University of Virginia Library

Ode. 1.

[This earth, is the nourishing feate]

Strophe. 1.

This earth, is the nourishing feate,
As well that deliuers to eate:
As els throwes out all that we can
Deuise, that should be needefull fore
The health, of or disease or sore,
The houshold companions of man.
And this earth, hath hearbes soueraine,
To empeach sicknesses sodaine,
If they be well aptlie applide.
And this yearth, spues vp many a breuage,
Of which if we knew well the vsage:
Would force the force Acherontide.
Breefe, it lendes vs all that we haue,
With to liue: and it is our graue.
But with all this, yet cannot giue,
Us fayre renowmes, when we be dead.
And in deede they are onelie made,
By our owne vertues whiles we liue.

Antistrophe.

And Marbles (all be they so strong,)
Cannot maintaine our renowmes long:
And neither they be but abuses,
To thinke that other thinges haue puissaunce,
To make for time any resistaunce,
Saue onelie the well singing Muses.
And the fayre Muses that prouide,
For the wise, an immortall name:
Doo neuer garnishe any head.
With Lawrell, by hearesay of Fame.
Nor euerie one that can rime,
Must not thinke to triumph on time.
For they giue not their Diuine furie,
To euerie doting troupe that comes.
Nor the touch of eu'rie ones thommes,
Is not of an eternall durie.

Epode.

No, no, the high singer is hee
Alone: that in the ende must bee
Made proude, with a garland lyke this,
And not eu'rie ryming nouice,
That writes with small wit, and much paine:
And the (Gods knowe) idiot in vaine,
For it's not the way to Parnasse,
Nor it wyll neither come to passe,
If it be not in some wise fiction,
And of an ingenious inuension:
And infanted with pleasant trauaill,
For it alone must win the Laurell.
And onelie the Poet well borne,
Must be he that goes to Parnassus:
And not these companies of Asses,
That haue brought verce almost to scorne.

Strophe. 2.

Making speake (her with a sweete brute)
The ten diuers tongues of my Lute,
I will Fredone in thy honour,
These renowmed songs of Pindar:
And immitate for thee Deuer,
Horace, that braue Latine Harper.
And stand vp Nymphes Aganapide,
Stand vp my wantons Parnasside,
Stand vp wantons and that we sing,
A newe dittie Calaborois,
To the Iban harpe Thebanois,
That had such a murmuring string.
For I will shewt, heere with my verces,
(Following the auncient traces)
As high vp to the ayre this Hymne,
(With a strong bowe and armes, presumpstous)
As Deuer is both wise and vertuous,
And as of my Harpe, he is digne.

Antistrophe.

Muses, you haue had of your father,
Onelie, the particuler fauer,
To keepe fro the reeue enfernall:
And therefore my wantons come sing,
Upon your most best speaking string,
His name that dooth cheerishe you all.
Come Nimphes while I haue a desire,
To strike on a well sounding Lyre,
Of our vertues Deuer the name.
Deuer, that had giuen him in parte:
The Loue, the Warre, Honour, and Arte,
And with them an eternall Fame.
Come Nimphes, your puissaunce is diuine:
And to those that you shew no fauour,
Quicklie they are depriude of honour,
And slaues to the chaines Cossitine.

Epode

Amongst our well renowmed men,
Deuer merits a syluer pen,
Eternally to write his honour,
And I in a well polisht verse,
Can set vp in our Uniuerse,
A Fame, to endure for euer.
And fylde with a Furiæ extreme,
Upon a well superbus ryme:
(On a ryme, and both strong and true)
I wyll (Deuer) pushe thy louanges,
To the eares of people estraunges:
And rauishe them with thy vertue,
But in trueth I vse but to sing,
After the well intuned string,
Of eyther of the great Prophêts,
Or Thebain, or Calaborois:
Of whether of whome yet the voice,
Hath not beene knowne to our Poëts.

Strophe. 3.

But what shall I beginne to touch:
O Muses what haue I begunne,
But speake wantons, what haue I donne:
Take it of the charge is too much.
No, no, if I would there were made,
I could take an entyre Iliade,
Of onelie his noble antiquitie.
But his vertues would blushe with shame:
If I should not by his owne name,
Giue him a laude to our posteritie.
But if I will thus like Pindar,
In many discourses Egar,
Before I wyll come to my point:
Or, or touch his infinitie
Of vertues, in this Poiesie,
Our song wyll neuer be conioint.

Antistrophe.

For who marketh better then hee,
The seuen turning flames of the Skie:
Or hath read more of the antique.
Hath greater knowledge in the tongues:
Or vnderstandes sooner the sownes,
Of the learner to loue Musique.
Or else who hath a fayrer grace,
In the Centauriane arte of Thrace,
Halfe-horse, halfe-man, and with lesse paine,
Dooth bring the Coorsser, indomtable,
To yeeld to the raynes of his bridle:
Uaulting, on the edge of a plaine.
And it pleases me to saye too,
(With a louange, I protest true)
That in England we cannot see,
Any thing lyke Deuer, but hee.
Onelie himselfe he must resemble,
Uertues so much in him assemble.

Epode.

Sonnet to the Reader.

Thou find'st not heere, neither the furious alarmes,
Of the pride of Spaine, or subtilnes of France:
Nor of the rude English, or mutine Almanes:
Nor neither of Naples, noble men of armes.
No, an Infant, and that yet surmounteth Knights:
Hath both vanquished me, and also my Muse.
And vvere it not: this is a lawfull excuse.
If thou hearst not the report, of their great fights,
Thou shalt see no death of any valliant soldier,
And yet I sing the beauty of a fierce vvarrier.
And amore alone I must strike on my Leer,
And but Eroto I knowe no other Muse.
And harke all you that are lyke vs amourous,
And you that are not, goe read some other where.

Sonnets. 1. To his Mystresse Diana.

Tis fyrst to you Dian, that I haue togethers,
Giuen me and my voice, making you the Idôll:
To which I offer both the body and soule,
Of these teares of my eyes, that fall heere like riuers.
But in some thinges fabelous, you must be content
To see what it is, of vs Louers the flame,
And reade you must vnder a Goddesses name,
Of your beates the delycate ornament.
And where as these which are to apayse your cruelties:
Shall not proscribe well, your excellent rareties.
Excuse mee Nymphe, as you would haue in some astre,
Of heauen your fayre semblance: for I doo not meane,
To sing you now: but Dian, when you haue bene,
More gratious vnto mee: I wyll sing you better.

Sonnet. 2.

[The Greeke Poet to whome Bathill was the guide]

The Greeke Poet to whome Bathill was the guide,
Made her immortall, by that which he did sing:
And (were it so I knowe not but) of Corîne,
We faine the patrone of the Latine Ouide,
And since them (Petrarque) a wise Florentîne,
Hath turnde his Mistres into a tree of Baye.
And he that soong the eldest daughter of Troye,
In Fraunce hath made of her, an astre Diuine.
And lyke these knowne men, can your Soothern, write too:
And as long as Englishe lasts, immortall you.
I the penne of Soothern will my fayre Diana,
Make thee immortall: if thou wilt giue him fauour:
For then hee'll sing Petrark, Tîen, Ouide, Ronsar:
And make thee Cassander, Corîne, Bathyll, Laura.

Sonnet. 3.

[That death that despises at all kinde of beautie]

That death that despises at all kinde of beautie,
And would make all loue, goe into Charons passage:
Would haue hit the eyes, wherein I liue in seruage:
The eyes both to fayre, and too full of crueltie.
But Cupid that styll in those eyes was indompted:
The infant knew well, where after this death sought:
And began to crie (death) if thou ende thy thought,
We shall neither of vs, be againe redoubted.
But (death) if thout let me liue in these eyes styll:
Thou shalt see (O then) how nobelly I wyll.
Hoyst thy honour? for I haue not halfe thy might,
And yet in these eyes, I conquer all the world:
Death hearing this, let him liue styll in the syght:
Fro whence he shewteth such sharpe arrowes of gold.

Sonnet. 4.

[When nature made my Diana, that before]

When nature made my Diana, that before
All other Nymphes: showld force the hearts reveliant:
She gaue her the masse, of beauties excellent,
That she keepe since long, in her coffers in store.
And at her framing, Paphæ came fro the skies,
With the sweetnes, and graces, of Erycêene:
And swore that it should make her so fayre a Queene,
Of beautie: that the Gods should dwell in her eyes.
But she hardlie was come to vs, fro aboue:
Though? but my soule was inflamed with her loue.
And I serue her in spite of the troupe Celêst.
For tell mee? why did not they lykewise ordaine:
That in reward of my loue, she shewd againe,
Esteeme me onely, and onely, loue me best.

Sonnet. 5.

[Of stars, and of forrests, Dian, is the honor]

Of stars, and of forrests, Dian, is the honor:
And to the seas, to the Goddesse, is the guide:
And she hath Luna, Charon, and Eumenîde:
To make brightnes, to giue death, and to cause horror.
And my warrier, my light, shines in thy fayre eyes:
My dread is of thee, the to great excellence:
Thy wordes kyll mee: and thus thou hast the puissaunce,
Of her that rules the flodes, and lyghtnes the skies.
And as syluer Pheb, is the after, most clare:
So is thy beauty, the beauty, the most rare.
Wherefore I call thee Dian, for thy beautee,
For thy wisedome, and for thy puissaunce Celest.
And yet thou must be but a Goddesse terest:
And onely because of thy great crueltee.

Sonnet. 6.

[Of Pyladeus, and of Oresteus, we haue]

Of Pyladeus, and of Oresteus, we haue
made many disputes, in the temple of death:
And in the Church of Troy, we prooue Choreb's faith,
Who made for Cassander, his harnes, his graue.
And there is one, on the mountaine Caucasein,
With an Eagle, on his heart Philosiphâll.
And there is a stone of a mad Cisyphâll,
Leaft alwayes behind him, and caried in vaine.
These temples, and this rocke, is in my obiect:
The church is my soule, the flint is my subiect.
My verses are the labours of Sisyphêus:
And for willing shew your fayre beauties, its vaine.
Of Promet, for not canning. I haue the paine:
Th'Eagle's cruell, and (Nymphe) you are rigrous.

Sonnet. 7.

[I am not (my cruell warrier) the Thebain]

I am not (my cruell warrier) the Thebain,
That my infancie, should be strangled with Serpents:
Nor neither did my nurse giue thee any torments:
Nor I suckt neither Vropæ, nor Elthâin.
I came not (my warrier) of the blood Lidain:
Nor neyther am I of the race, of Ixiôn:
Nor Ioue, neither bare my mother, affection:
Nor I am no infant Egier, nor Danain.
Nor I am neither the nephew of Atlas,
That made the earth dronke, with the blood of Arguss:
But yet I know wherefore I haue all my wounds.
I am none of these which I haue sayd (Diân)
But I am that verie miserable man,
Who for regarding thee, was eaten of Houndes.

Elegia. 1. To the Echon.

O dolefull voice, that doost aunswer,
The weepings of my care:
And that heere in these mozie groues,
Hast pittie on my dolance,
And shall of whome she emptie mouth,
(At least) dooth make a semblaunce,
To feele my wounds that proceede of
Two eyes, to greene, and fayre.
O speake since thou canst not liue ex-
cept I shall giue the brethe:
And since my greeuous voice, is one-
lie the nurce of thy steme:
I crying Dian, why makest thou
Dye Iohn, aunswer agen:
Wouldst thou I lou'de no more,
Or doost thou Prophesie my death.
O noble Nymph tell mee, or doost
Thou now inflame againe,
With the antiqueus amor, that
Thou louedst so in vaine.
Or is it that remembring my
Loue, I should pittie thine.
For the like dollor that thou hadst,
Euen the like doo I suffer:
And the like amore that thou hadst,
The like to mee dooth offer:
Saue that thy loue was not so fayre,
Nor so cruelly as mine.

Elegia. 2. To the Gods.

When the eye of the world dooth washe,
his golden shining heaire,
In the large Occean seas: and that
They haue couerd the lyght:
Amurmuring repose, and a
Restfull and sleepy night,
Is spreded both ouer the earth,
The waters and the ayre.
But I chaunge nature then? For than,
Dooth my brightest Aurôr,
In a sweete dreame present her selfe,
O dreame, no dreame: but well,
The Ambrozie, the Nectar, and
The Manna, Eternell.
And to be breefe, a vision that
I lyke a God adore.
Wherefore farewell, day of nights, and
Welcome night waking daye:
And farewell waking, of my sleepe,
Welcome sleepe, lyuing ioye.
But what say I, my wealth is false,
And my euill verita-ble:
And I plaine of them both, for I
Haue in neither delight:
Except ye Gods will short these dayes,
And eternishe this night:
And that God that will doo it, shall
be a God charita-ble.

Elegia. 3. To his Diana.

If the secretnesse of my thoughtes,
Were opened to you,
Or if else my dolorous heart,
Had of speaking the vsage:
Or (warrier) if my constancie,
Were painted in my visage:
Or that if ye knewe my torment,
How it is great and true.
Or, or if any golden wordes,
In well composed verse,
Could liuelelie shewe the picture,
Of an amourous rage:
Then should I without doubt amo-
lishe a Tigers courage.
And moue to pittie (warrier) if
it were the vniuerce.
But since wordes, neither can prescribe
My amore, nor my paine:
Tyme shall it selfe, witnesse how much
Both are in me certaine:
And that of my passioned soule,
The Diuine great loyalties:
Doo the sacrednesse of all o-
thers, I of the Gods passe:
And more then the syluer maie-
sties, of your Christall face,
Underneath, tother Phebes, doo
Excell all other Beutæs.

Sonnet. 8.

[Though I wish to haue your fauour, which is such]

Though I wish to haue your fauour, which is such,
That it is but for Gods, thinke you my Audâce,
Like his that in your steede, dyd a clowde imbrace:
Or his that was a harte, by seeing so much.
Or would you else because of my hautaine thought,
That I might augment the Sepulchres of Thrace:
Or that I were as the giant Briarâs:
Or paide lyke the wagoner so euelie taught.
No? lybertie, Rome, thy wrath the seas (Diân)
Greefe, Pirats? thy merie Must saue Ariôn.
Or if thou wylt none of these aforesayde thinges:
Because thou sayst that my mindes are set so high,
If thou thinkst I beginne lyke Icâr to flie:
Since th'eyes are my sonne, let thy loue be my winges.

Sonnets. 9.

[It is after our deathes, a thing mani-fest.]

It is after our deathes, a thing mani-fest.
We bothe goe to hell, and suffer hellishe paines:
you, for your rigour, I, for my thoughts haultaines,
That attempt to loue a Goddesse so Celest.
But as for mee I shall be lyttle afflicted,
Tis you (my warrier) that must haue the torment:
For I that but, in seeing you am content:
you, with mee, I'll blesse the place so much detested.
And my soule that is raued with your fayre eyes,
In the midst of hell, wyll establishe, a skeyes:
Making my bright day, in the eternall night.
And when all the damned else are in annoy:
I'll smyle in that glorie, seeing you my ioy:
And being once there, goe not out of our sight.

Sonnet. 10.

[The heauens willing shew fauour among our paines.]

The heauens willing shew fauour among our paines.
And to make both runne, of my weeping the streame:
And also eternall, your rigor extreame:
turnd your heart, to rocke, and my eyes to fountaynes:
And Cupid dooth bathe him in my syluer ryuers:
And being come out, of the flodes, of my yll:
He flies to your rocke, where as vpon a hyll,
The lyttle wanton, dooth prime, and rowse his feathers.
But when thy winter comes, and that thou art olde,
Felling thy rocke-hart, vnder his tallons colde:
Hee'll byd thee adiew with an eternall farewell.
And then thou hast fayre to say Loue is a rage:
Olde folke say so, cause Cupid dooth abhorre age:
But were they lou'de then, I doubt th'ed not be cruell.

Elegia. 4. To the prisoners.

Cvpid hath swelde my stomacke, with
On such a sacred poyson,
And I am in Queene Venus fet-
ters, so well entertained:
That lyke a captiue, languishing,
And with dolour, tormented,
I thinke my selfe well happy, to
Be in a Womans prison.
Now? As for you wretches that no-
thing, but yrons can punishe,
If you lyst you may haue a hope,
to be at lyber-tie:
But as for mee? I tell you, I'll
die in captiui-tie:
Consuming heere in the quicke-sil-
uer-fayre-eyes of my Goddesse,
And well I am contented in-
deede, with her extreeme rigore.
Swearing, that I neuer fell in
My soule so great a dolore,
As when I thinke for her likewise,
Some other should haue passion.
And with all this too, yet I haue
Neither lost all my iudgement:
For we saye that man is happy,
onelie, that is well content,
And I tell you, (you wretches) it
is all my contentation.

Elegia. 5. To his thoughts.

My thoughts, to full of thought, to thought-
full thoughts giue now? Repose,
Both to my dolefull soule, and to
my hope that is in vaine:
For well though my teares drop, fro my
eyes like a swift fountaine?
Murmuring my Alas: she hearke-
neth not to my propose.
My thoughts, too full of thought, and too
Farre engrau'n in my heart.
My thoughts too full of thought, that giue
mee ouer to my dolore:
My thoughts too thoughtfull, if you pro-
pose yet any more langore:
My thought full thoughts, (O Gods) doo ad-
uaunce therewithall my mort.
And Opinastres thoughts the cau-
sers of my extreeme paines.
And thoughts that boyle this sulfer hu-
mor in my drooping vaines.
Speake thoughtfull thoughts, why feede you me
With this Abist esperaunce,
When possessing the ioye, of which
I haue had such desyres:
And for Idolling the fayre eyes,
In which are my plasyres:
In the end thoughtes, for reward thought
Dooth breede mee a repentaunce.

Elegia. 6. To his Diana.

My hope dooth tell mee, that after
This great rigour, of you:
I shall with sacred guerdons,
Be recom-pensed for wrong:
Shewing mee that I merite it,
Being patience so long.
But this imagind hope, (my cru-
ell warrier) is it true,
My hope dooth tell mee too (Diana)
That your Diuine beau-tie,
Cannot be accompanied with
Such crueltie as thine.
But what is't (my angrie warrier)
That yeeldes this plague of mine:
Fortune? or the origene of
The cause of cru-eltie.
My hope dooth tell mee too (my war-
rier) that my dolefull langore:
Will in a passient ende, amo-
lishe your extreeme great rigore:
The which all if it can, when your
Mothers gone we shall trie,
But if it cannot doo it then,
But would yet feede mee styll,
With presses of time: I'll giue ou'r:
And eu'r after I will,
Esteeme our Fortune, too much lowe,
For a hope set so high.

Sonnet. 11.

[He that was the first, that put these lyttle winges]

He that was the first, that put these lyttle winges,
On the backe of amore, that high God immortell:
He might better haue had employed his pensell,
To paint hopping butter-flyes, or Genny wrens.
But if in place of them, the doting foole had
Painted his fierce bowe, and his rigorous draftes,
And shewde what kinde of thinges, are his golden shaftes:
Then had he beene apt to haue painted a God.
And you that paint next, you must vse other colore:
wherewith you may better shew his diuine rigore:
And for his bowe, giue him a great harquebous.
Or beleeue you not, goe and looke on Diân,
And hauing seene her fayre eyes, I esteeme than,
you'll giue him some thing more then it rigorous.

Sonnet. 12.

[Aenêas, Orphêus, Cephall, and Demophôn]

Aenêas, Orphêus, Cephall, and Demophôn:
Of Pocrîs, of Eurydice, Phyllis, and Creuse:
Haue made complaintes, as they haue beene amorous,
Saying, theyr mistresses, did doo them all wrong,
Though they themselues to theyr loues, did all amisse,
For one gaue Phyllis, a poore mournefull se-quell,
And th'other, left Procris, in the vall's of hell,
And with t'others fault, di-ed Euridice.
Aenêas, the last was thought to haue least fault.
Though the presumpsion is yet great for all that.
But (Dian) you knoe (Dian) your amourous,
Hath not learned lyke any of them Protê.
Though you are Demoph, Cephall, Orpheus, Aenê:
And he be Eurid, Phyllis, Procris, and Creuse.

Sonnets. 13.

[He that wyll be subiect to Cupidos call]

He that wyll be subiect to Cupidos call,
Is chaungd euerie day, I doo not knoe how.
And of this, I my selfe haue made prooues enowe.
As Metamorphosd, but wot not wherewithall,
Fyrst? I was turned to a wandering Harte,
And sawe my stomacke pierst with a dolefull arrow.
Next? Into a Swan, and with a note of sorrowe.
I foresong my death, in Elegicall arte.
Since that, to a Flowre, and since withred away:
Since that, to a Fountaine, and since, I am drie:
And now that Salamander, liue in my flame.
But ye Gods, if euer I haue my owne choyce,
I wyll be turn'd, into a well singing voyce:
And there in louange, the fayre eyes of Ma-dame.

Ode. 2. to his Diana.