The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney

In Three Volumes

Sidney, Philip (1554-1586)

I, II.

Volume I, [Volume II]

III.

IV.

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357

[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?

358

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?

359

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.

394

[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

395

(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;

396

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.

397

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)

398

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.

399

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?

442

[The Fire to see my woes for anger burneth]

The Fire to see my woes for anger burneth:
The Aire in raine for my affliction weepeth:
The Sea to ebbe for griefe his flowing turneth:
The Earth with pitie dull his center turneth.
Fame is with wonder blazed:
Time runnes away for sorrow:
Place standeth still amazed,
To see my night of ils, which hath no morrowe.
Alas all onely she no pitie taketh
To know my miseries, but chaste and cruell
My fall her glory maketh;
Yet still her eyes give to my flames their fuell.

Fire, burne me quite till sense of burning leave me:
Aire, let me drawe thy breath no more in anguish:
Sea, drown'd in thee of tedious life bereave me:
Earth, take this earth wherein my spirits languish.
Fame, say I was not borne:
Time, hast my dying hower:
Place, see my grave uptorne:
Fire, aire, sea, earth, fame, time, place show your power.
Alas from all their helpe I am exiled:
For hers am I, and Death feares her displeasure.
Fie Death thou art beguiled:
Though I be hers, she sets by me no treasure.

498

[Since that to death is gone the shepheard hie]

Since that to death is gone the shepheard hie,
Whom most the silly shepheards pipe did pryse,
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie.

And you ô trees (if any life there lies
In trees) now through your porous barkes receave
The straunge resounde of these my causefull cries:

499

And let my breath upon your braunches leave,
My breath distinguish'd into wordes of woe,
That so I may signes of my sorrowe leave.
But if among yourselves some one tree growe,
That aptest is to figure miserie,
Let it embassage beare your grieves to showe.
The weeping Myrrhe I thinke will not denie
Her helpe to this, this justest cause of plaint.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie.

And thou poore Earth, whom fortune doth attaint
In Natures name to suffer such a harme,
As for to loose thy gemme, and such a Sainct,
Upon thy face let coaly Ravens swarme:
Let all the Sea thy teares accounted be:
Thy bowels with all killing mettals arme.
Let golde now rust, let Diamonds waste in thee:
Let pearls be wan with woe their damme doth beare:
Thy selfe henceforth the light doo never see.
And you, ô flowers, which sometimes Princes were,
Till these straunge altrings you did hap to trie,
Of Princes losse your selves for tokens reare.
Lilly in mourning blacke thy whitenes die:
O Hiacinthe let Ai be on thee still.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie.

O Echo, all these woods with roaring fill,
And doo not onely marke the accents last,
But all, for all reach out my wailefull will:
One Echo to another Echo cast
Sounde of my griefes, and let it never ende,
Till that it hath all woods and waters past.
Nay to the heav'ns your just complaining sende,
And stay the starrs inconstant constant race,
Till that they doo unto our dolours bende:
And aske the reason of that speciall grace,
That they, which have no lives, should live so long,
And vertuous soules so soone should loose their place?
Aske, if in great men good men doo so thronge,
That he for want of elbowe roome must die?
Or if that they be skante, if this be wronge?

500

Did Wisedome this our wretched time espie
In one true chest to rob all Vertues treasure?
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie.

And if that any counsell you to measure
Your dolefull tunes, to them still playning say,
To well felte griefe, plainte is the onely pleasure.
O light of Sunne, which is entit'led day,
O well thou doost that thou no longer bidest;
For mourning light her blacke weedes may display.
O Phœbus with good cause thy face thou hidest,
Rather then have thy all-beholding eye
Fould with this sight, while thou thy chariot guidest.
And well (me thinks) becomes this vaultie skie
A stately tombe to cover him deceased.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie.

O Philomela with thy brest oppressed
By shame and griefe, helpe, helpe me to lament
Such cursed harmes as cannot be redressed.
Or if thy mourning notes be fully spent,
Then give a quiet eare unto my playning:
For I to teach the world complainte am bent.
You dimmy clowdes, which well employ your stayning
This cheerefull aire with your obscured cheere,
Witnesse your wofull teares with daily rayning.
And if, ô Sunne, thou ever didst appeare,
In shape, which by mans eye might be perceived;
Vertue is dead, now set thy triumph here.
Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaved
Of what was good, where now no good doth lie;
And by thy pompe our losse will be conceaved.
O notes of mine your selves together tie:
With too much griefe me thinkes you are dissolved.
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie.

Time ever old, and yonge is still revolved
Within it selfe, and never tasteth ende:
But mankind is for aye to nought resolved.
The filthy snake her aged coate can mende,
And getting youth againe, in youth doth flourish:
But unto Man, age ever death doth sende.

501

The very trees with grafting we can cherish,
So that we can long time produce their time:
But Man which helpeth them, helplesse must perish.
Thus, thus the mindes, which over all doo clime,
When they by yeares experience get best graces,
Must finish then by deaths detested crime.
We last short while, and build long lasting places:
Ah let us all against foule Nature crie:
We Natures workes doo helpe, she us defaces.
For how can Nature unto this reply?
That she her child, I say, her best child killeth?
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now apply.

Alas, me thinkes, my weakned voice but spilleth,
The vehement course of this just lamentation:
Me thinkes, my sound no place with sorrow filleth.
I know not I, but once in detestation
I have my selfe, and all what life containeth,
Since Death on Vertues fort hath made invasion.
One word of woe another after traineth:
Ne doo I care how rude be my invention,
So it be seene what sorrow in me raigneth.
O Elements, by whose (men say) contention,
Our bodies be in living power maintained,
Was this mans death the fruite of your dissention?
O Phisickes power, which (some say) hath restrained
Approch of death, alas thou helpest meagerly,
When once one is for Atropos distrained.
Great be Physitions brags, but aid is beggerly,
When rooted moisture failes, or groweth drie,
They leave off al, and say, death comes too eagerlie.
They are but words therefore that men do buy,
Of any since God AEsculapius ceased.
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie.

Justice, justice is now (alas) oppressed:
Bountifulnes hath made his last conclusion:
Goodnes for best attire in dust is dressed.
Shepheards bewaile your uttermost confusion;
And see by this picture to you presented,
Death is our home, life is but a delusion.

502

For see alas, who is from you absented?
Absented? nay I say for ever banished
From such as were to dye for him contented?
Out of our sight in turne of hand is vanished
Shepherd of shepherds, whose well setled order
Private with welth, publike with quiet garnished.
While he did live, farre, farre was all disorder;
Example more prevailing then direction,
Far was homestrife, and far was foe from border.
His life a law, his looke a full correction:
As in his health we healthfull were preserved,
So in his sicknesse grew our sure infection.
His death our death. But ah; my Muse hath swarved,
From such deepe plaint as should such woes descrie,
Which he of us for ever hath deserved.
The stile of heavie hart can never flie
So high, as should make such a paine notorious:
Cease Muse therfore: thy dart ô Death applie;
And farewell Prince, whom goodnesse hath made glorious.

THE LAST PART OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S ARCADIA FROM THE FOLIO OF 1593

[Phæbus farewell, a sweeter Saint I serve]

Phæbus farewell, a sweeter Saint I serve,
The high conceits thy heav'nly wisedomes breed
My thoughts forget: my thoughts, which never swerve
From her, in whome is sowne their freedomes seede,
And in whose eyes my dayly doome I reede.

Phæbus farewell, a sweeter Saint I serve.
Thou art farre off, thy kingdome is above:
She heav'n on earth with beauties doth preserve.
Thy beames I like, but her cleare rayes I love:
Thy force I feare, her force I still do prove.

Phæbus yeelde up thy title in my minde.
She doth possesse, thy Image is defaste,
But if thy rage some brave revenge will finde,

On her, who hath in me thy temple raste,
Employ thy might, that she my fires may taste.
And how much more her worth surmounteth thee,
Make her as much more base by loving me.

[Since that the stormy rage of passions darcke]

Since that the stormy rage of passions darcke
(Of passions darke, made darke of beauties light)
Whith rebell force, hath closde in dungeon darke
My minde ere now led foorth by reasons light:

Since all the thinges which give mine eyes their light
Do foster still, the fruites of fancies darke:
So that the windowes of my inward light
Do serve, to make my inward powers darke:

Since, as I say, both minde and sences darke
Are hurt, not helpt, with piercing of the light:
While that the light may shewe the horrors darke
But cannot make resolved darkenes lighte:
I like this place, whereat the least the darke
May keepe my thoughtes, from thought of wonted light.

[Harke plaintfull ghostes, infernall furies harke]

Harke plaintfull ghostes, infernall furies harke
Unto my woes the hatefull heavens do sende,
The heavens conspir'd, to make my vitall sparke
A wreched wracke, a glasse of Ruines ende.

Seeing, Alas; so mightie powers bende
Their ireful shotte against so weake a marke,
Come cave, become my grave, come death, and lende
Receipte to me, within thy bosome darke.

For what is life to dayly dieng minde,
Where drawing breath, I sucke the aire of woe:
Where too much sight, makes all the bodie blinde,
And highest thoughts, downeward most headlong throw?
Thus then my forme, and thus my state I finde,
Death wrapt in flesh, to living grave assign'd.

Like those sicke folkes, in whome strange humors flowe,
Can taste no sweetes, the sower onely please:
So to my minde, while passions daylie growe,
Whose fyrie chaines, uppon his freedome seaze,
Joies strangers seeme, I cannot bide their showe,
Nor brooke oughte els but well acquainted woe.
Bitter griefe tastes me best paine is my ease,
Sicke to the death, still loving my disease.

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

Howe is my Sunn, whose beames are shining bright
Become the cause of my darke ouglie night?
Or howe do I captiv'd in this darke plight,
Bewaile the case, and in the cause delight?

My mangled mind huge horrors still doe fright,
With sense possest, and claim'd by reasons right:
Betwixt which two in me I have this fight,
Wher who so wynns, I put my selfe to flight.

Come clowdie feares close up my daseled sight,
Sorrowes suck up the marowe of my might,
Due sighes blowe out all sparkes of joyfull light,
Tyre on despaier uppon my tyred sprite.
An ende, an ende, my dulde penn cannot write,
Nor mas'de head thinke, nor faltring tonge recite.

This cave is darke, but it had never light.
This waxe doth waste it selfe, yet painelesse dyes.
These wordes are full of woes, yet feele they none.

I darkned am, who once had clearest sight.
I waste my harte, which still newe torment tryes.
I plaine with cause, my woes are all myne owne,

No cave, no wasting waxe, no wordes of griefe,
Can holde, shew, tell, my paines without reliefe.

[A banisht man, long bard from his desire]

A banisht man, long bard from his desire
By inward letts, of them his state possest,
Hid heere his hopes, by which he might aspire
To have his harmes with wisdomes helpe redrest.

Seeke then and see, what man esteemeth best,
All is but this, this is our labours hire,

Of this we live, in this wee finde our rest,
Who hold this fast no greater wealth require.
Looke further then, so shalt thou finde at least,
A baite most fit, for hungrie minded guest.

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

My true love hath my hart, and I have his,
By just exchange, one for the other giv'ne.
I holde his deare, and myne he cannot misse:
There never was a better bargaine driv'ne.

His hart in me, keepes me and him in one,
My hart in him, his thoughtes and senses guides:
He loves my hart, for once it was his owne:
I cherish his, because in me it bides.

His hart his wound receaved from my sight:
My hart was wounded, with his wounded hart,
For as from me, on him his hurt did light,
So still me thought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equall hurt, in this change sought our blisse:
My true love hath my hart and I have his.

[O words which fall like sommer deaw on me]

O words which fall like sommer deaw on me,
O breath more sweete, then is the growing beane,
O toong in which, all honyed likoures bee,
O voice that doth, the Thrush in shrilnes staine,
Do you say still, this is her promise due,
That she is myne, as I to her am true.

Gay haire more gaie then straw when harvest lyes,
Lips red and plum, as cherries ruddy side,
Eyes faire and great, like faire great oxes eyes,
O brest in which two white sheepe swell in pride:
Joyne you with me, to seale this promise due,
That she be myne, as I to her am true.

But thou white skinne, as white as cruddes well prest,
So smooth as sleekestone-like, it smoothes each parte,
And thou deare flesh, as soft as wooll new drest,
And yet as hard, as brawne made hard by arte:
First fower but say, next fowr their saying seale,
But you must pay, the gage of promist weale.

[Do not disdaine, ô streight up raised Pine]

Do not disdaine, ô streight up raised Pine
That wounding thee, my thoughtes in thee I grave:
Since that my thoughtes, as streight as streightnes thine
No smaller wound, alas! farr deeper have.

Deeper engrav'd, which salve nor time can save,
Giv'ne to my harte, by my fore wounded eyne:
Thus cruell to my selfe how canst thou crave
My inward hurte should spare thy outward rine?

Yet still faire tree, lifte up thy stately line,
Live long, and long witnesse my chosen smarte,
Which barde desires, (barde by my selfe) imparte

And in this growing barke growe verses myne.
My harte my worde, my worde hath giv'ne my harte.
The giver giv'n from gifte shall never parte.

[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]

You goodly pines, which still with brave assent
In natures pride your heads to heav'nwarde heave,
Though you besides such graces earth hath lent,
Of some late grace a greater grace receave,

By her who was (O blessed you) content,
With her faire hande, your tender barkes to cleave,
And so by you (O blessed you) hath sent,
Such pearcing wordes as no thoughts els conceave:

Yet yeeld your graunt, a baser hand may leave
His thoughtes in you, where so sweete thoughtes were spent,
For how would you the mistresse thoughts bereave
Of waiting thoughts all to her service ment?

Nay higher thoughtes (though thralled thoughtes) I call
My thoughtes then hers, who first your ryne did rente.
Then hers, to whom my thoughts a lonely thrall
Rysing from lowe, are to the highest bente;
Where hers, whom worth makes highest over all
Comming from her, cannot but downewarde fall.

[Like divers flowers, whose divers beauties serve]

Pamela.

Like divers flowers, whose divers beauties serve
To decke the earth with his well-colourde weede,
Though each of them, his private forme preserve,
Yet joyning formes one sight of beautie breede.

Right so my thoughts, where on my hart I feede:
Right so my inwarde partes, and outward glasse,
Though each possesse a divers working kinde,
Yet all well knit to one faire end do passe:
That he to whome, these sondrie giftes I binde
All what I am, still one, his owne, doe finde.

Musidorus.

All what you are still one, his owne to finde,
You that are borne to be the worldes eye,
What were it els, but to make each thing blinde?
And to the sunne with waxen winges to flie?

No no, such force with my small force to trye
Is not my skill, or reach of mortall minde.
Call me but yours, my title is most hye:
Holde me most yours, then my longe suite is signde.

You none can clayme but you your selfe aright,
For you do passe your selfe, in vertues might.
So both are yours: I, bound with gaged harte:
You onely yours, too farr beyond desarte.

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

Locke up, faire liddes, the treasure of my harte:
Preserve those beames, this ages onely lighte:
To her sweete sence, sweete sleepe some ease imparte,
Her sence too weake to beare her spirits mighte.

And while ô sleepe thou closest up her sight,
(Her sight where love did forge his fayrest darte)
ô harbour all her partes in easefull plighte:
Let no strange dreme make her fayre body starte.

But yet ô dreame, if thou wilt not departe
In this rare subject from the common right:
But wilt thy selfe in such a seate delighte,

Then take my shape, and play a lovers parte:
Kisse her from me, and say unto her spirite,
Till her eyes shine, I live in darkest night.

[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]

O stealing time the subject of delaie,
(Delay, the racke of unrefrain'd desire)
What strange dessein hast thou my hopes to staie
My hopes which do but to mine owne aspire?

Mine owne? ô word on whose sweete sound doth pray
My greedy soule, with gripe of inward fire:
Thy title great, I justlie chalenge may,
Since in such phrase his faith he did attire.

O time, become the chariot of my joyes:
As thou drawest on, so let my blisse draw neere.
Each moment lost, part of my hap destroyes:

Thou art the father of occasion deare:
Joyne with thy sonne, to ease my long annoy's.
In speedie helpe, thanke worthie frends appeare.

[My Lute which in thy selfe thy tunes enclose]

My Lute which in thy selfe thy tunes enclose,
Thy mistresse song is now a sorrow's crie,
Her hand benumde with fortunes daylie blows,
Her minde amaz'de can neithers helpe applie.
Weare these my words as mourning weede of woes,
Blacke incke becommes the state wherein I dye.

And though my mones be not in musicke bound,
Of written greefes, yet be the silent ground.

The world doth yeeld such ill consorted shows,
With circkled course, which no wise stay can trye,
That childish stuffe which knowes not frendes from foes,
(Better despisde) bewondre gasing eye.
Thus noble golde, downe to the bottome goes,
When worthlesse corke, aloft doth floting lye.
Thus in thy selfe, least strings are loudest founde,
And lowest stops doo yeeld the hyest sounde.

[When two Sunnes do appeare]

When two Sunnes do appeare
Some say it doth betoken wonders neare
As Princes losse or change:
Two gleaming Sunnes of splendour like I see,
And seeing feele in me
Of Princes harte quite lost the ruine strange.

But nowe each where doth range
With ouglie cloke the darke envious night:
Who full of guiltie spite,
Such living beames should her black seate assaile,
Too weake for them our weaker sighte doth vaile.

No saies faire moone, my lighte
Shall barr that wrong, and though it not prevaile
Like to my brothers raise, yet those I sende
Hurte not the face, which nothing can amende.

[Aurora now thou shewst thy blushing light]

Aurora now thou shewst thy blushing light
(Which oft to hope laies out a guilefull baite,
That trusts in time, to finde the way aright
To ease those paines, which on desire do waite)

Blush on for shame: that still with thee do light
On pensive soules (in steede of restfull baite)
Care upon care (in steede of doing right)
To over pressed brestes, more greevous waight.

As oh! my selfe, whose woes are never lighte
(Tide to the stake of doubt) strange passions baite,
While thy known course, observing natures right
Sturres me to thinke what dangers lye in waite.
For mischeefes greate, daye after day doth showe:
Make me still feare, thy faire appearing showe.

[Beautie hath force to catche the humane sight.]

Beautie hath force to catche the humane sight.
Sight doth bewitch, the fancie evill awaked.
Fancie we feele, encludes all passions mighte,
Passion rebelde, oft reasons strength hath shaked.

No wondre then, though sighte my sighte did tainte,
And though thereby my fancie was infected,

Though (yoked so) my minde with sicknes fainte,
Had reasons weight for passions ease rejected.

But now the fitt is past: and time hath giv'ne
Leasure to weigh what due deserte requireth.
All thoughts so spronge, are from their dwelling driv'n,
And wisdome to his wonted seate aspireth.
Crying in me: eye hopes deceitefull prove.
Thinges rightelie prizde, love is the bande of love.

[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]

Get hence foule Griefe, the canker of the minde:
Farewell Complaint, the misers only pleasure:
Away vayne Cares, by which fewe men do finde
Their sought-for treasure.

Ye helplesse Sighes, blowe out your breath to nought,
Teares, drowne your selves, for woe (your cause) is wasted,
Thought, thinke to ende, too long the frute of thought
My minde hath tasted.

But thou, sure Hope, tickle my leaping heart.
Comfort, step thou in place of wonted sadnes.
Fore-felt Desire, begin to savour parts
Of comming gladnes.

Let voice of Sighes into cleare musike runne,
Eyes, let your Teares with gazing now be mended,
In stede of Thought, true pleasure be begunne,
And never ended.

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

Vertue , beawtie, and speach, did strike, wound, charme,
My harte, eyes, eares, with wonder, love, delight:
First, second, last, did binde, enforce, and arme,
His workes, showes, suites, with wit, grace, and vow's might.

Thus honour, liking, trust, much, farre, and deepe,
Held, pearst, possest, my judgement, sence, and will,
Till wrong, contempt, deceipt, did growe, steale, creepe,
Bandes, favour, faith, to breake, defile, and kill.

Then greefe, unkindnes, proofe, tooke, kindled, tought,
Well grounded, noble, due, spite, rage, disdaine,
But ah, alas! (In vayne) my minde, sight, thought,
Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shunne, refraine,
For no thing, time, nor place, can loose, quench, ease,
Mine owne, embraced, sought, knot, fire, desease.

[The love which is imprinted in my soule]

The love which is imprinted in my soule
With beauties seale, and vertue faire disguis'de,
With inward cries putts up a bitter role
Of huge complaintes, that now it is despis'de.

Thus thus the more I love, the wronge the more
Monstrous appeares, long trueth receaved late,
Wrong sturres remorsed greefe, griefes deadly sore
Unkindnes breedes, unkindnes fostreth hath.

But ah the more I hate, the more I thinke
Whome I doe hate, the more I thinke on him,
The more his matchlesse giftes do deepely sinck
Into my breste, and loves renewed swimme.
What medicin then, can such desease remove
Where love draws hate, and hate engendreth love?

[Let mother earth now decke her selfe in flowers]

Let mother earth now decke her selfe in flowers,
To see her ofspring seeke a good increase,
Where justest love doth vanquish Cupids powers
And ware of thoughts is swallow'd up in peace
Which never may decrease
But like the turtells faire
Live one in two, a well united paire,
Which that no chaunce may staine,
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

O heav'n awake shewe forth thy stately face,
Let not these slumbring clowds thy beawties hide,
But with thy cheerefull presence helpe to grace
The honest Bridegroome, and the bashfull Bride,
Whose loves may ever bide,
Like to the Elme and Vyne,
With mutuall embracements them to twyne:
In which delightfull paine,
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

Yee Muses all which chaste affects allow,
And have to Thyrsis shewd your secret skill,
To this chaste love your sacred favours bow,
And so to him and her your giftes distill,
That they all vice may kill:
And like to lillies pure
May please all eyes, and spotlesse may endure.
Where that all blisse may raigne,
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

Yee Nymphes which in the waters empire have,
Since Thyrsis musick oft doth yeeld you praise,
Graunt to the thing which we for Thyrsis crave.
Let one time (but long first) close up their daies,
One grave their bodies seaze:

And like two rivers sweete,
When they though divers do together meete:
One streame both streames containe,
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

Pan, father Pan, the god of silly sheepe,
Whose care is cause that they in number growe,
Have much more care of them that them do keepe,
Since from these good the others good doth flowe,
And make their issue showe
In number like the hearde
Of yonglings, which thy selfe with love hast rearde.
Or like the drops of raine.
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

Vertue (if not a God) yet Gods chiefe parte,
Be thou the knot of this their open vowe,
That still he be her head, she be his harte,
He leane to her, she unto him do bow:
Each other still allow:
Like Oke and Mistletoe.
Her strength from him, his praise from her do growe.
In which most lovely traine,
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

But thou foule Cupid syre to lawlesse lust,
Be thou farre hence with thy empoyson'd darte,
Which though of glittring golde, shall heere take rust
Where simple love, which chastnesse doth imparte,
Avoydes thy hurtfull arte,
Not needing charming skill,
Such mindes with sweet affections for to fill,
Which being pure and plaine,
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

All churlish wordes, shrewd answeres, crabbed lookes,
All privatenes, selfe-seeking, inward spite,
All waywardnes, which nothing kindly brookes,
All strife for toyes, and clayming masters right:
Be hence aye put to flight,
All sturring husbands hate
Gainst neighbors good for womanish debate
Be fled as things most vaine,
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

All peacock pride, and fruites of peacocks pride
Longing to be with losse of substance gay
With retchlesnes what may thy house betide,
So that you may on hyer slippers stay
For ever hence awaye:
Yet let not sluttery,
The sinke of filth, be counted huswifery:
But keeping holesome meane,
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

But above all away vile jealousie,
The evill of evils just cause to be unjust,
(How can he love suspecting treacherie?
How can she love where love cannot win trust?)
Goe snake hide thee in dust,
Ne dare once shew thy face,
Where open hartes do holde so constant place,
That they thy sting restraine,
O Himen long their coupled joyes maintaine.

The earth is deckt with flowers, the heav'ns displaid,
Muses graunt guiftes, Nymphes long and joyned life,
Pan store of babes, vertue their thoughts well staid,
Cupids lust gone, and gone is bitter strife,
Happy man, happy wife.
No pride shall them oppresse,
Nor yet shall yeeld to loathsome sluttishnes,
And jealousie is slaine:
For Himen will their coupled joyes maintaine.

[A neighbor mine not long agoe there was]

A neighbor mine not long agoe there was,
(But namelesse he, for blamelesse he shall be)
That married had a trick and bonny lasse
As in a sommer day a man might see:
But he himselfe a foule unhansome groome,
And farre unfit to hold so good a roome.

Now whether mov'd with selfe unworthines,
Or with her beawtie fit to make a pray,
Fell jealousie did so his braine oppresse,
That if he absent were but halfe a day,
He gest the worst (you wot what is the worst)
And in himselfe new doubting causes nurst.

While thus he fear'd the silly innocent,
Who yet was good, because she knewe none ill,
Unto his house a jollie shepeheard went,
To whome our prince did beare a great good will,
Because in wrestling and in pastorall
He farre did passe the rest of Shepheards all.

And therefore he a courtier was benamed,
And as a courtier was with cheere receaved,
(For they have toongs to make a poore man blamed.
If he to them his dutie misconceaved)
And for this Courtier should well like his table,
The goodman bad his wife be serviceable.

And so she was, and all with good intent,
But fewe dayes past while she good maner us'de,
But that her husband thought her service bent
To such an end as he might be abus'de.
Yet like a coward fearing strangers pride,
He made the simple wench his wrath abide.

With chumpish lookes, hard words, and secret nips,
Grumbling at her when she his kindnes sought,
Asking her how she tasted Courtiers lips,
He forst her thinke that which she never thought.
In fine he made her gesse, there was some sweet
In that which he so fear'd that she should meet.

When once this entred was, in womans hart,
And that it had enflam'd a new desire,
There rested then, to play a womans part,
Fuell to seeke and not to quench the fire:
But (for his jealous eye she well did finde)
She studied cunning how the same to blinde.

And thus she did. One day to him she came,
And (though against his will) on him she leand,
And out gan cry, ah well away for shame,
If you helpe not our wedlocke will be staind,
The goodman starting, askt what did her move?
She sigh'd and sayd, the bad guest sought her love.

He little looking that she should complaine
Of that, whereto he feard she was enclinde,
Bussing her oft, and in his hart full faine,
He did demaunde what remedy to finde;
How they might get that guest, from them to wend,
And yet the prince (that lov'd him) not offend.

Husband, quoth she, go to him by and by,
And tell him you do finde I doo him love,
And therefore pray him that of courtesie
He will absent himselfe, least he should move
A young girles hart, to that were shame for both,
Whereto you knowe, his honest harte were loath.

Thus shall you show that him you do not doubt,
And as for me (sweete husband) I must beare.
Glad was the man when he had heard her out,
And did the same, although with mickle feare.
For feare he did, least he the young man might
In choller put, with whom he would not fight.

The Courtlie shepheard much agast at this,
Not seeing earst such token in the wife,
Though full of scorne, would not his duty misse,
Knowing that evill becommes a houshold strife,
Did goe his way, but sojourn'd neere thereby,
That yet the ground hereof he might espie.

The wife thus having settled husbands braine,
Who would have sworne his spowse Diana was,
Watched when she a furder point might gaine,
Which little time did fitlie bring to passe.
For to the Courte her man was calld by name,
Whither he needes must goe for feare of blame.

Three dayes before that he must sure depart,
She written had (but in a hand disguisde)
A letter such which might from either part
Seeme to proceede, so well it was devisde.
She seald it first, then she the sealing brake,
And to her jealous husband did it take.

With weeping eyes (her eyes she taught to weepe)
She told him that the Courtier had it sent:
Alas, quoth she, thus womens shame doth creepe.
The goodman read on both sides the content,
It title had, Unto my only love,
Subscription was, Yours most, if you will prove.

The pistle selfe, such kinde of wordes it had,
My sweetest joy, the comfort of my sprite,
So may thy flockes encrease thy deere hart glad,
So may each thing, even as thou wishest lighte,
As thou wilt deigne to reade and gentlie reede
This mourning inck, in which my hart doth bleede.

Long have I lov'd, (alas thou worthy arte)
Long have I lov'd, (alas love craveth love)
Long have I lov'd thy selfe, alas my harte
Doth breake, now toong unto thy name doth move,
And thinke not that thy answere answere is,
But that it is my doome of bale or blisse.

The jealous wretch must now to Courte be gone:
Ne can he faile, for prince hath for him sent:
Now is the time we may be here alone,
And geve a long desire a sweet content.
Thus shall you both reward a lover true,
And eke revenge his wrong suspecting you.

And this was all, and this the husband read
With chafe enough, till she him pacified:
Desiring, that no griefe in him he bread
Now that he had her words so truely tried:
But that he would, to him the letter show
That with his fault he might her goodnes know.

That streight was done with many a boistrous threat,
That to the King, he would his sinne declare,
But now the Courtier gan to smell the feate,
And with some words which shewed little care,
He stayd untill the goodman was departed,
Then gave he him the blow which never smarted.

Thus may you see, the jealous wretch was made
The Pandare of the thing, he most did feare,
Take heed therefore, how you ensue that trade,
Least the same markes of jealousie you beare.
For sure, no jealousie can that prevent,
Whereto two parties once be full content.

[Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be]

Who doth desire that chaste his wife should be,
First be he true, for truth doth truth deserve:
Then such be he, as she his worth may see,
And one man still credit with her preserve.

Not toying kinde, nor causlesly unkinde,
Not sturring thoughts, nor yet denying right
Not spying faults, nor in plaine errors blinde,
Never hard hand, nor ever raines too light.

As farre from want, as farre from vaine expence,
(The one doth force, the later doth entise)
Allow good company, but kepe from thence
Al filthy mouth's that glory in their vice.
This done, thou hast no more, but leave the rest
To vertue, fortune, time & womans brest.

[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]

As I my little flocke on Ister banke
(A little flocke; but well my pipe the couthe)
Did piping leade, the Sunne already sanke
Beyond our worlde, and ere I got my boothe
Each thing with mantle black the night doth scothe;
Saving the glowe worme, which would curteous be
Of that small light oft watching shepheards see.

The welkin had full niggardly enclosed
In cofer of dimme clowdes his silver groates,
Icleped starres; each thing to rest disposed:
The caves were full, the mountaines voide of goates:
The birds eyes closd closed their chirping notes.
As for the Nightingale woodmusiques King,
It August was, he daynde not then to sing.

Amid my sheepe, though I sawe nought to feare
Yet (for I nothing sawe) I feared sore;
Then founde I which thing is a charge to beare
As for my sheepe I dradded mickle more
Then ever for my selfe since I was bore.
I sate me downe: for see to goe ne could,
And sange unto my sheepe lest stray they should.

The songe I sange old Lanquet had me taught,
Lanquet, the shepheard best swift Ister knewe,
For clerkly reed, and hating what is naught,
For faithfull hart, cleane hands, and mouth as true:
With his sweet skill my skillesse youth he drewe,
To have a feeling tast of him that sitts
Beyond the heaven, far more beyond your witts.

He said, the Musique best thilke powers pleasd
Was jumpe concorde betweene our wit and will:
Where highest notes to godlines are raisd,
And lowest sinke not downe to jote of ill:
With old true tales: he woont mine eares to fill,
How sheepheards did of yore, how now they thrive,
Spoiling their flock, or while twixt them they strive.

He liked me, but pitied lustfull youth:
His good strong staffe my slippry yeares upbore:
He still hop'd well, because he loved truth;
Till forste to parte, with harte and eyes even sore,
To worthy Coriden he gave me ore,
But thus in okes true shade recounted he
Which now in nights deepe shade sheep heard of me.

Such maner time there was (what time I n'ot)
When all this Earth, this damme or mould of ours
Was onely won'd with such as beastes begot:
Unknowne as then were they that builded towers:
The cattell wild, or tame, in natures bowers
Might freely rome, or rest, as seemed them:
Man was not man their dwellings into hem.

The beastes had sure some beastly pollicie:
For nothing can endure where order n'is.
For once the Lion by the Lambe did lie;
The fearefull Hinde the Leopard did kisse:
Hurtles was Tygers pawe and Serpents hisse.
This thinke I well, the beasts with courage clad
Like Senators a harmeles empire had.

At which whether the others did repine,
(For envie harbreth most in feeblest hartes)
Or that they all to chaunging did encline,
(As even in beasts their dammes leave chaunging partes)
The multitude to Jove a suite empartes,
With neighing, blaying, braying, and barking,
Roring, and howling for to have a King.

A King, in language theirs they said they would:
(For then their language was a perfect speech)
The birdes likewise with chirpes, and puing could
Cackling, and chattering, that of Jove beseech.
Onely the owle still warnde them not to seech
So hastily that which they would repent:
But sawe they would, and he to deserts went.

Jove wisely said (for wisedome wisely sayes)
O beasts, take heed what you of me desire.
Rulers will thinke all things made them to please,

And soone forget the swincke due to their hire,
But since you will, part of my heav'nly fire
I will you lende; the rest your selves must give,
That it both seene and felte may with you live.

Full glad they were and tooke the naked sprite,
Which streight the Earth yclothed in his claye:
The Lion, harte; the Ounce gave active might;
The Horse, good shape; the Sparrow, lust to playe;
Nightingale, voice, entising songes to saye.
Elephant gave a perfect memorie:
And Parot, ready tongue, that to applie.

The Foxe gave crafte; the Dog gave flatterie;
Asse, pacience; the Mole, a working thought;
Eagle, high looke; Wolfe secrete crueltie:
Monkie, sweet breath; the Cow, her faire eyes brought;
The Ermion, whitest skinne, spotted with nought;
The sheep, mild-seeming face; climing, the Beare;
The Stagge did give the harme eschewing feare.

The Hare, her sleights; the Cat, his melancholie;
Ante, industrie; and Connie, skill to builde;
Cranes, order; Storkes, to be appearing holie;
Camæleon, ease to chaunge; Ducke, ease to yelde;
Crocodile, teares, which might be falsely spilde:
Ape great thing gave, though he did mowing stand,
The instrument of instruments, the hand.

Ech other beast likewise his present brings:
And (but they drad their Prince they ought should want)
They all consented were to give him wings:
And aye more awe towards him for to plant,
To their owne worke this priviledge they graunt,
That from thenceforth to all eternitie,
No beast should freely speake, but onely he.

Thus Man was made; thus Man their Lord became:
Who at the first, wanting, or hiding pride,
He did to beastes best use his cunning frame;
With water drinke, herbes meate, and naked hide,
And fellow-like let his dominion slide;
Not in his sayings saying I, but we:
As if he meant his lordship common be.

But when his seate so rooted he had found,
That they now skilld not, how from him to wend;
Then gan in guiltlesse earth full many a wound,
Iron to seeke, which gainst it selfe should bend,
To teare the bowels, that good corne should send.
But yet the common Damme none did bemone;
Because (though hurt) they never heard her grone.

Then gan the factions in the beastes to breed;
Where helping weaker sort, the nobler beastes,
(As Tygers, Leopards, Beares, and Lions seed)
Disdaind with this, in deserts sought their restes;
Where famine ravine taught their hungrie chestes,
That craftily he forst them to do ill,
Which being done he afterwards would kill.

For murthers done, which never erst was seene,
By those great beastes, as for the weakers good,
He chose themselves his guarders for to bene,
Gainst those of might, of whom in feare they stood,
As horse and dogge, not great, but gentle blood:
Blith were the commons cattell of the fielde,
Tho when they saw their foen of greatnes kilde.

But they or spent, or made of slender might,
Then quickly did the meaner cattell finde,
The great beames gone, the house on shoulders light:
For by and by the horse faire bitts did binde:
The dogge was in a coller taught his kinde.
As for the gentle birds like case might rewe
When falcon they, and gossehauke saw in mewe.

Worst fell to smallest birds, and meanest heard,
Whom now his owne, full like his owne he used.
Yet first but wooll, or fethers off he teard:
And when they were well us'de to be abused,
For hungrie teeth their flesh with teeth he brused:
At length for glutton taste he did them kill:
At last for sport their sillie lives did spill.

But yet ô man, rage not beyond thy neede:
Deeme it no glorie to swell in tyrannie.
Thou art of blood; joy not to see things bleede:

Thou fearest death; thinke they are lothe to die.
A plaint of guiltlesse hurt doth pierce the skie.
And you poore beastes, in patience bide your hell,
Or know your strengths, and then you shall do well.

Thus did I sing, and pipe eight sullen houres
To sheepe, whom love, not knowledge, made to heare,
Now fancies fits, now fortunes balefull flowers:
But then I homewards call'd my lambkins deare:
For to my dimmed eyes began t'appeare
The night growne old, her blacke head waxen gray,
Sure shepherds signe, that morne should soone fetch day.

[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 ende of the third Booke.