The Whole Works of William Browne of Tavistock ... Now first collected and edited, with a memoir of the poet, and notes, by W. Carew Hazlitt, of the Inner Temple |
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FIDO: AN EPISTLE TO FIDELIA. |
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 | The Whole Works of William Browne |  |
298
FIDO: AN EPISTLE TO FIDELIA.
Sittyng one day beside a siluer Brooke,
Whose sleepy waues vnwillingly forsooke
The strict imbraces of the flowry shore,
As loath to leaue what they should see no more:
I read (as Fate had turned it to my hand)
Among the famous Layes of faierie Land,
Bœlphæbes fond mistrust, when as she mett
Her gentle Squire with louely Amorett.
And laying by the booke, poore Lad, quoth I,
Must all thy ioyes, like Eues posterity,
Receiue a doome, not to be chang'd by Suite,
Onely for tasting the forbidden fruite?
Had faire Belphæbe licenc'd thee some tyme
To kysse her cherry lipp, thou didst a cryme;
But since she for thy thirst noe help would bring,
Thou lawfully mightst seeke another spring;
And had those kisses stolne bin melting sipps,
Tane by consent from Amoretts sweet lipps,
Thou mightst haue answer'd, if thy loue had spyde,
How others gladly gaue what she denyde;
But since they were not such, it did approue
A jealousie not meritinge thy loue,
And an iniustice offerd by the mayde
In giuing iudgment ere she heard thee pleade.
I haue a Loue, (and then I thought of you,
As heauen can witnesse I each minute doe,)
Soe well assurd of that once promised faith,
Which my vnmoud Loue still cherisheth,
That should she see me priuate with a dame,
Fair as her selfe, and of a house whose name,
From Phæbus' rise to Tagus where he setts,
Hath bin as famous as Plantagenetts.
Whose eyes would thawe congealed harts of Ice,
And as we now dispute of Paradise,
And question where Faire Eden stood of olde,
Among so many sweet plots we beholde,
Which by the armes of those braue Riuers bin,
Inbraced which of yore did keepe it in:
So were she one, who did so much abounde
In graces, more then euer mortal crownde,
That it might fitly for a question passe,
Where or wherein her most of beauty was.
I surely could belieue, nay, I durst sweare,
That your sweet goodnesse would not stoope to feare,
Though she might be to any that should wyn it
A Paradise without a Serpent in it.
Whose sleepy waues vnwillingly forsooke
The strict imbraces of the flowry shore,
As loath to leaue what they should see no more:
I read (as Fate had turned it to my hand)
Among the famous Layes of faierie Land,
Bœlphæbes fond mistrust, when as she mett
Her gentle Squire with louely Amorett.
And laying by the booke, poore Lad, quoth I,
Must all thy ioyes, like Eues posterity,
Receiue a doome, not to be chang'd by Suite,
Onely for tasting the forbidden fruite?
Had faire Belphæbe licenc'd thee some tyme
To kysse her cherry lipp, thou didst a cryme;
But since she for thy thirst noe help would bring,
Thou lawfully mightst seeke another spring;
And had those kisses stolne bin melting sipps,
Tane by consent from Amoretts sweet lipps,
Thou mightst haue answer'd, if thy loue had spyde,
How others gladly gaue what she denyde;
But since they were not such, it did approue
A jealousie not meritinge thy loue,
And an iniustice offerd by the mayde
In giuing iudgment ere she heard thee pleade.
I haue a Loue, (and then I thought of you,
As heauen can witnesse I each minute doe,)
Soe well assurd of that once promised faith,
Which my vnmoud Loue still cherisheth,
That should she see me priuate with a dame,
Fair as her selfe, and of a house whose name,
From Phæbus' rise to Tagus where he setts,
Hath bin as famous as Plantagenetts.
299
And as we now dispute of Paradise,
And question where Faire Eden stood of olde,
Among so many sweet plots we beholde,
Which by the armes of those braue Riuers bin,
Inbraced which of yore did keepe it in:
So were she one, who did so much abounde
In graces, more then euer mortal crownde,
That it might fitly for a question passe,
Where or wherein her most of beauty was.
I surely could belieue, nay, I durst sweare,
That your sweet goodnesse would not stoope to feare,
Though she might be to any that should wyn it
A Paradise without a Serpent in it.
Such were my thoughts of you, and thynking soe,
Much lyke a man, who running in the Snowe
From the Surprisall of a murdrous Elfe,
Beates out a Path, and so betrayes him selfe.
I in securitie was further gone,
And made a Path for your Suspition
To finde me out. Tyme being nigh the same,
When thus I thought, and when your letters came.
Much lyke a man, who running in the Snowe
From the Surprisall of a murdrous Elfe,
Beates out a Path, and so betrayes him selfe.
I in securitie was further gone,
And made a Path for your Suspition
To finde me out. Tyme being nigh the same,
When thus I thought, and when your letters came.
But, oh, how farre I err'd, how much deceiu'd
Was my belief! your selfe, that haue bereau'd
Me of that confidence, my loue had got.
Judge if I were an Infidell or not;
And let me tell you, Faire, the Fault was thyne,
If I did misbelieue, and none of myne.
Was my belief! your selfe, that haue bereau'd
Me of that confidence, my loue had got.
Judge if I were an Infidell or not;
And let me tell you, Faire, the Fault was thyne,
If I did misbelieue, and none of myne.
That man which sees, as he along doth passe
Some beaten way, a piece of sparklyng glasse,
And deemes far of that it a dyamond is,
Adds to the glasse by such a thought of his;
But when he findes it wants, to quit his paine,
The value soone returnes to him agayne.
Some beaten way, a piece of sparklyng glasse,
And deemes far of that it a dyamond is,
Adds to the glasse by such a thought of his;
But when he findes it wants, to quit his paine,
The value soone returnes to him agayne.
If in the ruder North some country clowne,
That stands to see the kyng ride through the town,
Spyeing some gaye & gold belaced thyng,
Should cry, See, neighbors, yonder comes the Kyng:
And much mistaken both in state and age,
Points at some lord, and for a lord a page:
Is not that lord or page beholding much
To him that thynkes them worthy to be such
He tooke them for? And are not you to me
Indebted much, since my credulitie
Made you the same I thought you, and from thence
Rais'd an assurance of your confidence?
These were the thoughts of you I still was in,
Nor shall your Letters so much of me wynne;
I will not trust myne eyes so much to thynke
Your white hand wrote with such a stayning inke;
Or if I ever take yt for your hand,
I sure shall thinke I doe not vnderstand
In reading as you meant, and fall from thence
To doubt if points puerted not the sense!
For such a constant faith I haue in thee,
That I could dye euen in that heresye.
That stands to see the kyng ride through the town,
300
Should cry, See, neighbors, yonder comes the Kyng:
And much mistaken both in state and age,
Points at some lord, and for a lord a page:
Is not that lord or page beholding much
To him that thynkes them worthy to be such
He tooke them for? And are not you to me
Indebted much, since my credulitie
Made you the same I thought you, and from thence
Rais'd an assurance of your confidence?
These were the thoughts of you I still was in,
Nor shall your Letters so much of me wynne;
I will not trust myne eyes so much to thynke
Your white hand wrote with such a stayning inke;
Or if I ever take yt for your hand,
I sure shall thinke I doe not vnderstand
In reading as you meant, and fall from thence
To doubt if points puerted not the sense!
For such a constant faith I haue in thee,
That I could dye euen in that heresye.
In this beliefe of you I stand as yet,
And thinke as those that followe Mahomet:
He merits much that doth continue still
In his first faith, although that faith be ill.
And thinke as those that followe Mahomet:
He merits much that doth continue still
In his first faith, although that faith be ill.
A vaine inconstant dame, that counts her loues
By this enamell'd ring, that paire of gloues,
And with her chamber-mayd when closely set,
Turning her Letters in her Cabinett,
Makes knowne what Tokens haue byn sent vnto her,
What man did bluntly, who did courtly wooe her;
Who hath the best face, neatest legg, most Lands,
Who for his Carriage in her fauour stands.
Opening a Paper then she shewes her wytt
In an Epistle that some foole had wrytt:
Then meeting with another which she lykes,
Her Chambermayds great readyng quickly strykes
That good opinyon dead, & sweares that this
Was stolne from Palmerin or Amadis.
Next come her Sonnetts, wch they spelling reade,
And say the man was very much afrayde
To haue his meaning knowne, since they from thence
(Saue Cupids darts) can picke no iot of sense;
And in conclusion, with discretion small,
Scoffe thys, scorne that, and so abuse them all.
If I had thought you such an empty prise,
I had not sought nowe to apologize,
Nor had these Lynes the virgin paper staynde
But, as my Loue, vnspotted had remayned;
And sure I thinke to what I am about,
My inke then it was wont goes slower out,
As if it told me I but vaguelye writt
To her that should, but will not, credyt it.
By this enamell'd ring, that paire of gloues,
And with her chamber-mayd when closely set,
Turning her Letters in her Cabinett,
Makes knowne what Tokens haue byn sent vnto her,
What man did bluntly, who did courtly wooe her;
Who hath the best face, neatest legg, most Lands,
Who for his Carriage in her fauour stands.
Opening a Paper then she shewes her wytt
In an Epistle that some foole had wrytt:
Then meeting with another which she lykes,
Her Chambermayds great readyng quickly strykes
301
Was stolne from Palmerin or Amadis.
Next come her Sonnetts, wch they spelling reade,
And say the man was very much afrayde
To haue his meaning knowne, since they from thence
(Saue Cupids darts) can picke no iot of sense;
And in conclusion, with discretion small,
Scoffe thys, scorne that, and so abuse them all.
If I had thought you such an empty prise,
I had not sought nowe to apologize,
Nor had these Lynes the virgin paper staynde
But, as my Loue, vnspotted had remayned;
And sure I thinke to what I am about,
My inke then it was wont goes slower out,
As if it told me I but vaguelye writt
To her that should, but will not, credyt it.
Yet goe, ye hopeless lines, and tell that faire,
Whose flaxen tresses with the wanton ayre
Intrappe the darling Boy, that daily flyes
To see his sweet face in her sweeter eyes;
Tell my Fidelia, if she doe averre
That I with borrowde phrases courted her,
Or sung to her the layes of other men;
And lyke the cag'd thrush of a cittizen,
Tyr'd with a Note contynually sung ore
The eares of one that knew that all before.
If this she thinke, (as I shall nere be wonne
Once to imagine she hath truly done,)
Let her then know, though now a many be
Parrots, which speak the tongue of Arcadye,
Yet in themselues not so much language knowe,
Nor wit sufficient for a Lord Maiors showe.
I neuer yet but scorn'd a tast to bring
Out of the Channell when I saw the Spring,
Or like a silent Organ been soe weake,
That others' fingers taught me how to speake.
The sacred Nyne, whose powrefull songs haue made
In way-les deserts trees of mightye shade
To bend in admiracōn, & alayde
The wrath of Tigers with the notes they plaide,
Were kind in some small measure at my birth,
And by the hand of Nature to my Earth
Lent their eternall heat, by whose bright flame
Succeeding time shall read & know your name,
And pine in envye of your praises writ,
Though now your brightnes strive to lessen it.
Thus haue I done, & like an Artist spent
My dayes to build another's Monument;
Yet you those paines so careles ouerslip,
That I am not allow'd the workmanship.
Some haue done lesse, and haue been more rewarded;
None hath lov'd more, & hath bin lesse regarded:
Yet the poore silkenworme & onely I
Like parallells run on to worke & dye.
Why write I then againe, since she will thinke
My heart is limned with anothers inke?
Or if she deeme these lines had birth from me,
Perhaps will thinke they but deceiuers be,
And, as our flattering painters doe impart,
A fair made Copy of a faithles heart,
O, my Fidelia, if thou canst be wonne
From that mistrust my absence hath begun,
Be now converted, kill those iealous feares,
Creddit my lines: if not, belieue my teares,
Which with each word, nay, euery letter, stroue
That in their number you might read my love.
And where (for one distracted needs must misse)
My language not enough persuasive is,
Be that supplyed with what each eye affords,
For teares haue often had the powre of words.
Grant this, faire saint, since their distilling rayne
permits me not to read it ore againe;
For as a Swan more white then Alpine Snow,
Wandring vpon the sands of siluer Po,
Hath his impression by a fuller sea
Not made so soone as quickly washt awaye.
Such in my writeing now the state hath been,
For scarce my pen goes of the inke yet green,
But flouds of teares fall on it in such store,
That I perceiue not what I writt before.
Can any man do thus, yet that man be
Without the fire of Loue & Loialtie?
Know then in breach of Natures constant Lawes,
There may be an effect & yet no cause.
Without the Sun we may haue Aprill showers,
And wanting moysture know no want of flowers;
Causeles the Elements could cease to war:
The seaman's needle to the Northern Starr
Without the Loadstone would for ever move.
If all these teares can be & yet no love:
If you still deeme I onelye am the man,
Which in the Maze of Loue yet never ranne:
Or if in love I surely did persue
The Favour of some other, not of you;
Or loving you, would not be strictly tyde
To you alone, but sought a Saint beside:
Know then by all the vertues we inthrone,
That I haue lov'd, lov'd you, & you alone.
Read ore my lines where truthful passion mov'd,
And hate it selfe will say that I have lov'd.
Thinke on my Vowes which have been ever true,
And know by them that I affected you.
Recount my tryalls, & they will impart
That none is partner with you in my heart.
Lines, vows, & tryalls will conclude in one,
That I haue lov'd, lov'd you, & you alone.
Lines, seeke no more then to that doubtfull faire,
And ye, my vowes, for euer more forbeare:
Trialls, to her prove never true againe;
Since lines, vowes, tryalls striue all but in vaine.
Yet when I writt, the ready tongue of Truth
Did euer dictate not deceiving youth.
When I have sworn my tongue did never erre
To be my harts most true interpreter,
And proofe confirm'd when you examin'd both,
Love caused those lines, & Constancy that Oath;
And shall I write, protest (you proue) & then
Be left the most vnfortunate of men?
Must Truth be still neglected? Faith forgot?
And Constancy esteem'd as what is not?
Shall deare Regard and Love for euer be
Wrong'd with the name of lust & flatterie?
It must; for this your last suspicion tells,
That you intend to worke noe miracles.
Whose flaxen tresses with the wanton ayre
Intrappe the darling Boy, that daily flyes
To see his sweet face in her sweeter eyes;
Tell my Fidelia, if she doe averre
That I with borrowde phrases courted her,
Or sung to her the layes of other men;
And lyke the cag'd thrush of a cittizen,
Tyr'd with a Note contynually sung ore
The eares of one that knew that all before.
If this she thinke, (as I shall nere be wonne
Once to imagine she hath truly done,)
Let her then know, though now a many be
Parrots, which speak the tongue of Arcadye,
Yet in themselues not so much language knowe,
Nor wit sufficient for a Lord Maiors showe.
I neuer yet but scorn'd a tast to bring
Out of the Channell when I saw the Spring,
Or like a silent Organ been soe weake,
That others' fingers taught me how to speake.
302
In way-les deserts trees of mightye shade
To bend in admiracōn, & alayde
The wrath of Tigers with the notes they plaide,
Were kind in some small measure at my birth,
And by the hand of Nature to my Earth
Lent their eternall heat, by whose bright flame
Succeeding time shall read & know your name,
And pine in envye of your praises writ,
Though now your brightnes strive to lessen it.
Thus haue I done, & like an Artist spent
My dayes to build another's Monument;
Yet you those paines so careles ouerslip,
That I am not allow'd the workmanship.
Some haue done lesse, and haue been more rewarded;
None hath lov'd more, & hath bin lesse regarded:
Yet the poore silkenworme & onely I
Like parallells run on to worke & dye.
Why write I then againe, since she will thinke
My heart is limned with anothers inke?
Or if she deeme these lines had birth from me,
Perhaps will thinke they but deceiuers be,
And, as our flattering painters doe impart,
A fair made Copy of a faithles heart,
O, my Fidelia, if thou canst be wonne
From that mistrust my absence hath begun,
Be now converted, kill those iealous feares,
Creddit my lines: if not, belieue my teares,
Which with each word, nay, euery letter, stroue
That in their number you might read my love.
And where (for one distracted needs must misse)
My language not enough persuasive is,
Be that supplyed with what each eye affords,
For teares haue often had the powre of words.
Grant this, faire saint, since their distilling rayne
permits me not to read it ore againe;
303
Wandring vpon the sands of siluer Po,
Hath his impression by a fuller sea
Not made so soone as quickly washt awaye.
Such in my writeing now the state hath been,
For scarce my pen goes of the inke yet green,
But flouds of teares fall on it in such store,
That I perceiue not what I writt before.
Can any man do thus, yet that man be
Without the fire of Loue & Loialtie?
Know then in breach of Natures constant Lawes,
There may be an effect & yet no cause.
Without the Sun we may haue Aprill showers,
And wanting moysture know no want of flowers;
Causeles the Elements could cease to war:
The seaman's needle to the Northern Starr
Without the Loadstone would for ever move.
If all these teares can be & yet no love:
If you still deeme I onelye am the man,
Which in the Maze of Loue yet never ranne:
Or if in love I surely did persue
The Favour of some other, not of you;
Or loving you, would not be strictly tyde
To you alone, but sought a Saint beside:
Know then by all the vertues we inthrone,
That I haue lov'd, lov'd you, & you alone.
Read ore my lines where truthful passion mov'd,
And hate it selfe will say that I have lov'd.
Thinke on my Vowes which have been ever true,
And know by them that I affected you.
Recount my tryalls, & they will impart
That none is partner with you in my heart.
Lines, vows, & tryalls will conclude in one,
That I haue lov'd, lov'd you, & you alone.
Lines, seeke no more then to that doubtfull faire,
And ye, my vowes, for euer more forbeare:
304
Since lines, vowes, tryalls striue all but in vaine.
Yet when I writt, the ready tongue of Truth
Did euer dictate not deceiving youth.
When I have sworn my tongue did never erre
To be my harts most true interpreter,
And proofe confirm'd when you examin'd both,
Love caused those lines, & Constancy that Oath;
And shall I write, protest (you proue) & then
Be left the most vnfortunate of men?
Must Truth be still neglected? Faith forgot?
And Constancy esteem'd as what is not?
Shall deare Regard and Love for euer be
Wrong'd with the name of lust & flatterie?
It must; for this your last suspicion tells,
That you intend to worke noe miracles.
W. B.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |