The Chast and Lost Lovers Lively shadowed in the persons of Arcadius and Sepha, and illustrated with the severall stories of Haemon and Antigone, Eramio and Amissa, Phaon and Sappho, Delithason and Verista. Being a description of several Lovers smiling with delight, and with hopes fresh as their youth, and fair as their beauties in the beginning of their Affections, and covered with Bloud and Horror in the conclusion. To this is added the Contestation betwixt Bacchus and Diana, and certain Sonnets of the Author to Aurora. Digested into three Poems by Will. [i.e. by William Bosworth]. Bosworth |
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The story of Phaon and Sappho.
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 | The Chast and Lost Lovers |  |
The story of Phaon and Sappho.
In Lesbos famous for the comick layes,That us'd to spring from her o'reflowing praise,
Twice famous Sappho dwelt the fairest maid
Mitelin had, of whom it once was said
Amongst the Gods, a sudden question was,
If Sappho, or Thalia did surpass
In Lyribliring tunes, it long remaind,
Till Mnemosyne the Mother was constrain'd,
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And each of th'others warbling Lyra sang.
There was a Town in Lesbos, now defac'd,
Antissa nam'd, by Neptunes arms imbrac'd;
There Sappho had a Tower, in it a grove
Bedeck'd with pearls, and strew'd about with love;
Leucothean branches overspred the same,
And from the shadowes perfect odors came.
To dress it most there was a purple bed,
All wrought in works, with azure mantles spred,
The tables did unspotted carpets hold
Of lyrian dyes, the edges fring'd with gold.
Along this grove there stealing ran a Spring,
Where Sappho tun'd her Muse, for she could sing
In golden verse, and teach the best a vain
Beyond the musick of their sweetest straine.
Here while she sang, a ruddy youth appear'd,
Drawn by the sweetness of the voice he heard,
Sing on said he (fair Lady) let not me,
Too bold, give period to your melody.
Nor blame me for my over bold attempt,
(Although I yeeld of modesty exempt
In doing this) and yet not over bold,
For who so hears the voice, and doth behold
The lips from whence it comes, would be as sad
As I, and trust me Lady if I had
But skill to tempt you with so sweet a touch,
Assure you, you your selfe would doe as much.
She answers not, for why the little God
Had touch'd her heart before, and made a rod
For one contempt was past, she view'd him hard,
Whose serious looks made Phaon half affeard
She was displeas'd, about to goe she cryes,
Stay gentle Knight, and take with thee the prize,
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But strait a ruddy blush did make a veil
T'obscure the same; while thus he panting stood,
A thousand times he wisht him in the Wood
From whence he came, and speaking not a word,
Let fall his hat, his javelin and his sword.
She being young, and glad of an occasion,
Stoopt down to take them up; he with perswasion
Of an half shewing love, detains her hand
From it, and with his fingers made the band
To chain them fast, (now Love had laid his scean)
And draw'd the tragick plot, whereon must lean
The ground of all his Acts; (great Deity)
When thy foreseeing nove-sight can descry
Things which will hap, why dost thou train their love
With pleasant musick to deceitfull groves?
See how the love of some with equall weight,
By vertue poiz'd, live free from all deceit,
To whom thou help'st with thy beloved darts,
And link'st their true inviolable hearts,
Why deal'st not so withall? are some too hard?
Or hath inchanted spells their hearts debarr'd
From thy keen shafts? you Powers should be upright
Not harmfull Gods yet thou still tak'st delight
In bloody ends, why did'st not wink at these?
And send thy shafts a thousand other wayes
That more deserv'd thy anger? or if needs
Thou would'st be doing, while thy power proceeds
In lofty flames one flame requires another.
Why did'st thou wound the one, and not the other?
For (Lady) so it past between the lovers,
That after little pause Sappho discovers
Those kindled flames which never can expire,
But his contempt adds fuell to her fire.
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To woo? when vertuous women should be woo'd,
And scarce obtain'd by wooing, O forbeare,
Sweet Sappho cry'd, if I do not prepare
A just excuse by none to be deny'd,
Never let me—so sate her down and cry'd.
He mov'd for pity more to see her tears,
Than toucht with any loyall love he bears,
Sate down by her, while she dispairing, laid
Her eyes on his, her hands on his, and said,
Ay me, that herbs for love no cure afford,
Whose too too jealous actions will accord
To nought but semblable desire, that lost,
What pain more vile than lovers that are crost
With hopeles hopes? they say'ts a God that works
The same, but sure some Devill tis that lurks
His opportunity how to destroy,
And tear the Soul from her aspiring joy.
Now to prevent occasions that may fall,
Is serious love, which will all harms appall,
Neglect whereof by many is deplor'd,
Ay me! that herbs for love no cure afford!
Now for the fault wherof I am accus'd,
O blame me not, for 'tis no fault I us'd;
For if affection spurs a man to love,
Tis that affection needs must make him move
His sute to us, and wee, when we affect,
And see the like from them, seem to neglect
Their scorned sute, but so our frowns appear,
Mixt with a faint desire, and carefull fear
It should displease them, that we may unite,
A carelesse love, with an intire delight.
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The onely hopes of their foundation,
How often doe they slight with scornfull eye,
Neglect, disgrace, dispraise, and spurn it by?
The more to move and stir up an excesse
Of disrespect, and make the value lesse.
Even so we handle men, who still endure
A thousands deaths, to train us to their lure,
And were we sure they could not us forsake,
Wee'd dally more, even more delight to make.
Even so as men are caught, even so are we,
When we affect those that our service flee;
What kind salutes, imbraces and constraints
Ought we to use? lest our untun'd complaints
Vnpitied die, and we with sorrows scope,
As free from pleasure die, as free from hope.
Thou art a stranger Phaon to this place,
But I have known thy name, and know thy race,
Eumenion stories do thy honor tel,
Istria Eumenion knew thy Parents well,
Whose Fathers head upheld the weighty Crown
Of Illyris, which none could trample down,
Though many envi'd, free from harm he laid
His bones to rest, with whom the Crown decay'd.
Now fate to shew a modell of her power,
On thy Illyricum began to lower;
Thy Houshold Gods, acquainted with the cryes
Of thy decaying subjects, cast their eyes
This way, and that, twas yours O Gods to bid
Deniall to sedition that was hid
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The period of your domestick ease.
In this uprore (what fruits seditions bring
May well be guest, for every one was King)
The better sort prepar'd for thee and thine
A waftage over the beloved Rhyne
To Lesbos this; thou hadst not long bin here,
But private envy did thy walls uprear,
And did beguile to all posterity
Thee of thy glory, and the Crown of thee.
These things thy houshold Gods (to Lesbos brought)
Foreseeing good, have for thy own good wrought,
That thou maist gain a greater Crown than that
Illyrius had, and be more honor'd at
Those Festivalls, when yearly thou partak'st
Of Triumphs, which to Chimney Gods thou mak'st.
This was a work divine, and happy too,
(If any happiness from grief ensue)
That thou wast here conceal'd, for many vow'd,
And thundred forth the fame thereof aloud,
Of thy ensuing death, while thou wast still
In pupill age, and knew'st, nor did'st no ill,
But 'twas the Providence of you that dwell
In lofty Heav'ns (ye Powers) and to expell
All harm from him who must your Lawes maintain,
That when his perfect strength he doth obtain,
He may reward their deeds that envy bred,
And maugre those that to rebellion led.
Here wast thou brought, here hast thou daily staid,
And (while thy better subjects sought thee) plaid
Beguiling time away; perhaps you'd know,
What mov'd the powers to permit thee so
Vntimely ruine, know they did anoint
Thee King of famous Lesbos, and appoint
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And bring thee here of me to be belovd.
To this faint speech he intermission made
With heavy sighs, and then (fair Lady) said,
The Heav'ns have rob'd me of succeeding bliss,
And hid me from those means to grant you this
I most desire, behold my love I dye,
My trouled soule methinks doth seem to flye
Through silent Caves and Fields, two pleasant gates
Ope wide to take me in, wherein there waits
A Crown of gold, neither by arm or hand
Supported, but of its free power doth stand,
Now sits upon my head, these things I see,
And yet I live, can this a vision be?
About to stir, O stir me not he cries,
My feet stick fast, Sappho farewell, and dyes.
While yet he speaks, my Parents wayward fate,
Must be accompanied with the date
Of my despised life, a fearfull rind
Of Citron trembling redd, doth creeping bind
His not half closed speech, his curled hair,
Which gallants of his time did use to wear
Of an indifferent length, now upward heaves,
Towards the skyes their gold refulgent leaves.
Sappho at this exclaims, laments, invokes
No Power nor God, but seeks by hasty strokes,
As a fit sacrifice unto her friend,
From her beloved brest her soul to send.
Awhile she silent stood, belike to think,
Which was the safest way for her to drink
Of the same cup her Phaon did, at last
(As evill thoughts will quickly to one haste)
She saw the Spring that ran along the Grove,
'Tis you fair streams must send me to my Love.
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My soul aspires to mount to that blest seat,
Where thou blest sit'st, stretch out thy sacred hand,
And with safe conduct draw me to that land,
That we may taste the joyes the vallie yeelds;
And hand in hand may walk th'Elisian fields.
This said, she turns her face unto the Tree,
And kissing it, said, if thou still can'st see,
Behold how irksome I enjoy that breath,
Which still detains my meeting thee in death:
With that she saw his sword, which she did take,
And having kiss'd it for the owners sake,
Salutes her brest with many weeping wounds,
Then casts her self into the Spring, and drown'ds.
| The Chast and Lost Lovers | |