Diana of George of Montemayor :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mœcenas was to Maro of great fame
A singular good Lord and louing frend,
And Alexander did enioy that same
Rare wit of Homer, death though him did end:
And so the Uillanouas generous name
The Lusitan poore Authour doth defend,
Making a base and wanting wit t'aspire
Vnto the clouds, and yet a great deale higher.

Don Gaspar Romani to the Authour.

If Lady Lavras memorie vnstained
Petrarc in endlesse verse hath left renowned:
And if with Laurell Homer hath beene crowned
For writing of the wars the Greekes obtained:
If Kings t'aduaunce the glorie they haue gained
In life time, when fierce Mars in battell frowned,
Procure it should not be in Lethe drowned,
But after death by historie maintained:
More iustly then shouldst thou be celebrated
(O excellent Diana) for the fairest
Of all the faire ones, that the world hath brought foorth:
Since all those wits, whose pens were estimated
To write the best, in glorie thou impairest,
And from them all the Laurell crowne hast sought foorth.

Don Hieronymo Sant-Perez, to George of Montemayor.

Parnasse, O sacred mount and full of glorie,
The Poets muse, delight of their desires:
Me thinkes thou art too comfortlesse and sorie,
Compar'd with this, whose famous name aspires.

In deede J am, since that the Muses left me,
And with their gracious Quire from hence descended
To mount this Hill, whose Greatnes hath bereft me
Of all my fame, and glorie that is ended.

Thrise happie his Diana, since her flower
In top of this High Hill was set so lately,
That all the world might view it euery hower,
Where she doth liue most soueraigne and stately:

In all the world most celebrate and graced,
Being no lesse excelse, then highly placed.

The first Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[Haire in change what libertie]

Haire in change what libertie,
Since I sawe you, haue I seene?
How vnseemely hath this greene
Bene a signe of hope to me?
Once I thought no Shepherd might
In these fieldes be found (O haire)
(Though I did it with some feare)
Worthy to come neere your sight.
Haire, how many times and tydes
Did my faire Diana spie,
If I ware or left you by
And a thousand toyes besides.
And how oft in weeping sort
(Of deceitfull teares O springs)
Was she iealous of the things,
Which I spake or did in sport?
Those faire eies which wrought my woe,
(Golden haire) tell me what fault
In beleeuing them I caught,
When they did assure me soe?
Saw you not how she did greeue,
Spilling daily many a teare,
Vnto her till I did sweare,
That I did her words beleeue?
Who more beautie euer knew
In a subiect of such change,
Or more sorrowes or more strange
In a loue so perfect true?
On the sand her did I see
Sitting by yon riuer bright,
Where her finger this did wright
Rather dead then changed be.
See how loue beares vs in hand,
Making vs beleeue the wordes,
That a womans wit affordes,
And recorded in the sand.

[I am a louer, but was neuer loued]

I am a louer, but was neuer loued,
Well haue I lou'd, and will though hated euer,
Troubles I passe, but neuer any mooued,
Sighes haue I giuen, and yet she heard me neuer:
I would complaine, and she would neuer heare me,

And flie from loue, but it is euer neere me:
Obliuion onely blamelesse doth beset me,
For that remembreth neuer to forget me.

For euery ill one semblant I doe beare still,
To day not sad, nor yesterday contented,
To looke behinde, or go before I feare still,
All things to passe alike I haue consented:
I am besides my selfe like him that daunceth,
And mooues his feete at euery sound that chaunceth:
And so all like a senselesse foole disdaines me,
But this is nothing to the greefe that paines me.

The night to certaine louers is a trouble,
When in the day some good they are attending:
And other some doe hope to gaine some double
Pleasure by night, and wish the day were ending:
With that, that greeueth some, some others ease them,
And all do follow that, that best doth please them:
But for the day with teares I am a crying,
Which being come, for night I am a dying.

Of Cupid to complaine who euer craue it,
In waues he writes and to the windes he crieth:
Or seeketh helpe of him, that neuer gaue it:
For he at last thy paines and thee defieth.
Come but to him some good aduise to lend thee,
To thousand od conceits he will commend thee.
What thing is then this loue? It is a science,
That sets both proofe and study at defiance.

My Mistresse loued her Syrenus deerely,
And scorned me, whose loues yet I auouched,
Left to my greefe, for good I held it cleerely,
Though narrowly my life and soule it touched:
Had I but had a heauen as he once shining,
Loue would I blame, if it had bene declining.
But loue did take no good from me he sent me,
For how can loue take that he neuer lent me.

Loue's not a thing, that any may procure it,
Loue's not a thing, that may be bought for treasure;
Loue's not a thing, that comes when any lure it,
Loue's not a thing, that may be found at pleasure:
For if it be not borne with thee, refraine it
To thinke, thou must be borne anew to gaine it:
Then since that loue shuns force, and doth disclame it,
The scorned louer hath no cause to blame it.

[For a fauour of such woorth]

For a fauour of such woorth
In no debt I doe remaine,
Since with selfe same coyne againe
(Mistresse) thou art paide right foorth.
For if I enioy with free
Pleasure, seeing before me
Face and eies, where Cupid stands:
So thou seeing in my hands,
That which in thine eies I see.

Let not this to thee seeme ill,
That of thy beautie diuine
Thou see'st but the figure shine,
And I natures perfect skill:

Yet a thought, that's free and set
Neuer yet in Cupids net,
Better then the bond beholdes,
Though the one the liuely mouldes,
Th' other but the counterfet.

[O eies, that see not him, who look'd on yow]

O eies , that see not him, who look'd on yow
When that they were the mirrours of his sight,
What can you now behold to your content?

Greene flowrie meade where often I did vew,
And staid for my sweete friend with great delight,
The ill, which I doe feele with me lament.
Heer did he tell me how his thoughts were bent,
And (wretch) I lent an eare;
But angry more then whelplesse Beare
Presumptuous him I call'd, and vndiscreete:
And he layde at my feete,
Where yet (poore man) me thinkes I see him lye:
And now I wish that I
Might see him so as then I did: O happy time were this,
Sweete shadowed riuer bankes tell me where my Syrenus is.

Yon is the riuer banke this is the meade,
From thence the hedge appeeres and shadowed lay,
Wherein my flockes did feede the sauourie grasse:
Behold the sweete noys'd spring, where I did leade
My sheepe to drinke in heate of all the day,
When heere my sweetest friend the time did passe:
Vnder that hedge of liuely greene he was;
And there behold the place,
Where first I saw his sweetest face
And where he sawe me, happy was that day,
Had not my ill haps way
To end such happy times, O spring,
O hedge, and euery thing
Is heere, but he, for whom I paine continually, and misse,
Sweete shadowed riuer bankes tell me where my Syrenus is.

Heere haue I yet his picture that deceaues me,
Since that I see my Shepherd when I view it,
(Though it were better from my soule absented)
When I desire to see the man, that leaues me
(Which fond deceipt time showes and makes me rue it)
To yonder spring I goe, where I consented
To hang it on yon Sallow, then contented
I sit by it, and after
(Fond loue) I looke into the water,
And see vs both then am I so content heere,
As when his life he spent heere:
This bare deuise a while my life sustaineth;
But when no more it faineth,
My hart surcharg'd with anguish, and cries out, but yet amisse,
Sweete shadowed riuer bankes tell me where my Syrenus is.

Speaking to it no wordes it is replying,
And then (me thinkes) reuenge of me it taketh,
Bicause sometime an answere I despised.

But (wofull soule) I say vnto it crying,
Syrenus speake, since now thy presence maketh
Aboade, where neuer once my thoughts surmized:
Say, in my soule art thou not onely prized?
But not a word it saieth,
And as before me there it staieth,
To speake, my soule doth pray it (in conclusion)
O what a braue delusion,
To aske a simple picture toong or sences?
O time, in what offences
Of vainest hope is my poore soule so subiect vnto his?
Sweete shadowed riuer bankes tell me where my Syrenus is.

I neuer can go homeward with my sheepe,
When to the west the sunne begins to gyre,
Nor to the foldes returne from our towne,
But euery where I see, and (seeing) weepe
The sheepe cote of my ioy and sweete desire
Broken, decaied, and throwen vnto the ground:
Carelesse of lambes and sheepe, there sit I downe
A little while, vntill
The herdesmen feeding on the hill,
Cry out to me, saying, O Shepherdesse
What doe thy thoughts possesse,
And let thy sheepe goe feeding in the graine?
Our eies doe see it plaine:
For them the tender grasse in pleasant vales doth growe ywisse,
Sweete shadowed riuer bankes tell me where my Syrenus is.

Yet in thine owne opinion greater reason
(Syrenus) it had bene, thus to haue started
With more constraint, and force then I did see yet,
But whom doe I accuse of guiltlesse treason?
For what could make him stay and not haue parted,
If fate and fortune thereto did agree yet?
No fault of thine it was, nor could it be yet
In my beleefe, haue ended
Thou wouldst in ought, or haue offended
Our loue so plaine and simple, as to leaue it
Nor will I once conceaue it,
Though many shewes and signes thereof there were yet:
O no, the fates did sweare it,
With cloudes of sorrow to obscure my heauen of ioy and blisse,
Sweete shadowed riuer bankes tell me where my Syrenus is.

My song take heede thou goest where I betake thee,
Yet shalt thou not forsake me:
For it may be that fortune will with such a humour place thee,
That may terme thee importunate and by that meanes disgrace thee.

[Syrenus, what thought'st thou when I was viewing thee]

Syluanus.
Syrenus, what thought'st thou when I was viewing thee
From yonder hedge, and in great greefe suspending me
To see with what affliction thou wert ruing thee?
There doe I leaue my flocke, that is attending me:
For while the cleerest sunne goeth not declining it,
Well may I be with thee, by recommending me
Thine ill (my Shepherd) for that (by defining it)
Is passed with lesse cost, then by concealing it:
And sorrow (in the end) departs resigning it.
My greefe I would recount thee, but reuealing it,
It doth increase, and more, by thus recording me
How in most vaine laments I am appealing it:
My life I see (O greefe) long time's affoording me
With dying hart, and haue not to reuiue me it,
And an vnwonted ill I see aboording me,
From whom I hop'd a meane, she doth depriue me it:
But (sooth) I hop'd it neuer, for bewraying it,
With reason she might gainsay to contriue me it.
My passions did sollicite her, essaying yet
With no importune meanes, but seemely grounding them,
And cruell loue went hindering and dismaying it.
My pensiue thoughts were carefully rebounding them
On euery side, to flie the worst, restraining them,
And in vnlawfull motions not confounding them.
They prai'd Diane, in ils that were not fayning them,
To giue a meane (but neuer to repell it thee)

And that a wretch might so be entertaining them.
But if to giue it me, I should refell it thee,
What wouldst thou doe (O greefe) that thus adiuring it,
Faine would I hide mine ill, and neuer tell it thee.
But after (my Syrenus) thus procuring it,
A Shepherdesse I doe inuoke (the fairest one)
And th' end goes thus, vnto my cost enduring it.

Syrenus.
Syluanus mine, a loue, of all the rarest one,
A beautie, blinding presently disclosing it,
A wit, and in discretion the waryest one.
A sweete discourse, that to the eare opposing it,
The hardest rocks entendereth in subduing them.
What shall a haplesse louer feele in loosing it?
My little sheepe I see, and thinke in viewing them,
How often times I haue beheld her feeding them,
And with her owne to foulde them, not eschewing them.
How often haue I met her driue, and speeding them
Vnto the riuer, in the heate, where resting her
With great care she was telling yet, and heeding them.
After, if that she was alone, deuesting her,
Thou shouldst haue seene the bright sunne beames enuying her
Resplendant hayre, to kembe them manifesting her.
But on the sudden meeting, and espying her,
(My deerest friend Syluane) how oft incended was
Her fairest face, with orient blushing dying her?
And with what grace, how mildly reprehended was
My staying long, which she did aske, correcting me?
Which if I greeu'd, with blandishments amended was.
How many daies haue I found her expecting me
At this cleere fountaine, when that I was seeking her
Along that thickest hedge, to greefe subiecting me?
All paines and troubles what so ere (in meeting her)
Of sheepe, or lambes, we straightway were forgetting them,
When she sawe me, or when that I was greeting her.
Some other times (Syluane) we tun'd (in setting them)
Our Bagpipe and the Rebeck, which we plaied on,
And then my verses sung we, nothing letting them.
After with bowe and arrowes we estraied on,
Sometimes with nets, and she neuer refraining me,
And came not home without some chase we prated on.
Thus fortune went by these meanes entertaining me:
Reseruing for some greater ill, and tendring me,
Which hath no end, but by deathes end restraining me.

Syluanus.
Syrenus, that most cruell loue, engendring me
Such greefe, stints not, nor hindreth the perswading me
Of so much ill: I die therein remembring me.

Diane I sawe, but straight my ioy was fading me,
When to my onely sight she was opposing her:
And (to my greefe) I saw long life inuading me.
How many tymes haue I found her, in losing her,
How often lost, in finding and espying her?
And I my death and seruice not disclosing her.
My life I lost, when meeting I was eying her
Faire louely eies, which, full of anger, cruelly
She turn'd to me, when that my speech was plying her:
But her faire haire, where Cupides in their fuell lye,
When she vndid and leemb'd, vnseene, then leauing me,
My ils return'd most sensibly, which rue well I.
But pitilesse Diana then perceiuing me,
Turn'd like a cruell serpent, that in winding it,
Assailes the lion: thus my life bereauing me.
One time false hope (deceitfully but blinding it)
My hart maintain'd, euen for my comfort choosing it,
But afterwardes in such an error finding it,
It mocked hope, and then it vanisht loosing it.

A Sonnet.

Mine eies, once haue I seene you more contented,
And my poore hart, more ioyfull I haue knowne thee:
Woe to the cause, whose greefes haue ouer growne thee,

And yet whose sight your comforts once presented.
But as this cruell fortune hath inuented
(Sweete ioy) to roote thee vp, where she had sowen thee,
So now (Seluagia) she hath ouerthrowen thee:
Thy pleasures scarce begun, she hath tormented.
Let me to time or to his changing take me,
Let me with motions out of order leade me,
Then I shall see how free my hart is to me.
Then will I trust in hopes that not forsake me,
When I haue staide her wheeles that ouertread me,
And beaten downe the fates that doe vndoe me.

[No more (O cruell Nymph) now hast thou prayed]

No more (O cruell Nymph) now hast thou prayed
Ynough in thy reuenge, prooue not thine ire
On him that yeeldes, the fault is now apayed
Vnto my cost: now mollifie thy dire,
Hardnes and brest of thine so much obdured:
And now raise vp (though lately it hath erred)
A poore repenting soule, that in the obscured
Darknes of thy obliuion lies enterred.
For it fals not in that, that doth commend thee,
That such a Swaine as I may once offend thee.

If that the little sheepe with speede is flying
From angrie Shepherd (with his wordes affraied)
And runneth here and there with fearfull crying,
And with great greefe is from the flocke estraied:
But when it now perceiues that none doth follow,
And all alone, so far estraying, mourneth,
Knowing what danger it is in, with hollow
And fainting bleates, then fearefull it returneth
Vnto the flocke, meaning no more to leaue it,
Should it not be a iust thing to receiue it?

Lift vp these eies (Ismenia) which so stately
To view me, thou hast lifted vp before me

That libertie, which was mine owne but lately,
Giue me againe, and to the same restore me:
And that milde hart, so full of loue and pittie,
Which thou didst yeeld to me, and euer owe me.
Behold (my Nymph) I was not then so witty
To knowe that sincere loue, that thou didst shew me:
Now wofull man full well I knowe and rue it,
Although it was too late before I knew it.

How could it be (my enemie) say, tell me,
How thou (in greater fault and errour being.
Then euer I was thought) should'st thus repell me?
And with new league and cruell title seeing
Thy faith so pure and woorthy to be changed.
And what is that Ismenia, that doth binde it
To loue, whereas the same is most estranged,
And where it is impossible to finde it?
But pardon me, if herein I abuse thee,
Since that the cause thou gau'st me doth excuse me.

But tell me now what honour hast thou gained,
Auenging such a fault by thee committed;
And thereunto by thy occasion trained:
What haue I done, that I haue not acquitted?
Or what excesse, that is not amply paied,
Or suffer more, that I haue not endured?
What cruell minde, what angry brest displaied,
With sauage hart, to fiercenes so adiured,
Would not such mortall greefe make milde and tender,
But that, which my fell Shepherdesse doth render?

Now as I haue perceiued well thy reasons,
Which thou hast had, or hast yet to forget me,
The paines, the greefes, the guiltes of forced treasons,
That I haue done, wherein thou first didst set me:
The passions, and thine eares, and eies refusing
To heare, and seeme, meaning to vndoe me:
Cam'st thou to know, or be but once perusing
Th' vnsought occasions, which thou gau'st vnto me,
Thou should'st not haue wherewith to more torment me,
Nor I to pay the fault my rashnes lent me.

[How fond am I to hope for any rest]

How fond am I to hope for any rest
In endlesse plaints, vaine sighes, and bootelesse teares?
The present now at hand to be exprest,
Yet few to these, that, with ten thousand feares,
I haue powr'd out vnto thy cruell eares.
And if at any time my life did tend
To other loues in earnest or in iest,
This loue by that I neuer could offend,
Bicause I did but then begin to prooue,
And learne, how well Montanus I could loue.

Then did I learne to loue, my selfe I taught
To loue, by him, who lou'd me not againe:
For I suspected that I should be brought
Vnto thy loue (Montanus) when in vaine
I loued him, that did my loue disdaine:
I try'de (I say) my free and carelesse hart
Of loue to taste some sorrow, that it sought:
And let that Shepherd with his loue depart,
That loues with thee, for all his paine and greefe
Is but in vaine, when vaine is his releefe.

Let none accuse me then if I disdaine
Alanius loues, whose loues are but a showe,
For I could neuer loue nor entertaine
Any but thee, for whom I will bestowe
My deerest life, since heauens will haue it soe.
And if at any time I fein'd to like,
I lik'd (I say) but how I did I knowe,
For neuer any Shepherd els could strike
My hart indeede, but thou, to whom I giue
My faith kept for thee since I first did liue.

Let burning sighes go forth and still increase,
Let both mine eies become two strings of teares,
Let accidents, repugnant to mine ease
Arise, for thoughts, which now my minde for sweares,
Shall neuer hurt that loue which now it beares:
Let sorrow goe, and ill which way they will,
And now let ioies returne which way they please,
For where they are, there will I houer still,
Since that no harme my purpose may reclame,
Nor cruell death it selfe, although it came.

[Foolish loue, ah foolish louer]

Foolish loue, ah foolish louer,
I for thee, thou for another.

I am a foole, and seeme no lesse,
For thee who will not be?
For he's a foole I doe confesse,
That is not one for thee:
And yet this doth not well agree,
To be a foolish louer,
Or foole for her, that is a foole for louing of another.

Now seeing thee, thou seest not mee,
And diest for my foe,
Eate me with sauce (that loueth thee)
Of him thou louest soe:
So shalt thou make me (to my woe)
To be a foolish louer,
And such a foole for louing thee as thou art for another.

[Although my quiet it doth let]

Although my quiet it doth let,
Rather then blame discredit me,
(For God forbid that I forget)
Let me with wrong forgotten be.

Not onely where obliuion raineth,
There is no loue, nor can be none,
Nay, where there is suspicion,
There is no loue, but such as faineth;
Great harme it is to loue, where set
In bootelesse hopes, the minde they free,
But God defend that I forget,
Forgotten though a iest it bee.

If that I loue, why then loue I,
To sport or leaue to loue at all?
For what more honor can befall,
Then die for that, for which I die:
To liue therefore and to forget,
Is such a shamefull life I see,
That I had rather loue one yet,
Forgotten though to death I bee.

[Shepherd, who can passe such wrong]

Shepherd , who can passe such wrong
And a life in woes so deepe?
Which to liue is to too long,
As it is too short to weepe.

Greeuous sighes in vaine I waste,
Leesing my affiance, and
I perceiue my hope at last
With a candle in the hand.

What time then to hope among
Bitter hopes, that euer sleepe?
When this life is to too long,
As it is too short to weepe.

This greefe which I feele so rife,
(Wretch) I doe deserue as hire,
Since I came to put my life
In the handes of my desire.

Then cease not my plaints so strong,
For (though life her course doth keepe)
It is not to liue so long,
As it is too short to weepe.

[Weepe not my dolefull eies]

Weepe not my dolefull eies,
But if you weepe, thinke (at the lest)
They tolde no trueth but lies,
And then it may be you may rest.

Since that imagination
Doth cause so much in euery state,
Thinke that she loues thee as of late,
And thou shalt haue lesse passion.

And if you will (mine eies)
Haue ease, imagine then the best,
And that they told you lies:
And so perhaps you may haue rest.

Thinke that she loues as well,
As euer she did heretofore:
But this sad men cannot restore,
To thinke what once befell:

Then mournfull eies, where lies
Your helpe? Yet thinke of some at lest,
If not, weepe still mine eies,
Or make an end, and you shall rest.

[My life (yoong Shepherdesse) for thee]

My life (yoong Shepherdesse) for thee
Of needes to death must post;
But yet my greefe must stay with mee
After my life is lost.

The greeuous ill, by death that cured is
Continually hath remedie at hand:
But not that torment, that is like to this,
That in slowe time, and fortunes meanes doth stand.

And if this sorrow cannot be
Ended with life (as most)
What then doth this thing profit me,
A sorrow wonne or lost?

Yet all is one to me, as now I trie
A flattring hope, or that that had not bene yet.
For if to day for want of it I die,
Next day I doe no lesse for hauing seene it.

Faine would I die, to end and free
This greefe, that kils me most
If that it might be lost with me,
Or die when life is lost.

The end of the first book of Diana.

The second Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[Waters that fall from top of these steepe Hils]

Waters that fall from top of these steepe Hils,
With such a noyse into these lowe deepe Vales,
Why thinke you not of those, which from my Soule
Continually distill my wearied Eies?
And what's the cause of them? Vnluckie Time,
In which hard fortune robbed all my Ioy.
Loue gaue me hope of such a golden Ioy,
That ther's no Shepherdesse in all these Hils,
That had such cause to praise a happy Time:
But after he did put me in these Vales
Of swelling teares that fall from both mine Eies:
Not to behold such greefe as kils my Soule.
Such is the paine, that wounds a louing Soule,
That in the end I know what thing is Ioy:
O where shall I then turne my wearied Eies?
If that the medowes, woods, the plaines, and Hils,
The pleasant groues, and fountaines of the Vales,
Still to my thoughts present so sweete a Time?
Who would haue thought that such a happy Time
Should be so fierce a torment to my Soule?
Or cruell fortune banish me the Vale,

Wherin all things were obiects of my Ioy?
Vntill the hungrie woolfe, which to the Hill
Ascending vp, was pleasant to mine Eies.
But fortune now, what may my drenched Eies
Behold, which saw their Shepherd many a Time
Driuing his lambes before him downe this Hill?
Whose name for ay shall rest within my Soule.
O fortune foe vnto my former Ioy,
How doe I languish in this irkesome Vale?
But when so pleasant and so fresh a Vale
Is not delightfull to my wearied Eies,
And where I cannot finde content and Ioy:
And hope not now to haue it any Time,
See what extremes enuiron then my Soule:
O that he came againe. O that sweete Hill:
O highest Hils, and fresh and pleasant Vale,
Where once my Soule did rest and both these Eies,
Tell me shall I in Time haue so much Ioy?

[To heare me wearied is the cleerest riuer]

To heare me wearied is the cleerest riuer,
Tedious I am to euery vale and mountaine:
And now to heare (O loue, my sorrowes giuer)
My plaining, wearied is each cristall fountaine.
The Sicamour, the Oke, and Elme are wearie,
Spring, Sommer, Autumne, and the winter season
Hearing my cries are sworne not to be merry.
With teares I melt these rocks: and yet all reason
Of pitie (Tigresse) thou dost still deny me,
When trees, and stones for greefe are dying by me.

A bondslaue of a freeman thou hast made me,
And of a man of reason, cleane contrarie:
With life, and death, by turnes thou dost inuade me,
And to tormenting greefe my soule dost carrie.
Of affable, and one that liu'd so gayly,

Made me thou hast to frowards disdaining:
Of one, that did conuerse with all man daily,
Made me thou hast their company refraining.
Eies had I once, now blinded with desire:
I was a man of flesh, but now of fire.

What's this my hart, thy torments dost thou double?
Tell me mine eies, and are you still a weeping?
My soule, sufficeth not my passed trouble?
My teares, and are ye yet in riuers steeping?
My wandring wits, and are you not molested
More then ynough with such incessant sorrow?
And are ye not my senses also wrested
From your right course, resting not euen nor morrow?
How know I then, weepe, see, or feele this hower,
When torments waste their force and seuerall power?

Who made my Shepherdesses tresses twistall
Of fine Arabian gold, not gilt-like shining:
Her face of cleerest and of chosen christall,
Her rubie lips, two rowes of pearle combining:
Her dymond eies, like to those stars aboue all,
Her necke, that whitest Allablaster stayneth,
Her passing wit, inforcing vs to loue all:
Her stately minde, that all our loues disdaineth.
Why made shee not her hart of melting matter,
Then of such marble stone so hard to batter?

One day I do conforme me to my fortune,
And to my griefe, that faire Diana causeth:
Next day mine yll doth vex me, and importune
My soule with thoughts of griefe that seldome pauseth:
Cruell and fierce and inhumane I call her,
And so there is no order in my sorrow:
For afterwards in phrases I install her,
What now I say, I do deny to morrow.
And all is thus leading a life in anguish,
Which soone mine eies may see by death to languish.

[Goe now my thoughts, where one day you were going]

Goe now my thoughts, where one day you were going,
When neither fortune, nor my loue did lower:
Now shall you see that changed day and hower,
Your ioies decaied, and vncouth sorrowes growing?
And in the glasse, where I was oft bestowing
Mine eies, and in that sweete and pleasant flower,

A sluggish drone vnwoorthely deuower
That honie, which for me sometimes was flowing.
And you shall see to whom I did surrender
My subiect life, that causelesse did despise it:
And though this ill no remedy can borrow,
Yet tell her, that my minde did once ingender
A feare of that, vvhich after to mine eyes yet
She makes more plaine, to end my life in sorrow.

[Contents of loue]

Contents of loue,
That come with so great paine,
If that you come, why go you hence againe?

Not fully come,
But you begin to starte:
Neuer with perfect some
To nestle in a woefull heart.
And will you now so soone depart,
And leaue me in such paine?
Then hence delights, and see me not againe.

From you I flye,
(Since you denie my sight)
To make me know thereby
The losse, if that I loose you quite.
Then (since you do me such despite)

Depart not griefe and paine,
For when you goe, you soone returne againe.

The song of the Nymph.

Neere to the riuer bankes, with greene
And pleasant trees on euery side,
Where freest mindes would most haue beene,
That neuer felt braue Cupids pride,
To passe the day and tedious how'rs
Amongst those painted meades and flow'rs.

A certaine Shepheard full of woe
(Syrenus call'd) his flockes did feede,
Not sorowfull in outward showe,
But troubled with such greefe indeede,
As cruell loue is wont t'impart
Vnto a painfull louing hart.

This Shepherd euery day did die
For loue he to Diana bare,
A Shepherdesse so fine perdie,
So liuely yoong and passing faire,
Excelling more in beautious feature,
Then any other humane creature.

Who had not any thing, of all
She had, but was extreme in her,
For meanely wise none might her call,
Nor meanely faire, for he did erre,
If so he did: but should deuise
Her name of passing faire and wise.

Fauours on him she did bestowe,
Which if she had not, then (be sure)
He might haue suffred all that woe,
Which afterwards he did endure
When he was gone, with lesser paine,
And at his comming home againe.

For when in deede the hart is free
From suffring paine or torments smart,
If wisedome doth not ouersee,
And beareth not the greater part,
The smallest greefe and care of minde
Doth make it captiue to their kinde.

Neere to a riuer swift and great
(That famous Ezla had to name)
The carefull Shepherd did repeate
The feares he had by absence blame,
Which he suspect, where he did keepe
And feede his gentle lambes and sheepe.

And now sometimes he did behold
His Shepherdesse, that thereabout
Was on the mountaines of that old
And ancient Leon, seeking out
From place to place the pastures best,
Her lambes to feede, her selfe to rest.

And sometimes musing, as he lay,
(When on those hils she was not seene)
Was thinking of that happy day,
When Cupid gaue him such a Queene
Of beautie, and such cause of ioy,
Wherein his minde he did imploy.

Yet saide (poore man) when he did see
Himselfe so sunke in sorrowes pit,
The good that loue hath giuen mee
I onely doe imagine it:
Bicause this neerest harme and trouble
Hereafter I should suffer double.

The Sunne, for that it did decline,
The carelesse man did not offend
With firie beames, which scarce did shine,
But that which did of loue depend,
And in his hart did kindle fire
Of greater flames and hot desire.

Him did his passions all inuite,
The greene leaues blowne with gentle winde,
Cristalline streames with their delite,
And Nightingales were not behinde,
To helpe him in this louing verse,
Which to himselfe he did rehearse.

Syrenus his song.

A farewell they departure call,
That loues delight did neuer knowe,
But that that endes with life and all,
I terme a greefe and endlesse woe.

God graunt therefore that all that space
My lingring life I might sustaine,
Vntill I see againe the place
Where my true hart doth still remaine.

For onely thinking to depart,
The thought doth make me so afraid,
That it must kill my trembling hart
With force of such great greefe apaid.

Syrenus did these verses sing,
And on his Rebecke sweetely play,
So far from ioy or ioyfull thing,
And from contentment any way:
That he could not pronounce his minde
For weeping, which was left behinde.

And now bicause he would not be
In fault, (if that his greefe and paine
The accents and the verse, which he
Pronounc't, did hinder or restraine)
That which his willing minde did let,
His hart to end did not forget.

But after that the Shepherd had
With moornefull voice these verses soong,

He sawe Diana come so sad,
And yet so faire, so fresh and yong,
That where she cast her starlike eies,
With colours braue the meades she dies.

Her face as faire and fresh as flower,
And yet so sorrowfull againe,
That none could iudge at that same hower,
Whether her greefe and inward paine,
Or her braue beautie did surpasse?
In her so faire, and sad (alas.)

Thus comming many a time she staide,
Casting vnto the ground her eies,
So comfortlesse and so dismade,
And sometimes vp into the skies,
That there they hung with greefe in steede
Of two bright stars, like stars in deede.

Saying with greater greefe of minde
(Then humane thought can once conceaue)
Since such annoy in ioy I finde:
From this day (loue) well maist thou leaue
Thy ioies vnto thy selfe to keepe,
And me, to feede no more but sheepe.

The cause of all her greefe and woe,
Which she by absence wrong did feare,
There did she very cleerely showe,
And if she wasted many a teare,
Aske but those blasing eies, which still
With passions did Syrenus kill.

If that her loue had euer peere,
Her goodnes there hid not the same:
And if that absence cost her deere,
Or feared her before it came,
This song aboue each other thing
Can tell, which she with teares did sing.

Dianas song.

O Loue thou gau'st me not the ioy,
That in sweete presence I did finde,
But that in absence the annoy
Should seeme more greeuous to my minde.

Thou giuest ease, thou giuest rest,
But not to giue content but guile,

And that the suffrance in my brest,
Might be but idle for a while.

See loues inuentions, neuer scant
In presence to affoord releefe,
Bicause in absence I should want
Defence against my mortall greefe.

Now faire Diana being come
Vnto the place, where she did spie
Her loue, she would haue spoken some
Few wordes, but greefe did them denie:
And wofull man, he nothing spake,
Though he did oft a semblant make.

How much they had betweene them both
To talke, their eies made manifest,
Declaring that, which very loth
Lay in their secret harts and brest,
With that milde countenance and show,
With which they spake not long agoe.

They both together downe did sit
Vnder a flowrie Myrtle tree,
One by the hand the other yet
Did take, for ouer come was he
By her, and she by him againe,
Both in their mutuall passions slaine.

For that great pleasure and delight
Of seeing one an other there,
And greefe, to leese that happie sight,
So wrought their harts with ioy and feare,
That to each other neither could
Vtter a word, though faine they would.

Some other times they met againe
Vpon this banke with other passions,
Which meetings they did entertaine
And celebrate with other fashions:
Not, as in times then gone and past,
For of this sort, this was the last.

A strange effect of mighty loue,
To see two loue in such degree,
That greater torments they did proue,
When either did each other see,
Then when they were remooued quite
From ioying in each others sight.

Syrenus seeing now the howre,
When greefe of parting was to come,
He had no patience nor no powre
To speake, but straight was striken dumbe:
Nor of his teares he could get leaue
To vtter what he did conceaue.

His Shepherdesse he did behold,
His Shepherdesse beheld againe
The man, whose hart with feare was cold,
Speaking to her with cruell paine:
Indeede his Greefe for him did speake,
For he could not whose hart did breake.

Alas Diana, who would haue said,
When I was in most heauie case,
Or who would haue imagined,
But that, when I did view thy face,
My very soule then most opprest,
Should by that sight haue found some rest.

In any time who would haue thought,
That any thing (sweete Mistresse) might
A greater greefe or paine haue brought
Vnto my soule with more despight,
Then thy sweete presence and thy sight,
(My soueraine ioy and chiefe delight)

Who would haue thought, but that againe
Those eies, when that they viewed me,
Should haue dissolu'd, and burst in twaine
The knot of all my miserie:
Which my mishaps (so long assured)
By any way might haue procured.

Faire Mistresse then behold my state,
And how mishap my soule doth chace,
For if I died but of late
With great desire to see thy face,
Now doe I die by seeing thee
Present and not thou killest me.

And thinke not that this passion drawes
To want of louing thee, for none
Hath bene so firme, but now bicause
I come vnto this meade with mone
To take my leaue, where I before
To see thee came, but now no more.

My soule I would haue giuen faine
This day, which thou hast conquer'd soe,
Not to haue seene thee in this plaine
(Although no other life I knowe)
Onely to misse (I care not how)
The greefe of this departure now.

And giue me leaue (faire Shepherdesse)
To thinke, that thou canst not deny it,
But thou dost feele my heauinesse
In that degree, as I doe trie it:
For in thy presence t'is not such
A matter to presume so much.

If then, Diana, it be so,
Tell me, how can I now depart?
How dost thou suffer me to go
When each doth carry others hart?
Or how doe I come hither yet,
To take my farewell without let?

O my faire Shepherdesse againe
No reason can I yeeld thee why,
Nor how of thee I should complaine,
As thou shalt haue continually
Absent, when I am gone from thee
O, neuer to remember me.

I knowe right well it is not thow,
That mak'st me to depart, and lesse,
My purest faith constraines me now,
(For needes I must the same confesse)
And if I should but tell and show it,
Who doth the same, I doe not know it.

Thus full of paine and bitter teares,
And sighing, which he neuer spar'd,
The Shepherd to her louing eares
Did speake these words which you haue heard.
And hearing them, in minde she kept
Them, and full bitterly she wept.

To answere him she went about
A thousand times, but could not doe it,
For still her greefe did put her out,
And so she could not frame her to it.
But then for her, her loue so stable
An answere shapt (her toong vnable.)

My friend in such a time I am,
Where I shall speake more then I would,
That though mine ill, which lately came
Cannot be vttered (as it should:)
Yet (Shepherd) would I thinke it good,
To hold my peace if that I could.

But woe is me, that this great ill
I come to tell, and publish it
In such a time against my will,
That it auailes not any whit
Thy iourney to delay a while,
Nor these my torments to beguile.

Why goest thou hence (O Shepherd) tell:
Why wilt thou now forsake me heere?
So full of greefe alone to dwell,
Where time, and place, and all the deere,
And sweetest ioyes of this our loue
Shall neuer from my minde remooue.

What shall I feele (vnhappy wight)
Comming vnto this pleasant greene,
When I shall say (Farewell sweete sight)
Heere haue I my Syrenus seene;
Heere did we sit, heere did we play,
Discoursing with him day by day.

Behold if that it will not bee
A daily sorrow, when these bankes
I doe beholde, and cannot see
Thy selfe, where goodly trees in rankes
And in their barke my name to stand
Carued so finely by thy hand.

And see if any greefe or dole
Is like to this, when I behold
The place so sorrowfull and sole,
Where deere Syrenus with a cold
And trembling feare thou didst protest
Thy greefe to me within thy brest.

If then thy hart (so cruell now)
Is mollified by falling teares,
How melts it not for greefe, and how
Consumes it not with many feares,
At this occasion (so vniust)
To leaue my comfort in the dust?

Then Shepherd weepe not, for in vaine
Thy plentious teares and sighes are spent,
For he that doth lament the paine,
In whom it lieth to preuent,
I thinke he is not sound of wit,
If such a folly he commit.

But my Syrenus pardon me,
If my sharpe wordes thine eares offend,
And giue me leaue to speake with thee
In this faire meade, where (cruell frend)
Thou leau'st me not one little how'r
With my poore selfe, nor in my pow'r.

For I will not, (nor yet in iest)
Shepherd from thee my selfe absent,
Then goe not, wilt thou? say at lest,
And to these eies, that euer lent
Such helpe to thee, some pitie keepe,
And sorrow now to see them weepe.

Syrenus answered her againe,
Alas thou canst not choose but knowe.
By all these teares I spend in vaine,
If that I doe desire to goe;
But thou commaundest me to stay,
And my hard hap to goe away.

Thy matchlesse beautie when I see,
(Mistresse) then am I euer bound
Willing at thy commaund to be:
But wofull Shepherd when I found
My hap to beare so great a sway,
Of force I must the same obay.

Then my departure forced is,
But by no fault that I did make,
And credit me (sweete Nymph) in this,
That all the world I would forsake,
In these faire meades with thee to wende,
Where now I see my ioyes doe ende.

My Master that great Shepherd is
He, that doth make me to depart,
Whom I may see, and wish that his
Exempted thoughtes and freest hart
Braue loue may punish with such paine,
As at this parting I sustaine.

I would to God, my going hence
(Onely to pleasure thee this day)
By shewing of my iust pretence,
Lay in my power anyway:
As Mistresse in thy fairest handes
My life and death at mercie standes.

But credit me, it is in vaine,
(To that which euer I doe trie,
And that thou think'st as much againe)
That neuer in my handes did lie
Ought in the world, that might but giue
Any content to make me liue.

Another course well might I take,
And leaue my flocke to stray about,
I might my Shepherd to forsake
And seeke some other Master out:
But if the end I marke and see,
This with our loue doth not agree.

For if I doe forsake my flocke,
Which vnto me he did commend,
And take in hand some other stocke
Of cattell or of sheepe to tend,
Tell me, how can I come vnseene
Without thy harme vpon this greene?

And if the force of this great flame
My willing presence heere detaines,
It is a signe, that I doe frame
My thoughts on thee, and so it staines
Thy honour, which to saile is sent,
Onely (sweetelife) for my content.

And if (they say) I doe imploy
(Faire Shepherdesse) my loue on thee,
And that againe I doe enioy
Thy loue so frankly giuen me.
Thee they condemne, thou dost sustaine
The onely losse, and I no gaine.

The Shepherdesse at this same season
This answer with great greefe did make,
O Shepherd tell me now, what reason
Thou hast my presence to forsake?
Since that in loue there is no sound
Of any reason to be found.

A signe it is (not good to vse)
By daily proofe we see the same,
That he that can so well excuse
His absence from his louing dame,
If he were gone out of her sight,
He would account the same but light.

Ah greefe, since going now away,
I knowe not what will chaunce to thee,
And forced if I am to stay
Nor then what shall become of me?
Nor there if thou wilt thinke (my deere)
That one did see another heere.

I knowe not if I am deceau'd,
By hauing laide before thine eies
This painfull greefe that hath bereau'd
Me of my ioy, where now it dies,
But that which to my harme must be,
I knowe shall be most sure in me.

Thou greeu'st not at my little ease,
Go Shepherd then, take shipping now,
With brittle barke the Ocean seas,
In steede of these greene fieldes goe plow:
Since of my teares these seas (alas)
So quickly thou dost ouerpasse.

The heauens from stormes thy barke defend,
From rockes, from wrecke, and swallowing sand,
And that thou mai'st (my sweetest frend)
Safely arriue in wished land:
And fortune better deale with thee,
Then at this time thou dost with me.

Alas for very greefe I die,
Seeing mine eies to take their leaue
Of all their sweete contents, whereby
This greefe, and teares doe so bereaue
My toong of speech, that faine I would
Speake more vnto thee if I could.

And Shepherd I doe wish besides,
That these two eies (which weepe in vaine)
Before that death my life deuides,
May see thee heere yet once againe:
And though their harme thou dost procure,
They wish thee yet all good be sure.

He answered her, my Mistresse deere,
A mischeefe neuer comes alone:
A mortall greefe doth not appeere
Without more companie, and one
That is more mightie then the rest,
And this it is that wounds my brest.

For though I see I must depart
From my sweete life, (since from thy sight)
Not halfe so much it greeues my hart,
As seeing thee in such a plight
For my departure, and sustaine
Such greefe indeede and cruell paine.

But if those eies I doe forget,
(The mirrours of my happinesse)
I wish that God aboue may let
Me not this wished life possesse,
Or if my thoughtes imploied be
(Sweete life) on any but on thee.

And if that any beautie else
Shall make new motions in my minde,
(Though it be neuer so excelse)
Or in the same content I finde,
For one small howre of such content,
I wish eternall punishment.

And if my firmest faith for strange
And forren loue, that may befall,
Or my sincerest loue I change,
I wish that fortune may recall
Me to a life most desperate,
Throwing me downe from this estate.

O sweetest Mistresse of my hart,
Prescribe no time for my retourne:
For it doth kill me to depart,
And I shall neuer cease to mourne,
And passe the greatest greefe and paine,
Vntill these eies see thee againe.

She answered him, (my deere Syrenus)
If that I shall in any day
(Though now our destinies doe weane vs)
Forget thee, then I wish the May
And freshest flowers in this meade
May die, when on them I doe treade.

And if on any man aliue,
But onely thee (my loue) I thinke,
I wish, that, (when my sheepe I driue
Vnto the riuer streames to drinke)
Comming vnto them, at my sight,
The waters may be dry'd vp quite.

Shepherd, receiue this little string
Made of my haire for thy sweete sake,
Bicause by seeing of the thing,
Thou maist remember thou did'st take
Possession of my louing hart,
And them, with which thou deest depart.

And this ring with thee thou shalt beare,
With hand in hand, as thou dost see,
Which for my sake I pray thee weare,
That though our bodies parted bee,
Nothing shall part, not death alone,
Two soules vnited both in one.

He saide with thee what shall I leaue,
Naught haue I but this Sheepehooke heere:
The which I pray thee to receiue,
And Rebecke, to the which (my deere)
Thou saw'st me sing in this greene meade,
And play and many a daunce to leade.

To sound of which (my Shepherdesse)
A thousand songs to thee I soong,
Singing of thy great worthinesse
(Too high for my base song and toong)
And of our loues and of my passions,
And of my sweetest lamentations.

Each one imbrac't the other fast,
And this (I thinke) the first time was,
And (as I gesse) it was the last,
Bicause those times did change and passe:
And loue with time did change and varie
From that, which once they both did carie.

For though Diana felt great paine
For absence of her louer deere,
Yet in the same she found againe
A remedie, as did appeere,
For after he the seas did passe,
She to another married was.

[O grant me then this short content]

O grant me then this short content,
For forc'd I am to thee to flie:
My sighes do not make thee relent,
Nor teares thy hart do mollifie.

Nothing of mine doth giue thee payne,
Nor thou think'st of no remedie:
Mistresse how long shall I sustaine
such ill, as still thou dost applie?

In death there is no helpe, be sure,
But in thy will, where it doth lie:
For all those illes which death doth cure,
Alas, they are but light to trie:

My troubles do not trouble thee,
Nor hope to touch thy soule so nie:
O from a will that is so free,
What should I hope, when I do crie?

How can I mollifie that braue
And stonie hart, of pittie drie?
Yet Mistresse turne those eies (that haue
No peeres) shining like stars in skie:

But turne them not in angrie sort,
If thou wilt not kill me thereby:
Though yet in anger, or in sport,
Thou killest onely with thine eie.

A Sonnet.

[My painefull yeeres impartiall Loue was spending]

My painefull yeeres impartiall Loue was spending
In vaine and booteles hopes my life appaying,
And cruell Fortune to the world bewraying
Strange samples of my teares that haue no ending.
Time euerie thing to truth at last commending,
Leaues of my steps such markes, that now betraying
And all deceitfull trusts shall be decaying,
And none haue cause to plaine of his offending.
Shee, whom I lou'd to my obliged power,
That in her sweetest loue to me discouers
Which neuer yet I knew (those heauenly pleasures,)
And I do saie, exclaiming euery hower,
Do not you see, what makes you wise, O Louers?
Loue, Fortune, Time, and my faire Mystresse treasures.

A Song.

[That sweetest harme I doe not blame]

That sweetest harme I doe not blame,
First caused by thy fairest eies,
But greeue, bicause too late I came,
To know my fault, and to be wise.

I neuer knew a worser kinde of life,
To liue in feare, from boldnesse still to cease:
Nor woorse then this, to liue in such a strife,
Whether of both, to speake, or holde my peace?

And so the harme I doe not blame,
Caused by thee, or thy faire eies:
But that to see how late I came,
To knowe my fault, and to be wise.

I euer more did feare, that I should knowe
Some secret things, and doubtfull in their kinde,
Bicause the surest things doe euer goe
Most contrarie vnto my wish and minde.

And yet by knowing of the same,
There is no hurt, But it denies
My remedie, Since late I came,
To knowe my fault, and to be wise.

[My passion (Loue) thou dost disdaine]

My passion (Loue) thou dost disdaine,
But God keepe thee from such a paine.
I am of Loue disdained,
And Fortunes wheele doth broose me,
I care not now to loose me,
And hope not to be gained.
So care to care is chained
By Fortune and by Loue againe:
But God keepe thee from such a paine.

In playntes Loue entertained
My hart (such sport to choose me)
And fortune thus vndooes me,
To make me thinke vnfained,
That Time a change maintained,
But Both do still my greefes ordaine,
But God keepe thee from such a paine.

[Saie Shepherdesse, what hath depriued thee]

Saie Shepherdesse, what hath depriued thee
Of curtesie and ioy,
Since that so merrie thou were wount to be?

The deere remembrance of my passed gladnes
In middes of all my present greefe and paine,
Woe to my soule, that feeles it with such sadnes,
If long in such a state it doth remaine:
And since that time hath changed (to be plaine)
A Shepherd to offend and trouble me,
Merrie and pleasant I could neuer be.

[Mistresse thou hast forgotten me]

Mistresse thou hast forgotten me,
But more I loue and honor thee.

Haples, I see I am forgot,
And yet I know no reason why,
To whom thy faith thou dost apply.
And tak'st from whom thou dost not wot:
Being belou'd, he loues thee not,
And Mistresse thou dost not loue me,
But more I loue and honor thee.

Me thinkes I do behold with pride
Those eies (my ioyes not long ago)
And for thou wilt not seeme so,
Thy fairest face from me dost hide:
And that I saie to thee, beside,
Mistresse lift vp those eies to me,
For more I loue and honor thee.

The end of the second booke of Diana.

The third Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

Arsenius his letter.

Faire Shepherdesse whose hap and fare,
That such it be, it is Gods will:
Let not such grace and beautie rare
Decay, or be imployed ill.
And whose milde lambes and marked sheepe
Thou maist behold (with merrie cheere)
By flockes increase, where they doe keepe
On tops of these greene hillocks heere.

Harke to a Shepherdes wretched crie,
Vnto himselfe so great a foe,
As for thy sweetest sake to die,
He findes he doth it well bestowe:
Turne thy deafe cares vnto my smart,
And mollifie thy hard pretences,
And now begin to put thy hart
Into the handes of thy sweete sences.

Turne these two faire and cruell eies
Vnto this haplesse Shepherd Swaine:
Thy flocke regarde not, but his cries,
And thinke a little on his paine,
Let that but mooue and change thy will:
To thinke thereof, I pray thee deine yet,
And not to remedie mine ill,
But to behold how I susteine it.

How often hast thou come and leade
Vnto the field thy flocke and dams,
How many times vnto the meade
Hast thou brought forth thy pretie lambes?
That I told not my little ease,
That I became a foole for thee,
But better had I held my peace,
So little it auailed me.

That which I feele for thy sweete sake
With what wordes shall I now declare?
Or with what knowledge shall I make
My faith but knowen and heauie care?
What humane senses shall suffice
To feele that paine, and that vnrest,
Which for thy sake Loue did deuise
To giue me (though I tell it best.)

Why dost thou hide thy selfe from me,
Since thou dost knowe it very cleere,
That present when I am with thee,
Most absent from thee I appeere:
I, in suspences to enfolde me
Being where thy faire beauties are:
And thou, when that thou dost beholde me,
From seeing me then art thou far.

To shewe me likewise thou dost knowe
(To mocke me when thou dost pretend)
Things from thy thought, which euer goe,
And so deceiue me in the end.
See then who greater loue can giue,
Or greater grounded loue in hand,
That my deceiued thought must liue
With that thou mak'st it vnderstand.

Behold th' extreme wherein I am,
Seeing my good in doubtfull state,
That silly creatures I became,
(Lesse then myselfe) to emulate:
For, for the bird the winde doth beare,
And fish that in the waues doe liue,
For their sweete freedome euery where
My vnderstanding I would giue.

A change of thousand times I see,
And nouels euery day doe raine:
Minds change from that they wont to bee,
Obliuions doe reuiue againe.
In euery thing there is great change,
The which I neuer saw in thee,
Whereby thou maist perceiue how strange,
And vaine my hope is vnto me.

The other day thou didst passe by,
Feeding thy flocke vpon the hill:
For greefe I sighed somewhat high;
Meaning thereby to thee no ill:
A lambe the head then lift vp, that it
Did heare, and did some pitie feele,
And thou didst fling thy sheepehooke at it:
See what a hardned hart of steele.

Could'st thou not (armed with such power)
After such long time killing me
Helpe me a day or but an hower?
If that doth seeme too much to thee,
Doe it to see how I may proue
Or how with fauours, that ensue,
In better sort intreate this loue:
Then after kill my soule anew.

I doe desire to change estate
From paine to paine, and not to pleasure:
Nor yet to change from loue to hate,
And all in one degree and measure.
And though the ill in substance should
Be but all one and of one sort:

Yet in the circumstance I would
That more or lesse it did import.

For that may be of such behoofe,
And Mistresse, so much it may doe
That loue may giue thee greater proofe,
Then it hath giu'n thee hitherto.
And whom an ill and firmest loue
Can neither greeue, normollifie,
It may be such a greefe may moue
Thee, of some greater qualitie.

Vnto the meade if thou dost goe,
Vnto the riuer or the plaine,
Then am I diligent to knowe,
If thou art gone or come againe.
If angrie, when I follow thee,
Or mocke me, if behinde I stay:
See then how feare doth trouble me,
And what extremes I doe essay.

To Syluia then thy deerest friend
I goe (to seeke a poore releefe)
To know if (haply) in the end
Thou hast inform'd her of my greefe.
But nothing when of thee she speakes,
Then doe I say, this cruell foe
Vnto her good companion breakes
Nothing of me, nor of my woe.

Some other times I watch the place,
To heare the singing in the night,
With singular and sweetest grace,
A thousand songs of great delight:
For I doe heare them one by one,
And thou seek'st out the worst of all,
And euer from thy mouth heare none
That in loue matters doe befall.

I sawe thee yet the other day,
Talking with Maudline, who in fine
To thee her sorrow did bevvray:
O would to God it had bene mine.
I thought thou wouldst not long defer
(Poore soule) to cheere her heauy hart,
But laughing, thou didst answere her.
It is a iest, in loue's no smart.

Thou left'st her weeping all in vaine,
And I came thither by and by:
Of thy hard hart she did complaine,
And sighing, this I did reply:
No wonder, for this cruell one
Delights not onely, that aboue
All others she loues not alone,
But that all others should not loue.

Some other times I thee espie
Talking with other Shepherdesses,
All is of feastes and brauerie,
Who daunceth best, and like digresses:
That this maide hath a seemely grace,
And he this, or that interest:
But if of loue they touch an ace,
Then straight thou turn'st it to a iest.

Beware yet, liue not too secure,
For in braue loue and fortunes art,
There is not anything lesse sure
Then such a free exempted hart.
And it may be with after woe
That cruell loue will subiect thee,
To one that will intreate thee soe,
(Cruell) as thou intreatest me.

But (if that fall out to thy cost)
God graunt the same may neuer bee,
And first I wish my life were lost,
Rather then such a thing to see.
For this poore hart which in my brest
Is burning in so strange a fire,
Feares more thy harme and thy vnrest,
Then it respects her owne desire.

A Sonnet.

[In this cleere Sunne with golden beames that shineth]

In this cleere Sunne with golden beames that shineth,
In this most high diuine and rare perfection,

In this sweete soule and figure, that refineth
Our age with ioyes, with treasures and affection.

O blinding light and face each harts subiection,
Where beauties store to pities want inclineth:
Sweete words, but hard condition of reiection;
Sweete lookes, yet sight that many sorrowes shrineth.

For these sweete Mistresse, I am thus enwrapped,
For these I feare to see mine owne desire,
And passe the time in thinking of thy treasures.
A case most strange, effects that neuer happed,
That seeing thee, I see my greatest pleasures,
And harmes, when that to see thee I require.

[To see thee I lift vp my happie eies]

To see thee I lift vp my happie eies,
And hauing seene thee, cast them downe againe.
For further to proceede the same denies:
Nor other ioy but thy loue to containe.

What greater glory is there then to view thee,
If that he knew the sight that he did see,
For neuer was there any one that knew thee,
That could be wearie of beholding thee,
And though he could not knowe thee any wise
As well as I haue knowen thee to my paine,
Yet should he be besides himselfe, if dies
Not at the least, to see thee once againe.

If that my erring pen did others praise
It was but trid, I see, vpon the lest,
For they were all but papers of essaies
Of that, wherewith thou truly wert possest.
And if (before I lou'd thee) with surmise,
My pen hath for some other writ in vaine,
It was not for bicause I sawe her eies,
But hop't it should see such a Soueraine.

Nature in framing thee did so excell
And shew'd so braue a skill and suttle art,
That one of thy perfections serued well
Beautie to thousand others to impart.

She that to thee is like in any wise

In least of all I sawe in thee so plaine:
To passe no further she may well suffice,
Nor he, that sees thee but must loue containe.

Who sees thee as God made thee, and hath seene
An other thing that's faire and of delight,
He thinkes, he sees a thing that would haue beene
Thy selfe in any thing, if that it might:
But if he sees thee with such perfect eies,
And (Mistresse) as I sawe thee, then againe
There's no compare (compare for it denies)
Nor glorie, but thy sweete loue to containe.

[Loue passed by me with his bowe vnarm'd]

Loue passed by me with his bowe vnarm'd,
His eies cast downe, milde, gentle, modest gay,

And (carelesse) left me then behinde vnharm'd:

How small a time did I this ioye essaie?
For presently enuious Fortune saide,
Staie loue, why passest thou so soone awaie?

Foorthwith the blinde boye turn'd to me, and staide
Angry to see himselfe so checkt with blame,
For ther's no blame, where his hot fire is laide:

Cupid was blinde, but well he spide his game:
So blinded be he, that he may see none,
That did so blinde my wit, and sence enflame:

O that I might reuenge my selfe of one
That wisheth harme to all, and will not free
(With his consent) not one poore hart alone:

Straight did the traytour arme his bowe, and he
with poysoned shaft did pierce my carelesse hart,
Which in his bowe he put, and aym'd at me:

Fortune vnarm'd did take me, for his parte
Loue neuer plaies, nor workes not any feate,
But on free soules, exempted from his darte:

A hardned hart his arrow brake hart with heate,
And brake a neuer subiect freedome, so
That I did yeeld, and his content was great:

O sole free quiet life that I forgo,
O meadowe seene so oft with freest eies,
Cursed be Loue, his arrowes, and his bowe:

Nowe follow loue, and what he doth deuise,
Come from securitie to greatest care,
And passe from rest, to thousand miseries:

See now how that a carefull hart doth fare,
Which lately was without suspect or thought
Subiect to be to such a tyrants snare.

O soule with teares vndone and brought to nought,
Now learne to suffer, since you learn'd to see,
But what auailes, if this my Fortune wrought?

O wretched eies (if with this terme he be
Not angry) whom you savve vvith free consent,
Where haue you put and plac'd my libertie?

O meadovves, groues, and vvoods of svveete content,
Which bred so free a hart as I had heere,
So great an ill vvhy did you not preuent?

Svvift running brooke, and riuer pure and cleere,
Where once my flocke vvere wont to drinke their fill,
O euery season of the passing yeere,

Why haue you put me in a state so ill?
Since onely I did loue you, and these plaines,
And this most pleasant vale, and greenest hill.

Heere did I mocke a thousand Shepherd swaines:
Who now will laugh at me, when they shall knovv,

That novv I doe begin to feele their paines.

They are not ils of Loue, that vvound me soe,
For if they vvere, then should I passe them all,
As thousands, vvho haue died in Cupids vvoe.

Fortune it is, that turnes, and makes me fall
From euery meane occasion, path, and way,
Wherby I might but shew my painfull thrall.

How can the causer of my passion (say)
Helpe them, if that their paine he neuer knowes,
But there's no loue, where reason beareth sway,

To how much ill is fortune drawing those,
Whom she makes loue? since nothing can restore
(Sea, earth nor Sunne, moone, stars, nor any showes)

Or giue delight, vnlesse one loue before.
And all is thus, and wretched thus am I,
Whom time perswades and hinders more and more.

Cease now my verse, since loue with angrie eie
Beholds, how soone of him I doe complaine,
And for my harmes doe craue his remedie.

Complaine not oft for feare of his disdaine,
Now hold your peace, since I seale vp my wordes,
And when you see Loues fell, and angrie vaine,
Cease, for Loues wroth no remedie affoordes.

The end of the third booke

The fourth Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[Well let her life that enters heere be waighed]

Well let her life that enters heere be waighed,
And if she hath not chastitie estranged,
And she that loues, or Loues lawes hath essaied,
If for anothers loue she hath not changed:
And if from former faith she hath not straied,
And kept her first true loue, and hath not ranged:
May enter heere into Dianas temple,
Whose soueraigne grace to such appeeres most gentle.

[The authours of subiections]

The Nymphes.

The authours of subiections
Fortune and Loue, and of most peeuish fashions,
Aboue the moone affections
Doe place, and hard reiections,
And in the same extremest paines and passions.

The Shepherdes.

Lesse may he vaunt and boast
For ioy, whom Loue did neuer yet molest,
Then he, that loueth most,
And fauours euer lost,
Since they that suffer more are euer best.

The Nymphes.

If Loues extremes releeue you,
And did not gainsay reason, as we view them,
Perhaps we would beleeue you:
But seeing how they greeue you,
Happy are we that can so well eschew them.

The Shepherdes.

The hardest things the stoute
And valiant persons euer take in hand:
And that of greatest doubt
Braue courage brings about,
For t'is no honour small things to withstande.

The Nymphes.

The Louer well doth see,
To fight it out, it is not Loues intent
With magnanimitie:
In torments he must be
Of those, that suffring them are most content.

The Shepherdes.

If any ioy we sought
By any ill of Loue which we obtaine,
Ill cannot be the thought
Vnto the passion brought:
But he's more happy that endures more paine.

The Nymphes.
The best estate and fare,
Where he doth see himselfe that loueth best,
Brings nothing els but care:
And yet doth neuer spare
With flames to burne the dame and seruants brest:
And he that's fauour'd most,
Is changed in the twinkling of an eie:
For with disfauours tost,
And in obliuion lost,
It kils his hart and makes his ioyes to die.

The Shepherdes.

To leese a good estate
By falling from it, is a greefe and paine:
Blamelesse is Loue, but fate
It is, and Fortunes hate,
That no exception makes from his disdaine:

Vniust and far vnfit
Is death, if Loue doth say that we shall liue,
If death it promis'd yet,
No fault he doth commit:
For in the ende his promise he doth giue.

The Nymphes.

Fierce Loue they doe excuse,
That finde themselues entangled with his fetter:
And blame those that refuse
Him, but of these to chuse
The blamed mans estate is far the better.

The Shepherdes.

Faire Nymphes, it is denied
The free and bond with one toong to debate,
Liue men and those that died,
The loued, and defied,
All speake according to their owne estate.

[I am Cid th' honour of Spaine]

I am Cid th' honour of Spaine,
If that any more could bee
In my workes thou shalt see.

[Hernand Gonçales of Castile I am]

Hernand Gonçales of Castile I am
In number the first Earle, and endlesse praise,
The Spanish Scepters honor, since the same
With my braue deedes so highly I did raise,
My valour and my manhood golden Fame
Can tell, that sawe it, wherefore she displaies
My high deedes in eternall memorie,
As tels you the Castilian historie.

[Bernard of Carpio I am]

Bernard of Carpio I am,
The Pagans terror, and their smart:
An honour to the Christian name,
Since that my handes aduaunc't the same
By valour of my stoutest hart:
Fame, iust it is not thou conceale
My matchlesse deedes from tender yeeres,
But nothing if thou wilt reueale,
To Ronçes-Vales I appeale,
That sometimes was of the twelue Peeres.

[My greatest valours they shall see]

My greatest valours they shall see,
Which knewe them not, whereby againe
I onely haue deseru'd to bee
Surnamed (The great Capitaine)
And in strange landes, and in our owne
I purchased so great a fame,
That my exploites are held and knowne
To be far greater then my name.

[I am Fonseca whose braue historie]

I am Fonseca whose braue historie
Europe doth knowe, and doth so much commend,
(Whose life though ended) yet my memorie
Enroll'd by liuing fame shall neuer end.
My soueraigne King I serued, and did beare
My countrey loue, and not in fained showe,
I neuer did leaue of for seruile feare
To keepe that holy lawe, which euery where
The seruant doth vnto his master owe.

[Don Luys of Villanoua I am named]

Don Luys of Villanoua I am named,
And from the great Marquesse of Tranz descended,
My valour and renowne (with praise proclamed
In Italie, Fraunce, Spaine) is far extended.
Bicorb, an ancient house my state is framed,
That fortune to a hart hath now commended
So high, sans peere, and that so much surmonnteth,
As to commaund a world, it smally counteth.

Orpheus his song.

Harke Felismena to the sweetest song
Of Orpheus, whose loue hath bene so high,
Suspend thy greefe (Seluagia) somewhat long,
Whilst now I sing, that once for loue did die:
Forget (Belisa) now thy woefull wrong,
And to my voice sweete Nymphes your eares apply:
That lost his eies, to beauties blaze then turning,
And Shepherdes, cease a while your amorous mourning.

I will not speake (for God forbid the same)
Of that most heauie processe of mine ils,
Nor when I so did sing, that I did tame
Wilde beastes and birdes, and mooued trees and hils:

Nor when I did suspend th' infernall flame,
Nor when I sawe Pluto, nor that, that kils
My soule with greefe, when I lookt backe to see,
If that Euridice did follow me.

But I will sing with pure and sweetest voice
Of those perfections, and that grace display,
That wisedome, wit and beautie of such choice,
Of those who doe illustrate Spaine this day.
Then see her (Nymphes) whose beautie doth reioice
Vs all: her great Diana, and her gay
And goodly traine, on whom both Gods and men
Cannot ynough imploy their toongs and pen.

Lift vp your eies this Lady to beholde,
That heere is sitting in this highest chaire,
With scepter neere to her and crowne of golde,
And angrie fortune by her on the staire:
This is the star that Spaines light did enfolde,
Whose absence now her glory doth impaire:
Her name is Lady Mary that hath beene
Of Hungarie, Boeme, and of Austrie Queene.

The next that sits to her, is Lady Iane
Princesse of Portugall and of Castille
The Infant, and from whom fortune had tane
The crowne and scepter by her turning wheele:
And vnto whom death was so inhumane,
That in her selfe great wonder she doth feele,
To see how soone she did stretch forth her hands
On her, that was the light of Lusitans.

Behold (faire Nymphes) that Lady Mary great
And soueraigne Infant of her Portugall:
Whose grace and beautie hath this day a seate,
Where humane thought could neuer reach at all:
Behold, though cruell fortune there doth threat:
Her wisedome yet doth count of her but small:
For time, and death, and destinie cannot
Conquere her goodnes, vertues, and her lot.

Those two that are by her on either side,
Whose beauties Titans brightnesse doe offend:
Their sleeues of gold, their gownes of damaske tide
With pearle, and where faire Emerauldes depend:
Their curled golden lockes, wauing so wide
Vpon their shoulders, loose that doe descend:
Daughters they are of th' Infant Lusitane:
Duarta the valiant, and great Cristiane.

Those two great Dutchesses of worthy fame,
For beauties prize in either of our Spaines
Which there you see to life set out in frame,
With grace, and features, that all others staines
Of Sessa and Najare each hath her name:
Whose companie Diana not disdaines
For their exceeding beautie, and desartes,
Discretion, wisedome, and all other partes.

Behold a golden Phœnix all alone:
A rare perfection neuer seene before,
Wisedome, as like was not in any one,
Beautie, and grace, where neuer could be more.
She that puls fortune from her vaunting throne,
And hath her subiect to her will and lore:
Great Lady Leonore Manuell hath to name,
The Lusitane light that doth the world inflame.

The Lady Luise Carillo, that in Spaine
Hath made Mendoças blood of such renowne:
Whose beautie, and braue grace hath in a chaine
Cupid himselfe, for loue of her cast downe:
She's waiting still vpon our Goddesse traine:
For chastitie worthie to weare a crowne.
Of faire and honest an example heere,
And of them all a mirrour bright and cleere.

Behold a sweete perfection and a rare,
Of her, whom fame her selfe doth greatly feare:
Behold a passing beautie, sans compare,
Founded in grace and wisedome euery wheare:
That both with reason binde to loue and care.
For in her doth the lest part beautie beare.
Lady Eufrase of Guzman is her name,
Worthy to be eternized with fame.

That matchlesse beautie sweete and peregrine,
Not seene in any, but in her alone,
Which euery wit and soule doth so refine
With holy loue, as like was neuer none:
Apparelled with Crimson, that doth shine
With flowres of gold, and pearle that there are sowne.
The Lady Mary Aragon her name:
The world doth know, and heauen doth knowe the same.

Her doe you knowe to whome Diane her face
Doth turne, and points her to vs with her hand,
Who matcheth her in wisedome and in grace,

And equall is with others in this land
In wit, and hath in beautie highest place:
Apt to conduct and leade a martiall band.
T'is Lady Isabell Mauriq of Padille,
Who Mars doth conquer and with wonder fill.

The Ladies Mary Manuell and Ione
Osorius, are those two, which you doe see,
Whose grace, and beautie, as the like not knowne,
Euen Loue himselfe with loue doth wound and slee.
And this our Goddesse doth not ioy alone,
To see two such with her, but also wee.
Since then no toong their worthinesse may praise,
Reason, and fame to heauen the same shall raise.

And those two sisters of such worthy name,
Either of them a second neuer had.
Their grace, and beautie fils the world with fame:
This day their golden beames doth each one glad:
Me thinkes I see them in their perfect frame,
To which more beautie nature could not adde.
The Lady Bettrice Sarmient is one,
With Castro her faire sister so well knowne.

That cleerest sunne, which heere you see doth shine,
And heere and there her golden beames doth cast,
She, that doth laugh at louers that doe pine
In loue, and at the teares, that they doe wast,
And at Loues powre: whose countenance diuine
Saies more then I, though praising her so fast,
T'is Lady Iane Carate, in whom we see
Surpassing grace and beauties praise to bee.

The Lady Anne Osorius, that braue dame,
And Castro next to her possesse their place,
For peerelesse beautie honoured with fame,
For goodly giftes, for modestie, and grace:
But her hard hap (alas) was much to blame,
So cruelly her glory to deface:
Bicause her fortune equall might not bee
Vnto her wisedome, beautie, and degree.

That matchlesse beautie that's adorned so
With honestie, and grace so soueraine,
Which was with reason chosen to bestowe
Her honour in the Temple of Diana,
Not conquer'd, but still conqu'ring high and lowe:
Her name (O Nymphes) is Lady Iuliana,

Neece to that greatest Duke and Conestable,
Speake fame of her, for I am far vnable.

Behold the beautie (on the other part)
Of many faire and braue Valencian Dames,
Whom with my pen, but more yet with my hart,
I will procure to celebrate their names?
Heere Fount of Helicone, vouchsafe thy art,
And heere Minerua helpe me in these blames;
To tell what those braue Ladies be, whose sight
Onely to them all eies and harts inuite.

See heere fowre blasing stars that brightly shine,
Of whom Fame brutes their name in euery ground,
That from three famous kingdomes drawe their line,
And from Cardonas ancient house come downe,
On th' one side Dukes most excellent decline,
And from the other scepter, throne, and crowne:
Daughters vnto Sogorbe, whose golden fame
From Atlas vnto Maurus soundes their name.

The light of all the world, the flowre of Spaine,
The end of perfect beautie, and of grace,
A royall hart, that euer doth maintaine
Valour, and bountie, in a vertuous race:
That looke so modest, and so sweete againe,
Adorned with so faire and milde a face,
Giues Lady Anne of Aragon such fame,
That Loue himselfe is captiue to her name.

Her sister Lady Bettrice, that you see,
Is next (if that you can behold such light)
Whom none can praise, for this is onely shee,
Whom none can praise according to her right:
That Painter that did make her, so must bee
Her praiser, and her giftes he must recite:
For where all humane wit cannot attaine,
My poore conceite doth labour there in vaine.

The Lady Frances of great Aragon
Shew you I vvould, but she is alvvaies hid:
Her svveetest beauties leaues not any one
With life, for so her starlike eies forbid
Our mortall sight to vievv the same alone:
In life and death, her vertues euer did
Subiect each hart to loue, and admiration:
As fame can tell in euery forrain nation.

Now Lady Magdalene you may reueale,
Sister vnto those three which I haue showne,
Behold her well, and see how she doth steale
Her gazers harts, and subiect liues to none.
Her peerelesse beautie threats, and in a chaine
Leades little Cupid, turn'd into a stone:
None see her, but they die, and none there ar
But she doth conquer without armes or war.

Those two bright stars, that heere and there doe vaunt
Their shining beames, that dim the starrie skie,
And making that illustrous house of Gaunt
In all the world with high renowne to flie.
This day their wisedome, and their beauties daunt
Each humane thought, and euery mortall eie.
For who sees Magdeline and Marguerite,
That doth not die (for loue) at such a sight?

But will you see the thing, that hath vndone
All wits, and made them all to wonder so?
Behold a Nymph more faire then orient sunne,
Or louely rose, or lilly hard by Po;
This Phœnix name, that through the world doth runne,
Is Lady Caterine Milane, for so
Valencia cals her, and the world doth say,
She is as faire, and wise, as liues this day.

Lift vp your eies (faire Nymphes) and now behold
The Lady Mary Pexon çannoguere,
How by the riuer banks her locks of gold
She kembes, adorning of her shining heare,
Whose beautie, wisedome, and braue giftes are told
For rarest in our Europe euery wheare.
Behold her eies, her faire and Cristalline face,
Her sweete demeanour and her heauenly grace.

Those two behold, the rest that doe excell
In perfect wisedome, and in quicke conceate:
And for braue beautie beare away the bell,
A paire sans peere, whose starlike eies doe threate
Despaire and death, to those that view them well:
For there sits Cupid in his proper seate.
Their blessed names doe with their nature fit,
Faire Bettrice Vique and Bettrice Fenollit.

What time Diana went to sport and play,
With her most soueraine face, and more diuine,
A morning star arose in moneth of May,

100

Like to that Star, that neere the Moone doth shine:
Which when she sawe so glorious euery way,
A famous place to her she did assigne:
Her beauties tell you, if her name you seeke,
That she's the peerelesse Lady Anna Vigue.

Faire Nymphes, behold the Lady Theodore
Carroz, that is great Lady and the Queene
Of such braue beautie, neuer seene before,
Wisedome, and grace, as like was neuer seene:
Each thing of hers enamours more and more.
The brauest mens deserts haue neuer beene
Such, as they durst attempt, or euer sought,
By them to place in her an amorous thought.

See (Shepherdes) Lady Angelas braue grace,
Of Borja, looking on Diana bright;
And how to her the Goddesse turnes her face,
To view those eies, that all eies doe inuite,
And mightie Loue himselfe weeping apace,
And how the Nymph derides his conquer'd might:
And laughes to see the cruell Tyrant lying,
Wrapped in chaines, to her for mercy crying.

Of that most famous stocke of çannoguere
A flowre sprung out, so perfect and so pure,
That liuing yet but yong, she neede not feare
Any that may her beauties blaze obscure:
Her mothers heire she is, for she doth beare
The praise, which she did with her giftes procure.
So hath Lady Hieronyma, you see,
In grace, and wit obtain'd the high'st degree.

Now in a wonder (Nimphes) will you remaine?
And see what fortune gaue to her alone,
How wisedome, beautie, and the goodly traine
Of vertues, make in her the chiefest throne?
Lady Veronica Marrades see againe,
For onely by her figure it is knowne
That she hath all, and nothing wants to serue her,
Vnlesse it be, that none can well deserue her.

The Lady Luise Penaroje we see
In more then humane beautie and in grace,
In euery thing most excellent is shee;
All beauties els she staines, and gaines apace.
Loue dies for her, and he will not agree,
That any should behold so sweete a face:

101

Who sees it dies, vnlesse he see it againe,
And seene it, then his sight augments his paine.

Now see I (Nymphes) that you are seeing her,
On whom my thoughts continually deuise;
And yours perforce from her can neuer stirre,
Cupid she robs, and in her loue he dies:
See how her beauties make the world to erre?
See, but beware such light blinde not your eies.
The Lady Iane Cardona, that faire star,
It is to whom loues powres subiected ar.

That beautie, which exceedeth humane thought,
Which you doe see, if that you can behold it,
She, whose estate was blest, esteeming nought
Of fortune, time, or chaunce, that could enfold it.
She, to the world that such rare giftes hath brought:
She, that's my Muse, and Parnasus, vntold yet,
Lady Ione Anne of Catalane, The end
She is of all, that e're I did commend.

Neere vnto her there is a great extreme
In purest vertue, high and sublimate,
In comely grace, the fairest in this Realme,
Her golden haire, her necke most delicate;
Each gracious eie a firie pointed beame,
A noble wit, and name of heauens estate:
The Lady Angela Fernando named:
Whom nature to her name like gifts hath framed.

Next to her sits the Lady Marian,
Who hath not in the world her paragon,
Neere to her sister, fairer then the swan
In cristall streames, or fine Vermillion.
Proud is our age of both of them, that can
In tender yeeres haue no comparison
For wisedome; for so much they may presume,
As thousand toongs can tell, or golden plume.

The two fine sisters Borjas which you see,
Hyppolita and Isabell so faire,
With grace and giftes, that so adorned bee,
That Phebus brightest beames they doe impaire.
And see how many liues that once were free,
Their beauties conquers (Cupids onely snare)
Behold their haire, their countenance, and eies,
This gold, that sweete, and those like stars in skies.

102

Behold the Lady Mary Cannoguere,
Who now is Lady of faire Catarasse,
Whose beautie, and sweete grace doth euery where
Conquer each hart with vnrepaired losse:
Fame on her wings th'row-out the world doth beare
Her vertues rare, that shine like gold to drosse.
Since each one them that sees her, must commend her,
Who then can praise her well, and not offend her?

The Lady Isabell Borja here doth stand
Perfect and absolute in euery thing:
Behold her face, her fine and dainty hand,
Ouer whose head the nightingales doe sing.
Our age she honours, and th' Hiberian land:
Of grace, and vertue she's the onely spring:
And those, to whom nature did beautie giue,
She staines, as fairest that did euer liue.

She, that her haire hath hanging downe, and spred
Abroad, and tide with golden thred behinde:
And that faire face, that hath so often led
So many harts to bondage of the minde:
Her Iuorie necke, her eies in beautie bred,
Faire, modest, gray, not looking out of kinde:
Her famous name is Lady Iuliana,
That honours heere the Temple of Diana.

She, whom you there doe see, whom nature made
So curiously, as neuer like before,
Since that her beautie neuer seem'd to fade,
Nor that a faire one can desire more:
Whose great deserts, and wit, doth still perswade
Fame, to the world her praises to restore:
Is called Lady Mencia Fenollit,
To whom Loue yeelds himselfe and doth submit.

103

[Heere Lady Katherine entombed lies]

Heere Lady Katherine entombed lies,
Of Aragon and Sarmient, whose fame
Doth mount with praise vnto the loftie skies:
And sounds from North to South, her woorthy name.
Death kil'd her, to reuenge the sacrifice
Of those she killed, when she was a dame:
Her body's heere, her soule in heauen with pleasure:
The world vnwoorthy to possesse such treasure.

[Even as (O death) the Planets should remaine]

Even as (O death) the Planets should remaine
Without Apollo and Diana bright,
The ground without mankinde, and beasts againe,
The Marriner without the North-starre light;
The fielde without faire flowers grasse, or graine,
The mornings showe without the dewe of night:
Vertue and beautie so remaine and die
Without the dame that in this tombe doth lie.

108

[First in Granada I vvas borne]

First in Granada I vvas borne,
In Cartama brought vp and bred,
To Allora fronter, which I scorne,
And in Coyn enamoured.

Though in Granada I was borne,
And brought vp in Cartama braue;
My faith in Coyn I haue sworne,
And there my libertie I gaue.
There doe I liue, where I doe die,
And where my care is thither led
To Allora Fronter am I,
And in Coyn enamoured.

114

[If thy soft Haires be threds of shining gold]

If thy soft Haires be threds of shining gold,
Vnder the shade of which are two faire Eies,
(Two sunnes) whose Brow like heauen doth them vphold,
Rubie thy Mouth, and lips where Corall lies?
Could Cristall want, to frame thy Necke so white,
And Diamond, to make thy Brest so bright?

Thy hart is not vnlike vnto thy Brest,
Since that the flight of mettall of thy Haire
Did neuer make thee turne thy Necke at lest,
Nor with thine Eies giue hope, but cold despaire.
Yet from that sugred Mouth hope for an I,
And from that snowe-white Brow, that makes me die.

Ah beautifull, and yet most bitter Brow,
And may there be a Brest so hard and faire,
So sweete a necke, and yet so stiffe to bow,
So rich, and yet so couetous a Haire?
Who euer sawe so cleere and cruell Eies,
So sweete a Mouth, yet mooues not to my cries.

Enuious Loue my Necke doth chaine with spite,
His passions make my Brow looke pale and swart,
He makes mine Eies to leese their deerest light,
And in my Brest doth kill my trembling hart.
He makes my Haire to standing ghastly wise,
Yet in thy Mouth all wordes of comfort dies.

O sweetest face, and lips more perfect faire,
Then I may tell; O soft and daintie Necke,
O golden Raies of yonder Sunne, not Haire,
O Cristalline Brow, and Mouth with Rubie deckt,
O equall white and red, O Diamond Brest,
From these faire Eies when shall I hope for rest?

But if a (No) by turning of thine Eies,
Harke yet what saith her sweetest Mouth to me?
See if her hardnes in her Brest yet lies,

115

And if she turnes her whitest Necke to thee?
Marke vvell the beckning of her fairest Brow,
Then from her Haire what may I hope for now?

If that her Lilly Brest and Necke doe once affirme their (No)
And if her shining Eies and Haire will not conclude an (I)
What will her Ruby Mouth then doe, and Brow as white as snowe,
Nay what shall I my selfe expect but vvith denials die?

123

The end of the fourth booke.

The fifth Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

127

[O vainest hopes, Alas, how many Daies]

O vainest hopes, Alas, how many Daies
Haue I beene bondslaue to a braue Deceite?
And how, in vaine, haue these two wearied Eies
With show'rs of teares watred this pleasant Vale?
Appaid I am of cruell Loue, and Fortune,
And knowe not yet whereof I doe Complaine.

No small harmes I must passe, since I Complaine,
For, to endure, framed are all my Daies,
The traunces, and deceites of Loue and Fortune:
But whence Complaine I, of a braue Deceite,
Of such a Shepherdesse within this Vale,
On whom (to my great harme) I cast mine Eies?

Yet am I much beholding to my Eies,
(Although with greefe of them I doe Complaine)

128

Since by their meanes I sawe within this Vale
The fairest thing, which neuer in my Daies
I thought to see, And this is no Deceite;
In proofe whereof, aske it of Loue and Fortune.

Though on the other side, in stable Fortune,
And time, occasion, and my dolefull Eies,
And not suspecting this most braue Deceite,
Caus'd all the ill, whereof I doe Complaine:
And so I thinke to end my wofull Daies,
Counting my greefes, and passions to this Vale.

If that the riuer, hill, the meade, and Vale.
Earth, heauen, and fate, and cruell Loue, and Fortune,
The howers, and the moments, yeeres, and Daies,
My soule, my hart, and these two wearied Eies,
Doe aggrauate my greefe when I Complaine,
Who then can say, I liue by fond Deceite?

Deceiu'd I was, but this was no Deceite,
For, that I haue beheld within this Vale
So rare perfection, I doe not Complaine,
But to behold, how Loue and cruell Fortune
Would signifie vnto these wearied Eies,
That there should come a helpe after some Daies.

And now the yeeres are past, the months, and Daies,
Vpon this confidence, and cleere Deceite:
Wearie with weeping are my watrie Eies:
Wearie to heare me is the hill, and Vale.
And in the end thus answered of false Fortune,
Iesting at that, whereof I doe Complaine.

But wofull man, whereof doe I Complaine,
But of the length of my prolonged Daies?
Perhaps, a slaue to me is cruell Fortune,
That for my fault she must pay this Deceite?
Went he not free, exempted in this Vale,
Who did command me to lift vp mine Eies?

But who againe can tame his greedie Eies,
Or can I liue, if I doe not Complaine
Of th' ill, which Loue hath done me in this Vale.
Curst be that ill, that lastes so many Daies:
But death cannot (if this be no Deceite)
Stay long to giue an end vnto my Fortune.

Calmes wonted are to come after hard Fortune,
But neuer shall be viewed of mine Eies.

129

(Nor yet I thinke to fall in this Deceite)
O well, let the first suffice, which I Complaine,
And will (faire Shepherdesse) as many Daies,
As the remembrance lasteth of this Vale.

If (Shepherdesse) that day, when in this Vale
I did behold thee (to my hardest Fortune
The finall end had come of all my Daies,
Or I had lesse beheld those coyest Eies,
The cause should cease, whereof I doe Complaine,
And I would fall no more into Deceite.

But purposing to worke me this Deceite,
When by and by thou sawest me in this Vale,
Milde thou didst seeme: See then if I Complaine
Vniustly of false Loue, and cruell Fortune?
And now I knowe not, why thou turn'st thine Eies
Away, vnlesse thou greeuest at my Daies.

My song of Loue and Fortune I Complaine,
And since a braue Deceite so many Daies
Did last, water mine Eies this hill and Vale.

133

[When that I poore soule was borne]

When that I poore soule was borne,
I was borne vnfortunate:
Presently the Fates had sworne
To foretell my haplesse state.

Titan his faire beames did hide,
Phœbe 'clips'd her siluer light,
In my birth my mother dide,
Yong, and faire in heauie plight.

And the nurse, that gaue me sucke,
Haplesse was in all her life:
And I neuer had good lucke
Being maide or married wife.

I lou'd well, and was belou'd,
And forgetting, was forgot:
This a haplesse marriage mou'd,
Greeuing that it kils me not.

With the earth would I were wed,
Then in such a graue of woes
Daily to be buried,
Which no end nor number knowes.

Yong my father married me,
Forc't by my obedience:
Syrenus, thy faith, and thee
I forgot, without offence.

Which contempt I pay so far,
Neuer like was paide so much:
Iealousies doe make me war,
But without a cause of such.

I doe goe with iealous eies
To my foldes, and to my sheepe,
And with iealousie I rise,
When the day begins to peepe.

At his table I doe eate,
In his bed with him I lie,
But I take no rest, nor meate,
Without cruell iealousie.

If I aske him what he ailes,
And whereof he iealous is?
In his answere then he failes:
Nothing can he say to this.

In his face there is no cheere,
But he euer hangs the head:
In each corner he doth peere,
And his speech is sad and dead.

Ill the poore soule liues ywisse,
That so hardly married his.

136

[Now Loue, and fortune turne to me againe]

Now Loue, and fortune turne to me againe,
And now each one enforceth and assures
A hope, that was dismaied, dead, and vaine:
And from the harbour of mishaps recures

137

A hart, that is consum'd in burning fire,
With vnexpected gladnes, that adiures
My soule to lay aside her mourning tire,
And senses to prepare a place for ioy.
Care in obliuion endlesse shall expire:
For euery greefe of that extreme annoy,
Which when my torment raign'd, my soule (alas)
Did feele, the which long absence did destroy,
Fortune so well appaies, that neuer was
So great the torment of my passed ill,
As is the ioy of this same good I passe.
Returne my hart, sur saulted with the fill
Of thousand great vnrests, and thousand feares:
Enioy thy good estate, if that thou will:
And wearied eies, leaue of your burning teares,
For soone you shall behold her with delight,
For whom my spoiles with glorie Cupid beares.
Senses which seeke my star so cleere and bright,
By making heere and there your thoughts estray,
Tell me, what will you feele before her sight?
Hence solitarinesse, torments away
Felt for her sake, and wearied members cast
Of all your paine, redeem'd this happy day.
O stay not time but passe with speedie hast,
And Fortune hinder not her comming now.
O God, betides me yet this greefe at last?
Come my sweete Shepherdesse, the life which thou
(Perhaps) didst thinke was ended long ago,
At thy commaund is ready still to bow.
Comes not my Shepherdesse desired so?
O God what if she's lost, or if she stray
Within this wood, where trees so thicke doe growe?
Or if this Nymph, that lately went away,
Perhaps forgot to go and seeke her out.
No, no, in her obliuion neuer lay.
Thou onely art my Shepherdesse about
Whose thoughts my soule shall finde her ioy and rest:
Why comm'st not then to assure it from doubt?
O see'st thou not the sunne passe to the vvest,
And if it passe, and I behold thee not,
Then I my vvonted torments vvill request
And thou shalt vvaile my hard and heauie lot.

139

The Glosse.
[_]

The Shepherd begins afresh to sing upon this old proverb.

Good fortune come and tarie.

The glosse he descants upon it to his owne purpose.

What motions, times and changes,
What waies, what vncouth ranges,
What slights, what disillusions,
What gladnes (in conclusions)
Haue risen of such sorrowes?
One faith yet all these borrowes,
And one good loue assureth,
And my misfortunes cureth.
And since from greefe they varie,
Good fortune come and tarie.

Good hap thou still dost mooue thee,
So light as not behooues thee,
And if, thus to content me,
Thou thinkest to repent thee?
Then better is my smarting:
For if thou goest, At parting
My sense and wits forsake me:
But if (more sure to make me)
Thou com'st, my soule to marrie,
Good fortune come and tarrie.

But if I come in vaine heere,
Or liue deceiu'd, to plaine heere:
For, wretched men what feare not?
To loose my life, then weare not
The same more safe each hower?
O feare, strange is thy power.
For th' ill thou figurest euer.
But since such beautie neuer
Did any falshood carrie,
Good fortune come and tarrie.

140

The end of the fifth booke.

141

The sixth Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

145

[I see thee iolly Shepherd merry]

I see thee iolly Shepherd merry,
And firme thy faith and sound as a berry.
Loue gaue me ioy, and fortune gaue it,
As my desire could wish to haue it.
What didst thou wish, tell me (sweete louer)
Whereby thou might'st such ioy recouer?
To loue where loue should be inspired,
Since there's no more to be desired.
In this great glory, and great gladnes,
Think'st thou to haue no touch of sadnes?
Good fortune gaue me not such glory,
To mocke my loue, or make me sorie.
If my firme loue I were denying,
Tell me, with sighes would'st thou be dying?
Those wordes in iest to heare thee speaking,
For very greefe my hart is breaking.
Yet would'st thou change, I pray thee tell me,
In seeing one, that did excell me?
O noe, for how can I aspire,
To more then to mine owne desire.
Such great affection dost thou beare me
As by thy wordes thou seem'st to sweare me?
Of thy deserts, to which a detter
I am, thou maist demaund this better.
Sometimes me thinkes, that I should sweare it,
Sometimes me thinkes, thou should'st not beare it.
Onely in this, my hap doth greeue me,
And my desire, not to beleeue me.

146

Imagine that thou dost not loue mine,
But some braue beautie that's aboue mine.
To such a thing (sweete) doe not will me,
Where faining of the same doth kill me.
I see thy firmnes gentle louer,
More then my beautie can discouer.
And my good fortune to be higher
Then my desert, but not desier.

[Passed contents]

Passed contents,
O what meane ye?
Forsake me now, and doe not wearie me.

Wilt thou heare me, O memorie,
My pleasant daies, and nights againe,
I haue appaid with seuenfold paine:
Thou hast no more to aske me why,
For when I went, they all did die:
As thou dost see,
O leaue me then, and doe not wearie me.
Greene field, and shadowed valley, wheare
Sometime my chiefest pleasure was,
Behold what I did after passe:
Then let me rest, and if I beare
Not with good cause continuall feare,
Now doe you see.
O leaue me then, and doe not trouble me.

I sawe a hart changed of late,
And wearied to assure mine:
Then I was forced to recure mine

147

By good occasion, time and fate,
My thoughts that now such passions hate,
O what meane ye?
Forsake me now and doe not wearie me.

You lambes and sheepe that in these layes,
Did sometimes follow me so glad:
The merry howres, and the sad
Are passed now with all those daies:
Make not such mirth, and wonted plaies,
As once did ye:
For now no more you haue deceiued me.

If that to trouble me you come,
Or come to comfort me indeede:
I haue no ill for comforts neede.
But if to kill me, Then (in summe)
Full well may ye
Kill me, and you shall make an end of me.

148

[If teares cannot with tendernesse relent thee]

Syrenus.
If teares cannot with tendernesse relent thee,
How can my song thy cruelty assured,
Since nought of mine could euer yet content thee:
What hart was euer that so much endured?
That to deride thou neuer canst suffice thee,
A greefe that hath the worlds wonder procured.
Ah blinde conceite, let loue nor time disguise thee,
And such a thought of change that neuer told me
But to thy good and my content aduise thee.

149

Ah wilt thou in such cares and greefes enfold me,
Fierce Shepherdesse, and in such lamentations
To spend my dolefull yeeres, wilt thou behold mo?
A hart that's thine, dispos'st thou in such fashions?
Intreat'st thou thus a soule to thee affied,
That the lest greefe it is to suffer passions?

Syluanus.
Loue such a knot, that's endles thou hast tied,
That's blinde, and thou, and I more blinde intended:
And she is blinde, for whom my life's denied:
For I sawe not my life, and pleasure ended,
Nor she how I for her to death imploy me,
Nor thou, that I in flames am thus incended.
Fell Loue, shall faire Diana now destroy me
With absence? then conclude (since hate surrounds it)
To end my life, and fortunes that annoy me.
Ioy's slowe, time flies, and with his shortnes wounds it,
Hope dies, an amorous thought liues still augmented:
Loue shortens it, prolongs it, and confounds it.
To speake I am ashamed thus tormented,
And though it greeues me, yet with ceaslesse payning
Without the same I cannot liue contented.

Syrenus.
O soule, forsake not now thy dolefull plaining,
And you my wearied eies
Cease not in swelling teares my cheekes to steepe,
Since you haue learn'd to weepe,
And waile the chiefest cause of all my cries.

Syluanus.
And waile the chiefest cause of all my cries:
Yet (cruell Shepherdesse)
Sometimes they were of my most sweete content.
O thoughts in sorrow spent,
How small time lasts a ioy and happines?

Syrenus.
How small time lasts a ioy and happines,
And that sweete gracious smile,
(Fortune) wherewith I sawe thee not accoyd?
Now all is well imployd
In him, whom time doth counsell and beguile.

Syluanus.
In him, whom time doth counsell and beguile,
Loue works his behest:

[_]

The pagination of the source document has been followed.

148

But in his things who can him well aduise?
Or his deceites who spies?
O cruell Shepherdesse, O cruell brest.

Syrenus.
O cruell Shepherdesse, O cruell brest
Whose crueltie is no
Whit lesse then her braue beautie and her grace,
And my mishap and case:
How to my cost my sorrowes doe I knowe?

Syluanus.
My Shepherdesse, in white and red more cleere,
Then both those roses pluckt, in May we see:
And brighter then the sunne beames sent
From their coruscant Orient
By morning, that vpon thy foldes appeere:
How can I liue, if thou forgettest me?
My Shepherdesse, thy rigour then impaire,
For crueltie becomes not one so faire.

Syrenus.
My faire Diana more resplendant, then
The Emerauld, or Diamond in the night:
Whose beautious eies doe cease
My sorrowes, that increase,
If gently that (perhaps) to me they bend.
So maist thou with thy flocke so faire and vvhite,
Come to my shadovved sheepefold in the heate,
That such a vvretch thou vvould'st not ill intreate.

Syluanus.
My Shepherdesse, when that thy yellow haire
Thou combest in the beames of shining sunne,
Dost thou not see the same obscured?
My pride and ioy by them procured?
That am from hence beholding it so faire,
Woon now with hope, now with despaire vndone,
But so maist thou thy beautie braue enioy,
As thou wouldst giue, a meane in such annoy.

Syrenus.
Diana, whose sweete name in all these hils
The wilde beastes tames, and crueltie rebates:
And whose surpassing beautie to it
Doth subiect fortune, and vndoe it.
And feares not loue, but wars against his wils:
Respecting not occasion, time, nor fates.

149

To thee thy flockes and folds such ioy may giue,
As carelesse of my greefe thou wouldst not liue.

Syluanus.
The heate is past (Syrenus) and doth cease,
The Shepherds to their folds begin to goe,
And wearie grashoppers doe hold their peace:
The night will not stay long, which, hid belovve,
Is comming in, vvhile Phœbus in our skie
Doth heere and there his vading light be stovve:
Therefore before the darkest shade shall lie
Vpon the ground, and vvhile the vvren doth sing
In top of this greene Sicamour on hie,
Our vvandring flockes together let vs bring,
And driue them vvhere Diana novv doth stay
For vs, vvhile in the vvoods our voices ring.

Syrenus.
My friend, Syluanus, goe not yet avvay,
Since all his beames not yet the sunne doth hide,
And that vve haue sufficient of the day.
There's time for vs and for our flocke beside,
And time to driue them to the riuer cleere.
For in this meade to day they shall abide:
And, Shepherd, let my song be ended heere.

The end of the sixth booke.

The seuenth Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

154

[Times change and shall (as we doe see)]

Times change and shall (as we doe see)
And life shall haue an ende:
But yet my faith shall euer bee
Whereon my eies depende.

The daies, and moments, and their scope,
The howres with their changes wrought,
Are cruell enemies to hope,
And friendes vnto a louing thought.
Thoughts still remaine, as we doe see,
And hope shall haue an end;
But yet my faith shall not leaue me,
Her honour to defend.

Inconstancie in trust contriued,
Causeth great danger in conclusion,
And life that is of hope depriued,
Standes not in feare of disillusion.
Times goe and come, as we doe see,
And life shall haue an end,
But yet my faith shall neuer bee
Distan'd for foe or friend.

156

[Sighes, since you lighten not my hart]

Sighes , since you lighten not my hart,
Why go you not, why stay you still?
For in the end hope doth impart
A remedie vnto mine ill.

Yet hope to helpe me neuer stood,
Where reason worketh all in vaine:
Nor euer promis'd so much good,
As crueltie doth giue me paine.
But loue and trust giue me an art,
And qualitie of such a skill,
That neither hope reuiues my hart,
Nor crueltie the same doth kill.

Mine eies you neede not then complaine,
With which her faire ones I haue seene,
And what neede you to feare againe,
Since viewed by her you haue beene?
And therefore change shall haue no part,
Nor entrance in my constant will,
Though crueltie doth kill my hart,
Or whether hope remaineth still.

160

The end of the seauen Bookes of Diana of George of Montemayor.

161

THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE SECOND PART OF Diana OF George of Montemayor.

164

[Who hath of Cupids cates and dainties prayed]

Syrenus.
Who hath of Cupids cates and dainties prayed,
May feede his stomacke with them at his pleasure:
If in his drinke some ease he hath essaied,
Then let him quench his thirsting without measure:
And if his weapons pleasant in their manner,
Let him imbrace his standard and his banner.
For being free from him, and quite exempted,
Ioyfull I am, and proud, and well contented.

Syluanus.
Of Cupids daintie cates who hath not prayed,
May be depriued of them at his pleasure:
If wormewood in his drinke he hath essaied,
Let him not quench his thirsting without measure:
And if his weapons cruell in their manner,
Let him abiure his standard and his banner:
For I not free from him, and not exempted,
Ioyfull I am, and proud, and well contented.

Syrenus.
Loue's so expert in giuing many a trouble,
That now I knowe not, why he should be praised:
He is so false, so changing, and so double,
That with great reason he must be dispraised:
Loue (in the end) is such a iarring passion,
That none should trust vnto his peeuish fashion:
For of all mischiefe he's the onely Master,
And to my good a torment and disaster.

Syluanus.
Loue's so expert in giuing ioy, not trouble,
That now I knowe not, but he should be praised:
He is so true, so constant, neuer double,
That in my minde he should not be dispraised:
Loue (in the end) is such a pleassing passion,
That euery one may trust vnto his fashion:

165

For of all good he is the onely Master,
And foe vnto my harmes, and my disaster.

Syrenus.
Not in these sayings to be proou'd a lier,
He knowes, that doth not loue, nor is beloued:
Now nights and daies I rest, as I desier,
After I had sush greefe from me remoued:
And cannot I be glad, since thus estranged,
My selfe from false Diana I haue changed?
Hence, hence false Loue I will not entertaine thee,
Since to thy torments thou dost seeke to traine me.

Syluanus.
Not in these sayings to be proou'd a lier,
He knowes, that loues, and is againe beloued:
Now nights an daies I rest in sweete desier,
After I had such happy fortune proued:
And cannot I be glad, since not estranged,
My selfe into Seluagia I haue changed?
Come, come good Loue, and I will entertaine thee,
Since to thy sweete content thou seek'st to traine mee.

166

A Sonnet.

[From whence O Paper mine such happie fauour]

From whence O Paper mine such happie fauour,
That vndeseruedly thou must be placed
Before that flowre that yeeldes the sweetest sauour,
Which nature hath with all her powres graced?
Thou shalt the figure see (my louing Paper)
Where all the vertues make their wished dwelling,
And of the rest not any one escape her,
Graces, and giftes, and beauties most excelling.

Then when thou com'st before my heauenly treasure,
Say thus from me to her. He sends me hither,
Who liues to serue thee, whilst his life extendeth:
In onely this his thoughts are musing euer:
In ioy of this both nights and daies he spendeth:
To serue thee is his onely sport and pleasure.

[Poore I that am not now for thee]

Poore I that am not now for thee
(If any health I haue to lend)
To thee, that hast each part of me
All that I haue, I meane to send.

Receiue this letter left alone,
That to conuert all his to thine,
And not in any thing his owne,
This onely paper is behinde.

Since I haue giu'n thee all the rest,
Thine honour it shall not gainstand,
To take a thing, that is in the lest:
A peece of paper at my hand.

167

So poore and base a thing as this,
Cannot offend thy minde so high:
Why then, it cannot be amisse,
To take and reade it by and by.

But in the same if thou dost find
Words written ill, and not well coucht,
Knowe that my hand did like the winde
Tremble, when that my pen it toucht.

The blots, which heere thou see'st disgrace
My letter, making it to blame,
My teares they are, that fell apace,
Knowing to thee I wrote the same.

Reade it, I pray thee, to the end:
And make an end of all my woes,
Open thine eies to this I send,
And to my griefes giue some repose.

And to the end thou maist it reede,
It comes not from an En'mies brest,
But from a faithfull hart indeede,
And from a friend aboue the rest.

It is no letter, that defies
(Defied for I am too much)
Alas in conquer'd men it lies
Not in their power to be such.

In endlesse peace I seeke to liue,
And on thy grace I doe relie,
If not, the doome and sentence giue
Vnto my life condemn'd to die.

I haue contended to this howre
Thy mighty forces to resist,
And now I finde, thy onely powre
Doth conquer (Mistresse) as thou list.

It is not much, that in the field
Vnto thy valour I giue place,
Since that the God of loue doth yeeld
Himselfe, vnto thy wounding face.

So that now subiect I remaine
Vnto thy sou'raine force, I see,
Then wound me not, for t'is in vaine,
Since wholy I doe yeeld to thee.

My life I put into thy hands,
And now doe with me at thy will:
But yet behold, how pitie stands
Entreating thee thou wouldst not kill.

So shalt thou make thy conquest braue,
If in thy spoiles and triumphes, such
Remorse of pitie thou wilt haue,
Which all the world commends so much.

I sawe thee sit not long agoe
Feasting with ioy and pleasant fare,
And I, bicause I could not soe,
Did feede vpon my woes and care.

There leisurely thou didst begin
Of other cates and flesh to feede,
But I with haste did rauin in
My pains, wherwith my hart did bleede.

The Riuer water thou didst drinke
With freest minde deuoid of care,
But I in fluds of teares did sinke,
The which to drinke I did not spare.

I sawe thee with thy little knife
Cutting thy bread and meate againe,
And then (me thought) my wofull life
Should in like sort be cut in twaine.

A little Boy sat in thy lap,
Thou didst imbrace him with great ioy:
Oh would it had beene then my hap
To haue beene that same little Boy.

Thou gau'st to him a louing kisse:
What heere I felt, I will repeate,
Let it suffice, that I was this
Most happy childe, but in conceate.

But not contented vvith the same,
Marking the place where thou didst lay
Thy lips, vnto the childe I came,
And tooke from him the kisse avvay.

Each thing of thine so vvell I loue,
That if I see them to decay,
Me thinks' my care it doth behoue
To saue, to cast them not avvay.

168

For all the bones, which thou didst leaue,
With greedy stomacke I did picke,
Bicause I onely did conceaue,
That they thy daintie mouth did licke.

The place I marked of the pot,
That did thy Corall lips diuide,
When thou didst drinke and I did not
Forget to drinke of that same side.

And with the wine which I did shed
Of purpose, on the cloth aboue:
Often (in vaine) these words in red
My finger wrote: I loue, I loue:

(Disdainfull) thou dost not esteeme
These signes, nor these inductions know,
Or dost at least (as it doth seeme
Dissemble: it must needes be so.

And onely that thou dost dissemble,
Which might vnto my profit fall,
But that which makes me now to tremble,
Alas, thou fainest not at all.

By seeing such effects in me,
That thou dost cause my heauines,
Thou fain'st, my plaintes are not for thee,
But for some other Shepherdesse.

Thou seest how for thy loue I paine,
And at thy gracious feete I lie.
(To greeue me more) yet dost thou faine,
That for another I doe die.

But if thy beauties in great store
Engender pride of such excesse,
Thou must beleeue, and faine no more,
That my pure loue is no whitlesse.

If thy perfections doe surpasse
All beauties that the world doth breede,
As much as Dimond passeth glasse,
So doth my loue all loues exceede.

And when thou com'st to know, that none
Is worthy of thy louely grace,
Thou must not faine, that I am one,
That may deserue so sweete a place.

I am not worthy of so deere
A choice (I say) to be my lot,
Since all the world hath not thy peere,
For that it selfe deserues thee not.

And though I said so (in a vaine)
I shall not be beleeu'd, I knowe;
For well thou know'st what one doth faine,
Is of a thing which is not soe.

Dispose of me euen at thy will,
And faine as much as any one,
So thou beleeue, and faine not still,
That I loue none, but thee alone.

Then on thy gentlenes I call
In pitie, which thou hast forgot,
Thou would'st not mocke my loue at all,
Nor faine, that I doe loue thee not.

Great Ioue can witnesse heere to thee,
That it doth greeue me not so much,
The little loue thou bear'st to me,
As once to faine, that mine is such.

Nor it doth greeue me of thy guise,
To see thee mocke me in such sort:
Or that my things in any wise
May cause thy laughter and thy sport.

But it doth glad me without measure,
That thou dost mocke my loue so lost,
Since by such meanes I giue thee pleasure:
(Although it be vnto my cost.)

To make thee laugh, I doe adiure
The heauens (as I thy loue may ioy)
That many times I doe procure
To doe, and tell thee many a toy.

And though I know none will omit
To call me foole (not without cause)
A simple man of little wit,
Sweruing too much from reasons lawes:

Yet Shepherdesse it skils me not,
Nor it doth not my minde dismay
That all repute me for a sot,
So I may please thee any way.

169

Since that I cannot (Shepherdesse)
With things in earnest please thy vaine,
I will content thee (at the lest)
Frō hence with toies (though to my pain)

To thee they are but things in iest
(For so thou mean'st to take them all)
But euer to my painfull brest
True they haue proou'd, and so they shall.

Mocke me thy fill, since thou dost make
It all thy glee, thy sport, and laughter:
But I doe wish, that Loue may take
A narrow count of thee heereafter.

I once did also iest with loue,
Loue did I scoffe, and loue despise,
But to my paine I now doe proue
What did thereof to me arise.

And this is that poore silly mee
This wicked traitor brought vnto;
But woe is me, that now with thee
I knowe not what he meanes to do.

With iestes and sports of thousand fashions
Two thousand fauors thou didst lend me,
But yet the God of loue, to passions
In earnest turnes them, to offend me.

With thine owne hand (O what a thing)
In iesting didst thou carue to me?
In iest thou saidst and sometimes sing,
Mine onely Shepherd thou shalt be.

O sweetest foode of sauourie tast,
Of force my poore life to maintaine:
Sweet words, whose sound did bind me fast,
Of force to giue me rest againe.

Both word, and deede, and what did passe
(Though but a merry iest it were yet)
So singular a grace it was,
That in my brest I cannot beare it.

To sickest men to giue great store
Of meate, and so much as they craue,
It is not good, but iust no more,
Then it is meete for them to haue.

Fauours I craue by heapes of thee,
That thou wouldst giue me (Shepherdesse)
But yet (perhaps) they may kill me,
For little force I doe possesse.

It hurts the driest field and meade,
As much to cast in them great plentie
Of water, as if they lay deade,
Of water, and of moisture emptie.

So fauours in the selfe same sort,
If that they haue no rule, nor measure,
Suffice to make ones life more short,
As wel as scornes, hates, and displeasure.

But in the end, and howsoeuer,
Take thy full ioy, although I die.
Whether it be with death for euer,
Or with my life, I care not I.

Mocke, and with me doe what thou list,
And happen will, what happen may,
My will thy will shall not resist,
But thy commaund shall still obay,

Commaund me then to be thy loue,
Commaund me in thy loue to end,
And he that rules, and is aboue
All harts, commaund thy hart to bend.

Since mightie Loue commaunds my hart,
Of force thy louer I must bee,
Ioine thou with loue, and take his part,
Then all the world shall honour thee.

But I haue written to be plaine
Enough, since thou hast not thy fill
By giuing me continuall paine,
Desiring yet to serue thee still.

But in the end now will I cease,
Although my torment doth not end:
Desire is conquerd by the feare
I haue, thy patience to offend.

170

A Sonnet.

[I plaid with Loue, Loue plaid with me againe]

I plaid with Loue, Loue plaid with me againe,
I mocked him, but I was mockt in deede,
He would not let my hart his art exceede:
For (though a Boy) yet mocks he doth disdaine.
A friend he is to those, that doe not faine:
My iestes (it seemes) doe true affection breede:
And now, if Loue is not reuenged with speede,
My hart can witnes that with earnest paine.
Goe louers then to iest it out apace
With this God Cupid but a boy, and blinde,
And you shall see, if it be good or noe?
Thinking to haue delight, you shall haue woe,
Seeking cold water, fire you shall finde,
Who plaies with boies, comes often to disgrace.

172

[It may fall out the heauens may turne at leisure]

Syluanus.
It may fall out the heauens may turne at leisure,
And stay themselues vpon the highest mountaines:
And Ezla, and Mondego, at their pleasure.
With hastie course turne backe vnto their fountaines:
And that the flaxe, or reede, laid to the fire,
May not consume in flames, but burne like wire:
But yet the day and time shall happen neuer,
When Syluan shall not loue Seluagia euer.

137

Seluagia.
The ground shall first be void, nor trod, nor vsed,
Leesing her nature, and her proper being:
First shall the raine, and vvater be refused
Of plants, no moisture round about them seeing:
First shall our life vvith aire be not sustained,
And first the foode of hunger be disdained:
Before the vvorld shall see a deede so hainous,
Seluagia not to loue her deere Syluanus.

Syluanus.
The presence of the vvoolfe, that doth deuoure
The sillie lambes, in shades shall not be feared:
As little shall the hare, vvithin her bovvre
The yalping hounds, nor harts of lions teared;
Nor Mouse of Cat, All hate shall be extruded,
And louing peace tvvixt all shall be concluded:
But yet the time and day shall happen neuer
When Syluan shall not loue Seluagia euer.

Seluagia.
The flocke of little chickes (the dams deere treasure)
Of rauening kites and gleades shall be eschevved:
The Partridge shall securely liue in pleasure,
Of praying Goshauke being not pursued:
The pullaine shall not be of Foxe molested,
But peace, and truce tvvixt all shall be suggested:
But neuer lies a deede in her so hainous,
As that Seluagia should forget Syluanus.

Syluanus.
I say, vvhile any part shall be maintained
Of thy Syluanus vvith blood and vitall povvres,
And vvhilst each member of the same sustained
Shall be vvith soule, vnto their latest hovvres;
And if (besides) the soule can loue (expired)
When to the graue the body is retired,
In life, in death, else let him prosper neuer:
Syluan's shall loue his Shepherdesse for euer.

Seluagia.
I say, vvhile liuing breath shall not be vvanting
In thy Seluagia, louing thee so truly:
And vvhile her soule, vvithin her body panting,
Shall make aboade, and gouerne it so duly:
And aftervvardes, if that (the same deceased)
Body and soule may be in loue increased,
In life, and death, and after death so hainous,
Seluagia shall for euer loue Syluanus.

174

[The Gods graunt you to frolicke in your hall]

The Gods graunt you to frolicke in your hall,
His yeeres, that so long time vvith nature striue,
And that in happie fortune you may liue,
Free from all kinde of sorrovves great or small:
And in your loue one haire may neuer fall
Of iealousie, a plague eid like a sieue.
Let heauens to temporall goodes their fauours giue.
Fire, aire, sea, earth, and nature at your call.
The rot may neuer touch your soundest stockes,
Feare of the vvoolfe your shades may not molest:
And vvily foxe not feare your pretie lambes.
In plenty may encrease your goodly stockes,
Tvvo kids may yeerely yeane your fruitfull dams,
And your faire Evves vvith double tvvinlings blest.

176

[Faire Shepherdesse Diana]

Faire Shepherdesse Diana,
Where dost thou now thy figure hide,
More bright then cleere Diana,
When to her full course she is hide.

Venus, the Goddesse faire,
Of beauties all the soueraine,
Wonders at this affaire,
That now her beauties doe not raine.

A sunnie beame thou art,
And who beholdes thy heauenly dies,
Thou wound'st with natures art,
And wounded, in his passions dies.

Thou art a Dimond well,
From whence sweete liquor floweth fast,
Ambrosium thou art well,
From which mine eies shall neuer fast.

Each thing in thee thou hast
To make thee perfect in each part,
If now thou would'st but haste
To pitie, not my soule to part.

This wager will I beare,
And lay, Thou wantest not an ounce,
More cruell then a Beare
To be, or Tygre, or an Ounce.

Cruell thou art in praying,
For thee I burne, as flames in Kill,
Those that to thee are praying
For mercie, thou dost scorne and kill.

My soule thine absence teares,
And giues vnto the same againe
Torments, my torments teares,
(Teares that doe make so small a gaine.)

More bitter then the gall,
Thy absence is, or Sallow wan,
With sorrow it doth gall
My hart, and makes me pale and wan.

In beautie not a peere
Thou hast, for it exceedes the rest,
But where it doth appeere,
Thy crueltie there giues no rest.

O what a foole am I
To wish to see her in this plaine,
That from her mouth an (I)
Will not afford, but (No) so plaine.

No paine I doe deserue
For words, hauing worse deeds essai'd
For whom Loue thus doth serue,
It is not much this to haue said.

177

If that thou mean'st to seale
Thy crueltie in deedes to leaue,
How can I then conceale
The same in song among these leaues?

Faire Shepherdesse, who bad
Thee flie from me? If thou dost waigh,
So base a thing, and bad,
Deserues not glory any way.

180

[The fearefull Bat that lurks in stonie wall]

The fearefull Bat that lurks in stonie wall,
Flies heere and there assured of her sight,
When that she sees the signes of darksome night
Approching on, contented therewithall;
But when she spies the sunnie beames so bright,
Her fault she doth acknowledge and recall.
So novv of late to me it did befall:
For I did thinke there vvas no other light
Nor beautie then in her, vvho did inuite
My senses first to loue: but (to my thrall)
When I beheld Diana so bedight
With beauties, and such grace Angelicall,
Then by and by I knevv that heeretofore
I plainly err'd: but neuer could doe more.

[The open fieldes, the meadovves fresh and greene]

The open fieldes, the meadovves fresh and greene
Their colour and their signe of hope had lost,
Hauing not Syluan, and Seluagia seene,
With vvhose svveete presence they did alvvaies bost.

The goodly vales and hils vvere hard and dried,
Without the steps, that novv doth make them glad,
Shepherds and sheepe in melancholie died,
Depriued of their songs, that once they had.

Now all with pride will shew their ioies againe,
All will reioice, as once they did before:
The hill, the vale, the field, the meade, and plaine,
For merry spring and sommer they restore:
Welcome Seluagia then, your ioyfull spring,
And her Syluanus, that doth sommer bring.

183

[In this greene Meade mine Eies what doe you see]

In this greene Meade mine Eies what doe you see,
The Bagpipe of my Nymph so passing faire?
Vnlesse my senses Dreame, so should it be,
For Sure this is the Oke, wherewith despaire
She lean'd vnto, and heere the grasse yet lies,
And field, that she did water with her eies.

What doubt I then? mine Eies see it so plaine:
For Sure I knowe, this is the very Meade,
And tree that did her tender lims sustaine:
This is the Bagpipe, which my Nymph did treade
Vpon: This is the Oke, the happy beame,
Whereto she lean'd, I knowe this is no Dreame.

But if I Dreame, that thinking with mine Eies
All this I see, and all doth prooue but nought:
And if this Oke in dreame I doe surmise,
And see this Meade, but onely in my thought,
Where my faire Nymph did print her goodly feete:
O Sure it were a dreame to me most sweete.

Ioue thee I pray, if this I doe but feare,
And if my Dreame doth fall out Sure or no?
By all the loue to Nymphes, that thou didst beare,
Open mine Eies the trueth that I may knowe:
Helpe me to pray him greene and flowrie Meade,
Helpe me to pray him, Oke with branchie heade.

184

What hath deseru'd this faire and stately Oke,
Why that should not be Sure, which I doe see?
What hainous fault could this fine Meade prouoke,
Why things in deede should seeme but Dreames to mee?
Vnto mine Eies what is befallen of late,
Why that they should not see my Nymphes estate?

This Bagpipe of my Nymph I will deuise,
To hang it heere (faire Oke) to honour thee:
A woorthy Trophee, though before mine Eies
Lying disgrac't for teares they cannot see,
If it be Sure, or if I dreame in vaine,
(Spoil'd in this Meade with parching sunne and raine)

That gracious Nymph that gaue my hart the stroke
In this greene Meade, I sawe (a heauenly prize)
And (if I dreame not) leaning to that Oke;
Nay, Sure, I did behold her with mine Eies:
O that she had but seene me then againe,
Or that I had but seene or dream'd in vaine.

[I am Dianes, th' Arabian bird in beautie and in grace]

I am Dianes, th' Arabian bird in beautie and in grace,
Let no man therefore once preseume to take me from this place.

185

[Shepherds giue eare and now be still]

Shepherds giue eare and now be still
Vnto my passions, and their cause,
And what they be?
Since that with such an earnest will,
And such great signes of friendships lawes
You aske it me.

It is not long, since I was whole,
Nor since I did in euery part
Sreewill resigne:
It is not long, since in my sole
Possession I did knowe my hart,
And to be mine.

186

It is not long, since euen and morrow
All pleasure that my hart could finde,
Was in my power:
It is not long, since greefe and sorrow
My louing hart began to binde,
And to deuoure.

It is not long, since companie
I did esteeme, a ioy indeede
Still to frequent:
Nor long, since solitarily
I liu'd, and that this life did breede
My sole content.

Desirous I (wretched) to see
But thinking not to see so much
As then I sawe:
Loue made me knowe in what degree
His valour and braue force did touch
Me with his lawe.

First he did put no more nor lesse
Into my hart then he did view
That there did want:
But when my brest in such excesse
Of liuely flames to burne I knew,
Then were so scant.

My ioies, that now did so abate
(My selfe estranged euery way
From former rest)
That I did knowe, that my estate
And that my life was euery day
In deathes arrest.

I put my hand into my side,
To see what was the cause of this
Vnwonted vaine,
Where I did feele, that torments hied
By endlesse death to preiudice
My life vvith paine.

Bicause I savve, that there did vvant
My hart, wherein I did delight
(My deerest hart)
And he that did the same supplant,
No iurisdiction had of right
To play that part.

The iudge, and robber, that remaine
Within my soule, their cause to trie
Are there all one:
And so the giuer of the paine,
And he that is condemn'd to die,
Or I, or none.

To die I care not any way,
Though without why, to die I greeue,
As I doe see:
But for bicause I heard her say,
None die for loue, for I beleeue
None such there bee.

Then this thou shalt beleeue by mee
Too late, and without remedie
As did (in breefe)
Anaxarete, and thou shalt see,
The little she did satisfie
With after greefe.

188

The end of the first booke.

The second Booke of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[When I, poore wretch, of all men most accurst]

When I, poore wretch, of all men most accurst,
That neuer durst aspire to sweete content,
In dolours spent, in miseries the first,
Liu'd most secure, to pleasure onely bent:

Which to preuent, The traiterous God of Loue
With force did shoue into my carelesse brest

189

Cares and vnrest of things, which I aboue
All other things till then did scorne and iest:

He thought (at lest) to be reueng'd of me,
When he did see, that I scorn'd him alone
Bicause that none should once presume to be
So stout, as mocke his might so tride and knowne,

Nor his high throne, nor his supreme estate:
The Elfe of late hath plaide a suttell part,
As with new art my ioies to ruinate:
For often as he had essaid my hart

With wounding dart of beautie to subdew,
And with the view (not long since) of a face,
Which tooke no place, for then in vaine he threw:
A faire and daintie hand he did vnbrace,

With such a grace, and to mine eies did show,
And such a blowe he gaue me with the same,
That then with shame his power I did knowe,
For downe it threw me, my braue pride to tame.

Tell me, how came it thus (faire hand) to passe,
That so I was with such a blowe againe
Throwne downe amaine, (neuer to rise, alas)
By thee so fine and tender to be slaine?

Alas, in vaine I tooke thee for a hand,
For can it stand that nature did thee frame?
Into the same, I thinke a mighty band
Of Cupids powers of late transformed came

My hart to tame, and dire reuenge to take,
Since I did make so little of his powre:
If now each howre for this thou dost awake
Thy hawty force, my poore hart to deuoure:

Be not so sowre, for pardon I doe craue,
The which to haue, I promise to obay
From day to day thy will, thy force and braue
Commaund, and also to confesse, and say,

That thou dost sway, more then the rest aboue,
O God of Loue: And if that any nill
Embrace thy will his follies to reprooue,
I will aduise him how thy wrath doth kill.
And euer will endeuour to reclame
The freest harts vnto thy louing flame.

190

[Cvpid was angrie with my merry face]

Cvpid was angrie with my merry face,
Bicause I euer laughed him to scorne,
And all his followers (haplesse and forlorne)
I mock't in publike and in priuate place:
Wherefore he arm'd himselfe (to my disgrace)
When time a fit occasion did suborne,
But naught I wreckt his flames, in vaine outworne.

For Satyrlike I did not them imbrace:
Who seeing, that he built vpon the sand,
If by a face my life he would deuoure,
He shewed me then a fine and daintie hand,
Which once beheld, it lay not in my power
To be vnconquered Tyrantlike; nor would
Deliuer me from him although I could.

[It is a signe of valour and of might]

It is a signe of valour and of might,
A power, that in wonder doth increase,
For any king to win (and neuer fight)
A kingdome, and to enter it with peace.

191

Proper it is for Mars to wound with hand:
Mars woundes with hand, if angrie once he be:
But now behold, the matter thus doth stand,
That Cupid wounds with hand as well as he.

And my good hap, or ill would haue it thus,
That first of all my wofull hart should feele
This new Alarme, wherewith he feareth vs.
So with a hand, to which all harts may kneele,
My hart he hath transfixt to make me knowe,
His valour, strength, his wounding shaft, and bowe.

194

[In each created thing]

In each created thing
One motion onely, and of might,
Predominant continually is found.
Which still doth keepe and bring
The same, one way, and course aright,
That's alwaies like, and vniforme, and round.
And none can be vnbound
From this compacted order though he would,
None can againe the same forsake,
Or any other take,
And yet it would not though perhaps it could:
Thou Fortune art alone
Without it, in disorder onely one.

That first, and highest Sphere,
That mooues, and is not moou'd againe
Of any other heauen, that mooues one whit:
The which with his Careare,

195

And swiftest course doth turne amaine
The lowest heauens, and caries after it:
An order doth admit,
And doth maintaine, not erring in the lest:
For it doth cary them with speede,
And with more haste (indeede)
The nearest heauen to it, from East to West:
But rule thou dost disdaine,
And onely without order dost remaine.

The circled Elements
Of qualities most opposite,
The fire, the aire, the sea, and earth belowe,
In motions not inuents
A nouell course, but mooue aright,
And euer keepe good order, as they goe:
None erreth, no.
The earth about his lowest Centre mooues,
The water next in circle wise,
The aire next that that lies,
And fire to that a gallant order prooues:
But Fortune in thy Spheare
Thou run'st, without good order, rule, or feare.

The heauie fals downe right
(Vnlesse it haue impediment)
Vnto the Centre of his proper Spheare:
And that, which is but light,
If that it haue an open vent,
Mounts to his highest region euery where:
And so each thing doth beare
Good order, and good rule continually:
In generation it doth spring,
Corruption it doth bring,
In fine, all things by order liue and die:
Without it, thou dost range
(Fortune) that with disorder still dost change.

In this world nothing is
(If out of order it be gone)
But ordred it may be in time againe:
Ther's nothing in blacke Dis
(Though there be all confusion)
Nor order kept (for there it were but vaine)
But may indeede remaine
In order, in their manner, forme, and kinde,
And may be call'd to order fit,
If we consider it:

196

Though nought but paines and plaintes are there assign'd.
Thou worse then hellish thought
In no point canst not be to order brought.

Thy motion out of kinde
So far besides proportion lies,
That it can neuer be to order brought:
Swifter sometimes then winde,
With hastie speede so soone it flies,
That it is neuer seene, nor felt, nor thought:
The Parthian neuer wrought,
Nor sent an arrow out of steeled bowe
With such great haste and maine:
Sometimes with sloth againe,
Like to the snaile or Tortuse she doth goe:
Blinde Fortune thou dost reele,
And more doth he, that sits vpon thy wheele.

200

[That deluge of reuengement being past]

That deluge of reuengement being past,
Determined that was by Gods aboue,
For guilt of wickednes of mortall men:
The earth of moisture yet remaining full,
Wherewith the heate of Titans beames conioyn'd,
Strange creatures did engender of the same:
Diuers in shape, proportion and in kinde.
Amongst the which a Serpent did arise,
Cruell, vntam'd, and greater then a hill,
In Thessalie, a Prouince of great fame;
That first put bridle to the horse his mouth.
This monstrous Serpent did deuoure, and waste
His natiue soile, and all the people there:
He spared not the corne (a sweete rewarde
And hope of him that did with labour sowe it)
He spared not the strong and painfull Oxe,
(The faithfull seruant of the countrey toyle)
As little spared he the harmlesse Calues,
Nor goates, nor kids, that skipt about the heathes.
He spared not the flockes of simple sheepe,
Nor gentle lambes, nor heards of grazing neate.

201

He spar'd no house, nor of the little Bee
The sweetest worke (the Mistresse of her art)
This cruell beast had no regarde of men,
For whose auaile each thing created was.
But as the supreme Gods would not consent,
With angrie hand to spoile the world anew:
They did prouide forthwith a speedie helpe,
Since humane skill and wit could not preuaile.
For God Apollo going foorth to hunt,
With bowe and quiuer full of wounding shaftes:
Onely on Buckes his cunning aime to trie,
On mountaine goates, wilde boares, and sauage beastes,
He did by chaunce encounter with this Serpent;
Which cruell monster when he did behold,
He by and by contemn'd his wonted chace,
To make his name eternall by his death.
For straight he bent his hardned bowe of steele,
And from his backe his golden quiuer tooke,
And drew thereout his shaftes with wounding heads;
Which dipt in poyson, he did shoote with force,
And nailed them betweene the Serpents skailes,
And there lay Python stretched on the ground.
(For this the cruell Serpent had to name)
Apollo haughty in his ioyfull minde,
For glory of so great an enterprise,
Remaining there, to view his noble spoiles,
Proude with himselfe he did triumph so much
For this great victory, that he did thinke
That heauen had not a God like to himselfe;
Which by his speeches he did manifest,
Speaking sometimes vnto the monstrous beast,
Sometimes vnto his quiuer, and his bowe;
With ioy and pride did vtter foorth these wordes.

Glorie of glories O most excellent,
Triumph of triumphes O the most esteemed,
Of victories O worthy victorie.
O deede, aboue all deedes in honour deemed:
O chance, then any chance more eminent:
O fame of fames the sole supremacie.
O happy war, whereby
My arme so fortunate
With power did abate
The fiercest Serpent that was euer bred:
O crowne most worthy for my conquering head.
O bowe, that from complaining didst deliuer
The people well nie dead,
O happy shaftes, O braue and blessed quiuer.

202

Python for thee the ground was barren still,
Denying her increase, and wonted fruite,
For thee, the learned Bee did aie lament,
That she could not her sweetest worke salute:
For thee, the gentle Ewe her selfe did kill,
For griefe to see her lambe in peeces rent:
For thee out of his tent
The Shepherd durst not goe,
For cleerely he did knowe,
How much thy poysoned tooth and breath did harme:
For thee the husbandman within his Farme,
And Citizens within their wals for feare
(Did in their Cities swarme)
Of euerie shadow thinking thou wert there.

What God deserues all the heauenly Quire
Incense in sacrifice as doth Apollo?
And what God by his skill and cunning art,
As many as the firmament so hollow
Containes, to such great titles doth aspire
With honours type, renown'd in euerie part?
For nature doth impart
Her gifts, and euerie grace
To me, their proper place.
I did inuent the art of medicine,
If any oze like prophet doth diuine,
I am the God, that answers and inspires,
My musicke passing fine
Doth answer that the heauens make in their gires.

A famous Sirname I shall now obtaine,
O Serpent Python by thy mortall death:
And I will cause, that they shall celebrate
This libertie in neuer dying breath.
With solemne sports and feasting to maintaine
This glorie, in eternall time and state.
And that this golden date
In historie by fame,
That streight doth blaze the same,
And sparing such, as alwaies we do see,
Neuer in this may such a niggard be.
And though of others she doth prate too much,
And speaketh partially,
Not any lye herein, her toong shall touch.

He therefore being in this sort content,
By chaunce (and yet it may be to requite.
The gen'rall scorne he made of all the Gods)

203

The childe God Cupid passed by that way.
(A puissant and mightie Lord of loue)
A golden quiuer hung behinde his backe,
In his left hand he bare a bended bowe:
And in his right, two fine and prety shaftes.

His eies were both bound with a silken string,
Whom, now as soone as God Apollo sawe,
Thinking that none, but he deseru'd to beare
A bowe, and shaftes, and quiuer at his backe:
In brauing sort these proud iniurious wordes,
And full of scorne he thus to him affordes.

What's he so proude, and stoute that doth impute him
Worthy of those braue weapons in his hand?
What, knowes he not that they are due to me;
And none but I this honor may demand?
T'is Venus sonne, God Cupid, it is he,
So call'd, but heere he comes, I will salute him:
Infamous villaine, theefe and voide of shame,
And wicked robber of anothers fame.

Be these thy tooles? Tell me, why dost weare them,
That art a wanton, far for thee vnfit?
Deliuer them, for these my hands diuine
Doe beautifie, and on my shoulders sit
With better grace, and honour then on thine,
That art not able halfe ynough to beare them.
Then little boy, leaue of with these to boast thee,
If not, in faith, full deerely they shall cost thee.

This furniture is proper to my might,
These shaftes, this quiuer, and this bended bowe:
With them I slew fell Python, that of sheepe
Whole stockes within his belly did bestowe.
And them to kill wilde beastes, and birdes I keepe,
For onely these belong to me of right.
With them (moreouer) if it be my will,
With mortall woundes mine enemies I kill.

Thy fires and flames should well content thy minde,
With which (fond Loue) with loue thou giuest paine,
Ioine not thy sportes, nor thy dishonest brandes
With these braue weapons of my glorious gaine.
Leaue then this bowe, dishonoured by thy handes,
And see, if that thou canst, that art so blinde:
Thine eies are blinded with a silken string,
How canst thou then ayme right at any thing?

204

Cupid at this waxt angrie and asham'd.
But yet with threats to his vnworthie scornes,
Nor with proude words in no wise would reply.
For mightie Loue, as he is verie wise,
And resolute of that he takes in hand,
Cares not to bragge it out with threatning words:
But doth performe it with most valiant deedes.
But yet bicause his follies he should know,
And how he was deceiued in his might,
Which all the Gods besides himselfe had knowen
(For yet Apollo neuer felt the paines,
Nor cruell torments that braue Cupid giues)
With gentle words proceeding from a minde,
Incensed more within, then outwardly,
To his braue termes this speech he did reply.

Too proud thou hast thy selfe (Apollo) showen
In speaking such vile words vnto my face.
Such rather I embrace
With honour, and I vse them not, but saying
Nothing at all in such a wrong full case,
I do such things as like were neuer none.
Hearke then how I am knowen
By word of mouth, and how much I am swaying.
After by deed, I will bring thee to obaying.
Neptune, and Ioue, and Vulcan I do keepe
Vnder my mightie will:
Few Gods there are, that with their skill,
Do free themselues, but vnto me do creepe.
The Goddesses do weepe
To heare my name, and yeeld with mere consent
Vnto my gouernment.
And Venus, though my louing mother be,
Cannot escape with partiall libertie.

What man is he, neuer so strong in armes,
That hath escaped in my amorous field?
Here bootes not speare, nor sheeld,
Nor Mars his weapons, nor his strong defence.
In vaine he fights, whom I will haue to yeeld.
Learning and wisedome here procure but harmes,
And flie at my Alarmes,
And staying do imprint a deeper sence
Of louing passions, and with more offence.
Women (mine ornament) do euer hide
What neuer was concealed.
For flames are hardly vnreuealed.
The birds and sauage boastes my hands hath tide

205

Vnto my yoke, beside,
That Nature doth her selfe my chariot follow.
Then tell me now Apollo,
If that thou think'st to get such puissance,
As that with these thou shouldst not come to dance.

Thou dost reioice, bicause these armes are due
To thee, for killing of that monster fell.
But harke, and I will tell,
How these belong more iustly to my might,
Although thy shaft in wounding doth excell,
It neuer yet but beastes and venison slew,
Apollo, this is true.
But mine shall wound thy soule both day and night:
And thou shalt sweare, mine is the onely slight.
So that how much each beast, not me,
In mgiht thou dost exceede,
And gett'st most glory by this deede,
So much more famous shall my conquest be.
But now thy follies see,
In saying, that this quiuer, and this bowe
Did me dishonor so.
For thee, Apollo, better had it beene,
If with my selfe the same thou hadst not seene.

Thou saist I nill deserue this ornament,
Bicause mine eies are blinded with a band;
And therefore that my hand
Must needes shoote false bicause that I am blinde.
And yet, besides, I tell thee that they stand
Against all reason, and intendement.
Harke now, to what intent?
And how this comes so fitly to my minde.
Then tell me, if thou think'st it out of kinde,
For any God to burne in feruent loue
Of any woman heere?
That more his greefes, and paines appeere,
The more she should from him her liking mooue.
If blinde, such things I prooue,
And studie to reuenge me with my flight?
Tell me, were it not right?
Then take good heede, since thus my bowe doth kill:
And makes thy reason subiect to my will.

This said, he would no longer with him stay,
Nor harken more to answeres nor replies:
Nor did Apollo care to answere him,
Esteeming nought his childish wordes, and threats.

206

But Cupid wounding with his golden wings
The loftie aire, that burned as he went,
Without delay he gaines the shadowed top
Of mount Parnasse, where looking round about
He staies, and waites the meanes to venge himselfe
At pleasure of Apollos proude contempt.
Wherefore out of his quiuer he doth take
Two wounding headed arrowes fatall both:
In colour diuers and in their effects,
For th' one procureth loue, with burning fire,
The other hate, with cold and frozen ice.
Golden is that, that causeth feruent loue,
Leaden is that, that causeth frozen hate:
And talking with them both, as though they did
Conceiue his wordes, in this sort he did say.

Come speedy out (my louing friendes)
And shew your valour, and your force so high:
In you my trust, and hope doth lie,
That you will shew, whereon my strength depends.
Beate downe Apollos pride,
That heere our honour did deride:
That he may know, how well my words agree
With earnest deedes as shortly he shall see.

Since thou, that art so sharpe and tride
With kindling fire in each louing brest,
Thou shalt Apollos hart molest,
That cruell paines, and smartes he may abide.
And thou that art of bluntie lead,
Strike thou some womans hart so dead
In cruell hate, that she shall neuer feele
The sense of loue, no more then stone, or steele.

Apollo there remained very glad,
Calling the heauens, the elements, and beastes,
The trees, the meades, the springs, the birdes, and fish
To ioy with him in his renowned spoile,
And victorie, by Pythons death he got:
For in this sort with ioyfull face he said.

O heauenly frame,
Whose course, and sweete accents
Giue earthly things their life, that ar
Of natures name.
You circled elements,
So contrarie in secret war,
You beastes, that far

207

And neere, in earth doe make your dwelling place,
You birdes, that in the skie
With hastie wing doe flie,
You fishes, that the christall streames imbrace,
For my braue deede
Come shew your selues content in ioies agreed.
You shadowed treene,
An ease of sweete delight,
And fence from Titans burning heate:
Faire meades and greene,
And waters sweete and bright,
This sorrest that with liquours weate:
Greene Iuies seate,
That liuest still, and dy'st not in thy kinde,
And wind'st about the tree,
That still vpholdeth thee:
For this braue deed,
Come shew your selues content in ioies agreed.

Apollo being in this ioyfull moode,
Behold where comes a fine and tender Nymph,
And fairer then Aurora in her prime,
Laden with spoiles, she got by hunting late,
A Nymph endow'd with vertues high and rare
The father oft vnto his Daphne saide
(For so they say this fairest Nymph was call'd,
And Pene was her aged fathers name)
Daughter to me thou ow'st a sonne in lawe.
Daughter, to me some nephewes thou dost owe.
But with a teint, like the Vermillion Rose,
Bespred vpon her face as white as snowe,
To see her father would haue wedded her,
The chastest virgine with her tender armes
All Lilly white about the louing necke
Of her deere father sweetely then did hang:
Requesting him, that he would giue her leaue,
To leade her life in spotlesse chastitie,
And liue therein, as she had liu'd before.
Her louing father graunted her request.
But yet before to hinder her intent,
With graue aduise vnto her he did tell,
How heate of youth, and wealth, and beauties lure,
Were contrarie vnto the chastest minde.
And how that each of them alone is able
To worke the tender hart like melted wax.
How much more easie then, when all in one
Were found, as in faire Daphne they did raigne.
Yet though she did excell in all these giftes,

208

She would not leaue to put her chaste intent
In practise, and Dianas grace to serue.
And saying, it was true her father spake.
And said, if that she had such cause to vaunt
That she was rich, and faire, and nobly borne:
That it was tenfold deerer vnto her
To be accounted chaste of euerie one.
And that her chiefest honour did consist
In honest, pure, and vndefiled life.
Now therefore as the virgine did not know
(Bicause her minde was so on vertue bent)
What thing loue was, nor due of marriage rites,
To hunt it was her onely ioy, and sport.
Then hither came this gallant Nymph to chase,
Where proud Apollo went by chaunce to hunt:
Not thinking to finde out so farie a game.
Bicause his breast, free from the thoughts of loue,
Was onely bent in thinking of his spoile.
He was so glad and did triumphe so much
Within himselfe, that he did neuer thinke
Of any thing but this, till (to his harme)
He cast his wandring cies vnto the place,
Where he did spie faire Daphne in her chace.

209

[Apollo being in this heauenly ioy]

Apollo being in this heauenly ioy,
For victorie by Pythons death obtain'd,
Lift vp by chaunce his eies, and spide the Nymphe
(The fairest Nymphe as euer he did see)
Whom at the first he onely did behold
With an impartiall eye (a common thing)
And onely markt her beautie, and her grace,
And with that common kinde of honest loue,
In praise of her these louing wordes did moue.

210

What Nymph might yonder be,
So fine with her dishieueled haire,
That in this forrest hunteth all alone?
I will goe neere to see,
If that she be indeed so faire,
As she doth seeme. Ah (Godheades) there is none
In all your heauenly throne,
No Goddesse, nor no power diuine,
With beautie, and good grace,
That nature doth imbrace,
Then this, in whom most cleerely shine
Her giftes, and chiefest art,
As many as to all she did impart.

But Cupid seeing her in such estate,
Thought it high time to punish the contempt,
And brauing words, that proud Apollo vs'd.
And now to be reuenged on his head
With more dishonor and with greater shame,
He did prepare him to assaile his foe
With those same weapons that were threatned him:
So, with his headed shaft of beaten gold
He smot his brest, and pass'd his carelesse hart;
Omitting not to wound faire Daphnes to
With that of hate, headed with heauie lead.
And so with this the Boy remayned glad,
And well did see, though blind what he had done.
And thus content in minde, he did depart,
Vpon some others to imploy his might.
O blinded Boy, of strong and mightie force,
Where none is found but onely in thy hands,
That more the one with feruent loue doth burne,
The more the other freezeth with disdaine.
And proud Apollo now thou shalt perceiue,
(That think'st no equall God to thee in heauen,
Nor celebrated in the earth beaneth
With such like honours, which thou claym'st alone)
That there is one that raignes in heauen and earth,
In hell, and euerie corner of the world,
More puissant then any other God.
Bicause thou art inuentor of the skill
Of phisicke, and of musickes sweetest art;
Bicause besides) thou tell'st with secret power,
Things that are past, and present, and to come,
Thou think'st thou raign'st alone as Soueraigne.
Now art thou subiect to a sillie maide,
Too base if she be paragon'd to thee:
And yet this greeues him not, but that the more

211

He loues this Nymph, the more doth she contemne
His mightie loue, and all his vainest suites.
Faire Daphnes hart is hardened and congealed
In loue of this great God of heauen aboue:
Apollos hart consumes with burning heat
In loue of this poore maide in earth beneath.
The God desireth to inioy her loue,
And after this desire commeth hope.
But here his Oracles deceiue him much:
For in these things diuining is but vaine.
So with this hope, which is but vaine, and false,
He doth maintaine and feede his barren loue.
And feeling with great paine his burning fire,
To Cupid in this sort he mildly spake:

What fire is it, that thus my breast doth tame,
And yet no flame, I see that's manifest?
Is this thy best reuenge, O Cupid tell,
Fierce God and fell, which on me thou dost take?
Hovv dost thou make the mightie Gods to bend,
And dost offend the rich, the proud, and vvise,
And dost despise and tame the great and small?
So easie shall not flaxe, nor tovv be burn'd,
Nor reeds be turned to fire laid thereby,
Alas as I vvith thy reuenging games
Do burne in flames: for thou hast made my hart
To feele the smart of loue, and vvith thy might
And golden flight, hast (cruell) vvounded it.
Which thou hast smit, and smitten, stolne avvay,
And made decaye of it vvithin my brest:
Where novv no rest nor vvonted ioyes do dvvell.
Then cruell tell the same vvhere hast thou put,
Where hast thou shut my hart of sorrovv? vvhat,
And is that, perhaps? O that it is.
And novv in this faire forrest do they vse,
Thus to abuse Gods harts, and steale and kill?
From hence I vvill (Cupid) make thee my mate,
And friend (though late) for euer thou shalt be,
Since linked me thou hast in such a chaine.
Her haire doth staine the golden Colchos fleece,
Which out of Greece, Iason shall saile to seeke.
Her face and cheeke enameled vvith red,
With vvhite be spread, passing the Roses gay
In moneth of May, that dare not come in place
To see her face, nor yet the Lillie vvhite
Approch in sight, vvhere her braue beautie shines.
Aurora pines in seeing her, and dyes.
Her tvvinkling eies, more then the heauenly lights

212

In frostie nights doe shine, where Cupid skips.
Her rubie lips with praise shall not be vouch't,
But onely touch't, and kist of mine againe:
Her necke so plaine, and smooth, nothing doth owe
Vnto the snowe, for pure vnspotted white.
What els (O spite) her wrongfull garments grudge
To shew, I iudge, that nature made each part
With such braue art, as neuer humane eies
Did see the like, or heauenly thought deuise.

Whilste God Apollo wandreth in her praise,
Daphne with hastie foote doth flie away.
Which when he did perceiue, these wordes in vaine
(Continuing still his speech) to her did say.

O thou the skies that dost excell, stay, stay;
Fly not away so fast, thy friend I am:
So flies the lambe from rauening woolfe away,
The Hart againe, of cruell death afraid,
With hart dismaid doth from the Lion flie;
The doues doe hie them from their praying king
With trembling wing, so each thing here belowe
Flies from his foe: But Loue that burnes Apollo
Doth make him follow thee with friendly pace:
O see each place, whereon thy feete doe tread,
With thornes bespread, vnworthily to beare them.
The stones doe weare them like the slauing file:
Then stay a while, and haste not so I pray.
Sharpe is the way, and I for nothing would
My following should make thee (faire Nymph) to fall.
I pray thee, all I may, to moderate
Thy hastie gate, and I with milder pace,
To saue thy face from hurt, will follow thee.
Oh didst thou see, and know but who it is,
That mooueth his great liue vnto thee so,
Thou wouldst I knowe not flie, but tarie still
To knowe my will, and thinke that thou wert blest
To be possest of such a Lord so high.
I dwell not I, in this poore harren hill,
Though heere I kill wilde beastes for my delight:
I hold by right, as much as Tanais streames,
And Titans beames doe see, where they arise:
This I despise, but onely for thy sake,
Where thou didst take thy beauties first of all.
Which countrie shall be reard vnto the skies
In all mens eies, vvith fame and dignitie:
And lou'd of me more then th' Imperiall seate
Of heauen so great, from vvhence faire Nymph I came.

213

Neither I am a Shepherd, nor doe keepe
Cattell, or sheepe, but vvhat loue doth commend
To me to tend. In Delphos for mine honour,
Of vvhich the ovvnour I am, incense burnes.
Claros by turnes, and Tenedos likevvise
Burne sacrifice to me: The lands vvhich great
Xanthus doth vveat, vvherevvith such sudden voice
I doe reioice the harts of them, that craue
Ansvvers to haue by Oracle diuine.
Delphos is mine, and famous there I am.
Of birth I came more noble then the rest:
For (at the lest) the Gods are kinne to mee.
First in degree great Ioue my father is,
And she ywish that raignes in heauenly seate,
A Goddesse great (Latona) fairer then
Faire Titan, when in all his chiefest pride
Vnto his bride Aurora he doth hast:
By me things past, and those that present be
I know, and see, and things to come can tell:
I do excell in verse, and sweetest song:
With arme most strong I draw, my bow and flight:
Where it doth light, it hits with sure wound:
Yet haue I found, that Cupids certaine arrow
Doth hit more narrow in my wounded breast,
Where all my rest and pleasures it hath spent.
I did inuent the art of medicine.
My wit diuine found out the secret power
Of euerie flower, and herbs whose vertues still
Vnto my skill, and practise subiect bee.
But woe is me, that neither herbe nor pill,
Nor phisickes skill to loue no ease imparts.
Nor that those arts, that profit euery one,
Cannot helpe me their master all alone.

Now running fast away betweene them both,
Daphne to flie Apollos wanton vvill,
Apollo follovving chaste Daphnes loue,
Loue helpe Apollo vvith his speedy vvings,
And vnto Daphnes feete feare tyed her vvings.
And both sufficient fauours haue of both,
But loue in fine doth ouercome pale feare,
Bicause he is more forvvard, light and hot.
But vvhen the Nymph did see herselfe surpris'd,
And that the God embrac'd her in his armes:
Lifting her hands and eies vnto the heauens,
Succour she crau'd of all th' immortall Gods,
Forgetting not her father demy God.
And in this sort, besought their fauours all,

214

Helpe each immortall power,
For ioyntly all your helpes I do desire,
And humbly do your fauours all inuoke:
None I except out of the heauenly quire:
O saue my virgine flowre:
Be readie, else with force it will be broke.
O let the earth deuoure,
And swallow me within her hidden vaines
With furious paines.
Or else destroy my shape with thunder clap,
Since this mishap
It wrought. Helpe Pene now my father deere,
If deitie be in thy riuers cleere.

Scarce had faire Daphne ended her request,
When by and by a trembling feare possest
Her bodie with each member of the same.
Hard barke did winde about her snow-white brest:
Her golden haire was turned to greene leaues,
Her armes into two long and branchie boughes:
Her nimble foote, which was of late so light,
Fastned remaind in rootes that could not stirre,
And such like shape remaind in euerie part.
Apollo deerely lou'd this Nymph in life,
And now he loues her turn'd into a tree:
Where thrusting his right hand into the barke
Felt, that transformed Daphnes hart did yet
Tremble, and quake vnder the same so new.
He doth imbrace those fine and tender boughes,
As though he would embrace her body yet,
The wood he kisseth, but the wood disdaines
His kisses, and doth seeme to bend away.
So in this sort Apollo stood a while
Speechlesse, and thinking of no other thing:
After like one, that is amazed in minde,
Not knowing whether he doth dreame or no,
Vpon the Gods, and heauen he doth exclaime
With angrie wordes of pitie and despite;
Bicause they vs'd such rigour to his loue.
For faine he vvould had Daphne to his vvife.
But vvhen he savv it could not come to passe,
He chose her for his tree and gaue to it
Great honours, as the like had neuer yet:
And in this great astonishment he said.

What thing is this, vvhich I do see,
Is it a dreame, or none? O that it vvere
A fansie, or some vaine deceite,

215

What, doe I erre?
Or is it night, or day, what might I be?
If it be true, I see a losse so great
With many harmes my burning soule will threat.

But yet awake I am, for in my right
Hand Python dead, and headlesse I doe beare,
And on my left arme weare
My bowe, and low my quiuer and my flight.
Why, this is Thessalie,
Which this fell beast did waste both day and night,
O woe, and after such a ioy so high,
Must such mishap my sweete content deny?

What hard and cruell God is that,
That hath transform'd with enuie and despite
Her goodly figure, and her face,
Most perfect bright?
Me thinkes, he nill deserues to banquet at
The tables of the Gods, nor heauenly place,
Since he hath wronged nature in this case.

My skill and powers beare not such a sway,
To change thee to thy former shape againe:
And that snowewhite,
And rosie face, which first did breede my paine:
The reason is, bicause that none
(Though neuer yet so learned any way,
And though they ioin'd their vertues all in one)
Can vndoe that, which one did doe alone.

But now since all the fates so dire,
And wicked destinies this good forbid,
That thou my louing wife should'st be:
Yet though they did
With more despite against my will conspire,
Thou shalt for euer be my louing tree,
And I will neuer cease to honour thee.

My yellow haire like shining threeds of golde,
To honour thee, thy leaues shall compasse round:
My harpe with siluer sound
Thou shalt adorne, and quiuer shalt vphold:
In all the world thy noble fame shall bide:
And when triumphantly
In honours chaire the Conquerour doth ride,
Before them they shall carry thee on high,
Lifting their conquest to the starrie skie.

216

And as my faire and youthfull head
Adorned is with lockes of dangling haires,
Whereon were neuer yet imploid
The little sheares:
Euen so thy leaues shall neuer be destroid.
And angry time thy honour shall not teare;
But euermore greene bowes and leaues shalt beare.

The lightning, that all creatures doth offend,
And every thing of beauties pride bereaues,
Shall neuer touch thy leaues:
But be obedient to thee without end.
From lightning to defend
The okes, with them thy branches they shall reare,
And euery where
In honour of th' Imperiall palace gate,
On portals they shall place thee with great state.

This did Apollo speake vnto the tree,
And gratefully the Laurell bow'd her top,
In steed of moouing her new changed head:
And with her new and tender branches made
A signe that she with thankfull minde receiu'd
These giftes and fauours, which that God did giue
To her, while Laurell on the earth did liue.

217

The end of the second booke.

The third Booke of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.

219

[First shall these christall streames their courses backward mooue]

First shall these christall streames their courses backward mooue,
Before I will forget my sweete and deerest Loue.

228

[If to my musickes skill]

If to my musickes skill
Apollo might his praises all resigne,
And if (vnto my will)
My speech were so diuine,
That Mercurie for greefe thereat might pine.

And if that eloquence
So famous of Minerua sweete, did seeme yet
but rude irreuerence
To mine, and each one deeme it
But harsh, and plac't with mine, but base esteeme it.

And if I were adorn'd
With hundred mouthes of iron, and like wit,
Or if I had bene borne
With Dimond toongs (admit)
Or sawe my selfe in euery part so fit:

The ruine, nor the fall
Of those, whom Ioue from scaled heauen did throwe,
Nor that great floud, when all
The drowned world did flowe,
I would not tell, nor time in them bestowe.

Onely by me thy praise
(O Chastitie) with honour should be told:
And with thy heauenly waies
I would no lesse vnfold
Those goodly partes, that thou dost still vphold.

Thou art a weeder out
Of vices, from the place of vertues graine:
And thou dost go about
Our honours to maintaine,
And dost our soules from cancred vice restraine.

The onely way and signe
Thou art, that doth the soule to vertue leade,
A captaine most diuine,
That vnder foote dost tread
Thy foes: Thy fort and tower no force doe dread.

Foule leacherie doth kill
Reason, if that it conquered hath the same,

229

And captiue to her will
Doth make it (to her shame:)
So to the maid the Mistresse subiect came.

Thou chastitie dost free
Reason (if to thy gate she bend her pace)
In more supreme degree:
And she in euery place
Is onely free, that doth thy lawe imbrace.

The soule with sweetest balme
Thou fillest, and the senses dost refine,
And therewithall, the palme
Of beautie most diuine
Thy figure beares, where brauely it doth shine.

The vaine thoughts of the minde,
Which reason cannot with her counsell tame,
Nor friendly discipline,
Thy wisedome doth reclame:
And apt to each good art the soule dost frame.

Being sincere, and pure,
Thou ioinest vs to things pure, and sincere,
And so thou dost assure
Those, that thy robe doe weare,
Friends vnto God, a conscience free from feare.

In vaine I heere doe waste
These wordes, wherewith thy praises I pretend:
Better it were (at last)
In action to commend
Thee, then with words; And so I make an end.

233

[O World, false world, and like to hell belowe]

O World , false world, and like to hell belowe,
Alake of filthinesse, and puddle mud:
A sea, where teares and miseries doe flowe:
A trauell without ease, or hope of good:
A pit of sorrow, and of endlesse woe:
A region full of brambles, thornes, and brakes:
A meadow full of adders, toades, and snakes.

A ceaslesse greefe, a false delight, and pleasure
Of men that goe on wheeles, and dancing scope:
Of him, that counteth thee his trust and treasure,
And of thy worldlings, false and vainest hope:
A heape of woes, that hath no end nor measure:
A hideous hill of care, and dwelling place
Of monsters, and of paine an endlesse race.

A poison sweete, a hony full of gall:
A dungeon of despaire, a dismall field
Of wretchednes, of seruitude, and all
Infections, that ten thousand deathes doth yeeld.
A hell, a filth, a miserie, and thrall,
A care, a greefe, a paine, a plague, a sore,
A slauerie, a death, and what is more.

Many that haue endur'd thy yoke of paine,
Haue gone about in colours to depaint
Thy wicked slightes, with which thou still dost traine
Distressed soules vnto an endlesse plaint.

234

And they poore soules haue labour'd all in vaine:
But I, if that my greefe will suffer me,
By triall can vnfold thy miserie.

Thy properties so false I haue concealed,
Thy wicked workes (till now) I haue endured:
From thy deceits I neuer yet appealed,
Feare of thy wrath my patient minde coniured
To passe that, which I neuer yet reuealed.
And not to play with thee (false world) at ouuert,
But euer in thy blazons to be couert.

Now without feare, for now I am assured,
That more thou canst not doe, then done alreadie:
Now may I boldly tell what I endured,
(Although in vaine) to helpe my greefe so steady:
Thus euer hath the want of feare procured
The poore mans song, as by the way he goeth,
Fearing no theeues, whose harme the rich man knoweth.

O with the sweetenes false world thou dost glut vs
Of thy enchaunted baites that doe delight vs,
And in thy nets of pleasures thou dost shut vs,
Where with thy hidden hookes thou dost requite vs:
And after all when smoothly thou hast put vs
In danger, then too open thou dost show them,
When with resistance we cannot forgoe them.

Thy promises are great, thy giftes are failing,
And not to challenge them thou dost disdaine vs:
In thy enormous vices we are sailing
With winde in poope, where still thou dost detaine vs;
And in the end though nothing then auailing,
The shelues and rockes to vs thou art a showing,
When backward our fraile barke cannot be going.

Yet some, though few, haue left thee with aduise,
Fearing thy sudden frowne and wonted pranks:
And others (though too late they haue beene wise)
To their good hap haue giuen a thousand thankes,
Whose eares thy Syren songs could not entice,
Seeing the pay that thou didst giue to mee
For all the seruice I haue done to thee.

And how for good with ill thou dost requite,
Thou puttest out our eies, and then in vaine,
With comfort wouldst annoynt our blinded sight:
Thou woundest all, bicause none may complaine

235

Alone, or feele the measure of thy spight,
Saying it is an ease to wretched men
In miserie to haue companions then.

But wofull man vncomfortlesse, and sad,
Alone in all this ill, and endlesse paine,
The greatest greefe, that euer any had,
Comparison with mine cannot maintaine:
Disherited I am, in sorrowes clad:
For Stela was the key of all my ioy,
Helme of this ship, that lucklesse stars destroy.

Tell me (false world) why didst thou me create
A man? for not, Stela I had not got,
Not got, not lou'd, not lou'd her, this estate
Not suffred, nor intangled in this knot
Of miseries, that is so intricate.
Then world of woe, in wickednes so rise,
What ease canst thou affoord to my poore life?

O wretched world, in thee I doe remaine
Against my will, thou maist commaund me then:
And since thy snares, thy nets, thy hookes, thy chaines,
With which thou dost deceiue vs silly men
And our subiected wils vnto thy traine,
Who shall accompany my wearied eies,
And this old age from sorrowes warrantize?

O Stela then, my loue, and all my good,
My sweete companion, tell me, may it be,
That this faire face, this figure, and the bud
Of such braue beautie may be hid from me,
And drowned in this deepe and wrongfull flood?
O bitter chaunce, O Iupiter, O Gods,
Is cruelty with beauty thus at ods?

O wretched man, misfortunes onely white,
What shall I doe, when I doe finde the place
Sole, and alone, where whilome my delight
was woont to be? O greefe and heauie case,
When calling on her sweatest name, no wight,
Nor happy answere soundeth in my eares
To comfort me, but shewes of thousand feares?

Then since she liues not, that did giue me life,
Death shall be welcome and most sweete to mee:
Dying with her, to end this cruell strife
Of life and death (Sweete) I will come to thee.

236

And weeping, where my cleerest light is hid,
There wretched man my life I meane to rid.

[Daughter, that in this deere]

Daughter , that in this deere
And christall riuer hast thy dwelling place
With Nymphes: O harken heere
To me a little space,
Parisiles, thy wofull fathers case.

Deny not him thy sight,
Who euer did for thee himselfe despise:
The absence of thy light,
And heauenly shining eies,
Vnto his soule a bitter death applies.

With so consumes his breath,
That liuing thus, his life he doth defie:
For such a life is death,

237

And he would rather die,
Then leaue to liue without thy companie.

Ioy now, (and doe not stay)
An aged man consum'd with greefe, vnlesse
That thou wilt haue him say,
The loue thou didst professe
To him, was all but fain'd, as he may gesse.

Why dost thou stay so long
A wretched soule with comfort to sustaine?
O come and breake this strong,
And mourning vale in twaine
Of his affliction, miserie, and paine.

My soule, thou woont'st with glee
To heare this voice: but either I am not,
As once I woont to bee,
Or thou art chang'd, I wot,
Or thy poore father els thou hast forgot.

But first I pray to God,
Then such obliuion in thy brest should bee,
My vitall period
May finish, not to see
My selfe forgot of her, that loued mee.

Come then my hart, and cleere
Thee of this doubt, this fauour let me trie:
If not, this riuer cleere
Shall hide me by and by,
For there with thee I meane to liue or die.

238

[Parisiles, thy dolefull song and playning]

Parisiles, thy dolefull song and playning,
Thy piteous sighes, and weeping without measure
(To comfort thee) haue made this goodly quire
Leaue their aboades, and stately seates of pleasure.
Afflict not then thy selfe, but cease thy paining,
And let thy wearied soule to rest aspire:
Let plains begun, retire,
And be in ioy, and happy gladnes ended:
And be not now offended
Parisiles, or carefull for thy daughter;
For hither we haue brought her
In good estate, for thee to see her, knowing,
That more then this to both we all are owing.

If that the Gods are iust in any wise,
Then are they bound to helpe those that doe pray
To them for helpe, and in their seruice liue.
Then since that you your selues did euer giue
To follow them, and choose the better way
In honouring vs by deede and sacrifice,
The best we can deuise
Of all good turnes, that may your loue requite,
Belongs to you of right:
Parisiles, the Gods in heauen doe knowe
In sea, and earth belowe
Thy things, and haue of them a greater care,
Then thou maist thinke, and of thy happy fare.

For which thing, they themselues had first ordeined
That Stela, the most monstrous Shepheard flying,
Should cast her selfe into this cleerest riuer,
For knowing, what her fates and stars would giue her,
Their influence with all their helpe denying
By secret meanes her fortune, they restrained,
And such a signe that rained
Ouer her head, that threat'ned to destroy her,
And present to annoy her:
They therefore will she liue within our bowres,
Vntill these lucklesse howres
Doe passe, and while this signe and fate expires,
Vnwoorthy her deserts, and high desires.

The Sonne of Goddesse Cytherea shall
Heereafter be the cause of her despaire:
(The cruell) wounding her with doubtfull loue:
And so this loue, that shall so doubtfull fall,
Great strife in her, and many wars shall moue,
Not knowing which to choose, that is most faire,

239

Her brest (loues sweete repaire)
Continually shall wauer on two men,
Inclining now and then
Her loue to one, then to another straight:
Poore soule she shall await
In this suspence, not knowing to define
To whether of them both she should incline?

And thinke not that th' immortall Gods intended
To bar these loues, that heere I am declaring,
Nor their successe would euer haue denied:
For being to a vertuous end applied,
Either of both they would not haue suspended:
Alas, it is their fate such woes preparing,
Not one nor other sparing.
Both for one cause in one loue shall be chained,
And both alike be pained:
But yet the Gods shall euer be procuring,
That, Stela then enduring
These hardest haps shall not with those be placed,
Whom Fortune alwaies checkes, and hath disgraced.

But thou must comfort thee aboue the rest,
If of these three, the hard and cruell fate
Cannot be shunn'd; their ioies that must adiourne:
After these woes Fortune shall make them blest,
Shewing her face milde and propitiate,
Gentle, and sweete: Then shall they cease to mourne,
For she her wheele shall turne:
Annoyes to ioyes, their sighes to sweetest songs
Shall turne, and all their wrongs
Shall cease: Their woes, their miseries, and teares,
Their sorrowes, greefes, and feares
Shall be one day conuerted into ioy,
Which neuer after Fortune shall destroy.

Thy daughter then (Parisiles) imbrace,
And so restore her to this place againe,
The heauens must haue their race:
Then let them run: And cease to mourne in vaine.

242

[Who comes into this place, let her take heede]

Who comes into this place, let her take heede
How she hath liu'd, and whether she hath kept
The gift of chastitie in thought and deede.
And see besides, if she hath euer stept,
With wauering minde to forren loue estranged,
And for the same, her first afection changed,

May enter in Dianas Temple heere,
Whose grace and vertues soueraine appeere.

243

The end of the third booke.

The fourth Booke of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.

244

[Phillis, my faire yoong Shepherdesse]

Phillis, my faire yoong Shepherdesse,
That from thee by and by
I must depart (O heauinesse)
O that no, but woe that I.

O from the world that now I might depart,
Since that I must (my ioy) forgo thy sight,
For now I liue too long: Then kill my hart
Mishap, if thou wilt grant me so much right:

Or fat all sisters now consent,
That she or I might die,
I craue it to a good intent:
O that no, but woe that I.

Pardon, it is not I that doe desire
Thy sudden and thy wrongfull death not, I.
It is my loue, my hot and burning fire,
That made my toong so much to goe awrie:

And feare it is that mooues my hart,
And thoughts of iealousie,
Since thou dost stay, and I depart,
O that no, but woe that I.

Such iealousies they are not, thou must thinke,
That thou some other loue wilt entertaine,
For I doe knowe that loue can neuer sinke
Into thy brest (vnto my cruell paine.)

But iealousie thou wilt forget
Heereafter, and denie
That one did see another yet:
O that no, but woe that I.

But if thou dost (faire Shepherdesse) suspect
To burie me in Lethes lake, let greefe,
Before thou shouldst so ill my loue respect,
Consume my life, let death be my releefe:

Then thou shouldst thinke but such a thought,
First (faire one) let me die:
Although it shall be deerely bought,
O that no, but woe that I.

To rid my selfe from such a cruell paine,
I would destroy my selfe, and purchase rest:

245

But then to kill thee, I doe feare againe,
Bicause thou dwellest heere within my brest:

Doe then a noble deede (my life)
From thence with speede to flie,
That then I may conclude this strife.
O that no, but woe that I.

Bargaine with me, let me this fauour craue,
To leaue my hart, that so thy harme doth dread,
Thy place againe then after thou shalt haue,
If thou maist come to it, when it is dead:

For if thou once goest foorth, I will
To death with courage hie,
And then my vitall powers kill,
O that no, but woe that I.

As if it lay within thy handes and powre
(Sweete Shepherdesse) forsake my wofull hart,
But yet thou canst not goe from thence one howre,
Neither can I, although I would, depart.

Nor yet I would not, though I might,
I say, I would not die,
But yet bicause I loose thy sight,
O that no, but woe that I.

If that I am in any thing to thee
Gratefull, this fauour then of thee I pray
Thou wouldst, when I am gone, remember me,
And say, where is my Shepherd all this day?

Then would I count my greefe but small,
If thou wilt not deny
This thing, or thinke of me at all:
Woe that no, but O that I.

Then say but I, although it be in iest,
And neuer mean'st thy promise to maintaine:
Thou shalt thereby procure some little rest
Vnto my parting soule, which I will faine:

Little I craue to ease my hart,
And paines, yet let me trie
This fauour, Then I will depart.
O that no, but woe that I.

252

[Neuer a greater foe did loue disdaine]

Neuer a greater foe did loue disdaine,
Or trod on grasse so gay,
Nor Nymph greene leaues with whiter hand hath rent,
More golden haire the winde did neuer blowe,
Nor fairer dame hath bound in white attire,
Or hath in lawne more gracious features tied,
Then my sweete Enemie.

Beautie and chastitie one place refraine,
In her beare equall sway:
Filling the world with woonder and content:
But they doe giue me paine, and double woe,
Since loue and beautie kindled my desire,
And cruell chastitie from me denied
All sense of iollitie.

253

There is no Rose, nor Lillie after raine,
Nor flowre in month of May,
Nor pleasant meade, nor greene in sommer sent,
That seeing them, my minde deliteth soe,
As that faire flowre, which all the heauens admire,
Spending my thoughts on her, in whom abide
All grace and giftes on hie.

Me thinkes my heauenly Nymph I see againe
Her necke and breast display,
Seeing the whitest Ermine to frequent
Some plaine, or flowers that make the fairest showe,
O Gods, I neuer yet beheld her nier,
Or far, in shade, or sunne, that satisfied
I was in passing by.

The meade, the mount, the riuer, wood, and plaine,
With all their braue array,
Yeeld not such sweete, as that faire face, thats bent
Sorrowes, and ioy in each soule to bestowe
In equall partes, procur'd by amorous fire:
Beautie and loue in her their force haue tried,
To blinde each humane eie.

Each minde and will, which wicked vice doth staine
Her vertues breake, and stay:
All aires infect by fire are purg'd and spent,
Though of a great foundation they did growe.
O body, that so braue a soule dost hire,
And blessed soule, whose vertues euer pried
Aboue the starrie skie.

Onely for her my life in ioies I traine,
My soule sings many a lay:
Musing on her, new seas I doe inuent
Of soueraine ioy, wherein with pride I rowe:
The deserts for her sake I doe require,
For without her, the springs of ioy are dried,
And that I doe defie.

Sweete fate, that to a noble deede dost straine,
And lift my hart to day,
Sealing her there with glorious ornament:
Sweete seale sweete greefe, and sweetest ouerthrowe,
Sweete miracle, whose fame cannot expire:
Sweete wound, and golden shaft, that so espied
Such heauenly companie
Of beauties graces in sweete vertues died,
As like were neuer in such yeeres descried.

255

[Neuer so true a subiect to great loue]

Neuer so true a subiect to great loue,
Put sounding Baggepipe to his mouth and toong:
Nor euer Shepherd, that did keepe
In any meade his silly sheepe,
And neuer did so gracious members mooue
Shepherd so faire, so lustie, and so yoong,
In throwing of the barre, or steeled dart,
As this my deerest friend, and louing hart.

His songs and ditties, which he sung and plaied,
Hath made the Satyres leaue the sweete pursute
Of Nymphes, that they had chaced,
And in their armes imbraced:
And them besides, with his sweete musicke staied:
Forgetfull of their feare (amaz'd and mute.)
The hardest rockes he makes both soft and tender,
And mildnes in great wildnes doth engender.

256

Vnto his person, beautie, and his grace
The Nymphes, and Napees faire to yeeld are glad:
The Niades, Hamadriades,
The Oreades, and Driades:
For such a feature, and so sweete a face
Paris, Alexis, nor Endimion had:
The fairest in the world he doth despise
But onely one, whom iustly he doth prize.

Bicause that she may onely him admit,
Her onely, and none else, he doth obay:
She onely doth deserue
Him, he but her to serue:
She onely him, he onely her doth fit:
For th' one is euen with th' other euery way:
For he for her was borne, (for her alone)
And she for him, or else was borne for none.

So that if she had not beene borne at all,
He had not lou'd, for he his like should want:
And so she, to haue loued
Her equall, it behooued
That he was borne, For none but he should fall
Equall to her, he then might iustly vaunt
That she was borne, onely for him reserued,
And she that he, whom onely she deserued.

Fortune did fauour him aboue the rest,
By making him the gladdest man that liues,
If that perhaps she knew
His loue so pure and trew,
And faith so firme, within his constant brest,
(She that her lights vnto each creature giues)
In whose braue beautie nature strain'd to showe
More art, and skill then euer she did knowe.

The poore soule takes his greefe, and holdes his peace,
Which to reueale he wanted meanes of late:
Once did he goe about it,
But straight then did he doubt it:
With saying naught, his paine that doth increase
He passeth, not to loose his woonted state:
For though she be in all the world alone
The fairest, yet as hard as any stone.

Then (Shepherdesse) this rigour lay aside:
And flie not him, that paines so much for thee:
It is a great defect

257

Such hardnes to detect:
Let not so ill a thing with thee abide,
Where each thing is, as good as good may bee.
And since in thee there should be nothing vicious,
Pay then the loue, thou owest vnto Delicius.

258

[With sorrow, teares, and discontent]

With sorrow, teares, and discontent,
Loue his forces doth augment.

Water is to meades delight,
And the flaxe doth please the fire:
Oile in lampe agreeth right,

259

Greene meades are the flockes desire:
Ripening fruit, and wheatie eares
With due heate are well content:
And with paines and many teares
Loue his forces doth augment.

267

[Since all my fortunes are so ouerthwart]

Since all my fortunes are so ouerthwart,
And so vnequall to my iust pretence,
That where dame Nature (Mistresse of her art)
Did make an end to frame each beauties part,
There all my ils and sorrowes did commence:
Anguish, and woes, fierce torments, griefe, and paine
With their braue force my soule doe ouerrunne,
That they doe worke it to their onely vaine,

268

As blustring windes vpon the cloudes and raine,
Or as the snowe that meltes before the sunne.

And then since that my wet and wearied eies
Were woont to be enuious once to see,
Bicause they sawe the seate, where nature lies
With all her treasures, and the chiefest prize,
Of beautie, that in all the world might be:
Now shall they onely seeke, and wish this hire
(Continually in bitternes to weepe)
Now shall they burne in swelling teares like fire,
And now in lieu of seeing that desire,
My cheekes in them shall neuer cease to steepe.

Since th' absence of the Nymph, I loue so much,
Hath deyn'd to beare me company of late,
Then needes my life must languish, and be such,
That greefes and sorrowes will not also grutch
To follow absence, as their chiefest mate:
And since my Star is hid, and gone away,
Whereby my life and senses I did guide,
I cannot choose but erre, and goe astray,
And liue in senselesse darknes euery day,
Finding no light wherein I may abide.

And now exiled, shall my body flie
(Since hard mishap the same did so oppresse)
But yet my soule shall euermore be nie,
And shall be neuer absent, though I die,
From the sweete body of my Shepherdesse:
And so if that my vitall powers quaile,
Or bodie die by wandring heere and there,
Impossible it is my soule should faile,
Or death or danger should the same assaile,
Accompanying her body any where.

My soule for euer doth in her remaine,
My body but for absence doth lament,
That though my wretched body now is faine
To wander heere, yet doth my loue restraine
My soule to stay, that neuer would consent:
Then (miserable body) once begin
This sorrowfull departure with no wonder
To feele with paine and greefe: And neuer lin
To waile the cruell torments thou art in,
With soule and body parting thus asunder:

You shall my drenched eies, no lesse then this,
Feele this great miserie, that greeues me soe,

269

Your companie heere shall not be amisse,
Since that you were the onely fault, ywisse,
Of all my troubles, and tormenting woe.
Then seas of teares begin to drowne your marge,
And weepe for your attempt so rashly done,
Let weeping be your office and your charge,
And care no more to looke so much at large,
Let it suffice, you sawe another sunne.

The intellectuall and inwardeies
Shall onely haue this charge, and care to see,
And you my corporall, with mournefull cries,
Bewaile my harmes, in which no comfort lies,
Onely to you this office I decree.
And those which are impassible at all,
Shall see at length and in succeeding time
Impossible and strange things to befall,
And you, as passible heerafter shall
Weary your selues by meanes of such a crime:

For you they shall with double sight behold
That shining blaze, that braue and glorious sight,
Without the feare of hurt, and shall be bold
With great delight their senses to vnfold
On that, which did your lookes with harme requite.
They shall behold that now I am, and was
Condemn'd without the course of iustice lore,
For if I did offend to loue her as
My selfe, then I confesse this fault did passe
To make me suffer, what I can no more.

And of this thing I meane not to repent
For happen will, what happen shall, to prooue
Each amorous torment I am well content,
And with goodwill with meere and franke consent
I yeeld vnto the harme that comes of loue.
In louing her, I doe all what I may,
Though to my minde it falleth out amisse,
I promise to forget her euery way,
And that my loue for euer shall decay,
If she would leaue to be what now she is.

Alas she cannot leaue to be the same,
A thing it is, her minde that well doth please,
Hauing no peere in cruell beauties fame:
Nor I cannot, but still maintaine this flame,
Nor t'is a thing conuenient for mine ease:
And if she said to me, with little loue,

270

That it were best for me to hate and scorne,
And should finde ease, if I began to prooue
The same, I answere, that it doth behooue
Me still to choose the worse, to worser borne.

My piteous wordes she did condemne with fell
And angry lookes, for telling her mine ill
(Infernall greefe and to my soule a hell)
That with such crueltie she should repell
Me so, bicause I did obey her will:
She bid me tell her (O accursed day)
If that my torments were for her or no?
And if I lou'd her so as I did say?
She did commaund, Alas I did obay
Why angry then, if she will haue it so?

Weepe eies of earth O weepe, and weepe no more
My miserie, and whether it doth tend:
Eies of my soule, behold and then deplore
My wretched state, what I was once before,
And what I am, and what must be my end,
O wofull life, O poore afflicted hart,
Tell me (poore soule) how canst thou not but faile
In passions of such torments, paine, and smart?
With such a thought how dost thou not depart
And perish when no succour can preuaile?

O haplesse louer wretched, and forgot,
Though happy once, and happy but of late:
To day thou diest, but yet thy loue cannot,
To day thy greefes begin their gordian knot,
To day thy ioy doth end, and happy state:
To day thy woes, and sorrowes doe appeere,
To day thy sadnes, and thy paines are knowen,
To day thy sweete content doth finish heere,
To day thy dismall death approcheth neere,
To day thy firmest loue, and faith is knowen.

What doe you now mine eies, what doe you rest?
Let out your flouds, whose streames in greefe doe swell:
For it may be, you may within my brest
Quench out this burning flame, or at the lest,
Coole this great heate that burnes like Mongibelle?
But woe is me, I striue but all in vaine
Against the streame: For golden Tagus streames
Nor Duetus floud, nor Iberus againe,
Can quench this heate or mitigate the paine,
How then my teares? Alas, these are but dreames,

271

And in such sort, bicause it doth offend
My hart, that burnes like to the smithie flame,
For it doth more increase, and doth extend,
And more it doth with sparkling flames incend,
The more that water's cast vpon the same:
And now since want of hedgrow faileth me,
And that I feele increase, not want of paine,
I thinke it best for me to goe and see,
If I can finde some other hedge or tree,
To write that there, which this cannot containe.

272

The end of the fourth booke.

The fifth Booke of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.

276

A Sonnet.

[If teares we spill by louing, and bereaue not]

If teares we spill by louing, and bereaue not,
Our harts of troubles, which for loue we faine not,
Dainties they are of loue, which we obtaine not,
Dainties they are of loue, which we conceiue not:
If that by louing passions we desire not,
And sighes for loue, wherewith we doe complaine all,
Dainties they are of loue, which we disdaine all,
Dainties they are of loue, which we require not.
The false suspectes to be of all eschewed,
The iealousies of euery Mistresse mooued,
Dainties they are of loue not well aduised:
To faine not, without why not to be loued,

277

To thinke not, without cause, not to be viewed,
Dainties they are of loue of all despised.

278

[Ah well away how firme and suer ar]

Ah well away how firme and suer ar
Torments, and paines in each true louers hart:
For when I thought that I did wander far,
And changed place, this fierce and amorous war,
And wounding greefe would from my soule depart.
Yet now in fine by proofe too well I knowe,
That greefe, and sorrowes, absence doth not kill,
As some doe say; but makes them more to growe:
And wit so deerely bought with double woe,
Is bought (I needes must say) against my will.

I goe from place to place, and neuer yet
My haunting greefe, and cares doe goe away:
I am so diuers in my wandring wit,
That in one place I neuer rest, nor sit,
Yet still the same are sworne with me to stay.
My fainting legs my drooping bodie beares
From place to place, and yet fierce paine sustaines,
It is so seasoned with my swelling teares,
That since my Life of late my loue for sweares,
All comforts that I offer, it disdaines.

My cruell paine, wherewith my life is spent,
I would contemne, and would but little make,
If that my Mistresse would in minde consent,
That I should beare this ceaselesse punishment
Onely for her for her most sweetest sake.
But that which makes so wide, and deepe a tent
Of greefe within my hart, and makes it die,
As often as I thinke how she is bent,
Is, that to that she neuer will relent,
Where remedie, nor any helpe doth lie.

279

After that loue so strong and firme a fort
Had built within my brest, vnto his minde,
Louing, a death I rather would support,
Then now to liue after another sort,
Or for my selfe in libertie to finde.
For speedie death I knowe must be my fate
With such a life, as now I doe endure,
With mine owne handes to end this hard debate,
To cruell death I will set ope the gate,
And in my brest will lodge it most secure.

Who doubts that if but once she came to knowe
My greeuous paines and passions which I feele,
But that to me some pitie she would showe,
Though in her brest, where pitie yet may growe,
She had a hart harder then any steele.
Who doubtes, if that she did but knowe the smart,
Her louer feeles, his plaintes and endlesse mone,
But that she would with milde and gentle hart
Pitie his case, although she had each part
Of it, as hard as craggie Dimond stone.

Orpheus, when descended into hell
For faire Euridice his wife, and past
The triple-headed-dog, that did not yell,
Nor barke, the Fiends that in Auernum dwell,
Made not so milde, at his sweete sound agast,
As my tormenting passions, and my paine
Would mooue the hardest hart to heauinesse,
And euery hart in all the world againe,
And not without great reason, nor in vaine,
But that of my most cruell Shepherdesse.

Ah woe how haue I thus deluded beene?
How haue I liu'd deceiued in this art?
Since that so simply I did ouerweene,
That there could be no difference betweene
Her fairest face, and her most cruell hart.
What man betwixt the cope of heauen and hell
Is there of wit so simple and so slender,
That could but thinke, or once imagine well,
That such a hard, and cruell hart could dwell
In such a daintie bodie and so tender?

What humane wit (O greefe that I doe see it)
Would euer thinke that crueltie possest
Her hart, or such a Tygresse hart to be yet
Placed in her, whose outward shew to me yet

280

Should promise peace, and in so milde a brest?
Who would haue thought (it almost was in vaine)
That from her toong, distilling honie drops,
So fierce an answere should proceede againe,
And wordes she vttered with so great disdaine,
Bittrer to me then gall, or wildest hops.

And, that I am deceiued in this ground
Of my faire Nymph, I ioy with all my hart:
Bicause I would not thinke, there could be found
In so great good a thing, that should redound
To so great ill, and to so bad a part.
It shall be therefore best for me ywisse
Not to suspect in her so foule a crime,
That she is hard, or that she cruell is,
But my mishap, that euer went amisse
Euen from my birth-day to this very time.

Bicause my paines should neuer be aboue
My ioies, and care before my sweete content
Should come: I am most constant in my loue,
Sans widowhood, like to the turtle doue,
That losse of her companion doth lament.
In liuing, and in louing too amaine,
I thinke I goe beyond her euery howre,
But yet I am not like to her againe,
In that I did not first a sweete obtaine,
Before I tasted of a bitter sowre.

All that my wofull minde should recreate,
The water, that is christall pure and cleere,
I cannot choose, nor otherwise but hate,
Bicause I would not see so bad a state,
And such a haplesse body wander heere.
Like as the snake, or adder that doth bite
I flie, with hastie foote, and doe not stay
In any place, where greene may giue delight,
For this doth leese his hew, and vigour quite,
Where hope begins to faile and to decay.

If musing all alone by chaunce I stay
Vpon my greefe, that smallest ioy denies,
And see some spring or fountaine in the way
I flie, and softly to my selfe I say,
Let that suffice, that runneth fro mine eies.
And if in taking some poore little pleasure
(If pleasure in a haplesse state I take)
And view the greene, the countries hope and treasure,

281

I flie, and say, that hope of death must measure
My minde with ioy, that doth my pleasures make.

According to my life in great disgrace,
And miseries, euen from my mothers wombe,
I thinke (and as I am in such a case)
That if I follow death with happie pace,
Death will not yet vnto my succour come.
I thinke sometimes (alas weake is my might)
To giue my selfe some comfort and some rest,
But they doe flie from me by day and night,
In me (poore wretch) they can take no delight,
And so my paines doe double in my brest.

It wearies me (for greefe doth euer range)
To be so long together in a place:
Yet my vnwearied greefes doe neuer change
Their place, but still my seldome ioies in strange
And cruell manner from my brest doe chace:
Heere stay my song, and tell the world my smart,
And let this tree with thee haue neuer end,
For with me shall my haunting greefe depart,
For it will neuer leaue my wofull hart,
Like to a trustie good and faithfull friend.

286

[Stela mine onely Goddesse, and my good]

Stela mine onely Goddesse, and my good,
Whiter then is th' vntrodden snowie way,
And redder then the rose, but late a bud
Halfe blowen, and pluckt with deaw by breake of day:
To see more gracious then the Plane tree shape,
And sweeter then the ripe and swelling grape:
More pleasant then the shade in sommer time,
More then the sunne in winters coldest prime.

More fresh then any coole and trembling winde,
More noble then the fruit, that orchards yeelds,
More iocund then the tender kid, by kinde
When full, it skips and runs about the fields:
More flowrie then the rich and pleasant meade,
With painted flow'rs in mids of May be spred:
More soft then spotlesse downe in Cygnets brest,
More then the milke, and cheese curds yet vnprest.

More shining then cleere christall and transparent,
And finer wasted then the Cypres tree,
Straighter then is the Poplar eminent,
Placed amongst those trees that lower be
More cleere then ice, or any frozen raine
And (if in onely this thou dost disdaine,
Bicause it is with more perfection filled)
More faire then any Orchard that is tilled.

And yet with this more fierce and more vnstaied
Then Bull, that yet was neuer tam'd with yoke,
Prouder then Peacocke with her taile displaied,
Harder then old and knotty sturdie oke:
More then the rocks immooueable, and madder
Then angrie snake, or cruell trodden adder.
More furious then the swiftest streames: then thornes
More sharpe and pricking with thy singing scornes.

More deafe then is the sea, to my desires:
Then smoothest streames more full of deepe deceate,
Stronger vnto my paines then greatest fires,
More cruell then Beare, that giues the teate:
Then Sallow wand, or Osier that is weake,
If it be greene, more hard and tough to breake.
More contrarie vnto my ioy, and rest,
Then hungrie woolfe to tender lambkins brest.

And that which doth increase my cruell paine,
And doth reuiue my hot and flaming fire,
By knowing which, it hath my comforts slaine,

287

And hope, whereto in thought I mought aspire,
Is, that thou art not onely swifter, then
The Hart pursude of hounds into his den,
But swifter then the swiftest blowing winde,
Swifter then time, then thought within the minde.

Suer I am, if well thou hadst me knowne,
(Stela my life) from me thou wouldst not flie,
Or sometimes yet from me if thou wert gone,
Thou wouldst returne without my call or crie:
And if thou didst stay there but somewhat long,
Then wouldst thou thinke thou didst thy selfe great wrong:
I knowe that this will greeue thee at the hart,
To see me passe for thee such paines and smart.

A Caue, that doth containe the better part
Of this great hill, hewen out of quarrie stone,
Serues for my rocke, the which is of such art,
That there the Sommer sunne is neuer knowne,
Nor winters cold is felt within that place,
But apples there doe hang in maruellous grace
Hard by the ground, that shade in hottest weather,
And loade the boughes, they hang so thicke together.

Clusters of grapes doe beautifie my vines,
Some golden, purple red, all faire and full,
Of part whereof I make most daintie wines;
And part of them I keepe for thee to pull:
And with thy hands most delicate and faire
Gather thou maist ripe plums by goodly paires,
Vnder the shadowes of their boughes, to ease thee,
And Apricocks, and cheries if it please thee.

Heere haue I damsens, nuts, and coloured peares,
And peaches fine, that would each eie inuite:
And euery tree, and fruit this Iland beares,
All for thy seruice, pleasure, and delight:
And as my hart to please thee I haue bowed,
And so haue these the selfe same office vowed:
In Autumne (if thy husband I might bee)
Chestnuts, and Medlars I will keepe for thee.

As many flockes as heere thou dost behold,
Which in these banks I feede with mournefull song,
And many more within these hils vntold
And woods and vales estray, to me belong:
Many that lie in shades along this coast,
All which to tell were but a labour lost.

288

For poorest men they say, are woont to keepe,
The number of their cattell and their sheepe.

The praises which, I vaunt vnto thee heere,
I will not thou beleeue in any sort,
Thine eies the same shall witnes very cleere,
If so thou please, and not my bare report:
I durst be bound, that if thou cam'st to trie,
Thou wouldst affirme I told no tale nor lie:
Since that to milke them all I am vnable,
Or ease their bags, trust me, this is no fable.

I haue likewise shut vp in shadowed places
(All by themselues) great store of gentle lambes,
And little kids, with spotted skins and faces,
Of equall age new weaned from their dams:
In many other houses large and wide
Great store of wanton calues I keepe beside,
And milke doth flowe within my caue, whereby
My cunning in this manner I doe trie.

Profit thereof in diuers sorts I make,
Leauing the thinnest of it to be drunke,
Some part of it within a charne I shake,
And beate it there a while till it be shrunke:
Some part againe for tender cheese I dresse,
And into that, iuice of an herbe I presse.
And yet some part whiter then Ermins skin
I turne to curdes, and put some creame therein.

Yet will I giue thee greater giftes then these
(If thou dost reckon these but poore and small)
Wilde boares, and goates and bucks shall be thy fees,
Conies, and hares, and hounds to hunt withall.
Two turtle doues I tooke out of their nest
In bignes, colour, and in all the rest
So like, that them hardly thou shalt descrie,
Although thou markest them with narrowest eie.

I tooke them from that tree in yonder ground,
For thee to play with all when thou art wearie;
Two little whelpe beares after this I found
And brought them home to sport and make thee merie:
Both these and them I nourish to delight thee,
If thou but with thy comming wouldst requite mee:
And finding them I said I would reserue them
For thee my Stela, who dost best deserue them.

289

Come Stela then out of thy watry brooke
And see how I am staying for thee heere,
To my request vouchsafe a gracious looke,
Calling vpon thee with most heauie cheere:
Yet thy disdaine (as I hope for the best)
Will not deny my pitifull request,
When that thou know'st my wealth without compare,
My selfe of person nimble, stout and faire:

I did behold my selfe not long agoe
Within a fountaine cleerer then the skie,
I view'd my selfe from top vnto the toe,
And without doubt my person pleasd mine eie:
Your Iupiter, and euery heauenly creature
Enuies my stature, and my comely feature:
Your mightie God, to whom you sacrifice,
And honour so, whose Godhead I despise.

Behold againe what curled lockes of haire
Falling vpon my shoulders, and my face,
And goodly beard doth make me seeme so faire,
And to my person giues a manly grace.
Thinke that my body is not foule therefore,
Bicause of bristled haire it hath such store.
Foule is the tree when Autumnes course bereaues
Her boughes of fruit, of greene, and comely leaues.

How lookes the horse that hath no crest, or maine,
Nor bushie taile to grace his body foorth;
How lookes the hauke that hath no wings, nor traine,
Faire is the wooll of sheepe and mickle woorth.
The man lookes bald that hath no comely beard,
And as with sprites he had beene lately feard:
Then foule I am not with my beard, and haire,
Since with the same I am more perfect faire.

Besides all this I come of no base blood,
For God Syluanus is my noble Sire:
Thy father he shall be, if thou thinke good;
Then pitie me, and graunt me my desire:
Harke then to me, scorne not to see my paine,
Let not my sighes and teares be spent in vaine:
Onely of thee, and humbly I doe craue
Of this poore wretch some pitie now to haue.

I which doe scorne the furious thunder blowe
Of Iupiter, and other Gods despise,
Thee, Stela, for my Goddesse I doe knowe,

290

And come to thee with humble weeping eies:
More then his bolts thy anger makes afraid,
And pearcing eies my senses haue dismaid:
Thou dost deserue more honour, praise, and loue,
Then Iupiter, or all the Gods aboue.

It would not halfe so much haue greeu'd my hart,
That thou my loue so strongly didst denie
(Being so faire, and such one as thou art)
If (as from me) from others thou didst flie:
But since Delicius (wherein thou dost erre)
Before stout Gorphorost thou dost preferre,
His small imbracements, and too far vnmeete
Thou louest more, then mine so great and sweete.

But let him swim in seas of his delight,
And with thy fauours let him now preuaile:
If time, and place be graunted to my might,
Soone will I make him strike his puffed saile,
Soone shall he feele my strong and sinewed arme,
And how it will his amorous senses charme:
O greefe, that time and place doe not affoord,
To make my deede as currant as my word.

If, with my handes his tender trembling flesh
I will dishiuer, and in mammocks teare,
And then his bones in peeces I will thresh,
And in the forrest, cast them heere and there:
And dye the riuers with his blood I will,
And throwe his members from this steepie hill
Into thy lap, where, laughing, I will stand
To see, if there he ioyneth hand in hand.

O woe is me, that thus tormenting greefe,
And wrath doth make my toong to goe awrie:
O thoughts, that feele no hope, nor hope releefe:
In Aetnas flames I liue, I burne, I die:
I burne (O greefe) and die, thou wilt not end
To succour me, that am thy louing friend.
If thus thou handlest those, that languish for thee,
How wilt thou those intreate, that doe abhor thee?

301

The end of the fifth booke.

The sixth Booke of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.

303

[Louers, record my memorie, and name]

Louers, record my memorie, and name,
For one that is more happie then the rest:
And solemnize my conquest and my fame,
Which I haue got in being onely blest:
Extoll my glorie to the loftie sunne,
Which with this famous triumph I haue wonne,
To be the happiest man, that hath beene borne,
Of all, that haue to loue allegeance sworne.

What louer yet was found vnto this howre
(Though in his loue most fauour'd he had beene)
Of greefe that had not tasted yet some sowre,
And had not felt some paine, and sorrowes seene?
Or who hath with such sweete his loue endured,
(Though of his Mistresse he were most assured,
And though she loued him with truest hart)
That felt not yet a little iealous smart?

Amongst all these, I onely am exempted
From sorrowes, troubles, from mishaps and paines:
With both handes full I liue in ioies contented:
And more if I did tell, yet more remaines:
Secure I am, that in my happy brest
Vile iealousie shall neuer build her nest:
And that I may with greefe be neuer paid,
A strong and firme foundation I haue laid.

Nothing in all the world shall breake this chaine
(If cruell death doth spare me with her dart)
And yet if loue in sepulcher remaine,
Death shall not there dissolue it in my hart:
See then how that most strong it needes must be,

304

Since to my will I wrought the same in me.
And for you may not say that I doe mooue it
With blazons, barke with reasons I will prooue it.

Who to himselfe could be so inhumane
(Vnlesse he were depriued of his wit)
That swimming in a pleasant Ocean
Of ioies, would wish for greefe, not finding it.
Such ioies I taste, as neuer more I could,
My loue admits no sadnes, though I would:
For (yet admit) that I would now procure it,
My loue is such, that it will not endure it.

I haue good fortune at mine owne commaund,
Since I haue fauours at mine owne free will:
My loue to her, her loue to me is pawn'd,
Which fortunes spite and time shall neuer spill.
But now if ought with greefe my minde may mooue,
It is, to haue Corriuals in my loue:
But they my ioy, and glorie doe augment,
For more they are, the more is my content.

If any care for these Corriuals dooe
(These faithfull louers) in my brest remaine,
Then see, how that with earnest suites I wooe,
And seeke them for my Shepherdesse againe:
And (truly) if it lay within my power,
A thousand I would send her euery hower:
But since I am so rude, and but a clowne,
I cannot set her golden praises downe.

If that with all the faire one should resort,
Shewing her vertues, and each goodly grace:
Little should then my homely praise import,
Hauing the world at her commaund and trace:
For (saying naught) her praise she better would
Her selfe disclose, though I said all I could:
And how much more, since I want skill, and art,
Of her to blazon foorth the meanest part.

But now behold how far from that aboue
I haue estraied (my promise and intent)
My promise was, with reasons now to prooue,
That crosse, nor care my ioies could not preuent.
I know not, if by rashnes, or aduice,
It was my thought, that did my toong entice?
For when I thinke to praise my Shepherdesse,
Then straight my toong doth in her fauour presse.

305

It takes no heede, and hath but small remorce,
To whom, what, where, how oft, why, how and when
Her praises be, nor of her little force,
Nor vertues of this fairest one: But then,
All in a heate, her praise begins to babble,
And I to stay such furie far vnable:
For thousand times I sharply chide the same,
But more I chide, the more it is to blame.

Counsell I giue it, and with counsell threate,
That neuer it presume to meddle heere,
By telling it, it is too base a seate
For her high praise, that neuer had her peere:
But shamelesse it replies: let this not greeue thee,
And boldly saies: T'is true I doe beleeue thee.
For I confesse I neuer did suffice,
But such a want I hope my will supplies.

As to a foole, seeing her follies such,
Sometimes I yeeld at length, to leaue the raine:
If then my Nymph so basely it doth touch,
It doth deserue no punishment, nor paine:
For howsoere she praise her: In the end
I feare not, that my loue it will offend:
But to returne fro whence my toong did run,
Breefly I will conclude what I begun.

Another Cupid raignes within my brest,
Then Venus sonne that blinde, and franticke boy:
Diuers his works, intent and interest,
His fashions, sportes, his pleasure and his ioy
No slightes, deceites, nor woes he doth inspire,
He burnes not like to that vnseemely fire:
From reason, will my loue cannot entice,
Since that it is not placed in this vice.

For beautie I loue not my Shepherdesse
(Although she may be lou'd for passing faire)
Beautie in her the lest part doth possesse,
(Though hers doth make all others to despaire)
For mildnes, wisedome, and for vertues sake,
This zealous loue I first did vndertake:
And so my loue is honest, chaste, and sure,
Not wanton, fleshly, filthie, nor vnpure.

I wish my flockes greene grasse may neuer finde,
Nor cleerest springs, their burning thirst to slake,
Nor shades enioy in heate, nor coolest winde,

306

And that they may no profit to me make,
That March may come with rigour, to their harme,
And sheds and sheltor want to keepe them warme,
If euer any wicked thought had past
My loue, but what was honest, cleene, and chaste.

The Iuniper oile may neuer helpe my flockes,
With lothsome mangie being ouerrun,
Milke faile my sheepe, decay my countrie stockes
And little kid by hunger be vndone:
And let my masty lay him downe to sleepe,
So that the woolfe doth kill him, and my sheepe,
If in my loue I euer had inuention
Of wickednes, bad thought, or bad intention.

But thinke not that my loue so chaste and pure,
Without the slaine of vaine and wanton thought,
And louing so sincerely, and so sure,
From vertue of mine owne proceedeth not:
Onely from her alone it is proceeding,
That no foule thought doth suffer to be breeding:
Dishonest motions in a fleshly soule
Her modest sight most brauely doth controule.

For plainly, and not vainly, I suspect,
That if some boldface yonker did bewray
His wanton loue, or did to her detect
His thoughts, that did from honestie estray,
In looking on her onely, I durst sweare,
His wordes would freeze within his mouth for feare,
And that he could not onely speake for shame,
But neuer durst againe presume the same.

If in this song I purposed to touch
Her honestie, and vertues to explaine,
I knowe I am not worthy for so much,
When thousand bookes cannot the same containe:
And more, that once I somewhat sung, and saide
Before, and that my voice was then afraide,
For being so base: Now must it erre, as lately,
Since that her praise is growne more high and stately.

Then louing, as you see, with such successe,
I doe not feare disfauours any whit,
Musing alone on my faire Shepherdesse,
Fauours doe come by heapes, my minde to fit,
And so of her I neuer beg, nor craue them,
But in this sort continually I haue them:

307

As many as my handes can hold and borrow,
Wherefore I liue in ioy deuoid of sorrow.

Louing in this same sort, there is no feare
Of iealousie, that's either true or fained:
A riuall heere sweete companie doth beare,
And all that in chaste loue in one are chained:
Yet name of Riuall fits not well this place,
Since chastitie together all imbrace:
Nor different mindes we can be said to carie,
Since our intents in no one point doe varie.

Come then all you that loue, come by and by,
Leaue euery one his Shepherdesse, and loue,
Come loue my Shepherdesse, and for her die
In that that's pure, and commeth from aboue:
And you shall see how that your fortunes far
It dignifies, to loue this radiant star
Of vertue, and the time you shall auerre
Ill spent, that is not spent in louing her.

311

[To Luztea faire I do belong, this collar can auouch it]

To Luztea faire I do belong, this collar can auouch it,
Let no man therefore be so bold, without her leaue to touch it.

314

[If that a small occasion had the power]

If that a small occasion had the power,
To make thee leese thy rosie hew and colour,
Diana, say, how fals it out this hower,
That all my woes to pitie make thee duller?

Hath now a little peece of paper made thee
So milde, and gentle in so short a morrow,
And cannot yet my greatest loue perswade thee,
To make thee take compassion of my sorrow?

How of my selfe am I my selfe ashamed,
That thou shouldst reckon of so short a writing,
Which cannot iudge, nor vnderstand thy graces?
And yet thou wilt not bend thee to requiting
Of that, that's written in my hart inflamed,
And which hath alwaies suffred thy disgraces.

315

[A faire maide wed to prying iealousie]

A faire maide wed to prying iealousie,
One of the fair'st as euer I did see:
If that thou wilt a secret louer take,
(Sweete life) doe not my secret loue forsake.

Eclipsed was our Sunne,
And faire Aurora darkned to vs quite,

316

Our morning star was done,
And Shepherdes star lost cleane out of our sight,
When that thou didst thy faith in wedlocke plight:
Dame nature made thee faire,
And ill did carelesse fortune marrie thee,
And pitie, with despaire
It was, that this thy haplesse hap should be,
A faire maide wed to prying iealousie.

Our eies are not so bold
To view the sunne, that flies with radiant wing,
Vnlesse that we doe hold
A glasse before them, or some other thing:
Then wisely this to passe did Fortune bring,
To couer thee with such a vaile:
For heeretofore, when any viewed thee,
Thy sight made his to faile:
For (sooth) thou art, thy beautie telleth me,
One of the fair'st as euer I did see.

Thy graces to obscure,
With such a froward husband, and so base,
She meant thereby, most sure
That Cupids force, and loue thou shouldst imbrace:
For t'is a force to loue, no woondrous case.
Then care no more for kinne,
And doubt no more, for feare thou must forsake,
To loue thou must beginne,
And from hencefoorth this question neuer make,
If that thou should'st a secret louer take?

Of force it doth behooue
That thou should'st be belou'd: and that againe
(Faire Mistresse) thou shouldst loue:
For to what end, what purpose, and what gaine,
Should such perfections serue? as now in vaine.
My loue is of such art,
That (of it selfe) it well deserues to take
In thy sweete loue a part:
Then for no Shepherd, that his loue doth make,
(Sweete Life) doe not my secret loue forsake.

[If that the gentle winde]

If that the gentle winde
Doth mooue the leaues with pleasant sound,
If that the kid, behinde

317

Is left, that cannot finde
Her dam, runs bleating vp and downe:
The Baggepipe, reede, or flute,
Onely with ayre if that they touched bee,
With pitie all salute,
And full of loue doe brute
Thy name, and sound, Diana, seeing thee,
A faire maide wed to prying iealousie.

The fierce and sauage beastes
(Beyond their kinde and nature yet)
With piteous voice and brest,
In mountaines without rest
The selfe same song doe not forget:
If that they staid at (Faire)
And had not passed to prying (Iealousie)
With plaintes of such despaire,
As moou'd the gentle aire
To teares: The song that they did sing, should be
One of the fair'st as euer I did see.

Mishap, and fortunes play,
Ill did they place in beauties brest:
For since so much to say
There was of beauties sway,
They had done well to leaue the rest.
They had ynough to doe,
If in her praise their wits they did awake:
But yet so must they too,
And all thy loue that woo,
Thee not too coy, nor too too proud to make,
If that thou wilt a secret louer take.

For if thou hadst but knowne
The beautie, that they heere doe touch,
Thou wouldst then loue alone
Thy selfe, nor any one,
Onely thy selfe accounting much.
But if thou dost conceaue
This beautie, that I will not publike make,
And mean'st not to bereaue
The world of it, but leaue
The same to some (which neuer peere did take)
Sweete Life doe not my secret loue forsake.

318

[Faire Shepherdesse, what hast with greefe to fill me]

Faire Shepherdesse, what hast with greefe to fill me,
And how long dost thou purpose to destroy me,
When wilt thou make an end with woundes to noy me,
Not stretching foorth thy cruell hand to kill me?
Tell me the cause, why dost thou so much will me
To visit thee, and with such words dost ioy me?
That to my death I rather would imploy me,
Then by such present pangs and greefes to spill me.
Woe to my soule, since this doth cause thy sorrow,
That such a little fauour thou hast done me,
Little it is, in sooth, if it be peased
With all my teares, that neuer yet haue ceased
To fall, that to my death haue almost woon me:
They great, this small, those giue I, this I borrow.

[Thou dost desire (My life) as thou dost say]

Thou dost desire (My life) as thou dost say,
To see me in thy loues inflam'd (at lest)
And yet an vncouth meanes thou dost suggest,
Which is, to giue me care from day to day:
Dost thou not see the fier to decay,
Waxe cold, and quench't, within my louing brest
With swelling teares, which trickle without rest
Out of mine eies, to see thy hard delay?
The meade with raine her goodly greene redeemes,
The oile doth in the lampe the flame maintaine,
And loue with teares augmented is no lesse:
But loue, the lampe, and meadow (as it seemes)
If that too much of these they doe containe,
Is spent, is quench't, and drowned in excesse.

319

[Continuall greefe and sorrow neuer wanteth]

Continuall greefe and sorrow neuer wanteth,
Where feeding hope continues, not decaying:
But euermore despaire, that greefe recanteth,
From former course of minde doth cause estraying.

The glosse.

Riuers arise and run into the seas,
And waters without number day by day,
And yet the same seeme neuer to decay,
But new doe spring, and run and doe increase.
So endlesse woes arise and multiplie,
Redoubled one vpon anothers head:
(For one in truth is with another fed)
Still doe they come and yet they neuer die.
For since their fertill rootes each moment planteth,
Continuall greefe and sorrow neuer wanteth.

Torments of minde and vilest miseries
Are sworne to dwell within a haplesse soule,
And there her ioies and pleasures doe controule,
As to my selfe my sweete content denies:
Then let not any Louer thinke to gaine
The meanest thing, that liues in any hope,
But liuing so, to fall into a scope,
And wander in a world of greefe and paine:
For miseries, men say, continue staying,
Where feeding hope continues not decaying.

Who knowes it not, Alas I knowe it well,
That if a wofull soule is hoping still,
She seldome doth enioy her mind and will,
But that her hope must euer be her hell:

320

So of this hope, that flatters me, I finde,
And doe confesse, that with the same I liue,
But still in feare, and therefore I would giue
It for despaire, to ease my doubtfull minde:
I wish not this false hope, my ioies that scanteth,
But euermore despaire, that greefe recanteth.

If any whit of goodnes euer came
By vile despaire, it comes to me in prime:
And it could neuer come in better time,
Then to be hoping still to haue the same:
The wisest and most prudent man at last,
Wanting the good, that long he doth attend,
(Which, nourished by hope, he did suspend)
Seeing the time, that fed his hope, is past,
And all his ioy, by hope that is decaying,
From former course of minde doth cause estraying.

[Faire Shepherdesse, I can no more]

Faire Shepherdesse, I can no more,
But faine I would
Loue thee more, if that I could.

[Of mine owne selfe I doe complaine]

Firmius.
Of mine owne selfe I doe complaine,
And not for louing thee so much,
But that indeede my power is such,
That my true loue it doth restraine,
And onely this doth giue me paine:
For faine I would
Loue her more, if that I could.

Faustus.
Thou dost deserue, who doth not see
To be belou'd a great deale more:
But yet thou shalt not finde such store
Of loue in others as in mee:
For all I haue I giue to thee.
Yet faine I would
Loue thee more, if that I could.

321

Firmius.
O trie no other Shepherd swaine,
And care not other loues to prooue:
Who though they giue thee all their loue,
Thou canst not such as mine obtaine:
And would'st thou haue in loue more gaine?
O yet I would
Loue thee more, if that I could.

Faustus.
Impossible it is (my friend)
That any one should me excell
In loue, whose loue I will refell,
If that with me he will contend:
My loue no equall hath, nor end.
And yet I would
Loue her more, if that I could.

Firmius.
Behold how loue my soule hath charm'd
Since first thy beauties I did see,
(Which is but little yet to mee)
My freest senses I haue harm'd
(To loue thee) leauing them vnarm'd:
And yet I would
Loue thee more, if that I could.

Faustus.
I euer gaue and giue thee still
Such store of loue, as loue hath lent me:
And therefore well thou maist content thee,
That loue doth so enrich my fill:
But now behold my chiefest will,
That faine I would
Loue thee more, if that I could.

322

[Faustus in faith thou nill deserue]

Faustus in faith thou nill deserue
A Shepherds name, or keeping sheepe,
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keepe.

O that in passed time of late
My selfe had past with that as fast,
Then of this time I had no tast,
Hauing enioyed so sweete a fate,
Once was I in a happie state,
Which want, mine eies in teares must steepe,
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keepe.

Ioyfull I was, and well content,
Bicause I sawe (vnto my will)

323

Thy loue so well thou didst fulfill,
Which answer'd mine in sweete accent:
But now I smell thy false intent,
Which is, with suttletie becleepe,
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keepe.

Thy faith and more thy solemne othe
Then to me firmely didst thou giue
Not to forget me, while I liue:
But now thou hast committed both
Vnto the windes, that also loth
Their little woorth abroad to sweepe,
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keepe.

If thou dost thinke that to beguile
Her that doth loue, it is a glorie,
Alas I cannot be but sorie:
With thousand such thou maist defile
Thy credit, and triumph each while
Of all that heere doe feede their sheepe,
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keepe.

Behold my matchlesse loue most deere,
And marke thy selfe, and who thou art,
For if thou wilt, with guilefull hart
Thou maist deceiue a thousand heere:
Then greater doth my loue appeere,
Then thy disloyaltie so deepe,
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keepe.

Musing I am, both night and day,
And sundrie waies my fancies mooue,
How that I might forget thy loue:
And then vnto my selfe I say,
That since thou dost me so betray,
My loue shall in obliuion sleepe,
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keepe.

But at the time when I decree
To practise it, then loue doth more
Renew his forces then before:
So that if loue aboundes in mee,
And that the same doth want in thee,
What shall I doe, shall not I weepe?
When thou so ill thy faith dost keepe.

A remedie, and very short
In th' end to take I will not feare,
Which shall be lesse for me to beare,

324

Then thus to liue in such a sort,
And death it is, mine onely port,
To which my shiuer'd barke doth creepe,
Since thou so ill thy faith dost keepe.

[The rest is sweete to him that wearied is]

The rest is sweete to him that wearied is,
Succour and aide poore wretches wish for fast:
The doome of death from him, that now is cast
With fauour to reuoke, is thought a blisse:
The shade in chiefest heate is not amisse,
Pleasant of sheepe and Shepherdes to be past:
The water ioies the meade, with drynesse waste:
The frozen ground with ioy the sunne doth kisse:
But yet the glorie, ioy, and sweete content,
The wish of wishes, when the Shepherdesse
Staies for her louer, these doe far exceede.
Toong hold thy peace, and thought tell my intent,
How great a lightening hope is in distresse
Vnto the brest, that louing flames doth breede.

[Now doe I knowe at last (though to my smart)]

Now doe I knowe at last (though to my smart)
How far the greefe of absence doth extend,
But that this knowledge neuer any friend
Of mine may learne, and wish with all my hart:
Thus haue I liu'd deceiued with this art,
Esteeming small of presence in the end:
But woe is me that proofe doth now commend,
And tels me cleere of this erronius part:

325

Come Faustus then, with speede and stay no more,
For staying woundes my soule and euery sense,
Longer thy absence I cannot endure:
Marke well what they were woont to say of yore,
That by and by a hope, and confidence
After an absence doth succeede most sure.

[Faustus if thou wilt reade from me]

Faustus if thou wilt reade from me
These fewe and simple lines,
By them most cleerely thou shalt see,
How little should accounted bee
Thy fained wordes and signes.
For noting well thy deedes vnkinde,
Shepherd, thou must not scan
That euer it came to my minde,
To praise thy faith like to the winde,
Or for a constant man.

For this in thee shall so be found,
As smoke blowne in the aire,
Or like quick siluer turning round,
Or as a house built on the ground
Of sandes that doe impaire.
To firmenesse thou art contrarie,
More slipp'rie then the Eele,
Changing as weather-cocke on hie,
Or the Camelion on the die,
Or fortunes turning wheele.

Who would beleeue thou wert so free,
To blaze me thus each howre:
My Shepherdesse, thou liu'st in mee,
My soule doth onely dwell in thee,
And euery vitall powre.
Pale Atropos my vitall string
Shall cut, and life offend,
The streames shal first turne to their spring,
The world shall end, and euery thing,
Before my loue shall end.

This loue that thou didst promise me
Shepherd, where is it found?
The word and faith I had of thee,
O tell me now, where may they be,
Or where may they resound?
Too soone thou didst the title gaine
Of giuer of vaine wordes,
Too soone my loue thou didst obtaine,
Too soone thou lou'st Diana in vaine,
That naught but scornes affoordes.

But one thing now I will thee tell,
That much thy patience mooues:
That, though Diana doth excell
In beautie, yet she keepes not well
Her faith, nor loyall prooues.
Thou then hast chosen, each one saith,
Thine equall and a shrowe,
For if thou hast vndone thy faith,
Her loue and louer she betraieth,
So like to like will goe.

If now this letter, which I send
Will anger thee: Before
Remember (Faustus yet my friend,)
That if these speeches doe offend,
Thy deedes doe hurt me more.
Then let each one of vs amend,
Thou deedes, I wordes so spent,
For I confesse I blame my pen,
Doe thou as much, so in the end
Thy deedes thou doe repent.

Faustus, it needes must be a woondrous case,
And such a deede as one would not conceaue,
A simple soule so slily to deceaue,
Who quickly did thy faith and loue imbrace:
Thy firmnesse she had tride a little space,

326

And so she thought the same thou wouldst not leaue,
Which made her still vnto thy liking cleaue,
Bicause she thought it free from double face:
If of this conquest (Shepherd) thou dost boast,
With thousand such in time thou maist be crowned,
If thousand times thou mean'st to vndermine,
If high renowne is got for credit lost,
Onely of me a subiect thou shalt finde
With guiles to be a thousand times propouned.

[I pray thee keepe my kine for mee]

I pray thee keepe my kine for mee
Carillio, wilt thou? Tell.
First let me haue a kisse of thee,
And I will keepe them well.

327

If to my charge or them to keepe
Thou dost commend thy kine, or sheepe,
For this I doe suffice:
Bicause in this I haue beene bred:
But for so much as I haue fed,
By viewing thee, mine eies,
Command not me to keepe thy beast,
Bicause my selfe I can keepe lest.

How can I keepe, I pray thee tell,
Thy kye, my selfe that cannot well
Defend, nor please thy kinde,
As long as I haue serued thee?
But if thou wilt giue vnto mee
A kisse to please my minde,
I aske no more for all my paine,
And I will keepe them very faine.

For thee, the gift is not so great
That I doe aske, to keepe thy neate,
But vnto me it is
A guerdon, that shall make me liue:
Disdaine not then to lend, or giue
So small a gift as this.
But if to it thou canst not frame,
Then giue me leaue to take the same.

But if thou dost (my sweete) denie
To recompence me by and by,
Thy promise shall relent me,
Heereafter some rewarde to finde:
Behold how I doe please my minde,
And fauours doe content me,
That though thou speak'st it but in iest,
I meane to take it at the best.

Behold how much loue workes in mee,
And how ill recompenc't of thee,
That with the shadow of
Thy happy fauours (though delaide)
I thinke my selfe right well appaide,
Although they prooue a scoffe.
Then pitie me, that haue forgot
My selfe for thee, that carest not.

O in extreme thou art most faire,
And in extreme vniust despaire
Thy crueltie maintaines:

328

O that thou wert so pitifull
Vnto these torments that doe pull
My soule with senselesse paines,
As thou shew'st in that face of thine,
Where pitie and milde grace should shine.

If that thy faire and sweetest face
Assureth me both peace and grace,
Thy hard and cruell hart,
Which in that white brest thou dost beare,
Doth make me tremble yet for feare
Thou wilt not end my smart:
In contraries of such a kinde,
Tell me what succour shall I finde?

If then yoong Shepherdesse thou craue
A herdsman for thy beast to haue,
With grace thou maist restore
Thy Shepherd from his barren loue:
For neuer other shalt thou prooue,
That seekes to please thee more,
And who, to serue thy turne, will neuer shunne
The nipping frost, and beames of parching sunne.

330

The end of the sixth booke.

The seuenth Booke of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.

341

[Let the silence of the night]

Let the silence of the night
At my will her dutie showe:
Harken to me euery Wight,
Or be still, or speake but lowe:
Let no watching dog with spight
Barke at any to or fro,
Nor the Cocke (of Titan bright
The foreteller) once to crowe.
Let no prying goose excite
All the flocke to squeake a rowe:
Let the windes retaine their might,
Or a little while not blowe:
Whilst thy eare I doe inuite
On this ditty to beslowe.
In the which I will recite
Thy deserts, which euer growe:
Nor thy beauties so bedight,
Fairer then the rose or snowe.
Nor how with thy grace (of right)
Thou dost conquer others soe:
Nor thy vertues exquisite,
Which no wight deserues to knowe.
For into seas infinite
With small barke it were to goe,
And that labyrinth sans light,
Wherein Theseus they did throwe.
I not hauing in this plight
Threed as he (his guide from woe)
I will onely sing and write
How in happines I flowe,
That thy seruant I doe hight,
Praising Fortune and Loues bowe:
Thanking him, that so did smite:
She, bicause she was not slowe
In her throne my paines to quite:
Loue, for (like a friendly foe)
Wounding thee with golden flight:
And for shooting many moe
Into my soule, whose paines shal seeme but slight,
If with thy grace their woūds thou wilt requite.

342

[He that doth Fortune blame]

He that doth Fortune blame,
And of God Cupid speaketh ill.
Full little knowes he that his will
Is subiect to the same:
And that he doth procure his proper shame,
Held for a foole, and one of simple skill.

Who speakes he knowes not what,
Is thought to be a very Sot:
For good of them who speaketh not?
And I suspect that that
Same simple one, doth lay a formall plat
To be reputed for an idiot.

He knowes not Fortunes might,
Nor knowes the mightie God of Loue:
She rules beneath, and he aboue;
For she doth sit by right
Amongst the Goddesses with shining light;
And he amongst the Gods his might doth prooue.

The Boy I will omit,
Since that his great and mighty name
Giues him great praise and woorthy fame,
Being (who knowes not it)
The God of Loue, whose praise I will forgit,
To sing of Fortune that most noble dame.

The foole on Fortune railes,
Bicause she neuer doth repose,
The first and highest sphere, and those
Adioyning, neuer failes
In that, which all the world so much auailes,
I meane in motions which they neuer lose.

343

In their perpetuall course.
Their essence and foundation lies,
And in their motions neuer dies:
Our life from them their source
Doth take, and vnto death should haue recourse,
And cease, if they should cease to mooue the skies.

They vse to paint her blinde,
Bicause the highest, and the lowe
She reares, and after downe doth throwe,
Respecting not the kinde
Of persons, nor the merits of the minde:
The King she doth not from the Collier knowe.

Fortune heerein they take
For a great Goddesse (and with right)
For Goddesses doe not requite
With partiall hand, and makes
No difference of persons for their sakes,
And partially doe neuer vse their might.

They call her also mad,
Bicause her works they doe not knowe,
Nor any path, where she doth goe,
But all her waies so bad:
That to exempt themselues they would be glad
From them, for feare of their ensuing woe.

But such are made indeede,
That make a reason so vnfit,
For when did euer humane wit
Knowe what the Gods decreed?
Or how they meant with power to proceede,
Or their intents? which men could neuer hit.

It fitteth not my song
To deigne to answere with direction
Men of such wit and small perfection:
That offer her such wrong;
For Fortune doth onely to those belong
That haue the vse of reason and election.

The Ancient otherwise
Did thinke, for they did make of her
A Goddesse, and they did not erre:
To whom sweete sacrifice,
And temples in her name they did deuise:
As in their bookes they doe no lesse auerre.

344

[All you that haue vnwoorthily complained]

All you that haue vnwoorthily complained
Of Loue, and Fortune, each a mighty powre:
On Time, that doth your sweete contents deuowre
Turne them: For more heereby is to be gained.
For time is false: For if content vnfained
It giueth thee, I passeth in an howre;
But still it staies if it begins to lowre.
It comes not wisht for, nor doth stay obtained:
Time hath no friend in any thing created,
For euery thing it wasteth and consumeth,
And doth not spare so much as any body &c.

345

[It fitteth not my song]

It fitteth not my song
To deigne to answer with direction
Men of such wit and small perfection,
That offer her such wrong:
For Fortune doth onely to those belong
That haue the vse of reason and election.

351

The end of the seuenth booke.

The eight Booke of the second Part of Diana of George of Montemayor.

355

Disteus his letter to Dardanea.

To thee the comfort of all mortall men,
Of all men liuing the most comfortlesse,
Health (if discomfort any such can send)
If any left, doth send with happinesse.

I wish no ease of all my ceaselesse paine,
If that a thousand times when I did take
In hand to write to thee, I left againe
My pen as oft, when hand and hart did quake.

I launch't into the maine and broadest seas,
Knowing no port, nor friendly land, or coast
To saile vnto (my shaken barke to ease,
With raging waues and furious tempests tost)

356

For on the one side if I thought to write,
To make thee knowe my paine which thou hast wrought:
Thy high desertes on th' other came in sight,
To beate downe such a far vnwoorthy thought.

My wearied torments did commaund an I,
Thy soueraine highnes did forbid a No,
And that commaund with reason did denie,
Such woorthinesse and glorie it did showe.

But after this proud boldnes came in place,
Perswading me I should doe well before
To write to thee: But feare did him disgrace,
And said I should but anger thee the more.

And therefore now as feare did ouercome
Braue boldnes, and had throwne it to the ground,
And now that all my senses waxed numme
By feare, which did my feeble hope confound.

Couragiously the God of Loue came in,
And said, vnwoorthy feare packe hence, away:
And come no more, for now thou shalt not win:
I doe commaund, Loue doth commaund I say.

And turning to me in this sort he saide,
As by commaund, nor gently by request,
The fire (when once it is in flames displaide)
Hides not it selfe, but makes it manifest:

Euen so it is impossible to hide
My firie flames, from being sometimes knowne,
And though I would not, yet on euery side
They issue out, that easily they are knowne.

Since then thy Nymph celestiall must knowe,
Either too soone or late thy cruell flame,
Let first thy mouth declare to her thy woe,
Then to thy hand and pen commend the same.

I answered (God wot with fainting hart)
To write to her, it is my chiefe desire;
But if she chaunce to frowne at this bold part,
O God defend my pen should cause her ire.

Thus Loue at last perceiuing what a faint
And hartlesse coward I was, in the end
He wrote to thee, by pitying of my plaint,
And in my name Loue doth this letter send.

357

And now bicause thy minde it may not mooue
To anger, by receiuing of the same:
And if thou think'st thy honour I doe prooue,
Knowe from a God, and from no man it came.

Euen from the God of Loue, who is a God
Of highest birth, whose power doth extend
In heauen, and earth, where he makes his abode,
Both paying tribute to him without end.

So that it is the mighty God of Loue
That erres (if that in writing he doth erre)
Against Loue therefore all thy anger mooue,
(If this to wrath thy modest minde may stirre.)

Harke well (my deerest Mistresse) what I say,
That if this letter breedeth thy offence,
Be thou reueng'd of Loue, which did assay
To write, and not of me for this pretence.

But by the way I tell thee as a friend,
That if with Loue thou dost begin to striue,
With nature and her lawes thou dost contend,
For making thee the fairest one aliue.

For if she haue of purpose giuen thee
Beautie, and grace, and in thy brest hath fram'd
The onely patterne of gentilitie,
That beauties Paragon thou maist be nam'd.

And to lay vp her riches all in one,
Of all her treasure she hath now despoild
The world, and made it poore in leauing none,
And to make thee the onely one hath toild.

Hath she not reason then to be offended,
If by the gemme, where she her vtmost tride,
She would haue seene and knowne how far extended
Her passing skill, which thou dost seeke to hide?

Hath she not reason to be angrie, when
The patterne of her skill and onely one
Hides from the world and buries in a den
Her treasures, which so faine she would haue knowne?

For sure I knowe, if that thou meanest not
To loue, thou buriest all her partes in thee:
And dost thou thinke, that anything is got
By flying Loue, and natures best decree?

358

And if thou think'st heerein to doe amisse,
Or hurt thy selfe by louing, yet at lest
Suffer thy selfe to be belou'd. And this
Fond error driue out of thy tender brest.

O suffer of thine owne accord and will,
For forced thou shalt be to this for euer:
While thou and I doe liue, and shalt be still
After thy death and mine, and ended neuer.

Then will me not (Dardanea) to forsake
My perfect loue, which now I haue bewraied:
For more thou dost commaund the lesse I make
Account of it, and lesse shalt be obaied.

And thinke thou art not wronged any whit,
Bicause what thou (faire Mistresse) dost commaund
Is not obaide, for heere it is not fit
Where life for loue and loue for life is pawn'd.

Leaue thou if that thou canst the same thou hast,
Yeelding to nature, what so much on thee
She hath bestowde, and change thy life that's past,
And leaue moreouer what thou mean'st to be.

Then shalt thou see thy most vniust desire
Fulfill'd, and will perform'd without defect,
Although thou didst the contrarie require,
As fearing colours with some vaine suspect.

But now why should'st thou leaue a perfect being,
By taking that which more imperfect is?
As first mens eies the like was neuer seeing,
The second voide of comfort, ioy and blisse.

So that (sweete Mistresse) it becomes thee not
To anger Loue, and Nature to offend,
For thou art bound (whom they haue not forgot)
Their lawes to loue, their essence to defend.

Since that thy beauties in the world resound,
And dost in vertue hold the highest place,
And dost in knowledge and in wit abound,
In modestie, and euery other grace:

Make them illustrous then by thy requiting,
Take heede, Ingratitude is full of hate,
Hate to reuenge is euer more inuiting,
And so reuenge waites at obliuions gate.

359

And thinke not, that I speake these wordes in iest,
For to a cruell Goddesse it belongs
This vice (which all the world doth so detest)
To punish, and torment ingratefull wrongs.

And Nemesis the angrie is her name,
Whose vnresisted might who doth not knowe?
Equall she is and neuer but the same,
Impartially to deale with friend or foe.

Alas I would she might not finde in thee
So great a fault, as none more great then this,
Since from all other faultes thou shalt be free,
If but this fault alone thou wilt dismisse.

But thou maist say, why should thy haplesse fare
Trouble my minde, or thy good please my will,
Or what haue I to doe to take such care,
Whether thy fortune fall out good or ill?

To answere this, I cannot well replie,
Let it suffice thee, that the lest suspect
Of any harme thou hast doth make me die,
And worse then death torments me in effect.

Deere Lady, then I would not haue thee prooue
The cruell shaft of angrie Nemesis:
For first let each infernall power mooue
Their plagues against me of eternall Dis.

But now I would be glad if thou wouldst tast
The sweete and golden flight of Cupids poure,
Bicause my torments, which are gone and past,
Pitie thou might'st and those I feele this howre.

For if thou knew'st my paines and pitious case,
With pitie and teares thou wouldst my life deplore,
Not for my merits, which are very base,
But for my loue, which well deserueth more.

Each thing that is created heere so fit,
An equall hauing in a diuers kinde,
In such like kinde a paiment doth admit,
By measuring the debt that is behinde,

But as fell loue no equall doth containe,
In such a diuers kinde and different,
By selfe same thing it paies it selfe againe:
Loue must be paid with loue of good intent.

360

Then since it is most euident and cleere,
That I doe prize thy loue at such a rate,
Thou must requite my loue againe so deere,
If Nemesis ingratitude doth hate.

But if thou dost not purpose to requite
The loue, that I haue borne, and beare thee still;
And with like loue to ease my heauie plight,
And greeuous paines for thy procuring ill:

My hands of life shall then vndoe the chaine,
But not of loue (by death to ease my death)
And so requite me, when no other meane
Is left, to make me still enioy this breath.

For sure if that my life be of this sort,
My life is death, and dying is my life:
My death is sweete, a pleasure, ioy and sport,
Liuing in such a world of amorous strife.

But now I cease, my teares fall in such store,
And painfull soule for greefe can write no more.

362

Dardaneas answere to Disteus.

To thee the most presumptuous without leaue,
Counsell, not health, by these few lines I send,
That am more fearfull then thou maist conceaue:
If that I thought mine honour to offend
By answering thee, constraind as thou maist see,
Or answering not, it might the more extend,
Rather then I would thus much pleasure thee,
Or would vouchsafe to take my pen in hand,
First would I take a sword to murder me.
Mine end is good, and doth with vertue stand,
And if thou dost thinke otherwise then so,
Thou art deceiu'd as much as any man:
For if my reason soundly thou wilt knowe,
And weigh my wordes but with attentiue minde,
And note each sentence that heerein I showe:
By all the foresaid thou shalt onely finde,
How I pretend to giue thee sound aduise,
And holesome counsell fit for one so blinde:
Which is, that thou leaue of this enterprise
(If that thou canst) and flie a thought so vaine,
Or at the least conceale it from mine eies.
I knowe not, and the ground cannot obtaine,
That made thee write to me this other day:
Nor yet from whence such boldnes thou might'st gaine.
But now I doe remember thou didst say,
That loue not thou, those louing lines did write,

363

Bicause it did thy minde too much dismay:
Fancies they are, like to the dreames by night,
Common to louers (if there any bee)
To manifest his childish toies so light.
Poore God of loue, thy seruants all agree
As many as doe waite vpon thy traine,
To lay their faultes most commonly in thee:
If childish toies I saide: doe not disdaine:
For this God, whom thou dost so much obay,
Is but a childe, thy wordes doe shew it plaine.
Thou seem'st to shew the same by wordes, I say,
By deedes I knowe not, nor I doe pretend
To knowe, though deedes by words thou dost display.
Which last of all in men I comprehend,
Which are more wordes then works in plaine effect:
In case this God of loue their mindes offend,
If that your harts so plainly could detect
That, which your mouth expresseth by her voice,
We should not hold your loues in such suspect.
But truth it is, I doe no whit reioice,
For nothing it concerneth me at all,
To heare thee vaunt thee of thy loue and choice:
And that as firme as any brazen wall,
And more then rocks vpon the shorie sandes,
In fortunes fauour or in fortunes thrall:
That like an Oke against the winde it standes,
Like hardest Dimond to the beating steele,
Like Salamander in the flaming brandes.
And that againe it turneth like the wheele,
And wauers more then beames of shaken glasse,
More then the waues, that tumble still and reele,
More changing then the weathercocke (Alas)
In towres, and more then Cynthia in her skie:
And more then men in loue their liues that passe.
This hurts me little, nor I care not I,
Wherefore it shall be better for thy ease,
Not to loue her, that doth thy loue denie.
Then seeke some other with thy loue to please
Against thy loue that will not so rebell,
And where thou maist swim in contented seas:
For (sooth) thy person hath deserued well
To be beloued of some other dame,
For many giftes in which thou dost excell.
There is no Lady, but would wish the same,
Nor scorne thy loue, but euer thinke her blest
That she might call thee by her louers name.
And sooner shalt thou want (to match thy brest)
A Lady fit (respecting thy desert)

364

For none come neere (though yet accounted best)
Of purpose heere thy praises I insert,
For thou didst so much wander in my praise,
That onely this for thanks I doe reuert.
And wordes for wordes doe giue thee now in paise,
And if thou hast extolled me much better,
So all thy giftes in euerie place I blaze,
Ingratefull thou didst call me in thy letter,
And there the proofe was false and very vaine,
And therefore thou must yet remaine my detter.
Although it were not so, thou saidst againe
That I was bound to loue, in being faire,
So worldling like thine argument was plaine.
But see how reason doth the same impaire,
For brighter doth each womans beautie shine,
The more she shines in praise of vertues rare.
So that I shall make nature more diuine,
In following Dianas honest traine,
Then Venus steps, or her fond discipline.
To please her sonne I euer thought it vaine,
Since him I cannot, and Diana please,
For she is chast, dishonest is his chaine.
To serue Apollos sister, sweetest ease
And greatest honour by her loue is got.
Who serues fond loue is drown'd in dolefull seas.
If after Venus sonne thou art so hot,
And dost intend to follow his desires,
If so it please, then how maiest thou not?
I doe not meane to loue what he requires:
And let this God euen worke with me his fill,
He neuer shall consume me in his fires.
Let him not seeke but her, that seekes her ill,
Let him not wound but those that loue his wounds,
Nor subiect those that care not for his will.
But now I knowe not to what purpose soundes
These reasons, that disswade me to imbrace
Cupid thy God, that reason still confoundes.
Since that vnto my will he giueth place,
And on the same his liking doth depend,
Reason in me his colours doe deface.
T'is therefore reason, to the which I tend,
And great it is, since it doth satisfie
My minde, and doth the same so well defend.
Thou writ'st, that if to loue thee I denie,
That I would suffer thee to loue me yet,
Against my will for loue yet wilt thou die.
A pretie meanes procoeding from thy wit,
To pray me not thy deere loue to preuent,

365

Yet will I nill I thou to practise it.
I greeue I cannot hinder this intent,
But if (in fine) perforce vnto my paine
Thou wilt loue me, perforce I must consent.
If that from being lou'd, I could remaine,
(As from all loue) in faith I neuer would
Haue left it to thy choosing to abstaine.
For he that lou'd me with such rigour should
Be punish't, that he should haue thence no soule
To loue me, if his loue preuent I could.
But Ile doe that which no man shall controule,
Which is that none presume to manifest
His loue to me so wanton and so bolde.
Let therefore punishment thy minde suggest,
To mooue this fancie from thy idle minde,
A fancie first conceiu'd within thy brest,
Of no good ground where hope thou canst not finde:
Hope is exil'd where honour taketh place;
Honour is deere to women of my kinde:
Virgins I meane, and liuing in the face
Of all the world with honour and renowne.
Which if it be but staind, each other grace
She hath, with no recou'rie falleth downe.
If then these few perswasions cannot make
Thee change thy minde, nor now this present frowne,
Nor trembling hands, which now for anger shake
By writing of these lines with little rest,
Nor feare of punishment make thee forsake
This fond conceit nurc'd vainly in thy brest,
When thou maist neuer hope to haue a day;
Then let mine honour mooue thee (at the lest)
To make thee hide this fier (if you may)
Wherewith thou saist thy brest is so inflam'd:
Marke this, and let thy wits not so estray.
If that thou saist, that hardly is reclam'd
The fire of loue, and hardly hid againe;
To tell it Palna lesse thou shalt be blam'd.
But since thy hope incertaine is and vaine,
And all thy harmes most sure, then ope the dore
(To helpe thee) to obliuion and disdaine.
And thus I end in hope to heare no more.

Whosoever therefore is desirous to see the funerall of Delius, the riualitie of Syrenius, Firmius, and Faustus, and be at all their meetings, and takes any pleasure to know who Stela is, and would faine knowe what her troubles, and those of Crimine, Delicius and Parthenius, haue beene, and to what ende they came, as also the loue of Agenestor, prince of Eolia and of Lustea daughter to Disteus and Dardanea, let him attende me in the third part of this work, which shall come to light out of hande.

La vita il Fin, e'l di lodà la fera.

University of Virginia Library

To the same Lord.

Don Gaspar Romani to the Authour.

Don Hieronymo Sant-Perez, to George of Montemayor.

The first Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[Haire in change what libertie]

[I am a louer, but was neuer loued]

[For a fauour of such woorth]

[O eies, that see not him, who look'd on yow]

[Syrenus, what thought'st thou when I was viewing thee]

A Sonnet.

[No more (O cruell Nymph) now hast thou prayed]

[How fond am I to hope for any rest]

[Foolish loue, ah foolish louer]

[Although my quiet it doth let]

[Shepherd, who can passe such wrong]

[Weepe not my dolefull eies]

[My life (yoong Shepherdesse) for thee]

The second Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[Waters that fall from top of these steepe Hils]

[To heare me wearied is the cleerest riuer]

[Goe now my thoughts, where one day you were going]

[Contents of loue]

The song of the Nymph.

Syrenus his song.

Dianas song.

[O grant me then this short content]

A Sonnet.

[My painefull yeeres impartiall Loue was spending]

A Song.

[That sweetest harme I doe not blame]

[My passion (Loue) thou dost disdaine]

[Saie Shepherdesse, what hath depriued thee]

[Mistresse thou hast forgotten me]

The third Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

Arsenius his letter.

A Sonnet.

[In this cleere Sunne with golden beames that shineth]

[To see thee I lift vp my happie eies]

[Loue passed by me with his bowe vnarm'd]

The fourth Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[Well let her life that enters heere be waighed]

[The authours of subiections]

[I am Cid th' honour of Spaine]

[Hernand Gonçales of Castile I am]

[Bernard of Carpio I am]

[My greatest valours they shall see]

[I am Fonseca whose braue historie]

[Don Luys of Villanoua I am named]

Orpheus his song.

[Heere Lady Katherine entombed lies]

[Even as (O death) the Planets should remaine]

[First in Granada I vvas borne]

[If thy soft Haires be threds of shining gold]

The fifth Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[O vainest hopes, Alas, how many Daies]

[When that I poore soule was borne]

[Now Loue, and fortune turne to me againe]

The Glosse. [_] The Shepherd begins afresh to sing upon this old proverb. Good fortune come and tarie. The glosse he descants upon it to his owne purpose.

The sixth Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[I see thee iolly Shepherd merry]

[Passed contents]

[If teares cannot with tendernesse relent thee]

The seuenth Booke of Diana of George of Montemayor.

[Times change and shall (as we doe see)]

[Sighes, since you lighten not my hart]

THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE SECOND PART OF Diana OF George of Montemayor.

[Who hath of Cupids cates and dainties prayed]

A Sonnet.

[From whence O Paper mine such happie fauour]

[Poore I that am not now for thee]

A Sonnet.

[I plaid with Loue, Loue plaid with me againe]

[It may fall out the heauens may turne at leisure]

[The Gods graunt you to frolicke in your hall]

[Faire Shepherdesse Diana]

[The fearefull Bat that lurks in stonie wall]

[The open fieldes, the meadovves fresh and greene]

[In this greene Meade mine Eies what doe you see]

[I am Dianes, th' Arabian bird in beautie and in grace]

The Glosse.
[_]

The Shepherd begins afresh to sing upon this old proverb.

Good fortune come and tarie.

The glosse he descants upon it to his owne purpose.