Licia, or Poemes of Loue In Honour of the admirable and singular vertues of his Lady, to the imitation of the best Latin Poets, and others. Whereunto is added the Rising to the Crowne of Richard the third [by Giles Fletcher] |
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A dialogue betwixt two: Sea-nymphes, DORIS and GALATEA, concerning Polyphemus, briefely translated out of Lucian. |
 | Licia, or Poemes of Loue |  |
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A dialogue betwixt two: Sea-nymphes, DORIS and GALATEA, concerning Polyphemus, briefely translated out of Lucian.
The Sea Nymphes late did play them on the shore,
And smyl'd to see such sport was new begunne:
A strife in love, the like not heard before,
Two Nymphes contend, which had the conquest wonne.
Doris the fayre, with Galate did chyd.
She lyk't her choyce, and to her taunts replyd.
Doris.
And smyl'd to see such sport was new begunne:
A strife in love, the like not heard before,
Two Nymphes contend, which had the conquest wonne.
Doris the fayre, with Galate did chyd.
She lyk't her choyce, and to her taunts replyd.
Thy love (fayre Nymph) that courts thee on this plaine,
As shepheards say, and all the world can tell.
Is that foule rude Sicilian Cyclop-swayne,
A shame (sweete Nymph) that he with thee should mell.
Galatea.
Smyle not (fayre Doris) though he foule doe seeme,
Let passe thy wordes that savour of disgrace,
He's worth my love, and so I him esteeme.
Renownd by birth and comon of Neptunes race.
Neptune that doth the glassye Ocean tame,
Neptune, by birth from mighty Iove which came.
Doris.
I graunt an honour to be Neptunes chyld,
A grace to be so neere with Iove allyde.
But yet (sweete Nymph) with this be not beguyld,
Where natures graces are by lookes descryde.
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And worse then this, a Monster with one eye.
Foule is not graced, though it weare a Crowne,
But fayre is Bewtie, none can that denye.
Galatea.
Nor is he foule, or shapelesse as you say,
Or worse, for that he clownish seem's to be,
Rough, Satyr-like, the better he will play,
And manly lookes the fitter are for me.
His frowning smyles are graced by his beard,
His eye-light Sunne-like, shrowded is in one.
This me contents, and others makes afeard,
He sees ynough, and therefore wanteth none.
Doris.
Nay then I see (sweete Nimph) thou art in love,
And loving, doates; and doating, doest commend.
Foule to be fayre, this oft doe lovers proove,
I wish him fayrer, or thy love an end.
Galatea.
Doris, I love not, yet I hardly beare,
Disgracefull tearms, which you have spoke in scorne.
You are not lov'd: and that's the cause I feare:
For why, my love, of Iove him selfe was borne.
Feeding his sheepe of late, amidst this plaine,
When as we Nymphes did sport us on this shore,
He skorn'd you all, my love for to obtaine;
That greev'd your hearts: I knew as much before.
Nay smyle not Nymphes, the trueth I onely tell,
For fewe can brooke, that others should excell.
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Should I envie that blinde did you that spite?
Or that your shape doeth pleease so foule a groome?
The shepheard thought of milke, you look'd so white,
The downe did erre, and foolish was his doome,
Your looke was pale, and so his stomach fed,
But farre from faire, where white doth want his red.
Galatea.
Though pale my looke, yet he my love did crave,
And lovelie you, unlyk'd, unlov'd I view:
It's better farre one base, than none to have,
Your faire is foule, to whome there's none will sew:
My love doth tune his love unto his harpe,
His shape is rude, but yet his witt is sharpe.
Doris.
Leave off (sweet Nymph) to grace a woorthlesse downe.
He itch'd with love, and then did sing or say,
The noise was such, as all the Nymphes did frowne,
And well suspected, that some Asse did bray.
The woods did chyde, to heare this uglie sound,
The prating Eccho scorn'd for to repeate,
This grislie voice did feare the hollow ground,
Whilst artlesse fingers did his harpstrings beat.
Two Bear-whelps in his armes this monster bore,
With these new puppies did this wanton play,
Their skinnes was rough, but yet your loves was more:
He fouler was and farre more fierce than they,
I cannot chuse (sweet Nymph) to thinke, but smyle,
That some of us, thou fearst will thee beguyle.
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Scorne not my love, untill it can be knowne,
That you have one that's better of your owne.
Doris.
I have no love, nor if I had, would boast,
Yet wo'd have bene, by such as well might speed:
But him to love, the shame of all the coast,
So uglie foule, as yet, I have no need.
Now thus we learne what foolish love can doe,
To thinke him faire, that's foule and uglie to.
To heare this talke I sate behinde an oake,
And mark'd their wordes to pend them as they spoke.
And mark'd their wordes to pend them as they spoke.
| Licia, or Poemes of Loue | |