University of Virginia Library

A PASSION.

VVhen grymm dispaire, vvithe graspe of grieslye vvooes,
In plounged myndes, do vvorke the muses vvracke:
Then boylinge heades turmoyles, the hammars gooes.
And hevvmors dryues, as dothe the sommers racke.
No kindlye course, his propper plyght reteanes.
Sommond vvythe cayres, so fayred it by me,
By soddayne dryft, as flormes by mystye raynes,
Do chooke th'aire, and bryghtnes of the skey.
In suche a plyght, did all my senses stand,
The storme begann, vvithe in my restles brayne,
And from my eyes, the streames vvere streight at hand,
That on my cheekes, sharpe shovvres dovvne did rayne.
Eche hevvmor did (as surges soyles them selves,
On muddye shoores) vvythe rughe reflex contend.
Eche veyne puft vpp, as thongh vvith flotynge eveles:
Did ransicke oft, vvhat vvay to vvrest or vvend.
My bodye chylld, as all amasd vvithe vvoo:
My trymblynge fleshe, hott agevves did conspire:
My clustred lymes, on frossen heapes did grovve:
And streight resolud, as thoughe attacht vvithe fyer,
VVhere in my corse, a stubburne vvarr begann.
My sobbes supt vp, vvythe snatchyng breathe redovvnd,
And smookye sieghes from clovvdy brest forth came,
That estsouns forst, a shatterynge hollovve sound.
But vvhat it vvas, that bredd me all this caire,
My silence shall, recorde his cureles dumpe
In careles mynde, that yelds not to dispaire:
Nor bragge of fickle fortunes vvorldly brunt.
In mase of vvo, and in this caise vvas i:
Tvvene hope to riese, and feare, to faid, or fall,
VVhen first my frend, presented vnto me
This mournynge uerse, os plaintfull FRAVNCE his thrall:
And badd me vvrest, my vvearye muse to synge,
Of clatterynge armes, and fyerye MAVORS moude:
Of hatefull vvarr, en forst by ENVYES stynge:
To baythe his handes, vvithein his countree bloude.
Not halfe ypast, the threats of vvynter sadd,
VVhen SATVRNE had, styrd vp the GAVLES to armes.
My mormynge muse, in sorrovve all ycladd,
Gan then to vvryet, of theis deuyded harmes.
My shaykynge hand, my plaintfull pen begann,
To vvayle the FRENCHE, and present stayte of man.

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, MY VERIE GOOD LORD AND MAISTER SIR HENRY NORREIS KNIGHT. L. AMBASSADOVR RESIDENT IN FRAVNCE.

The bale begonne, is when deformed warres,
Whith civil stroake, embrewes his natiue swoorde.
For were it not, that rage of rancours roote,
By growinge evills, had watcht so blacke a tyme,
I weane envie, by suche owtraginge splene
Had not brought foorth, this fowle mishapen change
In maymed state, that Ronsard wayles in ryme,
And I reduce, whith not resemblinge penne,
To Englishe grace (though in vnskilful verse)
By frendes enforst to publish now abroade:
Whiche I present (Sir) to yowr shrowdinge hande,
No Trophee, nor masse of mighty myne,
Nor golden somme, but as à miete of fame,
Where power failes t'vnlade affections force.

A DISCOVRSE OF THEIS PRESENT TROBLES, AND miseries of this tŷme.

Sence that by diuine might of God,
The worlde was first y framd,
Who lent vs life, as nature hight,
Vnspotted and vnsteande,
If then from age to age, encrease
Of vice, had entred in
To humain hartes, and rowted nowght
But rage of cancred sinne,
Then longe to fore, shold extreme wrath
Of malice and of might,
Surmonted al, and wee haue led
Our lives in sineful plight:
But sence we see, ech sort of men
In Sondrie place and Ile,
Some walke as in a vertuous way,
And some doo live but vile,
We owght, and must confesse by force,
That this difformed vice,
Owght not to bost of victorie,
But as by fowle surprise
Pursewes that trade, that she enioyes
That day when man is cladd,
With vertues and vith vices robes
In habit good or bad.
Ne yet vertew it selfe, do owght
Augment her gladsome bandes,
If she had but encreast eftsonnes,
Her fame with heauid vp handes,
Had strecht vnto the tipp of gloor,
And ech thinge shoold accourre,
By perfit meanes to golden happe,
Which present we abhorre.
But as it semes to Royal states,
And to ther pompeus trayne,
And manners eke, throughe tract of yeares,
We see it thus remayne.
For sometyme vertue beares à sale,
And sometyme vice aboundes,
Thone erectes hym selfe, with force,
The other sinckes and drowndes:
Rebayted thus, rechast with might,
The painful minde applyes,
Lest that, with in this sineful woorld,
Encrease of vice arrise.
It pleased thus, the puissant god,
To enterchaunge our might,
And suffer man, within the lap,
Of good and bad to light.
As dooth the painful pilot oft
Conduct his crased boate,
In bitter storme, and quiet calme,
Twene hap and happles loate.
(Thou Quene) that from thie sappie wittes,
Doth shake of ignoraunce,
And redes and heares attentiuely
Our Martial feates of Fraunce,
Thow knowest, and canst fulwel decerne
Beholdinge our debate,
The difference of eche tyme forpast,
And of our present state.
To write of kinges, ther maners eke
In blood sometyme embrewde,
And some vnspotted and vnsteande,
That lyud with fame pursewde.
My hande doth shake, my feble pen
Is not in perfit plight,
My Muses all do mase to see
The fruites of dire despite.
Ambition doth with thirstie throate,
And wide deuouringe pawe,
Stirre vp à thowsand strifes and moo
Withowt respect of lawe:
Some one are lame of wit an skil,
And some with reason flowes,
And some of feble hart agayne
Ther nedeful cause foreslowes.
As princes do professe and are
So subiectes do encline,
For princes are a paterne prest
Unto ther peoples eyen.
It then behoues in tender age,
For to enstruct eche kinge,
How with advice he may conduct,
And gouerne euery thinge:
Even from his cradels fyrst he owght,
To haue before his eyes,
The feare of God, his erlie scourge,
That through misorders rise.
And eke he owght so wel prouide,
And so ordaine and way,
The trewe and perfit lawe, that none
Do erre or runne astraye,
By scisme or by pernicious sect,
By false or forgd devise,
That intricates nowght els but dowbtes,
By wicked mannes surmise.
Madame alas I wayle to see
The clowdy bitter storme,
That threatens Fraunce, such wrackes of woos,
By wynters wrathe y torne.
The flaggy snowes, the dampishé mystes,
The furye of the skyes,
The bowstiours windes doo woorcke the seas
And fominge surges rise.
And nowe the starres, the guidinge twynnes,
Disdaynes ther gladsome light,
Stand stifflye (madame) to the sterne,
To guide the barcke out right.
In mawger of the heydeous wyndes,
And rough malicious storme,
Conduct to harbor man and mate
In shipwracke thus y torne.
Whole Fraunce with folded handes requires,
An thryse requires thy meane,
Our sillye state (a pray to suche
As scorne our noble reigne)
That thou wilt hast that happie meane,
That may those evels redresse,
And by thy right and might appease,
Thes mischeffes more and lesse.
The Royal pride of haughtie seate,
The pompe of princely law,
That quiet held the mace of might,
And regal swoorde of awe,
In bosome of the heauenly light,
What may their sowles now say?
Yea what may they that shrowded are
In cowche and tombe of clay?
VVhat may the Royal Pharamovnd
And Clodivs insigne?
What may proude Charles, kinge Pipin eke,
And Lewis of that tyme?
VVhat maye Clowis in Armer clad
And Martial Martel say?
That yerst whythe prudent pollecye,
Did raigne and rule alwaye.
That whithe there valiant Armes stil sought
For to inlarge oure state,
Ye first found meanes by conqueste great,
To gaine this fertel seate.
VVhere in theire stateley goulden raignes
Of warlike Gaules we reade,
And howe wythe Armed men were seen
The barren feildes ouer spreade.
Not thus by Civell sawage warrs
Oure state to ouertourné,
But sought by rigor of the swourde,
Our lustye fame to fourme.
Imagen that you heare the skrikes,
That eckoes to the skies
And so redoundes from heigh againe
To yearthe wythe dowleful cryes:
VVhat may our foremer fathers saye?
And lustie men at armes:
That in theese conquestes perrilous,
Receyvd theire mortall harmes?
And died: to effraunchise Fraunce,
VVith longe and yerkesome toyles,
To see oure selfes wythe Civell swourd,
Distroye oure natiue Soyles.
They may repyne and yeke repent
Theire lothesome blouddie broiles:
Theire quarrels and theire conquests thus
Subdewed wythe warlike toylis
For souche a people thus distroaght,
For souche diuided strife,
That loosethe while they myght inioye
A shore of happie leife,
A fructeful soyle a fertel lande,
That thou of Brvtvs source
VVhere fominge seas on loftie sides
Dothe beat wyth rage of force,
And drinckes vpon Thamasis springes.
And also thou blacke Moores
That in the westerne waues do live,
And buylde on Libicks shores,
Fearinge the flames of Phaëton
Declininge on thy head:
And thow proud Prince of poumpus traine,
That confines one oure syde,
And thou prowde Goate to Armour prest
That prowes striues to wynne,
VVho feeles the Northen coulde some tyme,
One roughe and riueled skin:
By Martial feates of glittering Armes
Ne yet by blouddye fight,
Could neuer daunt or tame by hand
The Gavles of warlike might.
The Axe of hardnid stele y wrought,
And quyck of cvt y framd
Makes oft the labour easier,
Unto the woorke mans hand.
And warlike Fraunce, yf sharpe of witt,
And prudent pollecie,
Ought nowe to quicken wythe there force
The dymnese of the eye:
And by theire labour so reduce
Theire wealthe to gladsome stats
And to the hatchet heow we see
The taulest okes abats.
VVhose weale no raginge armes could daunt
Nor threat of forraine foo,
Them selfs whith bloudye Cyvel knyfe,
Now seekes to ouerthrow.
So was stronge Aiax brought vnto
His baleful blowdie end,
VVhilst throughe his corse, his brutishe hand,
The sauage knyfe did send:
And rome that wondred longe eache state,
(A Monarke built of pryd,)
VVho from Appollos rvddy bed,
Unto the westerne side,
His Empire whithe his largest skirtts,
And boundes ystretched farr,
Reuoltinge once, by Cyvel sworde,
Decayed by countrey warr.
Yf theis be hateful presidents,
By plainteful hasserds thral,
And wee not warnd how to beware,
To read of others fall?
Ought not we to be wayle oure wronges,
That in a cloud of wo,
Oure eyes whithe blyndnes so forecaste,
VVe can discerne no fo?
That present now to plonge of wracke,
Dothe threaten yeke decaye,
And we headlonge in myserye,
Can not eschew the waye.
The forraigne Prince whithe warlike swourd,
VVhose wars are plaine to vs,
Doo pittie oure absourdities,
And state tormented thus,
That blount of wyt we feele not now,
How oure Dysastre tournes,
And that we see, and wil not see,
How wayward fortune spornes.
Of Longe record of antique fame,
Manye haue here tofore,
By thretninge and by fearful signes,
Presaged lesse and more.
Namelye withe in soche yeares and dayes,
That headdy franticke Gawles,
Whithe Cyvel shocke and natiue swourd,
Should shake bothe towne and walles:
And that of filthie mourders ofte,
Oure trowbeled estate,
Should render vs of al estates,
The most vnfortunate.
VVhile like to blowndred crowes in mystes,
VVe headlonge ronne to Armes,
Not knowinge how to shunn or shifte,
The sequel of oure harmes.
An to declare oure selfs more wyse,
VVe neuer gaue no truste,
To trewe precepts nor ruled, oure lyues,
But euer to oure lust.
But obstinate and blynde as were
The Hebrves of foretyme,
That trusted not the Sacred wordes,
Of those whiche did deuine.
The godds that hauinge some respecte,
Vnto the stray ned sort,
Sent in oure tyme soche wonders ofte,
That might oure lyfes exhorte:
VVhithe waterie eyes for to repent,
And wayle our wycked syn,
And to repaire the breache wile wee,
A better life be gin.
The Skies whithe showers did wayle oure wrake,
Be fore oure tourmoyles were,
The Commetts from the Esterne Syde,
VVhithe threates did foule appere,
And Seine whithe ouer flowinge waves,
Of far vnwonted force,
Did denotate, and we might deme,
To Paris some devorse.
The waters in theire swelling wrathe,
As though whithe fominge fume,
They woulde by mightie ouerflow,
The synful worlde consume:
That heauen and earthe did as it weare,
Threaten oure Royall Realme,
A daye of bytter sharpe reuenge,
And Ruine of the same.
O thou that writest of warlike workes,
VVhithe not dissemblinge pen,
Depaint at lengthe oure monstrous age,
To feare and warne all men:
Recompte vnto oure tender youthe,
Oure fatalle myserye,
That readinge they may yeke bewayle,
Oure state whithe watery eye,
That they may lyue and yeke beware,
Of theyre forefathers synn,
Lest they by headlonge error do,
Right to soche evels fall in.
VVythe what vnshamefast face mayest thou,
O Uyle tormented lyfe,
Be hold the storie of oure tyme,
In thys myshapen strife:
In Readinge that oure Septer hathe,
And Kinglie famus rase,
From first so manye yeares to forne,
Indured whithe glad increase:
And nowe runues rashlye to rvine,
By rage of martiall might,
Even as the strongest rocke is forst,
From heighe to low to light.
The storie wytethe howe Iove some tyme,
In rage whithe hewmaine rase,
That would by curious meanes invent,
His godhead to displace:
And soughte to know his deuine might,
VVhithe in his Sacred Ile,
VVhiche no man might to enterprise,
That are prophane and Uile,
One daye by pricke of youthe the god,
From heigh seate would remoue,
To finde owt dame Presumption,
To entertayne in love.
VVhere at the foote of heigh Olimpe,
Sounde sleepinge where she laye,
Refte from her tender lippes a kisse,
And eftesones stale a waye.
VVhere whithe the prophaine god conceaud,
Souche rancour in his mynd,
That all his meanes was for reuenge,
Upon the heumaine kynd,
VVhere at the heauens was wrothe to see,
The vile lasciuous god,
And so agreed that he shoulde fele,
The scourge and smartinge rod,
And of the sylver streames of Rheyne,
VVhithe lustie sydes hempt in,
VVho dothe bestride the barbed horse,
His Martiall fame to wyn.
In this deformed change the sonne,
The fathers feare whithe stode,
The brother yeke whithe stayned hand,
Ybaiths in brothers bloud:
Yea Nature clene degenerates,
In weake and femall kynd,
Aud glowinge spite by pride conceales,
The rancor of the mynd,
Extracte from howse of Natiue lyne,
Bereaues the others life.
The seruile man in maisters bloud,
VVhithe stroke of stayned knyfe,
Imbrues his hands, (O bluddie bale)
O Nature foule confused:
The man contract in bandes we see,
In Nvptiall bed refused,
The fruct of foes, by fraude of frendes,
He maye pervse that lust,
How ferme is fraude, how fraile is faythe,
How tycklie now is trust,
How as from Hydrais head intrudes,
The plumes of pevishe pride,
And how whithe duble faced wronge,
Tymes truthe is sloly tried.
The infant from his cradel crept,
Deuorst from parents awe,
Standes vp and stifflye dothe dispute,
Of right and Sacred lawe.
And euerie thinge do cleane declyne,
Whithe out restraint of might,
Abandond are all Cyvel meanes,
Of polecye and right.
In this deformed change eche crafte,
By painefull handes sustaynd,
VVho rept his fruct by labour sweet,
Is now no more mayntaind.
The herdeman dothe (dismayed man,)
Refuse his simple charge,
The advocate hathe now no meane,
To wrest his law at large.
The steerman leaues his floting barke,
To drenche the seas a lone,
The trafique of the spendinge hand,
Is now reiect and gone.
By this mishapen Monster eke,
The wise and ware deuise,
Is by his malice cleane transformed,
To lewd and fylthie vyce.
The tender youthe in learned scooles,
Traind vp to expert yeares,
Corrups his fraile and tender age,
VVhithe fonde and foule desiers.
The vilest crafte do yeke transforme,
His pick axe and his spade,
His pitcheforke to a pike and yeke,
His hatchet to a blade.
And wyll no more whithe togge of ploughe,
Teare vp the slatie soyles,
But in a sword begert pourshewes,
This frantycke Cyvel broyles.
Mute is the mouthe that would controle,
That Error nowe subornes,
There blinde and brutishe appetits,
No Ivstice now reformes.
To foule and vile lycencious vice,
Now libertie permitts,
Disorder and deformed will,
In open ivdgement sitts.
Now eche man proles for pryvate gaine,
And gredy lust to wrenges,
The massie gaines of goulden sommes,
That soche disorder bringes.
In this blacke tyme the starres do warre,
The heauens do frowne at this,
To see this Chaos vpon earthe,
VVhere forme and fascion is.
Vpon this dolefull stage scarse did,
The prologue once begone,
Before oure woees vnladed weere,
By conductes of the eyen,
Sence that blacke tyme of lateful warres,
And hateful myserie,
VVee haue not svpt vp all aure sobbes,
Oure eyes be scarcelye drye:
Attacht of new vnhappie tyme,
From worse to worse we fall,
Eche resteful place, Eche quiet seate,
Of Cyttye, Towne and wall,
Hathe whithe foule breache of promise heighe
In triall of there truthe,
Revolted and to bluddye Armes,
Theese Cyvelle stormes pourshewethe.
For fyerie Mars hathe this decreed,
In wrathe and raginge moode,
To power downe theese plages on Fraunce,
Bestaynd whithe Cyvell bludde:
I wrast whithe wretched cares and woes,
Of stormye wynter threates,
VVee fleete in waues of warlike sourge,
And crased sydes that beates.
As dothe the barke in stubberne blastes,
Of mast and mayne berefte,
Of marenner of man and mate,
And yeake of pylate leafte.
The painefull hand of skilfull mate,
Denies to to holde the helme,
In goulfe of playntefull myserye,
Oure state do ouerwhelme:
Decayed wytte how blunt art thou?
That could not see the tyme,
VVhen as the fatale Sisters did,
Draw fourthe theire vitall twyne,
And left the soche tryumphant yeares,
Of longe and happie age,
As in thy bosome neuer myght,
Crepe in soche beastely rage,
Of glowinge spite by cruel Armes,
To bathe the synful handes,
In bowells of thye natiue shore,
That gylteles thee whithe standes.
Unhappye Gawles vnhappye men,
And thrise vnhappye race,
That thus distraught sekst to distroye,
Thy fertell natiue place.
Defamed sword of Regall awe,
Blushe at thy feeble right,
Devided thus, decayed art,
Of Law and publique myght.
Unhappie seate vnhappye state,
That now vnsteadye standes,
From lofty throne in case to fall,
In to Ambicions handes.
Looke to your proude estate you Gawles,
You Gawles of ancient name,
That neuer staynd whithe ouerthrow,
You might conserue your fame,
In quiet forme, as yerst to fore,
Youre fathers in theire tyme,
VVho longe mayntaynd a quyet reigne,
From all vnshamefaast cryme:
From head longe broyles, from Cyvell woundes,
From suche defamed warre,
That in this age (vnhappie tyme)
VVe see apparent are.
Of happie and of quiet Lyfe,
VVe see the glase ronne out,
The wrackes appeares from clowdye skye,
Now Madame looke a bout:
Make cleare a bourde, in stormye seas
The master showes his skill,
Reforme these franticke braines that thus,
Do ronne on headlonge will.
Restrayne whithe stedy raignes these men,
That whithe vnbrideled heade,
Haste to the stage of fyerie armes,
Their natiue blud to sheed.
Respect the hassarde of oure state,
Respect oure present Raigne,
Appease this quarell and debate,
That mangles thus our fame.
Redresse our vile dismembred age,
Of most deformed life,
Seeke how to reconcyle these warres,
Of vile and hatefull strife.
Seeke to avoyde thys fowle Eclips,
Of warr and Cyuell broyles,
Seeke to be nvnme the synfull handes,
That in these mischifs moyles.
Seeke howe to cleere the clowdye threats,
Of this deformed sonne,
Seeke to repare this curlish breatche,
In sauage harts bogon.
Reforme whithe heedful care oure state,
That thus transfigured are,
Respecte ō Qvene this sequell now,
Of this vnwonted warre.
Repaire ō Qvene whith tymely care,
Oure wealthe now ouerthrone,
Some good hand gripe the stable healme,
To shipwracke as we ronne.
Our plaintefull state in throwes of wo,
In hassard of decaye,
Calls helpe of none but thee (thou Qvene)
That bearethe now the swaye.
The tender yeares of pompous kinge,
And proude vnstayned seate,
That neuer yelded to no calme,
Nor pusshe of coursed fate,
Assiste nowe whith thy sage advice,
Assist whithe pollecye,
Assist oure Realme lest worne to wracke,
VVhithe wringed handes we crye,
Vnhappy raigne vnhappie life,
Vnhappie eke the wyght,
Unhappie eke a thousand tymes,
The rvle of female might.
Let not the earthe be staynd whith blud,
In plonge of hatefull harmes,
Exclayme and whithe outraging skrikes,
Complame of Cyvell armes.
VVhose hateful and displesant yoke,
Of presant plage we feele,
Disarminge vs vnhappie Gawles,
Of all oure wonted weele.
Of all oure proud and pompous prayse,
Of all oure antique fame,
Our honor flets, the glorie ebbes,
Of our Tryumphant name:
VVhat longe tofore in foremer age,
Our fathers fame hathe won,
Vnhappie we vnhappie Gawles,
Vnhappie haue vndon.

A sonnet to the translatour.

As Homers streaminge source, of springinge head doth flovv
In Grekishe cloustred camps, by Troians reard to fame:
As Virgils matchinge stile, doth vveaue in smothed frame,
The peased pliant vvoordes, of vvightes that lye ful lovv:
So RONSARDS blovvminge grafte (from them as you may knovve
By ruthful mourners minde) doth vvoordes from parentes tame
VVaylinge vvhith broken seighes the fyerie kinghtes of name,
That braue vvhith glitternige svvord in fielde to smyte the blovv
Of dedlye massie fiste, (most deu to vvaylful Fraunce)
Sent from myld God, that doth vvhith splayed armes inhaunce,
The lastinge painful scourge, to vvhippe the thanckles flockee.
If creed may credit geue, to dysmalles iudgmentes day,
I thincke the same hath taught, IENEY to outforth bray,
An Englishe pleasant phrase, not far from RONSARDS stocke.