University of Virginia Library

IOLE.
But carefull caytiffe I doe not bewayle forlorne
The sweeping flames, nor Idolles, wyth their tattred Temples torne:
Nor that the Fathers burne together with theyr Sonnes,
That Gods, & men, that tombes & Church, at once to ruin runnes.
Upon the common care wee doe not powre our playnt,
And Fortune wills vs turne our teares with other woes attaynt:
And thus my frowning Fate allotteth vnto mee
Another kinde of wretchednes, that must lamented bee:
What shall I first be weepe? Or chiefly what complayne?
And to bewayle them all at once, woulde mitigate my payne.
Alas that but on breast Dame Nature did mee frame,
That blowes agreeing to my griefe might bounce vpon the same.
With weeping Sipill rocke, brouse yee my balefull breast,
Or on Eridanus silent shore in sorrowes let mee rest,
Where as the mourning troupe of Nymphes doe hale theyr heares,
To wayle the death of Phaëton with showres of dropping teares.
Or els in Sicill rocke cause mee encoucht to dwell,
Where Scilla Hag with howling noyse, and barking big doth yell.
Or else in Lynnets shape let me tell on my tale,
And weepe with Adon in the woods, or turnde to Nightingale
As Lady Philomele, recordes with weeping lay
In shade of hawty Ismar hill vpon a tender spray,
With soking sighes her griefe, O Gods: and mee addight
In shape, that may be suetable vnto my playntiffe plight.
And of my piteous moane let craggy Trachin sounde,
Sith Myrra sawe the teares where in Dame Venus eyes were drownde,
That shee for Adonis with smoky sighes did shed,
And Halcion might wayle at will her louing Ceyx dead:
The Lady Tastalis gat life to weepe alone,
And Philomele did chaunge her shape, and earnefully did mone
Her tender Itis death: (alas) why are not yet
With flickering Fethers fit for wynges, my naked armes beset?
O happy shall I bee, and happily bee bleast,
When in the woods as in an house I make my shrowding neast,
And sitting like a birde vpon my countrey grounde
In dolefull harmony shall tune the cares, that me confounde.
That thus the people fond may talke how they haue seene
In piteous likenesse of a Byrde, the Daughter of a Queene.
I carefull caytiffe, I, behelde my Fathers fate,
When in the Courte a deadly club did Palt him on the pate,
And sprawling on the floore with braynes pasht out hee laye,
Alas if fates would let thy Coarse be shrynde in pit of Claye,
What flowing teares (O Syer) would I on thee bestowe?
And coulde I brooke it Toxeus, to see thy death with woe?
That wert vnwaynde in yeares, and eake in pits vnpaysde,
Upon whose naked Cheekes the pregnaunt sap no hayres had raysde.
Why should I parents deare your fates with teares detest,
Whom death with hand indifferent hath taken hence to rest:
My Fortune seekes my teares, due to myne owne distresse,
Now as a captiue must I dawnce attendaunce more and lesse,
Upon my Ladyes rock: and twyst her threde yspoon,
Woe worth my beauty, for the which in dread of death I run.
And for thy sake alone my stock hath lost his lyfe,
Whyle that my syer Denyeth me to Hercles as his wyfe
And did for feare refuse his stepfather to bee,
But to our Laydes balefull bower as Captiues hence goe wee: