University of Virginia Library

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.