Poems and Dramas of Fulke Greville :: :: University of Virginia Library

In the time when herbs and flowers,
Springing out of melting powers,
Teach the earth that heate and raine
Doe make Cupid liue againe:
Late when Sol, like great hearts, showes
Largest as he lowest goes,
Cælica with Philocell
In fellowship together fell:
Cælica her skinne was faire,
Daintie aborne was her haire;

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Her haire Nature dyed browne,
To become the morning gowne,
Of hopes death which to her eyes,
Offers thoughts for sacrifice.
Philocell was true and kind
Poore, but not of poorest minde,
Though Mischance to harme affected
Hides and holdeth Worth suspected,
He good Shepherd loueth well,
But Cælica scorn'd Philocell.
Through enamel'd Meades they went,
Quiet she, he passion rent.
Her Worths to him hope did moue;
Her Worths made him feare to loue.
His heart sighs and faine would show,
That which all the World did know:
His heart sigh'd the sighs of feare,
And durst not tell her loue was there;
But as Thoughts in troubled sleepe,
Dreaming feare, and fearing weepe,
When for helpe they faine would cry,
Cannot speake, and helplesse lie:
So while his heart, full of paine,
Would it selfe in words complaine,
Paine of all paines, Louers feare,
Makes his heart to silence sweare.
Strife at length those dreames doth breake,
His despaire taught feare thus speake:

“Cælica, what shall I say?
You, to whom all Passions pray,
Like poore Flies that to the fire,
Where they burne themselues, aspire:
You, in whose worth men doe ioy,
That hope neuer to enioy,
Where both grace, and beautie's framed,
That Loue being might be blamed.
Can true Worthinesse be glad,
To make hearts that loue it, sad?

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What meanes Nature in her Iewell,
To shew Mercies image cruell?
Deare, if euer in my dayes,
My heart ioy'd in others praise:
If I of the world did borrow,
Other ground for ioy or sorrow:
If I better wish to be
But the better to please thee;
I say, if this false be proued,
Let me not loue, or not be loued.
But when Reason did inuite
All my sense to Fortunes light;
If my loue did make my reason,
To it selfe for thy selfe treason;
If when Wisdome shewed me
Time and thoughts both lost for thee;
If those losses I did glory,
For I could not more lose, sory;
Cælica then doe not scorne
Loue, in humble humour borne.
Let not Fortune haue the power,
Cupids Godhead to deuoure.
For I heare the Wise-men tell,
Nature worketh oft as well,
In those men whom chance disgraceth,
As in those she higher placeth.
Cælica, 'tis neare a God,
To make euen Fortunes odd;
And of farre more estimation,
Is Creator, than Creation.
Then Deare, though I worthlesse be,
Yet let them to you worthy be,
Whose meeke thoughts are highly graced,
By your image in them placed.

Herewithall like one opprest,
With selfe-burthens he did rest,
Like amazed were his senses,
Both with pleasure and offences.

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Cælica's cold answers show,
That which fooles feele, wise men know:
How self-pitties haue reflexion,
Backe into their owne infection:
And that Passions onely moue
Strings tun'd to one note of Loue:
She thus answeres him with Reason,
Neuer to desire in season;
“Philocell, if you loue me,
(For you would beloued be)
Your owne will must be your hire,
And desire reward desire.
Cupid is in my heart sped,
Where all desires else are dead.
Ashes o're Loues flames are cast,
All for one is there disgrac'd.
Make not then your owne mischance,
Wake your selfe from Passions-traunce,
And let Reason guide affection,
From despaire to new election.

Philocell that onely felt
Destinies which Cupid dealt;
No lawes but Loue-lawes obeying,
Thought that Gods were wonne with praying.
And with heart fix'd on her eyes,
Where Loue he thinks liues or dyes,
His words, his heart with them leading,
Thus vnto her dead loue pleading:
“Cælica, if euer you
Loued haue, as others doe;
Let my present thoughts be glassed,
In the thoughts which you haue passed,
Let self-pittie, which you know,
Frame true pittie now in you;
Let your forepast woe, and glorie,
Make you glad them, you make sory.
Loue reuengeth like a God,
When he beats he burnes the rod:

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Who refuse almes to desire,
Dye when drops would quench the fire.
But if you doe feele againe
What peace is in Cupids paine,
Grant me, Deare, your wished measure,
Paines but paines that be of pleasure;
Find not these things strange in me,
Which within your heart we see;
For true Honour neuer blameth,
Those that Loue her seruants nameth.
But if your heart be so free,
As you would it seeme to be,
Nature hath in free hearts placed
Pitty for the poore disgraced.

His eyes great with child with teares
Spies in her eyes many feares,
Sees he thinks, that sweetnesse vanish
Which all feares was wont to banish.
Sees, sweet Loue, there wont to play,
Arm'd and drest to runne away,
To her heart where she alone,
Scorneth all the world but one.
Cælica with clouded face,
Giuing vnto anger grace,
While she threatned him displeasure,
Making anger looke like pleasure,
Thus in furie to him spake,
Words which make euen hearts to quake:
“Philocell, farre from me get you,
Men are false, we cannot let you;
Humble, and yet full of pride,
Earnest, not to be denyed;
Now vs, for not louing, blaming,
Now vs, for too much, defaming:
Though I let you posies beare,
Wherein my name cyphred were,
For I bid you in the tree,
Cipher downe your name by me:

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For the Bracelet pearle-like white,
Which you stale from me by night,
I content was you should carry
Lest that you should longer tarry,
Thinke you that you might encroach,
To set kindnesse more abroach?
Thinke you me in friendship tyed,
So that nothing be denyed?
Doe you thinke that I must liue,
Bound to that which you will giue?
Philocell, I say, depart,
Blot my loue out of thy heart,
Cut my name out of the tree,
Beare not memorie of me.
My delight is all my care,
All lawes else despised are,
I will neuer rumour moue,
At least for one I doe not loue.

Shepheardesses, if it proue,
Philocell she once did loue,
Can kind doubt of true affection
Merit such a sharpe correction?
When men see you fall away,
Must they winke to see no day?
It is worse in him that speaketh,
Than in her that friendship breaketh?
Shepheardesses, when you change,
Is your ficklenesse so strange?
Are you thus impatient still?
Is your honour slaue to will?
They to whom you guiltie be,
Must not they your errour see?
May true Martyrs at the fire
Not so much as life desire?
Shepheardesses, yet marke well,
The Martyrdome of Philocell:
Rumour made his faith a scorne,
Him, example of forelorne,

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Feeling he had of his woe,
Yet did loue his overthrow;
For that she knew loue would beare,
She to wrong him did not feare;
Ielousie of riuals grace,
In his passion got a place;
But Loue, Lord of all his powers,
Doth so rule this heart of ours,
As for our belou'd abuses,
It doth euer find excuses.
Loue teares Reasons law in sunder,
Loue, is God, let Reason wonder.
For nor scorne of his affection,
Nor despaire in his election,
Nor his faith damn'd for obeying,
Nor her change, his hopes betraying,
Can make Philocell remoue,
But he Cælica will loue.
Here my silly Song is ended,
Faire Nymphs be not you offended,
For as men that trauell'd farre,
For seene truths, oft scorned are,
By their neighbours, idle liues,
Who scarce know to please their Wiues;
So though I haue sung you more,
Than your hearts haue felt before,
Yet that faith in men doth dwell,
Who trauells Constancy can tell.