University of Virginia Library

[THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE COUNTESSE OF PEMBROKES ARCADIA.]

[What length of verse can serve brave Mopsas good to show?]

What length of verse can serve brave Mopsas good to show?
Whose vertues strange, & beuties such, as no mā thē may know
Thus shrewdly burdned thē, how cā my Muse escape?
The gods must help, and pretious things must serve to shew her shape.
Like great god Saturn faire, and like faire Venus chaste:
As smothe as Pan, as Juno milde, like goddesse Iris faste.
With Cupid she fore-sees, and goes god Vulcans pace:
And for a tast of all these gifts, she steales god Momus grace.
Her forhead jacinth like, her cheekes of opall hue,
Her twinkling eies bedeckt with pearle, her lips as Saphir blew:
Her haire like Crapal-stone; her mouth O heavenly wyde;
Her skin like burnisht gold, her hands like silver ure untryde.
As for her parts unknowne, which hidden sure are best:
Happie be they which well beleeve, & never seeke the rest.

[Transformd in shew, but more transformd in minde]

[Pyrocles.]

[Come shepheards weedes, become your masters minde]

[Musidorus.]

[Now thanked be the great God Pan]

The first Eclogues.

[We love, and have our loves rewarded.]

[The Shepheards.]
We love, and have our loves rewarded.
We love, and are no whit regarded.
We finde most sweete affections snare,
That sweete, but sower despairefull care.
Who can despaire, whom hope doth beare?
And who can hope, that feeles despaire?

[Come Dorus, come, let songs thy sorowes signifie]

Lalus and Dorus.
Lalus.
Come Dorus, come, let songs thy sorowes signifie:
And if for want of use thy minde ashamed is,
That verie shame with Loves high title dignifie.
No stile is held for base, where Love well named is:
Ech eare suckes up the words, a true love scattereth,
And plaine speach oft, then quaint phrase, better framed is.

Dorus.
Nightingales seldome sing, the Pie still chattereth:
The wood cries most, before it throughly kindled be,
Deadly wounds inward bleed, ech sleight sore mattereth.
Hardly they heard, which by good hunters singled be.
Shallow brookes murmure most, deep silent slide away;
Nor true love loves those loves with others mingled be.

Lalus.
If thou wilt not be seene, thy face goe hide away,
Be none of us, or els maintaine our fashion:
Who frownes at others feastes, dooth better bide away.
But if thou hast a Love, in that Loves passion,
I challenge thee by shew of her perfection,
Which of us two deserveth most compassion.

Dorus.
Thy challenge great, but greater my protection:
Sing then, and see (for now thou hast inflamed me)
Thy health too meane a match for my infection.
No, though the heav'ns for high attempts have blamed me,
Yet high is my attempt, O Muse historifie
Her praise, whose praise to learne your skill hath framed me.

Lalus.
Muse hold your peace: but thou, my God Pan, glorifie
My Kalas giftes: who with all good gifts filled is.
Thy pipe, ô Pan, shall helpe, though I sing sorilie.
A heape of sweetes she is, where nothing spilled is;
Who though she be no Bee, yet full of honie is:
A Lillie field, with plowe of Rose which tilled is.
Milde as a Lambe, more daintie then a Conie is;
Her eyes my eyesight is, her conversation
More gladde to me, then to a miser monie is.
What coye account she makes of estimation?
How nice to touch, how all her speeches peized be?
A Nimph thus turnde, but mended in translation.

Dorus.
Such Kala is: but ah, my fancies raysed be
In one, whose name to name were high presumption,
Since vertues all, to make her title, pleased be.
O happie Gods, which by inward assumption
Enjoy her soule, in bodies faire possession,
And keep it joynde, fearing your seates consumption.
How oft with raine of teares skies make confession,
Their dwellers rapt with sight of her perfection
From heav'nly throne to her heav'n use digression?
Of best things then what world can yeeld confection
To liken her? Decke yours with your comparison:
She is her selfe, of best things the collection.

Lalus.
How oft my dolefull Sire cried to me, tarrie sonne
When first he spied my love? how oft he said to me,
Thou art no souldier fitte for Cupids garrison?
My sonne, keepe this, that my long toyle hath laide to me:
Love well thine owne: me thinkes, woolles whitenes passeth all:
I never found long love such wealth hath paide to me.
This winde he spent: but when my Kala glasseth all
My sight in her faire limmes, I then assure my selfe,
Not rotten sheepe, but high crownes she surpasseth all.
Can I be poore, that her golde haire procure my selfe?
Want I white wooll, whose eyes her white skinne garnished?
Till I get her, shall I to keepe enure my selfe?

Dorus
How oft, when reason saw, love of her harnised
With armour of my hart, he cried, O vanitie,
To set a pearle in steele so meanely varnished?
Looke to thy selfe; reach not beyond humanitie:
Her minde, beames, state farre from thy weake wings banished:
And Love, which lover hurts is inhumanitie.
Thus Reason said: but she came, Reason vanished;
Her eyes so maistering me, that such objection
Seemde but to spoyle the foode of thoughts long famished.
Her peereles height my minde to high erection
Drawes up; and if hope-fayling ende lives pleasure,
Of fayrer death how can I make election?

Lalus.
Once my well-waiting eyes espied my treasure,
With sleeves turnde up, loose haire, and brest enlarged,
Her fathers corne (moving her faire limmes) measure.
O cried I, of so meane worke be discharged:
Measure my case, how by thy beauties filling
With seede of woes my hart brimme-full is charged.
Thy father bids thee save, and chides for spilling.
Save then my soule, spill not my thoughts well heaped,
No lovely praise was ever got by killing.
These bolde words she did heare, this fruite I reaped,
That she, whose looke alone might make me blessed,
Did smile on me, and then away she leaped.

Dorus.
Once, ô sweete once, I saw with dread oppressed
Her whom I dread; so that with prostrate lying
Her length the earth in Loves chiefe clothing dressed.
I saw that riches fall, and fell a crying;
Let not dead earth enjoy so deare a cover,
But deck therewith my soule for your sake dying.
Lay all your feare upon your fearefull lover:
Shine eyes on me, that both our lives be guarded;
So I your sight, you shall your selves recover.
I cried, and was with open rayes rewarded:
But straight they fledde, summond by cruell honor,
Honor, the cause, desart is not regarded.

Lalus.
This mayde, thus made for joyes, ô Pan bemone her,
That without love she spends her yeares of love:
So faire a fielde would well become an owner.
And if enchantment can a harde hart move,
Teach me what circle may acquaint her sprite,
Affections charmes in my behalfe to prove.
The circle is my (round about her) sight:
The power I will invoke dwelles in her eyes:
My charme should be, she haunt me day and night.

Dorus.
Farre other care, ô Muse, my sorrow tries,
Bent to such one, in whom, my selfe must say,
Nothing can mend that point that in her lies.
What circle then in so rare force beares swaye?
Whose sprite all sprites can spoile, raise, damne, or save:
No charme holdes her, but well possesse she may;
Possesse she doth, and makes my soule her slave:
My eyes the bandes, my thoughts the fatall knot.
No thralles like them that inward bondage have.

Lalus.
Kala at length conclude my lingring lotte:
Disdaine me not, although I be not faire.
Who is an heire of many hundred sheep
Doth beauties keep, which never Sunne can burne,
Nor stormes doo turne: fairenes serves oft to wealth.
Yet all my health I place in your good-will.
Which if you will (ô doo) bestow on me,
Such as you see, such still you shall me finde.
Constant and kind: my sheep your foode shall breed,
Their wooll your weede, I will you Musique yeeld
In flowrie fielde; and as the day begins
With twenty ginnes we will the small birds take,
And pastimes make, as Nature things hath made.
But when in shade we meet of mirtle bowes,
Then Love allowes, our pleasures to enrich,
The thought of which doth passe all worldly pelfe.

Dorus.
Lady your selfe, whom nether name I dare,
And titles are but spots to such a worthe,
Heare plaints come forth from dungeon of my minde.
The noblest kinde rejects not others woes.
I have no shewes of wealth: my wealth is you,
My beauties hewe your beames, my health your deeds;
My minde for weeds your vertues liverie weares.
My foode is teares; my tunes waymenting yeeld:
Despaire my fielde; the flowers spirits warrs:
My day newe cares; my ginnes my daily sight,
In which do light small birds of thoughts orethrowne:
My pastimes none: time passeth on my fall:
Nature made all, but me of dolours made:
I finde no shade, but where my Sunne doth burne:
No place to turne; without, within it fryes:
Nor helpe by life or death who living dyes.

Lalus.
But if my Kala this my suite denies,
Which so much reason beares,
Let crowes picke out mine eyes, which saw too much:
If still her minde be such,
My earthy moulde will melte in watrie teares.

Dorus.
My earthy moulde doth melte in watrie teares,
And they againe resolve
To aire of sighes, sighes to the hartes fire turne,
Which doth to ashes burne:
So doth my life within it selfe dissolve,

Lalus.
So doth my life within it selfe dissolve,
That I am like a flower
New plucked from the place where it did breed,
Life showing, dead indeed:
Such force hath Love above poore Natures power.

Dorus.
Such force hath Love above poore Natures power,
That I growe like a shade,
Which being nought seems somewhat to the eyen,
While that one body shine.
Oh he is mard that is for others made.

Lalus.
Oh he is mard that is for others made.
Which thought doth marre my piping declaration,
Thinking how it hath mard my shepheards trade.
Now my hoarse voice doth faile this occupation,
And others long to tell their loves condition:
Of singing take to thee the reputation.

Dorus.
Of singing take to thee the reputation
New friend of mine; I yeeld to thy habilitie:
My soule doth seeke another estimation.
But ah my Muse I would thou hadst agilitie,
To worke my Goddesse so by thy invention,
On me to cast those eyes, where shine nobilitie.
Seen, and unknowne; heard, but without attention.

[As I my little flocke on Ister banke]

[A yong Shepheard.]

[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 stinge,
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.
Ether 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 frinds 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 dround, 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.

[You Gote-heard Gods, that love the grassie mountaines]

Strephon. Klaius.
Strephon.
You Gote-heard Gods, that love the grassie mountaines,
You Nimphes that haunt the springs in pleasant vallies,
You Satyrs joyde with free and quiet forrests,
Vouchsafe your silent eares to playning musique,
Which to my woes gives still an early morning:
And drawes the dolor on till wery evening.

Klaius.
O Mercurie, foregoer to the evening,
O heavenlie huntresse of the savage mountaines,
O lovelie starre, entitled of the morning,
While that my voice doth fill these wofull vallies,
Vouchsafe your silent eares to plaining musique,
Which oft hath Echo tir'd in secrete forrests.

Strephon.
I that was once free-burges of the forrests,
Where shade from Sunne, and sports I sought at evening,
I that was once esteem'd for pleasant musique,
Am banisht now among the monstrous mountaines
Of huge despaire, and foule afflictions vallies,
Am growne a shrich-owle to my selfe each morning.

Klaius.
I that was once delighted every morning,
Hunting the wilde inhabiters of forrests,
I that was once the musique of these vallies,
So darkened am, that all my day is evening,
Hart-broken so, that molehilles seeme high mountaines,
And fill the vales with cries in steed of musique.

Strephon
Long since alas, my deadly Swannish musique
Hath made it selfe a crier of the morning,
And hath with wailing strēgth clim'd highest mountaines:
Long since my thoughts more desert be then forrests:
Long since I see my joyes come to their evening,
And state throwen downe to over-troden vallies.

Klaius.
Long since the happie dwellers of these vallies,
Have praide me leave my strange exclaiming musique,
Which troubles their dayes worke, and joyes of evening:
Long since I hate the night, more hate the morning:
Long since my thoughts chase me like beasts in forrests,
And make me wish my selfe layd under mountaines.

Strephon.
Me seemes I see the high and stately mountaines,
Transforme themselves to lowe dejected vallies:
Me seemes I heare in these ill-changed forrests,
The Nightingales doo learne of Owles their musique:
Me seemes I feele the comfort of the morning
Turnde to the mortall serene of an evening.

Klaius.
Me seemes I see a filthie clowdie evening,
As soon as Sunne begins to clime the mountaines:
Me seemes I feele a noysome sent, the morning
When I doo smell the flowers of these vallies:
Me seemes I heare, when I doo heare sweete musique,
The dreadfull cries of murdred men in forrests.

Strephon.
I wish to fire the trees of all these forrests;
I give the Sunne a last farewell each evening;
I curse the fidling finders out of Musicke:
With envie I doo hate the loftie mountaines;
And with despite despise the humble vallies:
I doo detest night, evening, day, and morning.

Klaius.
Curse to my selfe my prayer is, the morning:
My fire is more, then can be made with forrests;
My state more base, then are the basest vallies:
I wish no evenings more to see, each evening;
Shamed I have my selfe in sight of mountaines,
And stoppe mine eares, lest I growe mad with Musicke.

Strephon.
For she, whose parts maintainde a perfect musique,
Whose beautie shin'de more then the blushing morning,
Who much did passe in state the stately mountaines,
In straightnes past the Cedars of the forrests,
Hath cast me wretch into eternall evening,
By taking her two Sunnes from these darke vallies.

Klaius.
For she, to whom compar'd, the Alpes are vallies,
She, whose lest word brings from the spheares their musique,
At whose approach the Sunne rose in the evening,
Who, where she went, bare in her forhead morning,
Is gone, is gone from these our spoyled forrests,
Turning to desarts our best pastur'de mountaines.

Strephon. Klaius.
These mountaines witnesse shall, so shall these vallies,
These forrests eke, made wretched by our musique,
Our morning hymne is this, and song at evening.

[If mine eyes can speake to doo harty errande]

[Zelmane.]
If mine eyes can speake to doo harty errande,
Or mine eyes language she doo hap to judge of,
So that eyes message be of her receaved,
Hope we do live yet.