University of Virginia Library

The booke to the Reader.

Elegia. 1.

In feareful wyse an exiles baoke, am sent the towne to see,
Thy helpinge hand, to weary frend (O Reader) lend thou mee.
Nor doubt thou not least I because, perhappes to worke thy shame,
No verse in this doth teache to loue, whereby to force the same.
Nor maisters fortune hath beene such, alas vnhappie wight,
That he wyth iestes or pleasant toyes, ought hide the same from sight.
And that which he in greener yeares, hath made vnluckelye,
To late (O woful worke) doth now, wyth hatefull hart defye.
Behold therefore what I do bringe, saue sorrowes nought at all,
Such matter meete in weeping woords, as doth to time befall.
Eche other lyne a limping verse, that here in sight is seene,
The weary foote or length of way, the cause thereof haue beene.
I am not staynd in Cedars sappe, nor wrought wyth Pumyse bright,
For shame it were to be more braue, then maister may wyth right.
The letters sad whereof the blots, bereft of wonted grace,
The sorry teares that worke hath hurt, which fell from Poets face.
If any word he wrested haue, from light of latin sence,
The barbarous lande haue forct thereto, and cause proceded thence.
Then tell, if payne be, none which waye, (O Reader) is most sure,
And by what steps a straungers booke, my passage may procure.
While these I spake wyth stamering tongue, and closely all alone,
My iorneye lo: that told there was, amonge them all but one.
God graunt thou may, which Naso to, hath beene denyed plaine,
That in thy countrye here mayst byde, and quiet rest obtaine.
Gyde on I shall pursue, although, by seas and lande I sought,
All tyred longe my wearye feete, from furthest countrye brought.
Obeying then and passing forth (quoth he) this is the gate,
Of Cæsars Court: and way the name, from Gods haue growen but late.
This is the vestal place that keepes: dame Pallas and the fyre,
This is the pallace smal whereto, king Numa did aspyre.
From hence on left syde looke (quoth hee) Saturnus house do stande,
Here Romulus the loftye Rome, to build did take in hande.
And wondring much: forthwyth in sight, I glittring armour spyde,
And royal gates wyth heauenly bowers, in perfit vew discryde.
Behold of Ioue the house (quoth I) which we may so deuyne,
By royall crowne of okeing tree, that high thereon do shyne.
His name once hard forthwith I said, we haue deuined well,
Of mighty Ioue it is the house, and he therein do dwell.
But lo what cause the noble gates, be hid with Lawrell greene?
Or why the tree with braunches spred, hath made his heere vnseene?
For that this house of tryumphes braue, deserues eternal fame?
Or els because Apollo great, doth dearely loue the same?
Or that it sacred is? or els, all thinges of it must neede?
Or els of peace the tokens plaine, on totall earth do spreede?
For as the Lawrell greene doth growe, and neuer fades awaye,
So endlesse honor here remaynes, which yeldes to no decaye.
The letters eke which written be, about the stately Crowne,
The ensines be of his defence, the Cittizenes haue foune.
One faythful man except alone, who driuen ful far away,
Doth lurke aloofe in furthest lande, opprest in deepe decay.
Who though he doth confesse himselfe, to haue deserued paine,
No wicked deede was cause thereof, but error proued plaine.
At royall place and mighty man, O wretche for feare I shake,
And dolefull wofull letters small, through trembling dred do quake.
Thou doest behold to sickely hewe, my paper pale do chaunge,
And dost regard eche other foote, to hault with tremblinge straunge.
And at what time before the Lords, and rulers of the place,
In sight thou shalbe set: I pray the plead the parentes case.
From thence wyth slender pausing pace, to lofty steps was brought,
And stately Temples built on high, of great Apollo sought.
Euen where on mighty pillers plaine, the noble pictures stand,
Belides: and the cruell syre, wyth naked sword in hand.
And where the auncient wryters learnd, with learned hand did wright,
Which readers all may there beholde, and there do stand in sight.
My brethren there I looked for, saue those, I could not finde,
Whose byrth the father did repent, and so did wishe in minde.
And seeking there in vaine about, the keeper of the place,
Did will me from those sacred staules, to passe wyth speedy pace.
To Temples next which ioyned were, in hast I did depart,
From whence my feete were forct to fle, for feare of further smart.
Nor that which wonted was alway, the learned bookes to take,
Would suffer mee to touch the same, but clerely did forsake.
The heauy fate of wretched fyers, to ofspring doth discend,
And fathers feareful flight to vs, his children doth extend.
Yet may it hap in time to come, through length of longer space,
That we, and hee of Cæsar may, obtayne more milder grace.
The Gods for this I pray, and yet (saue Cæsar none at all)
That they wyth heauenly eares attende, to this our humble call.
And seing that the publicke staules, to vs denyed beene,
In priuate place it may be free, to lurcke therein vnseene.
And you also ye simple hands (if it so lawfull bee)
Our carefull verse receiue likewyse, wyth modest eyes to see.
And was it my destneis than, the Sythean land to see?
And in that lande that vnderlyeth, the Northren Poale to bee?
Not to your Poet sacred Nymphes, and learned cunning flocke,
Haue succour sheewed: which boast your selfe, of dame Dianayes stocke.
Nor that deuoyde of verye cryme, I wrote did profit ought,
And eke my muse more wanton far, then life I euer fought.
But after perils many past, by seas and lande wyth payne,
In Pontus ile dryde vp wyth colde, aye lasting I remayne.
And I that borne to quiet rest, auoyding busye broyle,
Full tender and impacient was, of labors pinching toyle.
Extreames I suffer nowe, nor mee, the seas depriude of port,
Nor sondrye wayes cold yet destroy, by which I made resort.
But ils my minde resisted haue, of which my body worne,
Repayres his force and suffreth things, skant hable to be borne.
Yet while wyth winds and whelming waues, I doubtfully am tost,
My gryping cares and heauy hart, wyth trauaile great is lost.
But when my way was ended once, and iorneying worke gan rest,
And I a land wherein to waile, my greuous paine possest.
Naught els saue weepe I would, nor from, myne eyes a smaller shower,
Did flowe: then when the Spring time warme, doth winter snow deuower.
My house and Rome remember I, wyth want of wonted place,
And what soeuer thing of mine, doth Citty least embrace.
O heauye chaunce so oft alas, as I haue knockt on gate,
Of greedy graue, but yet no time, cold enter in thereat.
Why haue I scapt so many swords, so oft with threatning dread?
Why hath not sturdy storme ouerwhelmde, this my vnhappye head?
O Gods whom I to wrathfull, and, in wrath to constant proue,
Pertakers of displeasers which, one only God doth moue.
Hast on prouoke I humblye pray, the lingring longed fates,
And let not death be able eft, to shut his grisely gates.