrowes two.
Is he a God, that ever flies the light?
Or naked he, disguis'd in all untruth?
If he be blind, how hitteth he so right?
How is he young, that tam'de old Phœbus youth?
But arrowes two, and tipt with gold or leade:
Some hurt accuse a third with horny head.
No, nothing so; an old false knave he is
By Argus got on Io, then a cow:
What time for her Juno her Jove did misse,
And charge of her to Argus did allow.
Mercury kill'd his false sire for this act,
His damme a beast was pardon'd beastly fact.
With fathers death, and mothers guiltie shame,
With Joves disdaine at such a rivals seed,
The wretch compell'd a runnagate became,
And learn'd what ill a miser state doth breed,
To lye, faine, gloze, to steale, pry, and accuse,
Naught in himselfe ech other to abuse.
Yet beares he still his parents stately gifts,
A horned head, cloven foote, and thousand eyes,
Some gazing still, some winking wilye shiftes,
With long large eares where never rumour dyes.
His horned head doth seeme the heaven to spight:
His cloven foote doth never treade aright.
Thus halfe a man, with man he dayly haunts,
Cloth'd in the shape which soonest may deceave:
Thus halfe a beast, ech beastly vice he plants,
In those weake harts that his advice receave.
He proules ech place stil in new colours deckt,
Sucking ones ill, another to infect.
To narrow brests he comes all wrapt in gaine:
To swelling harts he shines in honours fire:
To open eyes all beauties he doth raine;
Creeping to ech with flattering of desire.
But for that Loves desire most rules the eyes,
Therein his name, there his chiefe triumph lyes.
Millions of yeares this old drivell Cupid lives;
While still more wretch, more wicked he doth prove:
Till now at length that Jove him office gives,
(At Junos suite who much did Argus love)
In this our world a hang-man for to be,
Of all those fooles that will have all they see.

[Loved I am, and yet complaine of Love]

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

[Over these brookes trusting to ease mine eyes]

[Zelmane.]

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

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

[Wyth two strange fires of equall heate possest]

[Philoclea.]

[A hatefull cure with hate to heale]

[Thy elder care shall from thy carefull face]

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

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

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

The second Eclogues.

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

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

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

Reason.
Can Reason then a Tyraunt counted be?

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

R.
But Reason will, that Reason governe most.

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

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

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

R.
Whom Passion leades unto his death is bent.

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

R.
By nature you to Reason faith have sworne.

P.
Not so, but fellowlike together borne.

R.
Who Passion doth ensue, lives in annoy.

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

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

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

R.
Dare Passions then abide in Reasons light?

P.
And is not Reason dimde with Passions might?

R.
O foolish thing, which glory doth destroye.

P.
O glorious title of a foolish toye.

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

P.
Because our weaknes weakeneth all your might.

R.
O sacred Reason, helpe our vertuous toiles.

P.
O Passion, passe on feeble Reasons spoiles.

R.
We with ourselves abide a daily strife.

P.
We gladly use the sweetnes of our life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

P.
What shall we winne by taking Reasons yoke?

R.
The joyes you have shall be made permanent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dicus. Dorus
Dicus.
Dorus, tell me, where is thy wonted motion
To make these woods resounde thy lamentation?
Thy sainte is dead, or dead is thy devotion.
For who doth holde his love in estimation,
To witnes, that he thinkes his thoughts delicious,
Thinks to make ech thing badge of his sweet passion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dorus.
Well do I prove, errour lies oft in zeale,
Yet it is seale, though errour, of true hart.
Nought could impart such heates to friendly mind.
But for to find thy words did her disgrace,
Whose onely face the little heaven is,
Which who doth misse his eyes are but delusions,
Barr'd from their chiefest object of delightfulnesse,
Throwne on this earth the Chaos of confusions.
As for thy wish to my enraged spitefulnesse,
The lovely blowne with rare reward, my prayer is
Thou mayest love her that I may see thy sightfulnesse.
The quiet mind (whereof my selfe empairer is,
As thou doest thinke) should most of all disquiet me
Without her love, then any mind who fairer is.
Her onely cure from surfet-woes can diet me:
She holdes the ballance of my contentation:
Her cleared eyes, nought els, in stormes can quiet me.
Nay rather then my ease discontentation
Should breed to her, let me for aye dejected be
From any joy, which might her griefe occasion.
With so sweete plagues my happie harmes infected be:
Paine willes me die, yet will of death I mortifie:
For though life irkes, in life my loves protected be.
Thus for ech change my changelesse hart I fortifie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Klaius.
Enough to make a fertill minde lie waste
Is that huge storme, which powres it selfe on me:
Hailestones of teares, of sighes a monstrous blast,
Thunders of cries; lightnings my wilde lookes be,
The darkened heav'n my soule which nought can see;
The flying sprites which trees by rootes up teare
Be those despaires, which have my hopes quite wast.
The diffrence is; all folkes those stormes forbeare:
But I cannot; who then my selfe should flie
So close unto my selfe my wrackes doo lie.

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

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

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

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

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

Klaius.

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

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

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

Echo. Peace.

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

I.

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

T'is Echo.

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

I will too.

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

Grieves.

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

Death.

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

It.

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

Ease.

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

Vaine.

Hath not reason enough vehemence the desire to reprove?

Prove.

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

One.

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

Love.

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

Joye.

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

Paines.

Then to an earnest love what doth best victorie lende?

Ende.

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

Leave.

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

Sicke.

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

I told thee.

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

No.

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

Blinde.

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

A fancie.

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

Oft.

What causes first made these torments on me to light?

Light.

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

I.

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

Eye.

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

Eyes.

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

Falls.

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

Arte.

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

Speach.

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

Wordes.

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

Lesse.

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

Longe.

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

Oughts.

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

Winde.

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

Ire.

Silly rewarde: yet above women hath she a title.

A tittle.

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

A wo-man.

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

I thought so.

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

Course.

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

Toyes.

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

Harde.

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

Eeles.

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

Pride.

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

Thence.

Horrible is this blasphemie unto the most holie.

O lye.

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

Juste.

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

Odds.

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

Erre.

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

A devill.

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

Goe.

[THE THIRD BOOKE OF THE COUNTESSE OF PEMBROKES ARCADIA.]

[Unto a caitife wretch, whom long affliction holdeth]

Unto a caitife wretch, whom long affliction holdeth,
and now fully beleeves helpe to be quite perished;
Grant yet, grant yet a looke, to the last monumēt of his anguish,
O you (alas so I find) cause of his onely ruine.
Dread not a whit (O goodly cruell) that pittie may enter
into thy hart by the sight of this Epistle I send:
And so refuse to behold of these strange wounds the recitall,
least it might th'allure home to thy selfe to returne,
(Unto thy selfe I do meane those graces dwell so within thee,
gratefulnes, sweetnes, holy love, hartie regard)
Such thing cannot I seeke (Despaire hath giv'n me my answer
despaire most tragicall clause to a deadly request)
Such thing cānot he hope, that knowes thy determinat hardnes;
hard like a rich marble: hard, but a faire Diamond.
Can those eyes that of eyes drownd in most harty flowing teares,
(teares and teares of a man) had no returne to remorse;
Can those eyes now yeeld to the kind conceit of a sorow,
which inke onely relates, but ne laments, ne replies?
Ah, that, that I do I not conceive (though that to my blisse were)
more then Nestors yeares, more then a Kings diademe.
Ah, that, that I do not cōceive; to the heavē when a mouse climes
then may I hope t'atchieve grace of a heavenly tiger.
But, but alas, like a man cōdemn'd doth crave to be heard speake
not that he hopes for amends of the desaster he feeles,
But finding th'approch of death with an ougly relenting,
gives an adieu to the world, as to his onely delight:
Right so my boiling hart, enflam'de with fire of a faire eye,
bubling out doth breath signes of his hugie dolours:
Now that he finds to what end his life and love be reserved,
and that he hence must part where to live onely he lov'd.
O faire, O fairest, are such thy triumphs to thy fairnesse?
can death beautie become? must be such a monument?
Must I be onely the marke, shall prove that Vertue is angrie?
shall prove that fiercenes can with a white dove abide?
Shall to the world appeare that faith and love be rewarded
with mortall disdaine, bent to unendly revenge?
Unto revenge? O sweete, on a wretch wilt thou be revenged?
shall such high Plannets ende to the losse of a worme?
And to revenge who doo bend, would in that kind be revenged,
as th'offence was done, and goe beyond if he can.
All my' offence was Love: with Love then must I be chastned,
and with more, by the lawes that to Revenge doo belong.
If that love be a fault, more fault in you to be lovely:
Love never had me opprest, but that I saw to be lov'd.
You be the cause that I lov'd: what Reason blameth a shadowe,
that with a body't goes? since by a body it is.
If that Love you did hate, you should your beautie have hidden:
you should those faire eyes have with a veile covered.
But foole, foole that I am, those eyes would shine frō a dark cave.
what veiles then doo prevaile, but to a more miracle?
Or those golden lockes, those lockes which lock me to bondage,
torne you should disperse unto the blasts of a winde.
But foole, foole that I am, tho I had but a hair of her head foūd,
ev'n as I am, so I should unto that haire be a thrall.
Or with fair hāds-nailes (ô hād which nailes me to this death)
you should have your face (since Love is ill) blemished.
O wretch, what do I say? should that faire face be defaced?
should my too-much sight cause so true a Sunne to be lost?
First let Cimmerian darknes be my onel' habitacion:
first be mine eyes pulde out, first be my braine perished;
Ere that I should consent to doo such excessive a dammage
unto the earth, by the hurt of this her heavenly jewell.
O no: but such love you say you could have afoorded,
as might learne Temp'rance voyde of a rages events.
O sweet simplicitie: from whence should Love so be learned?
unto Cupid that boy shall Pedante be found?
Well: but faultie I was: Reason to my Passion yeelded,
Passion unto my rage, Rage to a hastie revenge.
But what's this for a fault, for which such fault is abolisht,
such faith, so staineles, inviolate, violent?
Shall I not? ô may I not thus yet refresh the remembrance,
what sweete joyes I had once, and what a place I did hold?
Shall I not once object, that you, you graunted a favour
unto the man, whom now such miseries you awarde?
Bēd your thoghts to the dear sweet words which thē to me giv'n were:
think what a world is now, think who hath altred her hart.
What? was I then worthie such good, now worthie such evill?
now fled, then cherished? then so nie, now so remote?
Did not a rosed breath, from lips more rosie proceeding,
say, that I should well finde in what a care I was had?
With much more: now what doo I finde, but Care to abhor me,
Care that I sinke in griefe, Care that I live banished?
And banished doo I live, nor now will seeke a recov'rie,
since so she will, whose will is to me more then a lawe.
If then a man in most ill case may give you a farewell;
farewell, long farewell, all my woe, all my delight.

[Amphialus song to Philoclea.]

Now was our heav'nly vaulte deprived of the light
With Sunnes depart: and now the darkenes of the night
Did light those beamye stars which greater light did darke:
Now each thing that enjoy'd that firie quickning sparke
(Which life is cald) were mov'd their spirits to repose,
And wanting use of eyes their eyes began to close:
A silence sweet each where with one consent embraste
(A musique sweet to one in carefull musing plaste)
And mother Earth, now clad in mourning weeds, did breath
A dull desire to kisse the image of our death:
When I, disgraced wretch, not wretched then, did give
My senses such reliefe, as they which quiet live,
Whose braines broile not in woes, nor brests with beatings ake,
With natures praise are wont in safest home to take.
Far from my thoughts was ought, whereto their minds aspire,
Who under courtly pompes doo hatch a base desire.
Free all my powers were from those captiving snares,
Which heav'nly purest gifts defile in muddy cares.
Ne could my soule it selfe accuse of such a faulte,
As tender conscience might with furious panges assaulte.
But like the feeble flower (whose stalke cannot sustaine
His weighty top) his top doth downeward drooping leane:
Or as the silly birde in well acquainted nest
Doth hide his head with cares but onely how to rest:
So I in simple course, and unentangled minde
Did suffer drousie lids mine eyes then cleare to blinde;
And laying downe my head, did natures rule observe,
Which senses up doth shut the senses to preserve.
They first their use forgot, then fancies lost their force;
Till deadly sleepe at length possest my living coarse.
A living coarse I lay: but ah, my wakefull minde
(Which made of heav'nly stuffe no mortal chaūge doth blind)
Flew up with freer wings of fleshly bondage free;
And having plaste my thoughts, my thoughts thus placed me.
Me thought, nay sure I was, I was in fairest wood
Of Samothea lande; a lande, which whilom stood
An honour to the world, while Honour was their ende,
And while their line of yeares they did in vertue spende.
But there I was, and there my calmie thoughts I fedd
On Natures sweet repast, as healthfull senses ledd.
Her giftes my study was, her beauties were my sporte:
My worke her workes to know, her dwelling my resorte.
Those lampes of heav'nly fire to fixed motion bound,
The ever-turning spheares, the never-moving ground;
What essence dest'nie hath; if fortune be or no;
Whence our immortall soules to mortall earth doo flowe:
What life it is, and how that all these lives doo gather,
With outward makers force, or like an inward father.
Such thoughts, me thought, I thought, and straind my single mind
Then void of neerer cares, the depth of things to find.
When lo with hugest noise (such noise a tower makes
When it blowne downe with winde a fall of ruine takes)
(Or such a noise it was, as highest thunders sende,
Or canons thunder-like, all shot togither, lende)
The Moone a sunder rent; whereout with sodaine fall
(More swift then falcons stoope to feeding Falconers call)
There came a chariot faire by doves and sparrowes guided:
Whose stormelike course staid not till hard by me it bided.
I wretch astonisht was, and thought the deathfull doome
Of heaven, of earth, of hell, of time and place was come.
But streight there issued forth two Ladies (Ladies sure
They seemd to me) on whom did waite a Virgin pure:
Straunge were the Ladies weeds; yet more unfit then strange.
The first with cloth's tuckt up as Nymphes in woods do range;
Tuckt up even with the knees, with bowe and arrowes prest:
Her right arme naked was, discovered was her brest.
But heavy was her pace, and such a meagre cheere,
As little hunting minde (God knowes) did there appeere.
The other had with arte (more then our women knowe,
As stuffe meant for the sale set out to glaring showe)
A wanton womans face, and with curld knots had twinde
Her haire, which by the helpe of painters cunning, shinde.
When I such guests did see come out of such a house,
The mountaines great with childe I thought brought foorth a mouse.
But walking forth, the first thus to the second saide,
Venus come on: said she, Diane you are obaide.
Those names abasht me much, whē those great names I hard:
Although their fame (me seemd) from truth had greatly jard.
As I thus musing stood, Diana cald to her
The waiting Nymphe, a Nymphe that did excell as farr
All things that earst I sawe, as orient pearles exceed,
That which their mother hight, or els their silly seed.
Indeed a perfect hewe, indeed a sweet consent
Of all those Graces giftes the heavens have ever lent.
And so she was attirde, as one that did not prize
Too much her peerles parts, nor yet could them despise.
But cald, she came apace; a pace wherein did move
The bande of beauties all, the little world of Love.
And bending humbled eyes (ô eyes the Sunne of sight)
She waited mistresse will: who thus disclosd her spright.
Sweet Mira mine (quoth she) the pleasure of my minde,
In whom of all my rules the perfect proofe I finde,
To onely thee thou seest we graunt this speciall grace
Us to attend, in this most private time and place.
Be silent therefore now, and so be silent still
Of that thou seest: close up in secrete knot thy will.
She answer'd was with looke, and well perform'd behest:
And Mira I admirde: her shape sonke in my brest.
But thus with irefull eyes, and face that shooke with spite
Diana did begin. What mov'd me to invite
Your presence (sister deare) first to my Moony spheare,
And hither now, vouchsafe to take with willing eare.
I know full well you know, what discord long hath raign'd
Betwixt us two; how much that discord foule hath stain'd
Both our estates, while each the other did deprave,
Proofe speakes too much to us that feeling triall have.
Our names are quite forgot, our temples are defac'd:
Our offrings spoil'd, our priest from priesthood are displac'd
Is this the fruite of strife? those thousand churches hie,
Those thousand altars faire now in the dust to lie?
In mortall mindes our mindes but planets names preserve:
No knees once bowed, forsooth, for them they say we serve.
Are we their servants growne? no doubt a noble staye:
Celestiall powers to wormes, Joves children serve to claye.
But such they say we be: this praise our discord bred,
While we for mutuall spight a striving passion fed.
But let us wiser be; and what foule discorde brake,
So much more strong againe let fastest concorde make.
Our yeares doo it require: you see we both doo feele
The weakning worke of Times for ever-whirling wheele.
Although we be divine, our grandsire Saturne is
With ages force decay'd, yet once the heaven was his.
And now before we seeke by wise Apollos skill
Our young yeares to renew (for so he saith he will)
Let us a perfect peace betweene us two resolve:
Which lest the ruinous want of government dissolve;
Let one the Princesse be, to her the other yeeld:
For vaine equalitie is but contentions field.
And let her have the giftes that should in both remaine:
In her let beautie both, and chastnesse fully raigne.
So as if I prevaile, you give your giftes to me:
If you, on you I lay what in my office be.
Now resteth onely this, which of us two is she,
To whom precedence shall of both accorded be.
For that (so that you like) hereby doth lie a youth
(She beckned unto me) as yet of spotlesse truth,
Who may this doubt discerne: for better, witt, then lot
Becommeth us: in us fortune determines not.
This crowne of amber faire (an amber crowne she held)
To worthiest let him give, when both he hath beheld:
And be it as he saith. Venus was glad to heare
Such proffer made, which she well showd with smiling cheere.
As though she were the same, as when by Paris doome
She had chiefe Goddesses in beautie overcome.
And smirkly thus gan say. I never sought debate
Diana deare; my minde to love and not to hate
Was ever apt: but you my pastimes did despise.
I never spited you, but thought you overwise.
Now kindnesse profred is, none kinder is then I:
And so most ready am this meane of peace to trie.
And let him be our judge: the lad doth please me well.
Thus both did come to me, and both began to tell
(For both togither spake, each loth to be behinde)
That they by solemne oth their Deities would binde
To stand unto my will: their will they made me know.
I that was first agast, when first I saw their showe:
Now bolder waxt, waxt prowde, that I such sway must beare:
For neere acquaintance dooth diminish reverent feare.
And having bound them fast by Styx, they should obaye
To all what I decreed, did thus my verdict saye.
How ill both you can rule, well hath your discord taught:
Ne yet for ought I see, your beauties merite ought.
To yonder Nymphe therefore (to Mira I did point)
The crowne above you both for ever I appoint.
I would have spoken out: but out they both did crie;
Fie, fie, what have we done? ungodly rebell fie.
But now we needs must yeelde, to that our othes require.
Yet thou shalt not go free (quoth Venus) such a fire
Her beautie kindle shall within thy foolish minde,
That thou full oft shalt wish thy judging eyes were blinde.
Nay then (Diana said) the chastnesse I will give
In ashes of despaire (though burnt) shall make thee live.
Nay thou (said both) shalt see such beames shine in her face
That thou shalt never dare seeke helpe of wretched case.
And with that cursed curse away to heaven they fled,
First having all their giftes upon faire Mira spred.
The rest I cannot tell, for therewithall I wak'd
And found with deadly feare that all my sinewes shak'd.
Was it a dreame? O dreame, how hast thou wrought in me,
That I things erst unseene should first in dreaming see?
And thou ô traytour Sleepe, made for to be our rest,
How hast thou framde the paine wherewith I am opprest?
O cowarde Cupid thus doost thou thy honour keepe,
Unarmde (alas) unwares to take a man asleepe?

[The Fire to see my woes for anger burneth]

[Since that to death is gone the shepheard hie]

[Phæbus farewell, a sweeter Saint I serve]

[Since that the stormy rage of passions darcke]

[Harke plaintfull ghostes, infernall furies harke]

[Howe is my Sunn, whose beames are shining bright]

[A banisht man, long bard from his desire]

[My true love hath my hart, and I have his]

[O words which fall like sommer deaw on me]

[Do not disdaine, ô streight up raised Pine]

[Sweete roote say thou, the roote of my desire]

Sweete roote say thou, the roote of my desire
Was vertue cladde in constant loves attire.

[You goodly pines, which still with brave assent]

[Like divers flowers, whose divers beauties serve]

Pamela.

Musidorus.

[Locke up, faire liddes, the treasure of my harte]

[Why doost thou haste away]

Why doost thou haste away
O Titan faire the giver of the daie?
Is it to carry newes
To Westerne wightes, what starres in East appeare?
Or doost thou thinke that heare
Is left a Sunne, whose beames thy place may use?
Yet stay and well peruse,
What be her giftes, that make her equall thee,
Bend all thy light to see
In earthly clothes enclosde a heavenly sparke.
Thy running course cannot such beawties marke:
No, no, thy motions bee
Hastened from us with barre of shadow darke,
Because that thou the author of our sight
Disdainst we see thee staind with others light.

[O stealing time the subject of delaie]

[My Lute which in thy selfe thy tunes enclose]

[When two Sunnes do appeare]

[Aurora now thou shewst thy blushing light]

[Beautie hath force to catche the humane sight.]

[Let him drinke this, whome long in armes to folde]

Let him drinke this, whome long in armes to folde
Thou doest desire, and with free power to holde.

[Get hence foule Griefe, the canker of the minde]

[Vertue, beawtie, and speach, did strike, wound, charme]

[The love which is imprinted in my soule]

[Let mother earth now decke her selfe in flowers]

[A neighbor mine not long agoe there was]

[Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be]

[The ladd Philisides]

The ladd Philisides
Lay by a rivers side,
In flowry fielde a gladder eye to please:
His pipe was at his foote
His lambs were him besides,
A widow turtle neere on bared rootes
Sate wailing without bootes.
Each thing both sweet & sadd
Did draw his boyling braine
To thinke, & thinke with paine
Of Miras beames eclipst by absence bad.
And thus, with eyes made dimme
With teares, he saide, or sorrow said for him.
O earth, once answere give,
So may thy stately grace
By north, or south still rich adorned live:
So Mira Long may be
On thy then blessed face,
Whose foote doth set a heav'n on cursed thee,
I aske, now answere me.
If th'author of thy blisse
Phœbus, that shepheard high
Do turne from thee his eye,
Doth not thy selfe, when he long absent is,
Like Rogue, all ragged goe,
And pine away with daily wasting woe?
Tell me you wanton brooke,
So may your sliding race
Shunn lothed-loving bankes with conning crooke:
So in you ever new
Mira may looke her face,
And make you faire with shadow of her hue:
So when to pay your due
To mother sea you come,
She chide you not for stay,
Nor beat you for your play,
Tell me if your diverted springs become
Absented quite from you,
Are you not dried? Can you your selves renew?
Tell me you flowers faire
Cowslipp & Columbine,
So may your Make this wholsome springtime aire
With you embraced lie,
And lately thence untwine:
But with dew dropps engendre children hy:
So may you never dy,
But pulld by Miras hande
Dresse bosome hers or hedd,
Or scatter on her bedd,
Tell me, if husband springtime leave your lande,
When he from you is sent,
Whither not you, languisht with discontent?
Tell me my seely pipe,
So may thee still betide
A clenly cloth thy moistnes for to wipe:
So may the cheries redd
Of Miras lipps divide
Their sugred selves to kisse thy happy hedd:
So may her eares be ledd,
Her eares where Musique lives,
To heare, & not despise
The liribliring cries,
Tell, if that breath, which thee thy sounding gives,
Be absent farre from thee,
Absent alone canst thou then piping be?
Tell me my lamb of gold,
So maist thou long abide
The day well fed; the night in faithfull folde:
So grow thy wooll of note,
In time that richly di'de
It may be part of Miras peticoate,
Tell me, if wolves the throte
Have cought of thy deare damme,
Or she from thee be staide,
Or thou from her be straide,
Canst thou, poore lamme, become anothers lamme?
Or rather till thou die
Still for thy Dam with bea-waymenting crie?
Tell me ô Turtle true,
So may no fortune breed
To make thee nor thy better-loved rue:
So may thy blessings swarme
That Mira may thee feede
With hand & mouth, with lapp & brest keepe warme,
Tell me if greedy arme,
Do fondly take away
With traitor lime the one,
The other left alone,
Tell me poore wretch, parted from wretched pray
Disdaine not you the greene,
Wayling till death shun you not to be seene?
Earth, brooke, flowr's, pipe, lambe, Dove
Say all, & I with them,
Absence is death, or worse, to them that love.
So I unlucky lad
Whome hills from her do hemme,
What fitts me now but teares, & sighings sadd?
O fortune too too badd,
I rather would my sheepe
Thad'st killed with a stroke,
Burnt Caban lost my cloke,
When want one hower those eyes which my joyes keepe.
Oh! what doth wailing winne?
Speeche without ende were better not begin.
My song clime thou the winde
Which holland sweet now gently sendeth in,
That on his wings the leavell thou maist finde
To hit, but Kissing hit
Her ear's the weights of wit.
If thou know not for whome thy Master dies,
These markes shall make thee wise:
She is the heardesse faire that shines in darke
And gives her kidds no food, but willow's barke.
This said, at length he ended,
His oft sigh-broken dittie,
Then raise, but raise on leggs: which faintnes bended,
With skinne in sorrow died,
With face the plot of pittie,
With thoughts which thoughts their owne tormentors tried,
He rase, & streight espied
His Ramme, who to recover
The Ewe another loved,
With him proud battell proved.
He envied such a death in sight of lover,
And alwaies westward eying
More envied Phœbus for his westerne flyinge.

[As I my little flocke on Ister banke]

[In faith, good Histor, long is your delay]

Geron. Histor.
Geron.
In faith, good Histor, long is your delay,
From holy marriage sweete and surest meane:
Our foolish lust in honest rules to stay.
I pray thee doo to Lalus sample leane:
Thou seest, how friske, and jolly now he is,
That last day seem'd, he could not chew a beane.
Beleeve me man, there is no greater blisse,
Then is the quiet joy of loving wife;
Which who so wants, halfe of himselfe doth misse.
Friend without change, playfellow without strife,
Foode without fulnes, counsaile without pride,
Is this sweet doubling of our single life.

Histor.
No doubt to whom so good chance did betide,
As for to finde a pasture strawed with golde,
He were a foole, if there he did not bide.
Who would not have a Phœnix if he could?
The humming Waspe, if it had not a sting,
Before all flies the Waspe accept I would.
But this bad world, few golden fieldes doth bring,
Phœnix but one, of Crowes we millions have:
The Waspe seemes gay, but is a combrous thing.
If many Kalaes our Arcadia gave,
Lalus example I would soone ensue,
And thinke, I did my selfe from sorrow save.
But of such wives we finde a slender crew;
Shrewdnes so stirres, pride so puffes up the hart,
They seldome ponder what to them is due.
With meager lookes, as if they still did smart;
Puiling, and whimpring, or else scolding flat,
Make home more paine then following of the cart.
Either dull silence, or eternall chat;
Still contrarie to what her husband sayes;
If he do praise the dog, she likes the cat.
Austere she is, when he would honest playes;
And gamesome then, when he thinkes on his sheepe;
She bids him goe, and yet from jorney stayes.
She warre doth ever with his kinsfolke keepe,
And makes them fremb'd, who friends by nature are,
Envying shallow toyes with malice deepe.
And if forsooth there come some new found ware,
The little coine his sweating browes have got,
Must goe for that, if for her lowres he care:
Or els; Nay faith, mine is the lucklest lot,
That ever fell to honest woman yet:
No wife but I hath such a man, God wot.
Such is their speech, who be of sober wit;
But who doo let their tongues shew well their rage,
Lord, what bywords they speake, what spite they spit?
The house is made a very lothsome cage,
Wherein the birde doth never sing but cry;
With such a will as nothing can asswage.
Dearely the servants doo their wages buy,
Revil'd for ech small fault, sometimes for none:
They better live that in a gaile doo lie.
Let other fowler spots away be blowne;
For I seeke not their shame, but still me thinkes,
A better life it is to lye alone.

Geron.
Who for ech fickle feare from vertue shrinkes,
Shall in his life embrace no worthy thing:
No mortall man the cuppe of suretie drinkes.
The heav'ns doo not good haps in handfuls bring,
But let us pike our good from out much bad:
That still our little world may know his king.
But certainly so long we may be glad,
While that we doo what nature doth require,
And for th'event we never ought be sad.
Man oft is plag'de with aire, is burnt with fire,
In water drownd, in earth his buriall is;
And shall we not therefore their use desire?
Nature above all things requireth this,
That we our kind doo labour to maintaine;
Which drawne-out line doth hold all humane blisse.
Thy father justly may of thee complaine,
If thou doo not repay his deeds for thee,
In granting unto him a grandsires gaine.
Thy common-wealth may rightly grieved be,
Which must by this immortall be preserved,
If thus thou murther thy posteritie.
His very being he hath not deserved,
Who for a selfe-conceipt will that forbeare,
Whereby that being aye must be conserved.
And God forbid, women such cattell were,
As you paint them: but well in you I finde,
No man doth speake aright, who speakes in feare.
Who onely sees the ill is worse then blind.
These fiftie winters maried have I beene;
And yet finde no such faults in womankind.
I have a wife worthie to be a Queene,
So well she can command, and yet obay;
In ruling of a house so well shee's seene.
And yet in all this time betwixt us tway,
We beare our double yoke with such consent,
That never past foule word, I dare well say.
But these be your love-toyes, which still are spent
In lawlesse games, and love not as you should,
But with much studie learne late to repent.
How well last day before our Prince you could
Blinde Cupids workes with wonder testifie?
Yet now the roote of him abase you would.
Goe to, goe to, and Cupid now applie
To that where thou thy Cupid maist avowe,
And thou shalt finde, in women vertues lie.
Sweete supple mindes which soone to wisdome bowe
Where they by wisdomes rule directed are,
And are not forst fonde thraldome to allow.
As we to get are fram'd, so they to spare:
We made for paine, our paines they made to cherish:
We care abroad, and they of home have care.
O Histor, seeke within thy selfe to flourish:
Thy house by thee must live, or els be gone:
And then who shall the name of Histor nourish?
Riches of children passe a Princes throne;
Which touch the fathers hart with secret joy,
When without shame he saith, these be mine owne.
Marrie therefore; for marriage will destroy
Those passions which to youthfull head doo clime,
Mothers and Nurses of all vaine annoy.

THE FOURTH BOOKE OF THE COUNTESSE OF PEMBROKES ARCADIA.

[Who hath his hire, hath well his labour plast]

Who hath his hire, hath well his labour plast:
Earth thou didst seeke, and store of earth thou hast.

[O night the ease of care the pledge of pleasure]

[Since wayling is a bud of causefull sorowe]

[Since that to death is gone the shepheard hie]

[Farewell ô Sunn, Arcadias clearest light]

THE FIFTH BOOKE OF THE COUNTESSE OF PEMBROKES ARCADIA.

[Since natures workes be good, and death doth serve]