The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thy Elder care shall from thy carefull face
By Princely meane bee stolne, and yet not lost;
Thy Younger shall with Natures bliss embrace
An uncouth Love, whiche Nature hateth moste:
Thow with thy Wyffe adultery shalt committ,
And in thy Throne, a forreyn State shall sitt,
All this on thee this fatall yeare shall hitt.

[Transformde in shewe, but more transformde in mynde]

Transformde in shewe, but more transformde in mynde,
I cease to stryve, with duble Conquest foylde;
For, woe ys mee, my powers all (I fynde)
With owtewarde force, and inward treason spoylde.

For, from withoute, came to myne eyes the blowe,
Whereto, myne Inwarde thoughtes did faintly yeelde:
Bothe these conspirde pore Reasons overthrowe,
False in my self, thus have I lost the feelde.

And thus myne eyes are plaste still in one sighte,
And thus my thoughtes can thinck but one thing still:
Thus, reason to his servantes gives his righte,
Thus ys my power transformed to youre will.
What marvell then I take a Womans hewe?
Since, what I see, thincke, knowe, ys all but yow?

[What lengthe of verse can serve, brave Mopsas good to showe]

What lengthe of verse can serve, brave Mopsas good to showe,
Whose vertues strange, & beutyes suche, as no man them may knowe:
Thus shrewdly burdened then, how can my Muse escape;
The godds must help, and precyous thinges must serve to shew her shape.

Like great god Saturne, faire, and like faire Venus chaste,
As smoothe as Pan, as Juno, mylde, lyke goddess Iris faste.
With Cupid shee foresees, and goes god Vulcans pace,
And for a taste of all these giftes shee borowes Momus grace.

Her forehead Jacincth lyke, her cheekes of Opall hewe,
Her twinckling eyes bedect wth perle, her lippes of Saphire blewe.
Her heare pure Crapall stone, her Mouthe, O heavenly wyde,
Her skinne like burnisht golde, her handes like silver Owir untryde.
As for those partes unknowne, whiche hidden sure are best
Happy bee they wch well beleeve, and never seeke the rest.

[Come Shepearde weedes become youre Masters mynde]

Come Shepearde weedes become youre Masters mynde,
Yeelde owteward shewe, what Inwarde chaunge hee tryes:
Nor bee abashed, synce suche a guest yow fynde,
Whose strongest hope in youre weyke comforte lyes.

Come Shepeard weedes attend my woofull Cryes,
Disuse youre selves from sweete Menalcas voyce:
For others bee those Tunes wch sorrowes tyes,
From those clere notes wch freely may rejoyce.

Then powre oute pleynte, and in one worde say this:
Helples his pleynte, who spoyles him self of blis.

[Now thancked bee the great god Pan]

Now thancked bee the great god Pan,
That thus preserves my loved lyfe:
Thancked bee I that keepe A man,
Who ended hathe this fearefull stryfe.
So, yf my Man must prayses have;
What then must I, that keepe the knave?

For, as the Moone the eye dothe please,
With gentle beames not hurting sighte:
Yet hathe Sir Sunn the greatest prayse,
Bycause from him dothe come her lighte.
So, yf my man must prayses have;
What then must I, that keepe the knave?

[Come Dorus come, Let Songes thy sorrowes signify]

Lalus.
Come Dorus come, Let Songes thy sorrowes signify,
And, yf for want of use thy mynde ashamed ys,
That very shame, with Loves hye tytle Dignify:
No style ys helde for base, where Love well named ys.
Eche eare suckes up the wordes a true Love scattereth,
And playne speeche ofte, then quaynte phrase better framed ys.

Dorus.
Nightingales sildome singe, the Pye still chattereth,
The wood cryes moste, before yt throwly kindled bee,
Deadly woundes inward bleede, eche sleight sore mattereth:
Hardly they hearde, wch by good Hunters singled bee,
Shallow brookes murmer moste, Depe sylent slyde away,
Nor true Love Loves, his Loves with others mingled bee.

Lalus.
Yf thow wilt not bee seene, thy face goo hyde away,
Bee none of us, or else meynteyne oure fashyon,
Who frownes at others feastes, dothe better byde away,
But yf thow haste a Love in that Loves passyon
I Challenge thee by shewe of her perfection
Whiche of us Twoo deserveth moste Compassyon.

Dorus.
Thy Chalenge greate, but greater my protection,
Singe then, and see, for now thow haste enflamed mee,
Thy healthe to meane a Matche for my infection,
No though the Heavens for highe Attempt have blamed mee
Yet, highe ys myne Attempt (O Muse) historify
Her prayse, whose prayse to learne, youre skill hathe framed mee.

Lalus.
Muse, holde youre peace, but thow my God Pan glorify,
My Kalas giftes, who with all good giftes filled ys.
Thy Pype (O Pan) shall help, thoughe I singe sorily,
A heape of sweetes shee ys where no thing spilled ys;
Who, thoughe shee bee no Bee, yet full of hony ys
A Litle feelde, with plowe of Rose wch tilled ys.

idem.
Mylde as a Lambe, more deynty than a Cony ys,
Her eyes my eye sighte ys, her Conversacyon,
More glad to mee, then to a Myser mony ys:
What Coy accoumpte shee makes of estimacyon,
Howe nice to tuche, how all her speeches peized bee,
A Nimphe thus turned, but mended in translation.

Dorus.
Suche Kala ys, but, Ah, my fancyes raysed bee,
In one whose name, to name were highe presumption,
Synce vertues all to make her Tytle pleased bee,
O happy goddes, wch by Inward assumption;
Enjoy her sowle, in bodyes fayre possession,
And keepe yt joyned fearing youre Seates consumption.

idem.
Howe ofte with rayne of teares, Skyes make Confession,
Theyre Duellers rapt with sighte of her perfection,
From heavenly throane to her heaven use digression:
Of best thinges then, what worlde can yeelde confection,
To licken her, deck youres with youre Comparyson
She ys herself of best thinges the Collection.

Lalus.
Howe ofte my Dolefull Sire, cryed to mee, tarry, sonne,
(When firste hee spyde my Love) howe ofte hee saide to mee,
Thow arte no Souldyer fitt for Cupides guarryson,
My sonne keepe this, that my long toyle hathe layde to mee,
Love well thyne owne (mee thincke) wolles whitenes passeth all.
I never founde longe Love, suche wealthe hathe payde to mee,

idem.
This wynde, hee spent, but when my Kala glasseth all
My sighte, in her faire Lym̄es, I then assure my self,
Not rotten sheepe, but hye Crownes, shee surpasseth all,
Can I bee pore, that her golde hayer procure my self.
Want I white woolle, whose eyes her white skinne garnished?
Till I gett her, shall I to keepe enure my self?

Dorus.
Howe ofte when reason sawe Love of her harnished,
With Armor of my harte hee cryed, O, vanitye?
To sett a Perle in steele, so meanely varnished?
Looke to thy self, reache not beyonde humanity?
Her mynde, beames, state, farr from thy weyke winges banished
And Love whiche Lover hurtes ys inhumanity.

idem.
Thus reason sayde, but shee came, reason vanished,
Her eyes so mastering mee, that suche objection
Seemde but to spoyle the foode of thought longe famished;
Her pereles heighte, my mynde to hye erection,
Drawes up, and yf (hope fayling) ende lyves pleasure,
Of fayrer Deathe how can I make election.

Lalus.
Once my well wayting eyes espyed my treasure
With sleeves turnde up, loose hayer, and brestes enlarged,
Her Fathers Corne mooving, her fayres Lym̄es measure,
O (Cryed I) of so meane worcke bee discharged?
Measure my Case, how by thy Beutyes fillinge
With seede of woes, my harte brym̄full ys charged.

idem.
Thy Father biddes thee save, and Chydes for spilling,
Save then my sowle, spill not my thoughtes well heaped,
No Lovely prayse was ever gott by killinge,
These bolde wordes shee did heare, this fruite I reaped,
That shee whose Looke alone mighte make mee blessed
Did smyle on mee, and then away shee leaped.

Dorus.
O sweete, once, I sawe with Drede oppressed,
Her whome I Drede, so that, with prostrate lying,
Her Lengthe the earthe in Loves cheef Clothing dressed,
I sawe that Riches falle, and fell a Cryinge,
Lett not deade Earthe enjoy so deare a Cover,
But Deck there with my sowle, for youre sake dyinge.

Idem.
Lay all youre feare uppon youre Fearefull Lover;
Shyne eyes on mee, that bothe oure Lyves bee guarded;
So I youre sighte, yow shall youre selves recover,
I cryed, and was with open Rayes, rewarded,
But, streight they fledd, summond' by crewell honor,
Honor, the Cause, Desert ys not regarded.

Lalus.
This Mayde thus made for joyes, (O Pan) bemone her,
That withoute Love, shee spendes her yeares of Love,
So fayre a feelde woulde well become an Owner,
And yf enchauntement can a hard harte moove,
Teache mee what Circle can acquaynte her spirite
Affections charmes in my behalf to proove.
The Circle ys my (Rounde aboute her) sighte
The power I will Invoke dwelles in her eyes
My Charme shoulde bee, shee haunte mee day and nighte.

Dorus.
Farr other Case, (O Muse) my sorrowe tryes,
Bent to suche one in whome my self must saye,
No thing can mende one poynte, that in her lyes:
What Circle then in so rare force beares sway,

Whose spirit all Spirites can spoyle, rayse, dampne or save,
No Charme holdes her, but well possess shee may
Possess shee dothe and makes my sowle her Slave,
My eyes the bandes, my thoughtes the fatall knott,
No thralles like them, that Inwarde bondage have.

Lalus.
Kala, at lengthe conclude my Lingering Lott,
Disdayne mee not, allthoughe I bee not fayre,
Who ys an heyre, of many hundred sheepe
Dothe beutyes kepe, whiche never sone can burne,
Nor stormes do turne, fayrenes serves ofte to wealthe.
Yet, all my healthe, I place in youre good will.

idem.
Whiche, yf yow will, (O Doo) bestowe on mee,
Suche as yow see, suche still yow shall mee fynde,
Constant, and kynde, my sheepe youre foode shall breede,
Theyre woolle youre weede, I will yow musick yeelde,
In flowery fielde, and as the day beginnes,
With Twenty ginnes, wee will the smalle Byrdes take,
And pastymes make, as Nature thinges hathe made,
But when in shade, wee meete of Mirtle bowes,
Then Love allowes, Oure pleasures to enriche,
The thoughte of whiche, dothe pass all worldly pelf.

Dorus.
Lady youre self, whome neyther name I dare,
And tytles are, but spottes to suche a worthe,
Her playntes come forthe, from Dongeon of my mynde,
The Noblest kynde, rejectes not others woes,
I have no shewes of welthe, my Wealthe ys yow,
My Beutyes hew, youre beames, my healthe youre Deedes,
My mynde for weedes, youre vertuous Livery weares,
My foode ys teares, my Tunes Weymenting yeelde.

Idem.
Dispayre my feelde, the flowers, Spirittes, Warres
My day newe Cares, my ginnes my daily sighte,
In whiche do lighte, smalle Byrdes of thoughtes overthrown
My Pastymes none, Tyme passeth on my falle,
Nature made all, But mee of Doloures made
I fynde no shade, But where my sunne dothe burne,
No place to turne, Withowte, Within yt fryes,
Nor help by lyfe, or Deathe who living dyes.

Lalus.
But yf my Kala, this my suite denyes,
Whiche so muche reason beares:
Let Crowes pick owte myne eyes,
Whiche to muche sawe,
Yf shee still hate loves Lawe, my earthy moulde dothe melt in watery teares.

Dorus.
My earthy moulde do melt in watery teares,
And they ageane resolve, to ayer of sighes,
Sighes to the hartes fyer turne, wch dothe to Asshes burne,
Thus dothe my lyfe within yt self dissolve.

Lalus.
Thus dothe my Lyfe within yt self Dissolve,
That I growe like the Beaste,
Whiche beares the Bitt:
A weyker force dothe guyde:
Yet pacyence must abyde.
Suche weight yt hathe, whiche once ys full possest.

Dorus.
Suche weighte yt hathe, whiche once ys full possest,
That I became a Vision,
Whiche hathe in others hed his onely beeyng,
And lives in Francyes seeyng,
O wretched state of man, in self Division?

Lalus.
O wretched state of man in self Division?
O, well thow sayest, a feeling declaracion?
Thy tongue hathe made of Cupides deepe incision,
But now hoârse voyce dothe fayle this occupacyon.
And others longe to tell theyre Loves Condicion,
Of singing, thow haste gott the Reputacyon.

Dorus.
Of singing, thow haste gott the Reputacyon,
Good Lalus myne, I yeelde to thy habillity
My harte dothe seeke an other estimacyon,
But, Ah (my Muse) I woulde thow hadst facility?
To worcke my Goddess so by thy Invention;
On mee to cast those eyes, where shyne Nobility,
Seene & knowne, hearde, but, withoute attention.

[Pore Paynters ofte, with silly Poettes joyne]

Pore Paynters ofte, with silly Poettes joyne,
To fill the worlde wth straunge but vayne Conceyptes:
One bringes the Stuff, the other stampes the Coyne,
Whiche breedes nought else but glosses of Deceiptes:
Thus Paynters Cupid paynte, thus Poettes doo,
A naked god, blynde, younge, with Arrowes twoo.

Is hee a God, that ever flies the Lighte?
Or naked hee disguysd' in all untruthe:
Yf hee bee blynde how hitteth hee so righte,
Or ys hee younge, that tamed oulde Phebus youthe.
But, Arrowes twoo and tipt wth golde or leade,
Some hurt accuse a thirde with horned heade.

No, no thinge so; an oulde false knave hee ys,
By Argus gott on Io, then a Cowe:
What tyme for her Juno her Jove did misse,
And charge of her to Argus did allowe.
Mercury killed his false Syre for this Acte:
His Damme a Beast was pardoned beastly facte.

With fathers Deathe, and Mothers guilty shame,
With Joves disdayne, at suche a Rivalls seede,
The wretche compelde, a Rouneagate became;
And learned what evell a miser state dothe breede,
To lye, to steale, to prye and to accuse,
Nought in him self eche other to abuse.

Yet, beares hee still his Parentes stately giftes,
A horned head Cloven feete, and thowsand eyes,
Some gasing still some winckinge wyly shiftes,
With longe large eares where never Rumor dyes,
His horned heade dothe seeme the heaven to spighte:
His Cloven feete dothe never treade arighte,

Thus half a Man, with many easily hauntes,
Clothde in the shape wch soonest may deceyve,
Thus half a Beast, eche beastly vyce hee plantes,
In those weyke hartes, that his advyce receyve.
Hee proulles eche place, still in newe Coloures deckt,
Sucking ones evill, an other to infect.

To narrow brestes hee comes all wrapte in gayne,
To swelling hartes hee shynes in honors fyer,
To open eyes all Beutyes hee dothe Rayne,
Creeping to eche, with flatering of Desyer,
But, for that Love ys worste wch Rules the eyes,
Thereon his Name, there his cheef tryumphe lyes.

Millions of yeares this oulde Drivell Cupid lives,
While still more wretche, more wicked hee dothe prove;
Till nowe at lengthe, that Jove him office gives,
At Junos sute, who muche did Argus love:
In this oure worlde, a hangman for to bee:
Of all those fooles, that will have all they see.

[Upp, upp Philisides, Let sorowes goo]

Geron. Philisides. Histor.
Geron.
Upp, upp Philisides, Let sorowes goo,
Who yeeldes to woo, dothe but encrease his smarte.
Doo not thy hart, to playntfull Custome bringe,
But, let us singe, sweete tunes doo passyons ease,
And olde man heare, who woulde thy fancyes rayse.

Philisides.
Who myndes to please the mynde drownde in Annoyes?
With outeward Joyes, whiche inlie can not sincke,
As well may thinck, with Oyle to coole the fyer,
Or with desyer, to make suche foe a frende,
Who dothe his sowle to endles mallice bend.

Geron.
Yet sure, an ende, to eche thing tyme dothe give,
Thoughe woes now live, at length thy woes must dye,
Then vertue trye, yf shee can worcke in thee,
That whiche wee see, in many tyme hathe wroughte
And weykest hartes to Constant temper broughte.

Philisides.
Who ever taughte a skilless man to teache,
Or stopp a breache, that never Canon sawe,
Sweete vertues Lawe, barres not a Causefull moane,
Tyme shall in one, my lyfe and sorowes ende,
And mee perchaunce youre Constant temper lende.

Geron.
What can amend, where Phisick ys refused,
The wittes abusde, with will, no Counsell take,
Yet, for my sake, Discover us thy greef
Ofte comes Releef when moste wee seeme in trapp,
The starres thy state, fortune may chaunge thy happ.

Philisides.
Yf fortunes Lapp became my duelling place,
And all the starres conspired to my good
Still were I one, this still shoulde bee my Case,
Ruyns Relique, Cares webb, and sorowes foode,
Synce shee faire fierce to suche estate mee Galles
Whose witt the starres, whose fortune fortune thralles.

Geron.

Alas what falles are fallen unto thy mynde,
That there where thow confest thy mischeef lyes,
Thy witt doste use still, still more harmes to fynde,
Whome witt makes vayne or blynded with his eyes,
What Counsell can preveyle, or Lighte give lighte,
Synce all his force ageanst him self hee tryes,

Then eche Conceypt that enters in by sighte,
Ys made forsoothe a Jurate of his woes,
Earthe, sea, Aire, heaven, hell and gastly spirit,
Then cryes to senceles thinges wch neither knowes,
What eyleth thee, and yf they know thy mynde
Woulde scorne (in man) theyre kinge, suche feeble shewes.

Rebell, rebell in golden fetters bynde,
This tyrant Love or rather do suppress,
Those rebell thoughtes wch are thy slaves by kynde,
Let not a glittering name thy fancy dresse,
In paynted Clothes because they calle yt love
There ys no hate that can thee more oppresse.

Begin, and half the worcke ys done, to proove,
By raysing up, uppon thy self to stande,
And thincke shee ys a Shee that dothe thee moove
Hee water plowes, and soweth in the sande,
And hopes the flickering wynde with nett to holde
Who hathe his hopes layde up in womans hande.

What man ys hee that hathe his freedome soulde?
Ys hee a manlike man, that dothe not knowe a Man?
Hathe power that sexe with brydle to withholde,
A ficle sex and true in trust to no man.
A servant sex, soone prowde yf they bee coyde
And to Conclude, thy Mistris ys a woman.

Those wordes did once the Lovelyest Shepearde use,
That erste I knewe and with moste playnefull Muse
Yet not of woemen Judging, as hee sayde,
But forste with rage, his Rage on them obrayde.

Philisides.

O Godds how longe this oulde foole hathe anoyde?
My wearyed eares, O gods yet graunte mee this,
That, soone the worlde of his false tongue bee voyde,
O Noble aige who past theyre onely blisse
In beeyng hearde, untill the hearer dye,
Uttering a Serpentes mynde, with Serpentes hisse.

Then, who will heare a well authorized lye?
And patience hathe, let him go learne of him,
What swarmes of vertues did in his youthe flie
Suche hartes of brass, wyse heddes, and garmentes trym̄,
Were in his dayes, whiche hearde, one no thing heares,
Yf from his wordes the falsehoodes hee do skym.

And here in moste theyre folly vayne appeares,
That since they still alledge when they were younge,
Yt shewes they fetche theyre witt from yowthfull yeares,
Lyke beaste for sacrifice, where (save the tongue,
And Belly) noughte ys lefte, suche sure ys hee,
This lyfe Deade man in this oulde Dongeon flonge.

Oulde howses are throwne Downe, for newe wee see,
The Ouldest Rammes are called from the flock,
No man dothe wishe his Horse shoulde aged bee,
The Auncyent Oke well makes a fyered block,
Olde men them selves do love younge wyves to choose,
Onely fond youthe admires a Rotten stock.

Who once a white long bearde well handle Doose,
(As his bearde him, not hee his bearde did beare)
Thoughe Cradle witted must not honor loose,
O, when will men leave of to judge by heare,
And thinck them Oulde, that have the Ouldest mynde,
With vertue fraughte, and full of holy feare.

[Geron.]

Yf that thy face were hidd, or I were blynde,
I yet shoulde knowe, a young man speaketh now?
Suche wandering reasons in thy speeche I fynde,
Hee ys a Beaste, that Beastes use will allowe,
For proof of man, who spronge of heavenly fyer
Hathe strongest sowle, when moste his Raynes do bowe.

But fondlinges fonde knowe not youre owne desyer,
Loathe to dye younge, and then yow must bee oulde,
Fondly blame that to whiche youre selves aspier,
But, this lighte Choler, that dothe make yow bolde,
Rather to wronge, then unto just Defence,
Ys past with mee, my blood ys waxen colde.

Thy wordes, though full of malapert offence,
I weyghe them not, but still will thee advise,
How thow from foolish Love mayste purge thy sence,
First, thincke they err, that thinck them gayly wyse,
Who well can sett a passion oute to shewe,
Suche sighte have they that see with gogling eyes,

Passyon beares hye, when puffing witt dothe blowe,
But ys in deede a Toye, yf not a Toye,
Trewe Cause of evills, and Cause of Causeles woe,
Yf once thow mayste that fancyes glosse destroy,
Within thy self thow soone wilt bee asshamed,
To bee a Player of thyne owne Anoy.

Then let thy mynde with better Bookes bee tamed,
Seeke to espye her faultes aswell as prayse,
And let thy eyes to other sportes bee framed,
In hunting Fearefull Beastes, do spende some dayes,
Or catche the Byrdes with Pittfoldes, or with Lyme,
Or trayne the foxe, that traynes so Crafty layes.

Lye but to sleepe, and in the earthly Prime,
Seeke skill of herbes in hilles, haunte brookes nere nighte,
And trye with bayte, howe fish will byte some tyme,
Go grafte ageane, and seeke to grafte them righte,
Those pleasant plantes, those sweete and fruitfull trees,
Whiche bothe the Pallat, and the eyes delighte,

Cherish the hyves of wysely paynfull Bees,
Let speciall Care uppon thy flock bee stayde,
Suche Active mynde, but sildome passyon sees.

Philisides.
Hathe any man hearde, what this Oulde man sayde?
Truely not, I, who did my thoughtes engage?
Where all my paynes, one Looke of hers hathe payde.

Histor.
Thus may yow see howe youthe esteemeth aige,
And never hathe therof a rightly deemde
While hott desyers do raigne in fancyes rage,
Till Age yt self do make yt self esteemed.

[Downe, Downe Melampus, what? youre fellowe byte?]

Geron. Mastix.
Geron.

Downe, Downe Melampus, what? youre fellowe byte?
I sett yow ore the Flock I dearely Love,
Them to Defend, not with youre selves to feighte,
Do yow not thinck this will the wolves remove?
From former feare they had of youre good myndes?
When they shall suche devyded weykenes prove?

What yf Lelanx a better morsell fyndes?
Then thow erste knowe, rather take parte wth him,
Then jarle, Loo, Loo, even these how envy blyndes?
And thow Lelanx, let not pryde make thee brym,
Bycause thow haste thy fellowe overgon̄,
But thanck the Cause thow seest, when hee ys Dym̄.

Here Lelanx here, in deede ageanst thy foen,
Of my good sheepe, thow never truce tyme tooke,
Bee as thow arte, but bee with myne at one,
For thoughe Melampus though a wolfe do looke,
(For Age dothe make him of a wolvish hewe)
Yet have I seene, when well a wolfe hee shooke.

Foole, that I am, that with my Dogges speake grewe,
Come nere good Mastix tis now full tway score,
Of yeares alas, synce I good Mastix knewe,
Thow heardest even now a young man snebb mee sore,
Bycause I redd him, as I woulde my sone.
Yowthe will have will, Aige must to age therefore.

Mastix.

What merveyle yf in youthe suche faultes bee done?
Synce that wee see oure saddest Shepeardes oute,
Who have theyre Lesson so longe tyme begun,
Quickly secure, and easily in doubte.
Eyther a sleepe bee all, yf noughte assayle,
Or all abroade, yf but a Cubb start oute.

Wee Shepeardes are like them that under sayle,
Do speake hye wordes, when all the Coaste ys clere,
Yet, to a Passinger, will Bonnett vayle,
I Con thee thanck to whome, thy Dogges bee dere,
But comonly like Curres wee do them intreate,
Save, when greate neede of them perforce appeare.

Then him wee kiss, whome late before wee beate,
With suche Intemperance, that eche way growes,
Hate of the first, Contempt of Later feate.
And suche discord tuixt greatest Shepeardes flowes
That, sporte yt ys, to see, with how greate Arte,
By Justice worcke they, theyre owne faultes disclose.

Like buysy boyes to wynn theyre Tutors harte,
One saythe hee mockes, the other saythe hee playes,
The Thirde his lesson myst, till all doo smart,
As for the rest, how Shepeardes spend theyre dayes
At Blow-poynte, Hott Cockles, or Keles
(Whyle let us pass oure tyme, eche Shepeheardes sayes)

So smalle accoumpte of tyme, the Shepearde feeles,
And dothe not feele, that lyfe ys noughte but tyme,
And when that tyme ys past, dethe holde his heeles,
To age, thus do they drawe theyre youthfull pryme
Knowyng no more, then what pore Tryall showes,
As fish sure tryall hathe of muddy slyme.

This Pattern good unto oure Children goes,
For, what they see, theyre Parentes love or hate,
Theyre first taughte sence preferrs to Teachers blowes,
These Cocklinges cokered, wee bewayle too late,
When that wee see oure ofspring gayly bent,
Woemen, Manwood, and men effeminate.

[Geron.]

Fye Man, Fye man what wordes hathe thy toungue lent?
Yet, thow arte mickle worse, than ere was I,
Thy too muche zeale, I feare thy Brayne hathe spent,
Wee ofte are angryer with the feeble flie,
For buysynes, where yt perteynes him not,
Then with the poysonous toades, that quyett lye.

I pray thee, what hathe ere the Parrett gott,
And yet (, they say) hee talkes in great mens bowers,
A Cage, (Gylded perchance) ys all his Lott,
Who, of his toungue the licoure gladly powers,
A good foole calde, with payne perhaps may bee,
But even for that shall suffer mighty Lowers.

Let Swanns example, siker serve for thee,
Who once all Byrdes in sweetly singing past,
But, now to scylence turnde his Minstrelsy,
For, hee woulde singe, that others were defaste,
The Peacockes pryde, The Pyes pilde flatery,
Cormorauntes glutt, Kytes spoile, Kinges fishers waste,

The faulcons fiercenes, Sparowes lechery,
The Cocowes shame, the gooses good intent,
Even Turtle toughte hee with hypocrisy,
And worse of other more, till by assent,
Of all the Byrdes, but namely these were greeved:
Of Fowles there called was a Parlement.

There, was the swann̄ of dignity deprived,
And statutes made, hee never shoulde have voyce,
Synce, when I thinck, hee hathe in sylence lived,
I warne thee therefore, synce thow mayste have choyse,
Let not thy toungue become a fyery matche?
No sworde so bytes, as that evill Toole anoyes.

Let oure unparciall eyes, a litle watche,
Oure owne Demeane, and soone wee wonder shall,
That, hunting faultes, oure selves wee did not Catche,
Into oure myndes, let us a litle falle,
And wee shall fynde more faultes then Leoperdes skynn̄,
Then who makes us suche Judges over all,
But, farewell nowe, thy faulte ys no greate sinne,
Come, Come, my Curres, tis late, I will goo in.

[Fortune, Nature, Love, longe hathe contended aboute mee]

Dorus.

Fortune, Nature, Love, longe hathe contended aboute mee,
Whiche shoulde moste misery Cast on A worme yt I am;
Fortune thus can say, Misery & misfortune ys al one,
And of mysfortune, Fortune hathe onely the gifte,
With stronge Foes on Lande, on Seas wth contrary tempestes
Still doo I Crosse this wretche, what so hee taketh in hand.

Tush, Tush, saide Nature, this ys all but a Tryfle, a mans lyfe
Gives happes or Misshapps, eeven as hee ordereth his harte,
But, so his humor I frame in a Molde of Choler adusted,
That the Delightes of lyfe shall bee to him dolorus.

Love smyled, and thus sayde, want, joyned to desyer ys unhappy,
But yf hee noughte doo desyer, what can Heraclitus ayle?
None, but I worckes by desyer, by desyer have I kindled in his sowle,
Infernall Agonyes unto a Bewty Devyne.

Where thow pore Nature lefte all thy due glory to fortune,
Her vertue ys Soveraigne, Fortune a vassall of hers,
Nature abasht went back, Fortune blusht, yet, shee replyed thus,
And even in that Love shall I reserve him a spyte,
Thus, Thus alas wofull in Nature, happy by Fortune,
But moste wretched I am nowe Love wakes my desyer.

[Yf myne eyes can speake to doo harty Arrant]

Cleophila.

Yf myne eyes can speake to doo harty Arrant,
Or myne eyes Language, shee doo happ to judge of,
So that eyes Message bee of her receyved,
Hope, wee do live yet?

But, yf eyes fayle then, when I moste do neede them,
Or yf eyes language bee not unto her knowne,
So that eyes Message do returne rejected,
Hope, wee do bothe dye.

Yet, Dying, and Deade, do wee singe her Honor,
So become oure Tombes, Monumentes of her prayse,
So becomes oure Losse the Tryumph of her game,
Hers bee the glory.

Yf the senceles Spheares do yet holde a Musick,
Yf the Swanns sweete voyce bee not hearde, but at deathe,
Yf Mute Tymber when yt hathe the lyfe loste,
Yeeldeth a Lutes tune.

Are then humane myndes priviledged so meanely?
As that hatefull Deathe can abridge them of power,
With the voyce of Truthe, to recorde to all worldes,
That wee bee her spoyles.

Thus not ending endes the due prayse of her prayse,
Fleshly vaile Consumes, but a Sowle hathe his lyfe,
Whiche ys helde in Love, Love yt ys that hathe joynde,
Lyfe to this oure sowle.

But yf eyes can speake to doo harty Arraunt,
Or myne eyes Language shee dothe happ to judge of,
So that eyes Message bee of her receyved,
Hope, wee do live yet.

[Lady reserved by the heavens to doo Pastors Company, honor?]

Dorus. Cleophila.
Dorus.
Lady reserved by the heavens to doo Pastors Company, honor?
Joyning youre sweete voyce to the Rurall Muse of a Dezart,
Here, yow fully do fynde this straunge operacyon of Love,
Howe, to the woodes Love ronnes, aswell, as ryde to the Pallace,
Neyther hee beares reverence to a Prince, nor pity to a Begger.
But like a poynte in mydst of a Circle, ys still of a nerenes,
All, to a Lesson hee drawes, Nor hilles, nor Caves can avoyde him.

Cleophila.
Worthy Shepearde, by my Songe, to my self all favoure ys hapned,
That to the sacred Muse, my anoyes somewhat bee reveiled,
Sacred Muse, who, in one conteynes, what Nyne doo in all them?
But, O happy bee yow, whiche safe from fyery reflection,
Of Phebus vyolence, in shade of stately Cypres tree,
Or pleasant Mirtle may teache the unfortunate Eccho,
In these woodes to resounde the renoumed Name of a Goddess.
Happy bee yow that may to the Sainte youre onely Idea,
Allthough (simply attyrde) youre manly affections utter.
Happy bee those mysshapps, whiche justly proportion holding,
Give righte sounde to the eares, and enter arighte to ye judgment.
But wretched bee the sowles whiche vaylde in a Contrary subject,
Howe muche more wee do Love, so the less oure Loves bee beleeved.
What skill serveth a Sore, of a wrong infirmity judged,
What can Justice availe to a Man that telles not his owne Case?
Yow, thoughe feares do abashe, in youre still possible hopes, bee,
Nature ageanst, wee do seeme to rebell, seeme fooles in a vayne sute,
But, (so unhearde) Condempnd, kept thence, wee doo seeke to abyde in,
Self lost, and wandering, banisshed that place wee do come from.
What meane ys there, alas, wee can hope oure Losse to recover.
What place ys there lefte, wee may hope oure Woes to recomfort?

Unto the heavens, oure winges bee to shorte; The earthe thinckes us a burden.
Ayer wee do still with sighes encrease to the fyer, wee do want none,
And yet, his outeward heate oure teares woulde quenche, but an inward,
Fyer, no Liquor allwayes, Neptunes seate woulde bee dryed up there.
Happy Shepeardes with thanckes to the Goddes, still thinck to bee thanckfull
That to thy advauncement, theyre wisdomes have thee abased.

Dorus.
Unto the Godds, with a thanckfull harte, all thanckes I do render,
That to my advauncement, theyre wisdomes have mee abased,
But, yet alas, O, but yet alas, Oure happes bee but hardd happs,
Whiche must frame Contempt to the highest purchase of honor,
Well may a Pastor playne, but, alas his playntes bee not esteemed,
Silly shepeardes, pore pype, where his harshe sounde testifyes oure woes,
Into the fayre Looker on, pastyme, not passyon enters,
And to the woodes or brookes, who do make suche dreary recitall,
What bee the panges they beare, and whence those panges bee deryved,
Pleasde to receyve that name by rebounding answer of Echo,
And hope thereby to ease theyre inward horrible anguish,
Then shall those thinges ease, theyre inward horrible anguish,
When Trees daunce to the pype, and swifte streames stay by Musick,
Or when an Echo unmooved begins to singe them a love songe,

Say then what vauntage do wee gett by the trade of a Pastor?
Synce no estates bee so base, but love vouchsafeth his Arrowe,
Synce no Refuge dothe serve from woundes wee do carry aboute us,
Synce owteward pleasures bee but halting helps to decayed sowles,
Synce that dayly wee may discerne, what fyer wee do burne in,
Farre more happy bee yow, whose greatnes gettes a free Access,
Whose fayre bodily giftes are framed moste Lovely to eche eye,
Vertue yow have, of vertue yow have lefte proof to ye whole worlde,
And vertue ys gratefull with beuty and Richenes adurned,
Neyther Doubt yow a whitt, Tyme will youre passion utter,
Hardly remaynes fyer hidd, where skill ys bent to the hyding,
But in a mynde, that woulde his flames shoulde not bee expressed
Nature worcketh ynoughe with a small help, for the Reveiling,
Give therefore to the Muse greate prayse, in whose very likenes,
Yow do aproache to the fruite, youre onely Desyers bee, to gather.

Cleophila.
First shall fertile groundes not yeelde increase of a good seede,
First the Rivers shall Cease to repay theyre Floodes to the Occean,
Firste may a Trusty grayhound transforme him self to a Tyger,
First shall vertue bee vice, and Beuty bee coumpted a Blemish,
Ere that I leave with songe of prayse, her prayse to solempnish,

Her prayse, whence to the worlde all prayse had his beginning,
But, yet, well I do fynde eche man moste wyse in his owne Case,
None can speake of a wounde with skill, yf hee have not a wound felt,
Greate to thee, my estate faynes, thy estate ys blest by my judgment,
And yet neyther of us are blest, deemeth his owne self,
For yet, weighe this, alas, greate ys not greate, to the greater,
What, (Judge yow) dothe a hillock shewe, by the lofty Olympus
Suche this smalle greatenes dothe seeme comparde to the greatest,
When Cædars to the grounde bee opprest by the weighte of an Emmott
Or when a Riche Rubyes just pryce, by the worthe of a Wallnutt,
Or to the Sunne for wonders seeme smalle sparckes of a Candle,
Then by my highe Cædar, Riche Ruby, and onely shyning Sunne,
Vertue, Riches, Beautyes of myne shall greate bee reputed,
Oh no, no hardy Shepearde, Worthe can never enter a Tytle,
Where proofes justly do teache (thus machte) suche worthe to bee nought worthe
Lett not a puppitt abuse thy spirit, Kinges Crownes do not help them,
From the Cruell heade ache, nor shooes of golde, do the goute heale,
And precyous Cowches full ofte are shakte with a fever.
Yf then a bodily evell in a bodily glose bee not hidden,
Shall suche morning Dewes bee an ease to the heate of a Loves fyer.

Dorus.
O glittering miseryes of Man, yf this bee the fortune,
Of those fortune lulles, so smalle rest restes in a Kyngdome,
What Merveyle thoughe a Prince transforme him self to a Pastor?
Come from Marble bowers, many tymes the gay harber of anguish,
Unto a silly Cabban, thoughe weyke, yet stronger ageanst wooes,
Now, by the wordes, I begin (moste famous Lady) to gather,
Comforte into my sowle I do fynde, I do fynde, what a blessing,
Ys chaunced to my lyfe, that from suche muddy abundance,
Of Carcking Agonyes, (wch still to estates bee adherent,)
Desteny keepes mee aloof, for, yf all this estate to thy vertue,
Joynde by thy beuty adournd, bee no meanes this greef to abolish
Yf neyther by that help thow canst clyme up to thy fancy,
Nor yet fancy so drest, do receyve a plausible hearing,
Then, doo I thincke in deede, that better yt ys, to bee private,
In sorowes tormentes then tyed to the pompes of a Pallace,
Nurse inwarde Maladyes, wch have not scope, to bee breathed oute,
But perforce disgest all bitter Joyces of horror,
In sylence, from a Mans owne self, with Company robbed,
Better yet do I live, that thoughe by my thoughtes I bee plunged,
Into my Lyves bondage, yet may disburden a passyon,
(Opprest with Ruynous Conceiptes) by the help of an oute Crye,
Not limitted to a whispering note, the Lament of a Courtyer,

But, some tymes to the woodes, some tymes to the heavens do decypher,
With boulde Clamoure, unhearde, unmarckte what I seeke, what I suffer,
And when I meete these Trees in the earthes fayre Livery cloathed,
Ease I do feele, (suche ease as falles to one wholly diseazed)
For, that I fynde in them parte of my estate represented,
Lawrell shewes what I seeke, by the Myrhe ys shewed how I seeke yt,
Ollyve payntes mee the peace, that I must aspire to the Conquest
Myrtle makes my Request, my Request ys crowned wth a Willowe,
Cyprus promyseth help, but a help, where comes no recomfort,
Sweet Jenuper saith thys, though I burne, I burne in a sweete fyer,
Ewe dothe make mee bethinck, what kynde of Bowe the Boy holdeth,
Whiche shootes strongly withoute any Noyse, & deadly withoute smarte,
Firre trees greate and greene, fixte on a hye hill but a barren,
Like to my Noble thoughtes still newe well plaste, too mee fruitless,
Figg that yeeldes moste pleasaunt fruite, his shadowe ys hurtfull,
Thus bee her giftes moste sweete, thus more daunger to bee nere her,
But in a Palme, when I marcke, howe hee dothe ryse under a burden,
And may not I (say I then) gett up, thoughe greefes bee so weighty;
Pyne ys a Mast to a Shipp, to my shipp, shall hope for a Mast serve,
Pyne ys hye, Hope ys as hye, sharpe leavde, sharp yt bee my hopes buddes.

Elme embraste by a Vyne, embracyng fancy revyveth,
Popler chaungeth his hewe from a rysing Sunne to a setting,
Thus to my sonne do I yeelde, suche beames her lookes do aforde mee,
Oulde aged Oke cutt downe, of newe worcke serves to ye buylding,
So my Desyers by my feare cutt downe, bee the frames of her Honor,
Asshe makes speares whiche shieldes do resist, her force no Repulse takes,
Palmes do rejoyce to bee joynde by the Matche of a Male to a female,
And shall sensive thinges bee so senceles, as to resist sence?
Thus bee my thoughtes dispearst, thus thincking nurseth a thincking,
Thus bothe Trees and eche thing else bee the Bookes of a fancy.
But to the Cedar, Queene of Woodes, when I lifte my beteared eyes,
Then do I shape to my self, that forme whiche raignes so wthin mee,
And thincke there shee do dwell, and here what playntes I do utter,
When that Noble Topp dothe nodd, I beleeve shee salutes mee,
When by the Wynde yt maketh a Noyse, I do thinck shee dothe answer,
Then kneeling to the grounde ofte thus do I speake to yt Image,
Onely Jewell, O onely Jewell, whiche onely deservest,
That Mens hartes bee thy seate, and endles fame bee thy servaunt
O descend for a while from this greate heighte, to beholde mee,
But noughte else do beholde, else ys nought worthe the beholding
Save what a worck by thy self ys wraughte, and since I am altered

Thus by thy worck disdayne not that, whiche ys by thy self done,
In meane Caves ofte tresure abydes, to an Hostry a Kinge comes,
And so behynde foule Cloudes full ofte fayre starres do lye hidden.

Cleophila.
Hardy Shepeard, suche as thy merites, suche may bee her Insighte,
Justly to graunte thy rewarde, suche envy I beare to thy fortune,
But to my self, what wishe can I make for a salve to my sorowes,
Whome bothe Nature seemes to debarr from meanes to bee helped,
And yf a meane were founde, fortune ye whole Course of yt hinders,
Thus plagued how can I frame to my sore, any hope of amendement?
Whence may I shewe to my mynde, any lighte of a possible escape,
Bounde and bounde by so noble bandes, as lothe to bee unbounde,
Jaylor I am to my self, Prison and Prisoner to my owne self,
Yet bee my hopes thus plaste, here fixed lives all my recomforte,
That that dere Dyamond where wisdome holdeth a sure seate,
(Whose force had suche force so to transforme, nay to reforme mee,)
Will at lengthe perceyve these flames by her beames to bee kyndled,
And will pity the wounde festered so straungely within mee,
O bee yt so, graunte suche an event O goddes that event give.
And for a sure sacrifice I doo dayly oblation offer,
Of my owne harte, where thoughtes bee the Temple, sight ys an Alter,

But, Cease worthy Shepearde, now Cease, wee do weary the hearers,
With Monefull melodyes, for ynoughe oure greeves bee reveiled,
Yf by the partyes meant, oure meaninges rightly bee marcked,
And sorowes do require some respite unto the sences.

Here endes ye first Eglogues of ye Countess of Pembrookes Arcadia.