 | The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney |  |
[Since that to death is gone the shepheard hie]
Since
that to death is gone the shepheard hie,
Who most the silly shepheards pipe did pryse,
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie.
Who 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:
And let my breath upon your braunches cleave,
My breath distinguish'd into wordes of woe,
That so I may signes of my sorrowe leave.
But if among your selves some one tree growe,
That aptest is to figure miserie,
Let it embassage beare your grieves to showe.
The weeping Mirrhe 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 Hyacinthe let Ai be on thee still.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie.
In trees) now through your porous barkes receave
The straunge resounde of these my causefull cries:
And let my breath upon your braunches cleave,
My breath distinguish'd into wordes of woe,
That so I may signes of my sorrowe leave.
But if among your selves some one tree growe,
That aptest is to figure miserie,
Let it embassage beare your grieves to showe.
The weeping Mirrhe I thinke will not denie
Her helpe to this, this justest cause of plaint.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie.
140
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 Hyacinthe 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?
Did Wisedome this our wretched time espie
In our true chest to rob all Vertues treasure?
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie.
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?
Did Wisedome this our wretched time espie
In our 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.
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.
141
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 dayly rayning.
And if, ô Sinne, thou ever didst appeare,
In shape, which by mans eye might be perceaved;
Vertue is dead, now set the triumph here.
Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaved
Of what was good, where now no good doth lie;
And by the 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 sweet Muses now applie,
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 dayly rayning.
And if, ô Sinne, thou ever didst appeare,
In shape, which by mans eye might be perceaved;
Vertue is dead, now set the triumph here.
Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaved
Of what was good, where now no good doth lie;
And by the 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 sweet Muses now applie,
Time ever old, and yong 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.
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.
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.
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.
142
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 all, and say, death commes too eagerlie.
They are but words therefore that men do buy
Of any, since God Æsculapius ceased.
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now apply.
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 all, and say, death commes too eagerlie.
They are but words therefore that men do buy
Of any, since God Æsculapius ceased.
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now apply.
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.
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:
And 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.
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.
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.
143
And 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 Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney | |