University of Virginia Library

Dan Bartholmew his first Triumphe.

Resigne king Priams sonnes, that princes were in Troy,
Resigne to me your happy dayes, and boast no more of joy:
Syr Paris first stand forth make aunswere for thy pheare,
And if thou canst defend hir cause, whome Troy did bye so deare:
What? blush not man, be bold, although thou beare some blame,
Tell truth at last, and so be sure to save thy selfe from shame.
Then gentle Sheapheard say: what madnesse dyd thee move,
To choose of all the flowers in Greece, foule Helene for thy love?
Needs must I coumpt hir foule, whose first frutes were forlorne,
Although she solde hir seconde chaffe, above the price of corne.
Alas, shee made of thee, a noddye for the nonce,
For Menelaus lost hir twise, though thou hir foundst but once.
But yet if in thine eye, shee seemde a peerelesse peece,
Aske Theseus ye mighty Duke, what towns she knew in Greece?
Aske him what made hir leave hir wofull aged sire,
And steale to Athens gyglot like: what? what but foule desire?
Alas poore Paris thou didst nothing else but gleane,
The partched eares which he cast by, when he had reaped cleane:
He slivde the gentle slippe, which could both twist and twind,
And growing left the broken braunch, for thē that came behind,
Yet hast thou fild the world with brute, (the more thy blame,)
And sayest, that Hellens bewty past each other stately dame,
For profe thou canst alledge the tast of ten years warre,
And how hir blazing beames first brought both Greece & Troy to jarre.
No no, thou art deceivde, the drugs of foule despite,
Did worke in Menelaus will, not losse of such delighte,
Not love, but lothsome hate, not dolour, but disdain,
Did make him selfe a sharpe revēge, til both his foes were slain,
Thy brother Troylus eke, that gemme of gentle deedes,
To thinke howe he abused was, alas my heart it bleedes:
He bet about the bushe, whiles other caught the birds,
Whome crafty Gresside mockt to muche, yet fede him still with words.
And god he knoweth not I, who pluckt hir first sprong rose,
Since Lollius and Chaucer both, make doubt upon that glose.
But this I knowe to well, and he to farre it felte,
How Diomede undid his knots, & caught both brooch and belt,
And how she chose to change, and how she changed still,
And how she dyed leaper like, against hir lovers will.
Content you then good knightes, your triumphe to resigne,
Confesse your starres both dimme and darke, wheras my sunne doth shine:
For this I dare avow, without vaunt be it told,
My derling is more faire than she, for whome proud Troy was solde.
More constant to conteyne, than Cresside to be coy,
No Calcas can contrive the craft, to traine hir out of Troye,
No Diomede can drawe hir setled harte to change,
No madding moode can move hir mind, nor make hir thoughtes to range.
For hir alone it is, that Cupide blindfolde goes,
And dare not looke for feare least he his libertie should loose:
At hir dame Venus chafes, and pines in jelowsie,
Least bloudy Mars should hir espie, and chang his fantasie,
Of hir the Quene of Heaven doth stand in dreadfull doubt,
Least Jove should melte in drops of gold, if once he find hir out.
Oh that my tonge had skill, to tell hir prayse aright,
Or that my pen hir due desertes, in worthy verse could write:
Or that my minde could muse, or happie heart conceive,
Some words that might resound hir worth, by high Minervas leave.
Oh how the blooming joyes, do blossome in my brest,
To think within my secret thought, how far she steines ye rest.
Me thinkes I heare hir speake, me thinkes I see hir still,
Me thinkes I feele hir feelingly, me thinkes I know hir will.
Me thinkes I see the states which sue to hir for grace,
Me thinkes I see one looke of hirs repulse them all apace.
Me thinkes that houre is yet, and evermore shall be,
Wherein my happie happe was first, hir heavenly face to see:
Wherein I spide the writte, which woond betweene hir eyne,
And sayd behold, be bold, for I, am borne to be but thine.
Me thinks I feele the joyes, which never yet were felt,
Whome flame before yet never toucht, me thinks I feele them melt.
One word & there an end, me thinks she is the sunne,
Which only shineth now a daies, she dead, ye world were done.
The rest are twinkling starres, or Moones which borow light,
To comfort other carefull soules, which wander in the night.
And night God knowes it is, where other Ladies bee,
For sure my dame adornes the day, there is no sunne but shee.
Then lovers by your leave, and thinke it nothing strange,
Although I seme with calme content, in seas of joyes to range:
For why, my sailes have found both wind and waves at wyll,
And depthes of all delightes in hir, with whome I travell styll.
And ancors being wayed, I leave you all at large,
To steare this seemelye Shippe my selfe, suche is my mistresse charge.