Arisbas, Euphues amidst his slumbers Or Cupid's Iourney to Hell. Decyphering a myrror of Constancie, a Touch-stone of tried affection, begun in chaste desires, ended in choise delights: And emblasoning Beauties glorie, adorned by Natures bountie. VVith the Trivmph of Trve Loue, in the Soyle of false Fortune. By I. D. i.e. John Dickenson] |
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CVPIDS PALACE. |
 | Arisbas, Euphues amidst his slumbers |  |
CVPIDS PALACE.
Paphos now a worthlesse name,Wants the grace of wonted Fame.
Fishie Cuidus not frequented,
Samos highly discontented,
Discontented with the misse,
Of so great a former blisse,
Where from altars did arise,
Odors sweete, with louers cries:
Breathing sighes from hearts amaine,
Sad reporters of their paine.
Barraine be Idalian hill,
Vnadornd by Natures skill.
Dry be Acidalian spring,
Circled with no euening ring:
Of the Fairy wood-Nymphs tripping,
And on greene grasse lightly skipping,
Where sweete Amorets were chaunted,
While it was by goddesse haunted:
Be they of all bounties rest,
Sith they are by Venus left.
Loues coy queene forgetting quight,
Iles could yeeld her queint delight,
Deeming earthly mansions drosse,
Former solace, future losse,
Haunts the palace of her sonne,
Worke of wonder lately done:
Daily guest she there remaineth,
And of loue to Loue complaineth.
Now no more to rule she deignes,
Yoked Swans with siluer reines,
(Earth which erst she did commend)
And returnd through liquide aire,
Gliding to Ioues royall chaire.
Vulcan staide from framing thunder,
That he might erect this wonder.
Wanton boy would neuer cease,
Wily mother grant no peace,
Till by this the strife were ended,
Feined strife by them pretended.
Top is close, the fourme is round,
Seated on an azure ground:
No doore seene, yet doores each-where,
Entries close, yet many there.
For one colour teinteth all,
Turrets, doores and gyring wall:
Clammy stuffe the colour beareth,
(Halfe white, halfe red hue it weareth)
Such as in Asphaltis lake,
Did Chaldæan workemen take:
For that high-entitled frame,
Honord with first Empires name:
On the top with triumphs fild,
Stockdoues mothers birds did build.
Right side was with windowes dight,
To receiue th'infused light:
Light so cleare, so bright, so faire,
As in clearest open aire.
There the roofes are rich embost,
Wals adornd with equal cost:
Workes engraude of queint deuise,
And enchasde with gemmes of price.
There his bow of beaten gold,
Worth a world of wealth vntold:
And shafts pointed with like mettle,
Wily wag thought meet to settle.
Author of each happie doome:
Loues Vicegerent on that side,
Vaunts the worth of heau'ns chiefe pride.
Fancies on her steps attend,
Such as do her fauours send,
Or affoord the fruites of pleasure,
When delight by loue they measure.
These serue when the god doth strike,
Both hearts with one shaft alike.
Not that one should sue in vaine,
And the other dart disdaine.
But a mutuall passion wrought,
In one sympathie of thought:
Or when hope of hap vnproued,
Plots the praise of things beloued.
Pyrocles such fancie knew,
Fancie giuing Loue his due,
Which did on Philoclea looke,
Bathing in a Christall brooke.
He disguisde a virgin seemd,
And his name was Zelmane deemd.
O how sweetly did he praise,
In those lines those louely laies,
All perfections in her planted?
For his pen no praises wanted.
Tresses of her Ambre haire,
Wauing in the wanton aire.
Rubie lips and corall chin,
Soft, smooth, Alablaster skin.
Angels iookes, hands lily white,
Eyes subduing at the sight.
Left side hath no windowes made,
Darker then Tartarian shade.
There was bowe of fatal yue,
Acting horrors that ensue,
Which in Stygian poole were dipt.
Sorrow keeps this seate of terror,
Mirthlesse hag the whelpe of error.
Fancies do on her attend,
Fancies which despaire do send:
When one shaft poore heart doth shiuer,
Drawne from loue-enforcing quiuer:
But a second tipt with lead,
Strikes affections vigor dead:
In an other heart not moued,
With remorse of paine vnproued.
These do on repulses muse,
And Loues rigor oft accuse.
And soft sounds like minutes breath,
Sighes by turnes from vnderneath.
But ô God the most diuine,
Sith Timocleas heart and mine
Were with equall wound opprest,
And with fairest Fancies blest:
End these sowres with sweete conclusion,
Least thy godhead seeme illusion.
| Arisbas, Euphues amidst his slumbers | |