The Whole Works of William Browne :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Whole Works of William Browne

of Tavistock ... Now first collected and edited, with a memoir of the poet, and notes, by W. Carew Hazlitt, of the Inner Temple

Browne, William (1590- ca. 1645)

1, 2.

THE FIRST VOLUME, THE SECOND VOLUME.

Britannia's PASTORALS.

The first Booke.

TO THE NO LESSE ENOBLED BY VERTVE, THEN ANCIENT In Nobilitie, the Right Honorable Edvvard Lord Zouch, Saint-Maure, and Cantelupe, and one of his Maiesties most Honourable Privie Covncell.

To the Reader.

[Commendatory Verses.]

By the Same.

To his Friend the Avthor.

To his Ingenious and worthy Friend the Avthor.

On him; a Pastorall Ode to his fairest Shepheardesse.

To his Friend the Avthor vpon his Poem.

To his Friend the Author.

To the Avthor.

[Euterpe to her deerest Darling W. B.

Carmina amo, mihi Wille placet tua fistula: fælix! En re sonant laudes illa, vel illa tuas.

On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.

On the Same.

On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.

Uppon the occasion of Readinge this compleet Poem.

To the now unparelleled Sydney of his time, W. B., the ingenuous Author of Brittannia's Pastorals.

An Ode entreating him to proceed in the continuation of his Brittannias Pastorals.

To the Authour, W. B.

On the Author, W. B.

To the unparalleled Author of the sequent Poems, W. B.

Idem ad Eundem.

On the Author of Brittanias Matchlesse (though unfinisht) Pastorals.

The first presents his Dogge, with these:

The second, his Pipe, with these:

The third, a paire of Gloues, thus:

The fourth, an Anagram. Maiden aid Men.

The fift, a Ring, with a Picture in a Iewell on it.

The sixt, a Nosegay of Roses, with a Nettle in it.

The seuenth, a Girdle.

TO THE TRVLY NOBLE AND LEARNED William EARLE OF Pembroke, LORD CHAMBERLAINE TO HIS Maiestie, &c.

[Commendatory Verses.]

To the most ingenious Author Mr. W. Browne.

To his Friend Mr. Browne.

To his worthily-affected Friend Mr. VV. Browne.

Another to the same.

[To my Browne, yet brightest Swaine]

To my noble Friend the Author.

To the Author.

To his worthy Friend Mr. W. Browne, on his Booke.

To his Friend the Authour.

To his Friend the Author.

To the Authour.

To Mr. Browne.

To my truly-belou'd Friend M. Browne, on his Pastorals.

The First Song.

To the truely Vertuous, and worthy of all Honour, the Right Honourable Edvvard, Lord Zovch, Saint Mavre and Cantelvpe, and one of his Mties. most Honourable Priuy Councell.

Of his Friend Maister William Browne.

To his better beloued, then knowne friend, Mr. Brovvne.

The first Eglogue. Roget and Willy both ymet

The second Eglogue. Two Shepheards here complaine the wrong

The Third Eglogve. Old Neddy's pouertie they mone

The Fovrth Eglogve. Vnder an aged Oke was Willy laid

TO THE VERTVOVS and much lamenting Sisters of my euer admired friend, Mr Thomas Manvvood.

THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE.

[dedication]

THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE.

[THE FIRSTE SCENE.]

The Description of THE FIRSTE SCENE.

[Loue who will, for Ile loue none]

ON A FAIRE LADYES YELLOW HAIRE POWDRED WITH WHITE.

[Not longe agone a youthfull swayne]

[Shall I loue againe, & try]

[Deepe are the wounds which strike a vertuous name]

[Poore silly foole! thou striv'st in vaine to knowe]

[Wellcome, wellcome, doe I sing]

[Ye merry birds, leaue of to sing]

A SIGH FROM OXFORD.

[A haples shepherd on a daye]

[Coelia is gone, & now sit I]

II.

II. Odes, Songs, and Sonnets.

An Ode.

A ROUNDE.

[Vnhappy Muse, that nothing pleasest me]

THIRSIS' PRAISE OF HIS MISTRESSE.

CŒLIA.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

III.

III. Epistles.

AN EPISTLE.

AN EPISTLE

AN EPISTLE THROWNE INTO A RIUER, IN A BALL OF WAX.

AN EPISTLE.

FIDO: AN EPISTLE TO FIDELIA.

IV.

IV. Elegies.

AN ELEGYE ON MR. WILLM. HOPTON.

AN ELEGIE ON THE COUNTESSE DOWAGER OF PEMBROOKE.

ON AN INFANT VNBORNE, & THE MOTHER DYEING IN TRAUELL.

ON THE R: H: CHARLES LORD HERBERT OF CARRDIFF & SHERLAND.

AN EPICED ON MR. FISHBOURNE.

AN ELEGYE ON SR THOMAS OVERBVRYE,

AN ELEGIE

AN ELEGYE.

ON A TWIN AT TWO YEARES OLD,

AN ELEGIE

V. Visions.

VI. Epigrams.

[It hapned lately at a Fair, or Wake]

ON AN HOURE GLASSE.

ON THE COUNTESSE OF SOMERSETS PICTURE.

ON JOHN TOOTH.

TO DON ANTONIO, KING OF PORTUGALL.

[MAN.]

[Give me three kisses, Phillis; if not three]

ON ONE BORNE BLYNDE, AND SOE DEAD.

ON A ROPE-MAKER HANG'D.

VII.

VII. Epitaphs.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. JOHN SMYTH, CHAPLAYNE TO THE RIGHT HOBLE THE EARLE OF PEMBROOKE.

ON MRS. ANNE PRIDEAUX, DAUGHTER OF MR. DOCTOR PRIDEAUX, REGIUS PROFESSOR.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. WM. HOPTON.

AN EPITAPH ON SR. JOHN PROWDE.

IN OBITUM M. S. xo MAIJ, 1614.

ON MR. VAUX, THE PHYSITIAN.

ON ONE DROWNED IN THE SNOWE.

ON MR. JOHN DEANE, OF NEW COLLEDGE.

AN EPITAPH.

ON MR. FRANCIS LEE OF THE TEMPLE, GENT.

MY OWNE EPITAPH.

ON HIS WIFE, AN EPITAPH.

ON THE COUNTESSE DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE

ON THE R. H. SUSAN, COUNTESSE OF MONTGOMERIE.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. THOMAS AYLEWORTH.

AN EPITAPH ON MRS. EL: Y.

ON MR TURNER OF ST. MARY-HALL.

ON GOODMAN HURST OF THE GEORGE AT HORSHAM,

[Heere lyes kind Tom, thrust out of dore]

VIII.

VIII. Paraphrases, &c.

[Tell me, Pyrrha, what fine youth]

THE HAPPY LIFE.

IN URBEM ROMAM QUALIS EST HODIE.

IX.

IX. Miscellaneous Pieces.

ON A DREAME.

LIDFORD JOURNEY.

[RELIGIOUS VERSES.]

X. Commendatory Verses.

TO HIS WORTHY AND INGENIOUS FRIEND THE AUTHOR.

TO MY HONOR'D FRIEND MR. DRAYTON.

VPON THIS WORKE OF HIS BELOUED FRIEND THE AVTHOR.

THE AUTHORS FRIEND TO THE READER.

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123

The First Song.

[OMITTED]
Thrice had the pale fac'd Cinthia fill'd her hornes,
And through the circling zodiaque, which adornes
Heaven's goodly frame, the horses of the fun
A fourth parte of their race had fiercely run,
Since faire Marina lefte her gentle flocke;
Whose too untymely losse, the watchfull cock
Noe oftner gave a summons to the daye,
Then some kinde shepheard on the fertill ley

124

Tooke a sadd seate, and, with a drowned eye,
Bemoan'd in heart farre more then elegie.
Heere sitts a shepheard, whose mellifluous tongue,
On shaded bancks of rivers whilome sung
Many sweet layes to her harmonious eare;
Recounting former joyes, when she liv'd there,
With present woes, and every pleasure gone
Tells with a hundred teares, and, those dropps done,
A thowsand sighes ensue, and gives not o're
Untill he faints, and soe can sighe noe more.
Yonder, another, on some swelling hill,
Records her sweet prayse to a gentle rill
Which, in requitall, takes noe little payne
To roule her silver sands up to the swayne;
And almost wept that tyme would not permitt
That beautious mayde to bathe herselfe in it;
Whose touch made streames, and men, and plants more prowde,
Then he that clasp'd the Juno-seeming clowde.
Amongst the rest (that ere the sun did shyne
Sought the thick groves) neglectfull Celadyne
Was come abroade; and underneath a tree,
Dead as his joyes, and from all moysture free
As were the fountaynes of his lovely eyes,
With lavish weeping, discontented lyes.

Now, like a prodigall, he myndes in vayne
What he hath lost, and cannot lose againe.
Now thinckes he on her eyes, like some sadd wight,
Which newe strooke blynde bemones the want of light.
Her cheekes, her lipps, to mynde he doth recall,
As one in exile cleane bereav'd of all.
Her modest graces, her affection more,
That wounds him most which onely can restore.
And lastly, to his pipe (which woods nor playnes
Acquainted not, but with the saddest straynes,

125

Yet he more sadd then song or places can)
Vary'd his playntes, and thus anewe began:—

Marina's gone, and nowe sitt I,
As Philomela (on a thorne,
Turn'd out of nature's livery),
Mirthles, alone, and all forlorne:
Onely she sings not, while my sorrowes can
Breathe forth such notes as fitt a dyeing swan.

Soe shutts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;
Soe from the hony-suckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sitts the turtle when she is but one,
And soe all woe, as I, since she is gone.

To some fewe birds, kinde Nature hath
Made all the summer as one daye;
Which once enjoy'd, colde winter's wrath,
As night, they sleeping passe away.
Those happy creatures are, that knowe not yet
The payne to be depriv'd or to forgett.

I ofte have heard men saye there be
Some, that with confidence professe
The helpfull Art of Memorie;
But could they teach forgetfulnesse,
I'de learne, and try what further art coulde doe,
To make me love her and forgett her too.

Sadd melancholy, that perswades
Men from themselves, to thincke they be
Headlesse, or other bodyes shades,
Hath long and bootles dwelt with me;
For coulde I thincke she some idea weare,
I still might love, forgett, and have her heere.

126

But such she is not: nor would I,
For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaved companye
Hath brought to those I felt before,
For then noe future tyme might hap to knowe
That she deserv'd, or I did love her soe.

Yee houres, then, but as minutes be!
(Though soe I shall be sooner olde)
Till I those lovely graces see,
Which, but in her, can none beholde;
Then be an age! that we maye never trye
More griefe in parting, but growe olde and dye.

Heere ceas'd the shepheard's song, but not his woe;
Griefe never ends ytselfe. And he doth knowe
Nothing but tyme or wisdome to allaye yt;
Tyme could not then; the other should not stay yt.

Thus sitts the haples swayne: now sighes, now sings:
Sings, sighes, and weepes at once. Then from the springs
Of pitty beggs his pardon. Then his eye
(Wronging his oraizons) some place hard by
Informes his intellect, where he hath seen
His mistris feed her flock, or on the green
Dance to the merry pype: this drives him thence
As one, distracted with the violence
Of some hote fever, casts his clothes awaye,
Longs for the thing he loath'd but yesterdaye,
And fondly thincking 'twill his fitts appease,
Changeth his bedd, but keepes still the disease.
Quitting the playnes to seeke the gloomy springs,
He, like a swan that on Meander sings,
Takes congey of his mates with ling'ring haste,
To finde some streame where he maye sing his last.

127

Soe haue I lefte my Tavy's flow'ry shore,
Farre-flowing Thamisis, and many more
Attractive pleasures which sweet England yeelds,
Her peopled cittyes and her fertill fields,
For Amphitrite's playnes; those hath myne eye
Chang'd for our whilome fields of Normandy;
For Seyne those have I lefte; for Loyre, the Seyne;
And for the Thoüé changed Loyre againe;
Where to the nymphes of Poictou now I sing
A stranger note (yet such as ev'ry spring
Roules smiling to attend): for none of those
Yet have I lessen'd or exchang'd my woes.
Deere, dearest isle, from the[e] I pass'd awaye
But as a shadowe, when the eye of daye
Shynes otherwhere; for she whose I have been,
By her declining makes me live unseen.
Nor doe I hope that any other light
Can make me her's; the pallid queen of night
And Venus (or some erre) maye with their rayes
Force an observing shade; but none of these
(Meteors to my sett sun) can ever have
That powre thou hadst. Sweet soule, thy silent grave
I give my best verse, if a shepheard's witt
Can make a dead hand capable of yt.
Chaste were our loves, as mutuall; nor did we
Hardly dreame otherwise; our secrecye
Such as I thincke the world hath never knowne
I had a mistris, till that I had none.

Poore Celadyne and I (but happyer he)
Onely in dreames meet our felicitie;
Our joyes but shadowes are; our constant woes
The daye shewes reall; O, unhappy those,
Thrice, thrice unhappy, whoe are ever taking
Their joyes in sleepe, but are most wretched waking!

Seated at last neere Tavy's siluer streame,
Sleepe seis'd our shepheard; and in sleepe a dreame

128

Shew'd him Marina all bedew'd with teares:
Pale as the lilly of the field appeares,
When the unkist morne from the mountaynes topps
Sees the sweet flowres distill their silver dropps.
She seem'd to take him by the hand and saye:
O Celadyne, this, this is not the waye
To recompence the wrong which thou hast done
And I have pardon'd, since yt was begun
To exercise my virtue; I am thine
More then I wish'd, or thou canst now devine.
Seeke out the aged Lama, by whose skill
Thou mayst our fortunes know, and what the will
Of fate is in thy future. This she spoke,
And seem'd to kisse him, wherewith he awoke,—
And missing what (in thought) his sleepe had gayn'd,
He mus'd, sigh'd, wept, and lastly thus complaynde:

Vaine dreames, forbeare! yee but deceavers be,
For as in flattring glasses woemen see
More beauty then possest: soe I in you
Have all I can desire, but nothing true.

Whoe would be rich, to be soe but an howre,
Eates a sweet fruite to rellishe more the sowre.
If but to lose againe we things possesse,
Nere to be happy is a happinesse.

Men walking in the pitchy shades of night
Can keepe their certayne way; but if a light
O'retake and leave them, they are blynded more,
And doubtfull goe that went secure before.
For this (though hardly) I have ofte forborne
To see her face, faire as the rosy morne;
Yet myne owne thoughts in night such traytors be,
That they betraye me to that misery.
Then thincke noe more of her—as soone I maye
Commande the sun to robbe us of a daye,
Or with a nett repell a liquidd streame,
As lose such thoughts, or hinder but a dreame.

129

The lightsome ayre as eas'ly hinder can
A glasse to take the forme of any man
That stands before yt, as or tyme or place
Can drawe a veyle between me and her face.

Yet, by such thoughts my torments hourely thrive;
For (as a pris'ner by his perspective)
By them I am inform'd of what I want;
I envy nowe none but the ignorant.
Hee that ne'er sawe her (O, too happy wight)
Is one borne blynde that knowes noe want of light;
He that nere kist her lipps, yet sees her eyes,
Lives, while he lives soe, still in paradise;
But if he taste those sweets as haples I,
He knowes his want, and meets his miserye.

An Indian rude that never heard one sing
A heav'nly sonnet to a silver string,
Nor other sounds, but what confused heards
In pathles deserts make, or brookes or birds,
Should he heare one the sweet Pandora touch,
And lose his hearing streight; he would as much
Lament his knowledge as doe I my chance,
And wish he still had liv'd in ignorance.

I am that Indian; and my soothing dreames
In thirst have brought me but to painted streames,
Which not allaye, but more increase desire:
A man, neer frozen with December's ire,
Hath, from a heape of glowormes, as much ease
As I can ever have by dreames as these.

O leave me then! and strongest memorie
Keepe still with those that promise-breakers be;
Goe; bidd the debter mynde his payment daye;
Or helpe the ignorant devoute to saye
Prayers they understand not; leade the blynde,
And bidd ingratefull wretches call to mynde
Their benefactors; and if vertue be
(As still she is) trode on by miserie,

130

Shewe her the rich, that they maye free her want,
And leave to nurse the fawning sycophant;
Or, if thou see faire honor careles lye,
Without a tombe for after memorye,
Dwell by the grave, and teach all those that passe
To ymitate, by sheweing who yt was.

This waye, Remembrance, thou mayst doe some good,
And have due thanckes; but he that understood
The throes thou bringst on me, would saye I misse
The sleepe of him that did the pale moone kisse,
And that yt were a blessing throwne on me,
Sometymes to have the hated lethargie.

Then, darke forgetfulnes, that onely art
The friend of lunatikes, seize on that part
Of memorie which hourely shewes her me!
Or suffer still her waking fantasie,
Even at the instant when I dreame of her,
To dreame the like of me! soe shall we erre
In pleasures endles maze without offence,
And both connex as soules in innocence.

His sorrowe this waye yet had further gone,
For now his soule, all in confusion,
Discharg'd her passions on all things she mett,
And (rather then on none) on counterfett.
For in her suff'rings she will sooner frame
Subjects fantasticall, formes without name,
Deceave ytselfe against her owne conceite,
Then want to worke on somwhat thought of weight.
Hence comes yt, those affections which are tyde
To an inforced bedd, a worthles bride,
(Wanting a lawfull hold) our loving parte
To subjects of lesse worth doth soone convert
Her exercise, which should be nobly free,
Rather on doggs, or dice, then idle be.

Thus on his memory, poor soule, he cast
His exclamations; and the daye had past

131

With him as sadly as his sighes were true,
And on this subject. When (as if he flewe)
Leap'd from a neere grove (as he thought) a man,
And to th' adjoyning wood as quickly ran;
This stayde his thoughts. And whilst the other fledd,
He rose, scarce knowing why, and followed.

It was a gentle swayne, on whose sweet youth
Fortune had throwne her worst, and all men's ruth;
Whoe, like a Satyre now, from men's aboade
The uncouth pathes of gloomy deserts trode;
Deepe, sullen vales, that never mercy wonne,
To have a kinde looke from the powrefull sun;
But mantled up in shades as fearefull night,
Could merry hearts with awfull terror smyte.
Sadd nookes and dreadfull clefts of mighty rocks
That knewe noe gueste within their careles locks,
But banefull serpents, hated beasts of prey,
And fatall fowle, that from the blessed daye
Hidd their abhorred heads; these, only these,
Were his companyons and his cottages.

Wayfaring man, for aftertymes y-bore,
Who-ere thou be, that on the pleasant shore
Of my deare Tavy hapst to treade along,
When Willy sings noe more his rurall song,
But long dissolv'd to dust, shall hardly have
A teare or verse bestow'd upon his grave—
Thincke on that hapless ladd, for all his meed,
Whoe first this laye tun'd to an oaten reed;
Then aske the swaynes who, in the valleys deepe,
Sing layes of love and feed their harmles sheepe,
Aske them for Ramsham (late a gallant wood
Whose gaudye nymphes, tripping beside the floode,
Allur'd the sea gods from their brackish strands
To courte the beautyes of the upper lands).
And neere to yt, halfwaye, a high-brow'd hill,
Whose mayden sydes nere felt a coulter's ill,

132

Thou mayst beholde, and (if thou list) admire
An arched cave cutt in a rock intire,
Deepe, hollowe, hideous, overgrowne with grasse,
With thornes and bryers, and sadd mandragoras:
Poppy and henbane therby grewe so thicke,
That had the earth been thrice as lunaticke
As learn'd Copernicus in sport would frame her,
We there had sleepy simples founde to tame her.

The entrance to yt was of brick and stone,
Brought from the ruyn'd towre of Babilon.
On either syde the doore a pillar stood,
Whereon of yore, before the generall flood,
Industrious Seth in characters did score
The mathematicks soule-inticing lore.

Cheeke-swolne Lyœus neere one pillar stoode,
And from each hand a bunche, full with the blood
Of the care-killing vyne, he crushed out,
Like to an artificial water-spout;
But of what kinde yt was, the writers vary:
Some say 'twas clarett, others sweare canary.
On th' other syde, a statue strangely fram'd,
And never till Columbus voyage nam'd,
The genius of America blewe forth
A fume that hath bewitched all the north.

A noyse of ballad makers, rymers, drinckers,
Like a madd crewe of uncontrolled tinkers,
Laye there, and druncke, and sung, and suck'd, and writt
Verse without measure, volumes without witt;
Complaints and sonnetts, vowes to yong Cupido,
May be in such a manner as now I doe.

He that in some faire daye of sommer sees
A little comonwealth of thrifty bees
Send out a pritty colony, to thrive
Another where, from their too-peopled hyve,
And markes the yong adventurers with payne
Fly off and on, and forth, and backe againe,

133

Maye well conceave with how much labour these
Druncke, writt, and wrongd the learnde Pierides;
Yet tyme, as soone as ere their workes were done,
Threwe them and yt into oblivion.

Into this cave the forlorne shepheard enters,
And Celadyn pursues; yet ere he venters
On such an obscure place, knowing the danger
Which ofte betided there the careles stranger,
Moly or such preservative he takes,
And thus assur'd, breakes through the tangling brakes;
Searcheth each nooke to fynde the haples swayne,
And calls him ofte, yet seekes and calls in vayne.

At last, by glimring of some glowormes there,
He findes a darke hole and a wynding stayre;
Uncouth and hideous the descent appeares,
Yet (unappalld with future chance or feares)
Essays the first stepp, and goes boldly on;
Peeces of rotten wood on each side shone,
Which, rather then to guide his vent'rous pace,
With a more dreadfull horror fill'd the place.
Still he descends. And many a stepp doth make,
As one whose naked foote treads on a snake:
The stayres so worne, he feareth in a trice
To meet some deepe and deadly precipice.

Thus came he downe into a narrow vaulte,
Whose rocky sides (free from the smallest faulte,
Inforc'd by age or weather) and the roofe
Stood firmely strong and almost thunder-proofe.
'Twas long; and at the farre-off further end
A little lampe he spyes, as he had kend
One of the fixed starres; the light was small,
And distance made yt almost nought at all.
Tow'rds it he came, and (from the swayne which fledd)
These verses falne tooke up, went neere and read:

Listen! yee gentle wyndes, to my sadd mone;
And, mutt'ring brooks, attend my heavy plaints.

134

Yee melodists, which in the lowe groves sing,
Strive with your fellowes for sweet skill no more,
But wayle with me! and if my song yee passe
For drery notes, match with the nightingale.
Henceforward with the ruefull nightingale
Noe other but sadd groves shall heare my mone,
And night beare witnes of my dolefull plaints.
Sweet songs of love let others quaintly sing,
For fate decrees I shall be knowne noe more
But by my woes. All pleasures from me passe,
As gliding torrents to the ocean passe,
Nere to come back. The all-voice nightingale
Comforts her fellowes, and makes deare her mone;
But (where I would) regardles are my plaints,
And but for eccho should unansweer'd sing;
Can there in others be affection more
Then is in me, yet be neglected more?
Then such neglect and love shall no man passe.
For voyce she well may mate the nightingale,
And from her syrens song I learnt to mone;
Yet she, as most imperfect deemes my plaints,
Though too-too long I them have us'd to sing,
Yet to noe happyer key she letts me sing.
Shall I then change? O there are others more
(As I heare shepheards wayling, when I passe
In deserts wilde to heare the nightingale)
Whose eares receive noe sounde of any mone,
But heare their praises rather then our plaints.
Then since to flynt I still addresse my plaints,
And my sadd numbers to a deafe eare sing,
My cryes shall beate the subtill ayre noe more,
But all my woes imprison; and soe passe
The poore rest of my dayes. Noe nightingale
Shal be disturb'd in forrests with my mone.
And when through inpent mone I hyde my plaints,
And what I should sing makes me live noe more,

135

Tell her my woes did passe the nightingale.

Sadd swayne (quoth Celadyne), who ere thou be,
I grieve not at my paines to followe thee;
Thou art a fitt companyon for my woe,
Which hearts suncke into misery should knowe.
O, if thou heare me, speake; take to thy home!
Receave into this dismall living tombe
A sorrowe-loaden wretch! one that would dye
And treade the gloomy shades of destinye
Onely to meet a soule that coulde relate
A storye true as his and passionate!

By this a sadd and heavy sounde began
To fill the cave. And by degrees he wan
Soe neere, he heard a well accorded lute,
Touch'd by a hand had strooke the Thracian mute.

Had yt been heard when sweet Amphion's tones
Gave motion to the dull and senceles stones;
When, at the notes his skillfull fingers warble,
The pibble tooke the flynte, the flynte the marble;
And rouling from the quarry justly fall,
And mason-lesse built Cadmus towne a wall.
Each one each other to this labour woo,
And were the workemen and materialls too.
Had this man playde when tother touch'd his lyre,
Those stones had from the wall been seen retyre;
Or stopp'd halfe waye to heare him striking thus,
Thoughe each had been a stone of Sisyphus.
Naye, the musitian had his skill approv'd,
And been as ravish'd as the rocks he mov'd.

Celadyne list'ned; and the arched skyes
Myght wish themselves as many eares as eyes,
That they might teach the starre-bestudded spheares
A musicke newe, and more devyne than theirs.
To these sadd-sweet strings, as ere woe befriended,
This verse was marry'd:—

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Yet one dayes rest for all my cryes!
One howre amongst soe many!
Springs have their sabaoths; my poore eyes
Yet never mett with any.

He that doth but one woe misse,
O Death, to make him thyne;
I would to God that I had his,
Or else that he had myne!

By this sadd wish wee two should have
A fortune and a wife;
For I should wedd a peacefull grave,
And he a happy lyfe.

Yet lett that man whose fortunes swym
Soe hye by my sadd woe,
Forbeare to treade a stepp on him
That dy'de to make them soe.

Onely to acquitt my foes,
Write this where I am layne:
Heere lyes the man whome others woes
And those he lov'd have slaine.

—Heere the musicke ended.
But Celadyne leaves not his pious guest:
For, as an artist curiously addrest
To some conclusion, having haply founde
A small incouragement on his first grounde,
Goes cheerefull on; nor from it can be wonne,
Till he have perfected what he begun;

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Soe he pursues, and labours all he can
(Since he had heard the voice) to fynde the man.

A little dore, at last, he in the syde
Of the long stretched entry had descryde,
And coming to it with the lampe, he spyes
These lynes upon a table writt:—

Love! when I mett her first whose slave I am,
To make her myne, why had I not thy flame?
Or els thy blyndnes not to see that daye?
Or if I needs must looke on her rare parts,
Love! why to wounde her had I not thy darts,
Since I had not thy wings to fly away?

Winter was gone; and by the lovely spring
Each pleasant grove a merry quire became,
Where day and night the carelesse birds did sing,
Love, when I mett her first whose slave I am.

She sate and listned (for she lov'd his strayne)
To one whose songs coulde make a tiger tame;
Which made me sighe, and crye, O happy swayne!
To make her myne, why had I not thy flame?

I vainely sought my passion to controule:
And therefore (since she loves the learned laye),
Homer, I should have brought with me thy soule,
Or else thy blyndnesse, nott to see that daye!

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Yet would I not (myne eyes) my dayes outrun
In gazing (coulde I helpe it, or the arts),
Like him that dyde with looking on the sun;
Or if I needs must, looke on her rare parts!

Those, seen of one who every herbe would try,
And what the blood of elephants imparts
To coole his flame, yet would he (forced) cry,
Love! why to wounde her had I not thy darts?

O Dedalus! the labrinth fram'd by thee
Was not soe intricate as where I straye;
There have I lost my dearest libertie,
Since I had not thy wings to flye awaye.

—His eyes,
And still attentive eares, doe now discover
Sufficient cause to thincke some haples lover
Inhabited this darke and sullen cell,
Where none but shame or dismall griefe would dwell.

As I have seen a fowler, by the floods
In winter tyme, or by the fleeced woods,
Steale softly, and his stepps full often vary,
As heere and there flutters the wished quarry;
Now with his heele, now with his toe he treads,
Fearing the crackling of the frozen meades;
Avoydes each rotten sticke neere to his foote,
And creepes, and labours thus, to gett a shoote:
Soe Celadyne approaches neere the dore,
Where sighes amaz'd him as the lute before;
Sighes fetchd so deepe, they seemd of powre to carry
A soule fitt for eternitye to marrye.

Had Dido stood upon her cliffs and seen
Ilium's Æneas stealing from a queen,
And spent her sighes as powrefull as were these,
She had inforc'd the faire Nereides

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To answere hers; those had the Nayads wonne,
To drive his winged Pyne rounde with the sun,
And long ere Drake (without a fearfull wrack)
Girdled the world, and brought the wandrer back.

Celadyne gently somewhat op'd the dore,
And by a glimmring lampe upon the floore
Descryde a pritty curious rocky cell;
A spoute of water in one corner fell
Out of the rocke upon a little wheele,
Which speedy as it coulde the water feele
Did, by the helpe of other engines lent,
Sett soone on worke a curious instrument,
Whose sounde was like the hollowe, heavy flute,
Joyn'de with a deepe, sadd, sullen, cornemute.
This had the unknowne shepheard sett to playe
Such a soule-thrilling note, that if that day
Celadyne had not seen this uncouth youth
Descend the cave, he would have sworne for truth
That great Apollo, slidd down from his spheare,
Did use to practise all his lessons there.

Upon a couche the musick's master laye;
And whilst the handlesse instrument did playe
Sadd heavy accents to his woes as deepe,
To wooe him to an everlasting sleepe,
Stretch'd carelesly upon his little bedd,
His eyes fixt on the floore, his carefull head
Leaning upon his palme, his voice but fainte,
Thus to the sullen cave made his complaynte:

Fate! yet at last be mercifull. Have done!
Thou canst aske nothing but confusion;
Take then thy fill! strike till thyne edge be dull!
Thy cruelty will soe be pittifull.
He that at once hath lost his hopes and feares
Lives not, but onely tarryes for more yeares!
(Much like an aged tree which moisture lacks,

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And onely standeth to attend the axe.)
So have, and soe doe I: I truely knowe
How men are borne, and whither they shall goe;
I knowe that like to silkewormes of one yeare,
Or like a kinde and wronged lover's teare,
Or on the pathles waves a rudders dint,
Or like the little sparkles of a flynt,
Or like to thinne rounde cakes with cost perfum'd,
Or fireworkes, onely made to be consum'd;
I knowe that such is man, and all that trust
In that weake peece of animated dust.
The silkeworme droopes, the lovers teares soone shedd,
The shipps waye quickly lost, the sparkle dead;
The cake burnes out in hast, the fireworke's done,
And man as soone as these as quickly gone.

Daye hath her night; millions of yeares shal be
Bounded at last by long eternitie.
The roses have their spring, they have their fall,
Soe have the trees, beasts, fowle, and soe have all;
The rivers run and end: starres rise and sett;
There is a heate, a colde, a dry, a wett;
There is a heaven, a hell, an earth, a skye;
Or teach me something newe, or lett me dye!
Deere fate, be mercifull by prayers wonne,
Teach me once what Death is, and all is done!

Thou mayst object; there's somewhat else to learne;
O doe not bring me backe unto the querne
To grynde for honours, when I cannot tell
What will be sayde in the next chronicle!
Lett my vnblemish'd name meet with a tombe
Deservedly unspurn'd at, and at home!

I knowe there are possessions to inheritt;
But since the gate is stopp'd up to all merritt,
Some haples soules, as I, doe well observe it,
The waye to lose a place is to deserve it.

I am not ignorant besides of this,

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Each man the workeman of his fortune is;
But to apply and temper well his tooles,
He followe must th' advice of babes and fooles;
Thoughe virtue and reward be the extreames,
Of fortunes lyne, yet there are other beames,
Some spriggs of bribery imp'd in the lyne;
Pandrisme or flatt'ry from the Florentine,
Which whoe soe catches, comes home crown'd with baye,
Ere he that runs the right lyne runs halfe waye.
What love and beauty is (thou know'st, O fate!)
I have read over; and, alas! but late;
Their woundes yet bleed, and yet noe helpe is nye;
Then teach me something newe, or lett me dye!

Honors and places, riches, pleasures be
Beyonde my starre, and not ordayn'd for me;
Or sure the waye is lost, and those we holde
For true, are counterfaits to those of olde.
How sprout they else soe soon, like ozyer topps,
Which one spring breeds and which next autumne lopps?
Why are they else soe fading: soe possest
With guilt and feare, they dare not stand the test?
Had virtue and true merritt been the basis,
Whereon were rays'd their honors and hye places,
They had been stronger seated, and had stood
To after ages, as our antient blood,
Whose very names, and courages well steel'd,
Made up an armye, and could crowne a field.

Open the waye to merritt and to love!
That we may teach a Cato and a Dove
To heart a cause and weighe affection deare,
And I will thincke we live, not tarry heere.

Further his plainte had gone (if needed more),
But Celadyne, now widing more the dore,
Made a small noyse, which startling up the man,

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He streight descryde him, and anewe began:
What sorrowe, or what curiositie,
Saye (if thou be a man), conducted thee
Into these darke and unfrequented cells,
Where nought but I and dreadfull horror dwells?
Or if thou be a ghost, for pitty saye
What powre, what chance, hath ledd thee to this way?
If soe thou be a man, there can nought come
From them to me, unlesse yt be a tombe,
And that I holde already. See! I have
Sufficient too to lend a king a grave,
A blest one too, within these hollowe vaults;
Earth hydes but bodyes, but oblivion, faults.
Or if thou be a ghost sent from above,
Saye, is not blessed virtue and faire love,
Faith and just gratitude, rewarded there?
Alas! I knowe they be: I knowe they weare
Crownes of such glory, that their smallest ray
Can make us lend th' Antipodes a daye:
Nay, change our spheare, and need noe more the sun
Then those that have that light whence all begun.

Staye further inquisition, quoth the swayne,
And knowe I am a man, and of that trayne
Which neer the westerne rivers feed their flocks.
I need not make me knowne; for if the rocks
Can holde a sculpture, or the powre of verse
Preserve a name, the last-borne maye reherse
Me and my fortunes. Curiositie
Lead me not hither: chance, in seeing thee,
Gave me the thread, and by it I am come
To finde a living man within a tombe.
Thy plaints I have oreheard; and lett it be
Noe wrong to them that they were heard of me.
Maye be that heavens great providence hath ledd
Me to these horrid caves of night and dread,
That, as in phisicke by some signature

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Nature herselfe doth pointe us out a cure:
The liverwort is by industrious art
Knowne phisicall and soveraigne for that part
Which it resembles; and if we applye
The eye-bright by the like unto the eye,
Why mayst not thou (disconsolate) as well
From me receave a cure, since in me dwell
All those sadd wrongs the world hath throwne on thee;
Which wrought soe much on my proclivitie,
That I have entertayn'd them, and th' are growne
And soe incorporated, and myne owne,
That griefe, elixir like, hath turn'd me all
Into itselfe; and therefore phisicall?
For if in herbes there lye this misterie,
Saye, why in other bodyes maye not we
Promise ourselves the like? why shouldst not thou
Expect the like from me this instant now?
And more, since heaven hath made me for thy cure
Both the phisitian and the signature.

Ah! Celadyne, quoth he, and thinck't not strange
I call thee by thy name; thoughe tymes now change
Makes thee forgett what myne is, with my voyce
I have recorded thyne: and if the choice
Of all our swaynes, which by the westerne rills
Feed their white flocks and tune their oaten quills,
Were with me now, thou onely art the man
Whome I woulde chuse for my phisitian.
The others I would thancke and wishe awaye.
There needs but one sun to bring in the daye,
Nor but one Celadyne to cleere my night
Of discontent, if any humane wight
Can reach that possibilitye: but know
My griefes admitt noe parallax; they goe,
Like to the fixed starres, in such a spheare,
Soe hye from meaner woes and cōmon care
That thou canst never any distance take

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'Twixt myne and others woes; and till thou make
And knowe a diff'rence in my saddest fate,
The cause, the station and the ling'ring date,
From other men which are in griefe oregone
(Since it is best read by comparison),
Thou never canst attayne the least degree
Of hope to worke a remedye on me.

I knowe to whome I speake. On Isis banckes,
And melancholy Charwell, neere the rancks
Of shading willowes, often have we layne
And heard the muses and Apollos strayne
In heavenly raptures, as the powres on highe
Had there been lecturers of poesye,
And natures searcher, deepe philosophy;
Yet neither these, nor any other art
Can yeeld a meanes to cure my wounded heart.
Staye then from losing longer tyme on me,
And in these deepe caves of obscuritie
Spend some fewe howres to see what is not knowne
Above; but on the wings of rumor blowne.
Heere is the faeries' court (if soe they be)
(With that he rose); come neere, and thou shalt see
Whoe are my neighbours. And with that he leadd
(With such a pace as lovers use to treade
Neere sleeping parents) by the hand the swayne
Unto a pritty seate, neer which these twayne
By a rounde little hole had soone descryde
A trim feate roome, about a fathome wide,
As much in height, and twice as much in length,
Out of the mayne rocke cutt by artfull strength.
The two-leav'd doore was of the mother pearle,
Hinged and nayl'd with golde. Full many a girle,
Of the sweet faierye ligne, wrought in the loome
That fitted those rich hangings cladd the roome.
In them was wrought the love of their great king,
His triumphs, dances, sports, and revelling:

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And learned Spenser, on a little hill
Curiously wroughte, laye, as he tun'de his quill;
The floore could of respect complayne noe losse,
But neatly cover'd with discolour'd mosse,
Woven into storyes, might for such a peece
Vye with the richest carpetts brought from Greece.

A little mushrome (that was now growne thinner,
By being one tyme shaven for the dinner
Of one of Spaines grave grandis, and that daye
Out of his greatnesse larder stolne awaye,
By a more nimble elfe then are their witts,
Whoe practice truth as seldom as their spitts)—
This mushrome (on a frame of waxe y-pight,
Wherein was wrought the strange and cruell fight
Betwixt the troublous comonwealth of flyes,
And the slye spider with industrious thighes)
Serv'd for a table; then a little elfe
(If possible, far lesser then itselfe),
Brought in the covering made of white rose leaves,
And (wrought together with the spinners sleaves)
Mett in the tables middle in right angles;
The trenchers were of little silver spangles:
The salt the small bone of a fishes backe,
Whereon in little was exprest the wracke
Of that deplored mouse, from whence hath sprung
That furious battle Homer whilome sung,
Betwixt the frogs and mice: soe neately wrought
Yet coulde not worke it lesser in a thought.
Then on the table, for their bread, was put
The milke-white kernells of the hazell nutt;
The cupboord, suteable to all the rest,
Was as the table with like cov'ring drest.
The ewre and bason were, as fitting well,
A perriwinckle and a cockle-shell:
The glasses pure, and thinner then we can
See from the sea-betroth'd Venetian,

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Were all of ice not made to overlast
One supper, and betwixt two cow-slipps cast:
A prittyer fashion hath not yet been tolde,
Soe neate the glasse was, and so feate the molde.

A little spruce elfe then (just of the sett
Of the French dancer or such marionett)
Cladd in a sute of rush, woven like a matt,
A monkeshood flowre then serving for a hatt;
Under a cloake made of the spiders loome:
This faiery (with them helde a lusty groome)
Brought in his bottles; neater were there none,
And every bottle was a cherrystone.
To each a seed pearle served for a screwe,
And most of them were fill'd with early dewe.
Some choicer ones, as for the king most meet,
Held mel-dewe and the hony-suckles sweet.

All things thus fitted; streightways follow'd in
A case of small musitians, with a dynne
Of little hautboys, whereon each one strives
To shewe his skill; they all were made of syves,
Excepting one, which pufte the players face,
And was a chibole, serving for the base.

Then came the service. The first dishes were
In white brothe boylde, a crammed grashopper;
A pismire roasted whole; five crayfish eggs;
The udder of a mouse; two hornetts leggs;
In steed of olyves, cleanly pickl'd sloes;
Then of a batt were serv'd the petty-toes;
Three fleas in souse; a criquet from the bryne;
And of a dormouse, last, a lusty chyne.

Tell me, thou grandi, Spaines magnifico,
Could'st thou ere intertayne a monarch soe,
Without exhausting most thy rents and fees,
Tolde by a hundred thowsand marvedies,
That bragging poore accompt? If we should heere
Some one relate his incomes every yeare

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To be five hundred thousand farthings tolde,
Coulde yee refrayne from laughter? coulde yee holde?
Or see a miser sitting downe to dyne
On some poore spratt new squeesed from the bryne,
Take out his spectakles, and with them eate,
To make his dish seeme larger and more greate.
Or else to make his golde its worth surpasse,
Woulde see it throughe a multiplying glasse:
Such are there auditts; such their highe esteemes;
A Spanyard is still lesse then what he seemes:
Lesse wise, less potent; rich, but glorious;
Prouder then any and more treacherous.
But lett us leave the bragadochio heere,
And turne to better company and cheere.

The first course thus serv'd in, next follow'd on
The faierye nobles, ushering Oberon,
Their mighty king, a prince of subtill powre,
Cladd in a sute of speckled gilliflowre.
His hatt by some choice master in the trade
Was (like a helmett) of a lilly made.
His ruffe a daizie was, soe neately trimme,
As if of purpose it had growne for him.
His points were of the lady-grasse, in streakes,
And all were tagg'd, as fitt, with titmouse beakes.
His girdle, not three tymes as broade as thinne,
Was of a little trouts selfe-spangled skinne.
His bootes (for he was booted at that tyde),
Were fittly made of halfe a squirrells hyde.
His cloake was of the velvett flowres, and lynde
With flowre-de-lices of the choicest kinde.

Downe sate the king; his nobles did attend;
And after some repaste he gan commend
Their hawkes and sporte. This in a brave place flewe:
That bird too soone was taken from the mewe:
This came well throughe the fowle, and quick againe
Made a brave point streight up upon her trayne.

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Another for a driver none came nye;
And such a hawke truss'd well the butterfly.
That was the quarry which their pastime crownde;
Their hawkes were wagtayles, most of them mew'd rounde.

Then of their coursers' speed, sure-footing pace,
Their next discourse was; as that famous race,
Ingend'red by the wynde, coulde not compare
With theirs, noe more then coulde a Flemish mare
With those fleet steeds that are so quickly hurl'd,
And make but one dayes journey rounde the world.
Naye, in their praises, some one durst to run
Soe farre to say, that if the glorious sun
Should lame a horse, he must come from the spheares
And furnish up his teame with one of theirs.
Those that did heare them vaunte their excellence
Beyonde all value with such confidence,
Stoode wond'ring how such little elfes as these
Durst venture on soe greate hyperboles;
But more upon such horses. But it ceast
(I mean the wonder) when each nam'd his beaste.
My nimble squirrell (quoth the king), and then
Pinching his hatt is but a minutes ken.
The earth ran speedy from him, and I dare
Saye, if it have a motion circular,
I coulde have run it rounde ere she had done
The halfe of her circumvolution.
Her motion, lik'd with myne, should almost be
As Saturnes, myne the primum mobile.
Then, looking on the faieryes most accounted,
I grante, quoth he, some others were well mounted,
And praise your choice; I doe acknowledge that
Your weesell ran well too; soe did your ratt;
And were his tayle cutt shorter to the fashion,
You in his speed woulde finde an alteration.
Anothers stoate had pass'd the swiftest teggs,

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If somewhat sooner he had founde his leggs;
His hare was winded well; soe had indeed
Anothers rabbett tolerable speed.
Your catt (quoth he) would many a courser baffle;
But sure he reynes not halfe well in a snaffle.
I knowe her well; 'twas Tybert that begatt her,
But she is flewe, and never will be fatter:
The vare was lastly prais'd, and all the kinde,
But on their pasternes they went weake behynde.

What brave discourse was this! now tell me, you
That talke of kings and states, and what they doe;
Or gravely silent with a Cato's face,
Chewe ignorance untill the later grace;
Or such, whoe (with discretion then at jarre)
Dare checke brave Grinvill and such sonnes of warre,
With whome they durst as soone have measur'd swords,
(How ere their pens fight or wine-prompted words)
As not have lefte him all with blood besmear'd,
Or tane an angry lion by the beard.
Forbeare that honor'd name! you, that in spight
Take paines to censure, more then he to fight,
Trample not on the dead! those wrongly laye
The not-successe, whoe soonest ran awaye.
Kill not againe whome Spaine would have repreev'd!
Had ten of you been Grinvills, he had liv'd.

Were it not better that you did apply
Your meate, unlaught at of the standers by?
Or (like the faierye king) talke of your horse,
Or such as you, for want of something worse.

Lett that deare name for ever sacred be:
Cæsar had enemyes, and soe had he;
But Grinvill did that Romans fate transcend,
And fought an enemy into a friend.

Thus with small things I doe compose the greate.
Now comes the king of faieries second meate;
The first dish was a small spawn'd fish and fryde,

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Had it been lesser, it had not been spyde;
The next, a dozen larded mytes; the third,
A goodly pye fill'd with a lady-bird.
Two roasted flyes, then of a dace the poule,
And of a millers-thumbe a mighty joule;
A butterfly which they had kill'd that daye,
A brace of ferne-webbs pickled the last Maye.
A well-fedd hornet taken from the souse,
A larkes tongue dryde, to make him to carowse.

As when a lusty sawyer, well preparde,
His breakefast eaten, and his timber squarde,
About to rayse up as he thincketh fitt
A good sound tree above his sawing pitt,
His neighbours call'd; each one a lusty heaver,
Some steere the rouler, others ply the leaver;
Heave heere, sayes one; another calls, shove thither;
Heave, roule, and shove! cry all, and altogether;
Looke to your foote, sir, and take better heed,
Cryes a by-stander, noe more hast then need;
Lifte up that ende there; bring it gently on;
And now thrust all at once, or all is gone;
Holde there a little; softe; now use your strength
And with this stirre, the tree lyes fitt at length.
Just such a noyse was heard when came the last
Of Oberons second messe. One cryde, holde fast;
Put five more of the guard to't, of the best;
Looke to your footing; stoppe awhile and rest;
One would have thought with soe much strength and dyn
They surely would have brought Behemoth in,
That mighty oxe which (as the Rabbins saye)
Shall feaste the Jewes upon the latter daye.
But at the last, with all this noyse and cry,
Ten of the guard brought in a minowe-pye.

The mountaynes labour'd and brought forth a mouse,
And why not in this mighty princes house
As any others? Well, the pye was plac'd,

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And then the musicke strooke, and all things grac'd.

It was a consort of the choicest sett
That never stood to tune, or right a frett;
For Nature to this king such musike sent,
Most were both players and the instrument.

Noe famous sensualist, what ere he be,
Whoe in the brazen leaves of historie
Hath his name registred, for vast expence
In striving how to please his hearing sence,
Had ever harmony chose for his eare
Soe fitt as for this king; and these they were.

The trebble was a three-mouth'd grashopper,
Well tutor'd by a skillfull quirister:
An antient master, that did use to playe
The friskins which the lambs doe dance in Maye;
And long tyme was the chiefest call'd to sing,
When on the playnes the faieryes made a ring;
Then a field-criquett, with a note full cleare,
Sweet and unforc'd and softly sung the meane,
To whose accord, and with noe mickle labor,
A pritty faiery playde upon a tabor:
The case was of a hasell nutt, the heads
A batt's-wing dress'd, the snares were silver thredds;
A little stiffned lamprey's skin did sute
All the rest well, and serv'd them for a flute;
And to all these a deepe well brested gnatt,
That had good sides, knewe well his sharpe and flatt,
Sung a good compasse, making noe wry face,—
Was there as fittest for a chamber base.

These choice musitians to their merry king
Gave all the pleasure which their art coulde bring;
At last he ask'd a song: but ere I fall
To sing it over in my pastorall,
Give me some respitt; now the daye growes olde,
And 'tis full tyme that I had pitch'd my folde;
When next sweet morning calls us from our bedds

152

With harmelesse thoughts and with untroubled heads,
Meet we in Rowden meadowes, where the flood
Kisses the banckes, and courts the shady wood;
A wood wherein some of these layes were drest,
And often sung by Willy of the west:
Upon whose trees the name of Licea stands,
Licea more fleeting then my Tavyes sands.
Growe olde, ye ryndes! and shedd awaye that name;
But O what hand shall wipe awaye her shame?

There lett us meet. And if my younger quill
Bring not such raptures from the sacred hill
With others, to whome heaven infused breath
When raignd our glorious deare Elizabeth,
(The nurse of learning and the blessed arts,
The center of Spaines envy and our hearts),
If that the Muses fayle me not, I shall
Perfect the little faieries festivall,
And charme your eares soe with that princes song,
That those faire nymphes which dayly tread along
The westerne rivers and survaye the fountaynes,
And those which haunte the woods, and sky-kiss'd mountaynes,
Shall learne and sing it to ensuing tymes
When I am dust. And, Tavy, in my rimes
Challenge a due; lett it thy glorye be,
That famous Drake and I were borne by thee!

THE END OF THE FIRST SONG OF THE THIRD BOOKE.