University of Virginia Library

The first chapter.

That gallant Ladie, gloriouslie bright,
The statelie piller once of worthinesse,
And now a little dust, a naked spright:
Turn'd from hir warres a ioyefull Conqueresse:
Hir warres, where she had foyl'd the mightie foe,
whose wylie stratagems the world distresse,
And foyl'd him, not with sword, with speare or bowe,
But with chaste heart, faire visage, upright thought,
wise speache, which did with honor linked goe:
And loue's new plight to see strange wonders wrought
with shiuered bowe, chaste arrowes, quenched flame,
while here som slaine, and there laye others caught.
She, and the rest, who in the glorious fame
Of the exploit, hir chosen mates, did share,
All in one squadronet close ranged came.
A few, for nature makes true glorie rare,
But eache alone (so eache alone did shine)
Claym'd whole Historian's, whole Poete's care.
Borne in greene field, a snowy Ermiline
Colored with topaces, sett in fine golde
was this faire companies unfoyled signe.
No earthlie march, but heauenly, did they hould;
Their speaches holie were, and happie those,
who so are borne, to be with them enroll'd.
Cleare starrs they send, which did a Sunne unclose,
who hyding none, yett all did beawtifie
with Coronets deckt with violet and rose;
And as gain'd honor, filled with iollitie
Eache gentle heart, so made they merrie cheere,
when loe, an ensigne sad I might descrie,
Black, and in black a woman did appeere,
Furie with hir, such as I scarcelie knowe
If lyke at Phlegra with the Giants were.
Thow Dame, quoth she, that doeth so proudlie goe,
Standing upon thy youth, and beauties state,
And of thy life, the limits doest not knowe,
Loe, I am shee, so fierce, importunate,
And deafe, and blinde, entytled oft by yow,
yow, whom with night ere euening I awate.
I, to their end, the Greekish nation drewe,
The Troian first, the Romane afterward,
with edge and point of this my blade I slewe.
And no Barbarian my blowe could warde,
who stealing on with unexpected wound,
Of idle thoughts haue manie thousand marr'd.
And now no lesse to yow-ward am I bound
while life is dearest, ere to cause yow moane.
Fortune som bitter with your sweetes compound.
To this, thow right or interrest hast none,
Little to me, but onelie to this spoile.
Replide then she, who in the world was one.
This charge of woe on others will recoyle,
I know, whose safetie on my life depends:
For me, I thank who shall me hence assoile.
As one whose eyes som noueltie attend,
And what it mark't not first, it spyde at last,
New wonders with it-self, now comprehends.
So far'd the cruell, deepelie ouer-gast
with doubt awhile, then spake, I know them now.
I now remember when my teeth they past.
Then with lesse frowning, and lesse darkned browe,
But thow that lead'st this goodlie companie,
Didst neuer yett unto my scepter bowe.
But on my counsell if thow wilt relye,
who maie inforce thee; better is by farre
From age and ages lothsomnesse to flye.
More honored by me, then others are
Thow shalt thee finde; and neither feare nor paine
The passage shall of thy departure barre.
As lykes that Lord, who in the heau'n doeth raigne,
And thence, this All, doeth moderatelie guide:
As others doe, I shall thee entretaine:
So answered she, and I with-all descryde
Of dead appeare a neuer-numbred summe,
Pestring the plaine, from one to th'other side.
From India, Spaine, Gattay, Marocco, come,
So manie Ages did together falle.
That worlds were fill'd, and yett they wanted roome.
There saw I, whom their times did happie calle,
Popes, Emperors, and kings, but strangelie growen,
All naked now, all needie, beggars all.
Where is that wealth? where are those honors gonne?
Scepters, and crounes, and roabes, and purple dye?
And costlie myters, sett with pearle and stone?
O wretch who doest in mortall things affye:
(yett who but doeth) and if in end they dye
Them-selues beguil'd, they find but right, saie I.
What meanes this toyle? Oh blinde, oh more then blinde:
yow all returne, to your greate Mother, olde,
And hardlie leaue your verie names behinde.
Bring me, who doeth your studies well behoulde,
And of your cares not manifestlie vaine,
One lett him tell me, when he all hath tolde.
So manie lands to winne, what bootes the payne?
And on strange lands, tributes to impose,
With hearts still griedie, their oune losse to gaine,
After all theise, wherin yow winning loose
Treasures and territories deere bought with blood;
water, and bread hath a farre sweeter close.
And golde, and gemme giues place to glasse and wood:
But leaste I should too-long degression make
To turne to my first taske I think it good.
Now that short-glorious life hir leaue to take
Did neere unto the uttmost instant goe,
And doubtfull stepp, at which the world doeth quake.
An other number then themselues did shewe
Of Ladies, such as bodies yett did lade,
If death could pitious be, they faine would knowe.
And deepe they did in contemplacion wade
Of that colde end, presented there to view,
which must be once, and must but once be made.
All friends and neighbors were this carefull crue
But death with ruthlesse hand on golden haire
Chosen from out those amber-tresses drewe.
So cropt the flower, of all this world most faire,
To shewe upon the excellentest thing
Hir supreame force, And for no hate she bare.
How manie dropps did flowe from brynie spring
In who there sawe those sightfull fountaines drye,
For whom this heart so long did burne and spring.
For hir in midst of moane and miserie,
Now reaping once what vertues life did sowe,
With ioye she sate retired silentlie.
In peace cryde they, right mortall Goddesse goe,
And so she was, but that in noe degree
Could death entreate, hir comming to forslowe.
What confidence for others? if that she
Could frye and freese in few nights chaning cheere:
Oh humane hopes, how fond and false yow bee.
And for this gentle Soule, if manie a teare
By pittie shed, did bathe the ground and grasse,
who sawe doeth knowe; think thow, that doest but heare.
The sixt of Aprill, one a clock it was
That tyde me once, and did me now untye,
Changing hir copie; Thus doeth fortune passe.
None so his thralle, as I my libertie;
None so his death, as I my life doe rue,
Staying with me, who faine from it would flye.
Due to the world, and to my yeares was due,
That I, as first I came, should first be gonne,
Not hir leafe quail'd, as yett but freshlie newe.
Now for my woe, guesse not by't, what is showne,
For I dare scarce once cast a thought there-too,
So farre I am of, in words to make it knowne.
Vertue is dead; and dead is beawtie too,
And dead is curtesie, in mournefull plight,
The ladies saide; And nowe, what shall we doe?
Neuer againe such grace shall blesse our sight;
Neuer lyke witt, shall we from woman heare.
And voice, repleate with Angell-lyke delight.
The Soule now prest to leaue that bosome deare
Hir vertues all uniting now in one,
There, where it past did make the heauens cleare.
And of the enemies so hardlie none,
That once before hir shew'd his face obscure
with hir assault, till death had thorough gonne.
Past plaint and feare when first they could endure
To hould their eyes on that faire visage bent,
And that dispaire had made them now secure.
Not as greate fyers violently spent,
But in them-selues consuming, so hir flight
Tooke that sweete spright, and past in peace content.
Right lyke unto som lamp of cleerest light,
Little and little wanting nutriture,
Houlding to end a neuer-changing plight.
Pale? no, but whitelie; and more whitelie pure,
Then snow on wyndless hill, that flaking falles:
As one, whom labor did to rest allure.
And when that heauenlie guest those mortall walles
Had leaft: it nought but sweetelie sleeping was
In hir faire eyes: what follie dying calles
Death faire did seeme to be in hir faire face.

The Second Chapter of the Triumph of death.

That night, which did the dreadfull happ ensue
That quite eclips't; naie rather did replace
The Sunne in skyes, and me bereaue of view.
Did sweetelie sprinkle through the ayrie space
The Summers frost, which with Tithon's bryde
Cleereth of dreame the darke-confused face,
When loe, a Ladie, lyke unto the tyde
with Orient iewells crown'd, from thousands moe
Crouned as she; to me, I comming spyde:
And first hir hand, sometime desyred so
Reaching to me; at-once she sygh't and spake:
whence endlesse ioyes yett in my heart doe growe.
And know'st thow hir, who made thee first forsake
The vulgar path, and ordinarie trade?
while hir, their marke, thy youthfull thoughts did make?
Then doune she sate, and me sitt-doune she made,
Thought, wisedom, Meekenesse in one grace did striue,
On pleasing bank in bay, and beeches shade.
My Goddesse, who me did and doeth reuiue,
Can I but knowe? (I sobbing answered)
But art thow dead? Ah speake, or yett aliue?
Aliue am I: And thow as yett art dead,
And as thow art shalt soe continue still
Till by thy ending hower, thow hence be led.
Short is our time to liue, and long our will:
Then lett with heede, thy deedes and speaches goe.
Ere that approaching terme his course fullfill.
Quoth I, when this our light to end doth growe,
which we calle life (for thow by proofe hast tryde)
Is it such payne to dye? That, make me knowe.
While thow (quoth she) the vulgar make thy guide,
And on their iudgements (all obscurelie blynde)
Doest yett relye; no bliss can thee betyde.
Of lothsom prison to eache gentle mynde
Death is the end: And onelie who employe
Their cares on mudd, therin displeasure finde.
Euen this my death, which yealds thee such annoye
Would make in thee farre greater gladnesse ryse,
Couldst thou but taste least portion of my ioye.
So spake she with deuoutlie-fixed eyes
Upon the Heauens: then did in silence foulde
Those rosie lips, attending there replyes;
Torments, inuented by the Tyrrants olde;
Diseases, which each parte torment and tosse,
Causes, that death we most bitter houlde.
I not denye (quoth she) but that the crosse
Preceeding death, extreemelie martireth,
And more the feare of that eternall losse.
But when the panting soule in God takes breath;
And wearie heart affecteth heauenlie rest,
An unrepented syghe, not els, is death.
With bodie, but with spirit readie prest,
Now at the furthest of my liuing wayes,
There sadlie-uttered sounds my eare possest.
Oh happless he; who counting times and dayes
Thinks eache a thousand yeares, and liues in vayne
No more to meete hir while on earth he stayes.
And on the water now, now on the Maine
Onelie on hir doeth think, doeth speake, doeth write,
And in all times one manner still retaine.
Heere-with, I thither cast my failing-sight,
And soone espyde, presented to my view,
who oft did thee restraining, me encyte.
Well, I hir face, and well hir voice I knewe,
Which often did my heart reconsolate;
Now wiselie graue, then beawtifulie true.
And sure, when I, was in my fairest state,
My yeares most greene, myself to thee most deare,
whence manie much did think, and much debate.
That life's best ioye was all most bitter cheere,
Compared to that death, most myldelie sweete,
which coms to men, but coms not euerie-where.
For I, that iournie past with gladder feete,
Then he from hard exile, that homeward goes,
(But onelie ruth of thee) without regreete.
For that faith's sake, time once enough did shewe,
yett now to thee more manifestlie plaine,
In face of him, who all doeth see and knowe,
Saie Ladie, did yow euer entretaine
Motion or thought more louinglie to me
(Not louing honor's-height) my tedious paine?
For those sweete wraths, those sweete disdaines in yow,
In those sweete peaces written in your eye,
Diuerslie manie yeares my fanzies drewe.
Scarce had I spoken, but in lightning wise
Beaming, I saw that gentle smile appeare,
Sometimes the Sunne of my woe-darkned skyes.
Then sighing, thus she answered: Neuer were
Our hearts but one, nor neuer two shall be:
Onelie thy flame I tempred with my cheere;
This onelie way could saue both thee and me;
Our tender fame did this supporte require,
The mother hath a rodd, yett kinde is she.
How oft this saide my thoughts: In loue, naie fire
Is he: Now to prouide must I beginne,
And ill prouiders are feare and desire.
Thow sawe'st what was without, not what within,
And as the brake the wanton steede doeth tame,
So this did thee from thy disorders winne.
A thousand times wrath in my face did flame,
My heart meane-while with loue did inlie burne,
But neuer will, my reason ouercame:
For, if woe-vanquisht once, I sawe thee mourne;
Thy life, or honor, ioyntlie to preserve
Myne eyes to thee sweetelie did I turne.
But if thy passion did from reason swarue,
Feare in my words, and sorrowe in my face
Did then to thee for salutation serue.
Theis artes I us'd with thee; thow ran'st this race
With kinde acceptance; now sharp disdaine,
Thow know'st, and hast it sung in manie a place.
Sometimes thine eyes pregnant with tearie rayne
I sawe, and at the sight; Behould he dyes:
But if I help, saide I, the signes are plaine.
Vertue for ayde did then with loue aduise:
If spurr'd by loue, thow took'st som running toye,
So soft a bitt (quoth I) will not suffice.
Thus glad, and sad, in pleasure, and annoye:
what red, colde, pale: thus farre I haue thee brought
wearie, but safe to my no little ioye.
Then I with teares, and trembling: what it sought
My faith hath found, whose more then equall meede
were this: if this, for truth could passe my thought.
Of little faith (quoth she) should this proceede;
If false it were, or if unknowne from me:
The flames withall seem'd in hir face to breede.
If lyking in myne eyes the world did see
I saie not, now, of this, right faine I am,
Those cheines that tyde my heart well lyked me,
And well me lykes (if true it be) my flame,
which farre and neere by thee related goes,
Nor in thy loue could ought but measure blame.
That onelie fail'd; and while in acted woes
Thow needes wouldst shewe, what I could not but see,
Thow didst thy heart to all the world disclose.
Hence sprang my zeale, which yett distempreth thee,
Our concord such in euerie thing beside,
As when united loue and vertue be.
In equale flames our louing hearts were tryde,
At leaste when once thy loue had notice gott,
But one to shewe, the other sought to hyde.
Thow didst for mercie calle with wearie throte
In feare and shame, I did in silence goe,
So much desire became of little note.
But not the lesse becoms concealed woe,
Nor greater growes it uttered, then before,
Through fiction, Truth will neither ebbe nor flowe.
But clear'd I not the darkest mists of yore?
when I thy words alone did entretaine
Singing for thee? my loue dares speake no more.
With thee my heart, to me I did restraine
Myne eyes; and thow thy share canst hardlie brooke
Leesing by me the lesse, the more to gayne.
Not thinking if a thousand times I tooke
Myne eyes from thee; I manie thousands cast
Myne eyes on thee; and still with pittying looke.
Whose shine no clowd had euer ouer-cast:
Had I not fear'd in thee those coles to fyre
I thought would burne too-dangerouslie fast.
But to content thee more ere I retyre
For end of this, I somthing wilt thee tell,
Perchance agreable to thy desire:
In all things fullie blest, and pleased well,
Onelie in this I did my-self displease;
Borne in too-base a towne for me to swell:
And much I grieved, that for thy greater ease,
At leaste, it stood not neere thy flowrie nest.
Els farre-enough, from whence I did thee please.
So might the heart on which I onelie rest
Not knowing me, haue fitt it-self elsewhere,
And I lesse name, I lesse notice haue possest.
Oh no (quoth I) for, me, the heauens third spheare
To so high loue advanc't by speciall grace,
Changelesse to me, though chang'd thy dwelling were.
Be as it will, yett my greate Honor was:
And is as yett (she saide) but thy delight
Makes thee not mark how fast the howers doe passe.
See from hir golden bed Aurora bright
To mortall eyes returning sunne and daye
Breast-high aboue the Ocean bare to sight.
Shee to my sorrowe, calles me hence awaie,
Therfore thy words in times short limits binde,
And saie in-brief, if more thow haue to saie.
Ladie (quoth I) your words most sweetlie kinde
Have easie made, what euer erst I bare,
But what is left of yow to liue behinde.
Therfore to knowe this, my onelie care,
If sloe or swift shall com our meeting-daye.
She parting saide, As my coniectures are,
Thow without me long time on earth shalt staie.