The Golden Aphroditis A pleasant discourse, penned by John Grange ... Whereunto be annexed by the same Authour asvvell certayne Metres upon sundry poyntes, as also divers Pamphlets in prose, which he entituleth His Garden: pleasant to the eare, and delightful to the Reader, if he abuse not the scente of the floures |
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[Whiche flower faire and freshe in Adones garden sawe I groe] |
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 | The Golden Aphroditis |  |
[Whiche flower faire and freshe in Adones garden sawe I groe]
Whiche flower faire and freshe in Adones garden sawe I groe:The sight whereof hath rauisht me, ill might I it forgoe.
But (to my griefe) to winne the same, no way finde out I can:
Wherfore this fragrant flower I mighte full iustly curse and ban,
The sight whereof and pleasant hue hath forced me to yeelde
Unto their lore, as Sirenes, whose songs bothe sweete and milde,
Perforce them to doe drawe the saylers by, but none escape
Fro them aliue, no more shall I: for whyle with hope I gape
My ioyes to winne, my life departes: what do I then preuayle,
Unlesse I had Vlisses arte, then might I safely sayle?
For while through pleasant outwarde sight I seeke for to obtayne
My hartes desire, and winne it not, what ioyes do then remaine?
I woulde to God my wit had serude to vse that famous grace
Of Percian Kings, who neuer goe abroade with open face,
But with some lawne or silken scarfe: then it I had not spyde,
The wante whereof dothe force me now in torments to abide.
For why? I can not turne my selfe into a golden rayne,
Nor to a Bull, as Goddes they can, their pleasure to obtayne.
Wherefore thus much, though strange it be, yet iustly may I say,
I pleasure take, yet as my foe, it brings me to decay.
For whyle I pleasure take to see, the sight doth me confounde:
As doth the Gorgon whose fierce eyes do yeelde a deadly wounde.
And when I striue to come away, and leaue that pleasant sight,
I seeme as though with Hydra fierce that serpent I did fight:
Who leesing one of all his heddes, seuen springeth in his ryne,
So I through voiding of this sight, seuē times my cares do twine.
With lure I play the Faukner kinde, I hallowe, and I whoupe,
I shake my fiste, I whistle shrill, but nought will make hir stoupe,
Wherefore (though sore against my wil) I finde the prouerbe true,
I see I swimme agaynst the streame, I kicke against a gode,
I caste a stone against the winde: my tongue that nere abode
To say thee wel, my feete to goe, my handes to do the like,
Yet you deniall giue, whiche doth my harte asunder strike.
Yet somewhat would my greedy gripes, & eke my carping cares,
My griping grieues, my sobbing sighes, and eke my tedious teares
Abate, if that but halfe my harte it would returne againe:
What doth preuaile cōplainte or none, for nought therby I gaine?
Yet Poetes say that Triton can with sounding trumpe inforce
Eche thing that hath exceeded bandes receiue his former corce.
If this be true, then Triton come retreyte with me to blowe:
I call in vaine, there is no such, the Poetes braines did crawe.
Yet will I wofull wighte my corps with stedfast colours clad,
As Russet decte with Blew, as stedfast suites as may be had
To represent my faithfull harte, a banner to be true,
And like vnto the turtle Doue whiche changeth not for new.
As carped knight thus standes my cace, woe to me wofull wight,
Whose harte is like to Aetna hill which burneth day and night.
I spende my time in sobbing sighes, from sighes I turne to teares,
From tedious teares to pensiue playnt, and thus my life it weares.
Yea thus the shell of carping care hath put my ioyes to flight:
That ioyfull tunes increase my woe, thus doe I mourne aright.
And if by chaunce I heare the sounde of song or instrument,
Me thinkes the tune that dolefull is doth helpe me to lament.
And as the deare whiche stricken is, dothe drawe himselfe alone,
So will I seeke some secrete place where I might make my mone,
Secluding ioy, imbracing care, the Incresse trade to vse
I will incline, who closde in walles no pleasure can peruse.
Eche side inclosde, parte of my graue my nayles shal dayly scrape,
In token that my death shall soone rewarde my cursed happe.
Yet mayst thou al with ease preuent, if pittie taketh place,
If not, then dolefull dumpes approch to rue my wretched cace.
N. O.
| The Golden Aphroditis | |