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

In vayne, myne eyes yow Laboure to amend,
With flowing Teares youre fainte of Hasty sighte?
Synce to my harte her shape yow so did sende,
That her I see, though yow did lose youre sighte.

In vayne my harte, now yow wth sighte are burnde
With sighes yow seeke to coole youre whott desyer;
Synce sighes into myne inwarde furnace turnde,
For Bellowes serve to kindell more the fyer.

Reason, in vayne, now yow have lost my harte,
My heade yow seeke, as to youre strongest forte:
Synce there myne eyes have playde so false a parte,
That to youre strengthe youre foes have suche resorte?
And since in vayne (I fynde) were all my stryfe,
To this straunge deathe I vaynely yeelde my lyfe.

[Lett not Oulde age disgrace my hye desyer]

Lett not Oulde age disgrace my hye desyer,
O heavenly sowle in humane shape conteynde?
Oulde wood inflamde dothe yeelde the bravest fyer,
When younger dothe in smoake his vertue spende.

Ne let white hayers, (whiche on my face dothe growe,)
Seeme to youre eyes, of a Disgracefull hewe,
Synce Whitenes dothe present the sweetest showe,
Whiche makes, all eyes do honor unto yow.

Oulde age ys wyse and full of Constant truthe,
Oulde age well stayde, from raunging Honor lives,
Oulde age hathe knowne what ever was in youthe,
Oulde age orecome the greater Honor gives.
And to oulde age, since yow youre self aspyer,
Let not Oulde age disgrace my hye desyer?

[Synce so myne Eyes are subject to her sighte]

Synce so myne Eyes are subject to her sighte,
That, in youre sighte they fixed have my brayne,
Since so my harte ys filled with my Lighte,
That onely Lighte dothe all my lyfe meynteyne.

Synce in sweete yow all goods so richely raigne,
That, where yow are, no wisshed good can want,
Synce so youre Living Image lives in mee;
That in my self youre self true Love dothe plant
Howe can yow him unworthy then decree?
In whose cheef parte, youre worthes implanted bee?

102

[My Sheepe are Thoughtes wch I bothe guyde & serve]

My Sheepe are Thoughtes wch I bothe guyde & serve,
Theyre Pasture ys fayre Hilles of fruteles Love;
In barreyn sweetes they feede, and feeding sterve,
I wayle theyre Lott but will not other proove.

My Sheepehooke ys Wanhope, wch all upholdes:
My weedes Desyer, cutt oute in endles Foldes;
What wolle my Sheepe shalle beare, while thus they live?
In yow yt ys, yow must the judgment give.

104

[Yee Living Powers enclosde in stately shryne]

Yee Living Powers enclosde in stately shryne,
Of growyng Trees, yee Rurall goddes that weelde,
Youre scepters here, yf to youre eares devyne,
A voyce may come wch trubled sowle dothe yeelde.
This vowe receyve, this vowe O goddes meyntayne,
My virgyn Lyfe no spotted thoughte shall stayne.

Thow purest stone, whose purenes dothe present,
My purest mynde, whose Temper, hardd dothe shewe:
My Tempered hart, by thee my promyse sent
Unto my self; Lett after Livers knowe;
No fancy myne, nor others wronge suspect,
Make mee (O vertuous shame,) thy Lawes neglect.

O Chastity the cheef of Heavenly Lightes,
Whiche makes us moste Immortall shape to beare,
Holde thow my Harte, establish thow my Spirites
To onely thee, my Constant Course I beare,
Till spottles sowle unto thy bosome flye,
Suche lyfe to leade, suche Deathe I vowe to dye.

105

[My wordes, in hope to blase my stedfast mynde]

My wordes, in hope to blase my stedfast mynde,
This Marble chose, as of like Temper knowne:
But, Lo, (my wordes defaced) my fancyes blynde,
Blottes to the stone, shame to my self I fynde.
And witnes am, how yll agree in one,
A womans hand with constant Marble stone.

My wordes full weyke, the Marble full of mighte,
My wordes in store, the Marble all alone,
My wordes black Inck, the Marble kyndly white,
My wordes unseene, The Marble still in sighte
May witnes beare how yll agree in one,
A womans hande with constant Marble stone.

108

[Loved I am, and yet Complayne of Love]

Loved I am, and yet Complayne of Love,
As Loving not, accusde, in Love I dye,
When pitty moste I Crave, I Cruell proove,
Still seeking Love, Love founde, as muche I dye.

Burnde in my self, I muse at others fyer,
What I calle wronge, I do the same and more,
Barrd of my will, I doo beyonde desyer.
I wayle for want, and yet am chookt with store,

109

This ys thy worcke, thow God for ever blynde:
Thoughe thousandes olde a Boy entiteled still;
Thus Children do the silly byrdes they fynde,
With stroking, hurte, and too muche Cramming kyll.
Yet thus muche Love, (O Love) I crave of thee?
Let mee bee Loved, or els not Loved bee?

113

[Over these Brookes trusting to ease myne eyes]

Over these Brookes trusting to ease myne eyes,
(Myne eyes even greate in laboure with theyre teares)
I layed my face, my face wherein there lyes,
Clusters of Cloudes wch no Sunne ever cleares,
In watery glass my watery eyes I see:
Sorrowes yll easde, where Sorrowes paynted bee.

My thoughtes imprisond, in my secrett woes,
With flamy breath dothe issue ofte in sounde:
The sounde to this straunge Ayer no sooner goes,
But that yt dothe with Echos force rebounde,
And makes mee heare, the playntes I wolde refrayne
Thus owteward helps my inward greef menteyne.

Now in this Sande, I woulde discharge my mynde,
And Cast from mee parte of my Burdenous Cares:
But in the Sandes my paynes foretolde I fynde,
And see therein, howe well the wryter fares.
Synce streame, ayer, sand, myne eyes & eares conspire
What hope to quenche, where eche thing blowes ye fyer?

117

[With twoo straunge fyers of equall heate possest]

With twoo straunge fyers of equall heate possest,
The one of Love, the other Jelosy,
Bothe still doo worcke, in neyther fynde I rest:
For, bothe, alas theyre strengthes together lye,
The one alofte dothe holde the other hye,
Love wakes the Jelous eye leste thence yt mooves,
The Jelous eye, the more yt lookes, yt loves

These fyers increase, in these I dayly burne,
They feede on mee, and with my wynges do flye,
My Lyvely Joyes to dolefull asshes turne,
Theyre flames mount up, my powers prostrate lye:
They live in force, I quyte consumed dye.
One wonder yet farr passeth my Conceipt?
The fewell smalle, howe bee the fyers so greate?

118

[Feede on my sheepe, my Charge, my Comforte, feede?]

Feede on my sheepe, my Charge, my Comforte, feede?
With Sunnes approche, youre pasture fertile growes,
O, onely Sunne, that, suche a frute can breede,
Feede on my sheepe youre fayre sweete feeding flowes
Eche flower, eche herbe dothe to youre service yeelde
O blessed Sunne, whence all this blessing goes,

119

Feede on my sheepe, possess youre fruitfull fielde,
No Wolves dare howle, no murrayne can prevayle,
And from the stormes oure sweetest Sunne will sheelde,
Feede on my Sheepe, sorrowe hathe stricken sayle.

Enjoy my Joyes as yow did taste my payne,
While oure sonne shynes, no Cloudy greeves assayle.
Feede on my Sheepe, youre Native Joyes meynteyne,
Youre wolle ys riche, no toungue can tell my gayne.

[Leave of my sheepe, yt ys no tyme to feede]

Leave of my sheepe, yt ys no tyme to feede,
My Sunne ys gon̄, youre pasture bareyn growes,
O Crewell Sunne thy hate this harme dothe breede,
Leave of my Sheepe, my shower of Teres oreflowes
Youre sweetest flowers youre herbes no service yeelde
My Sunne, alas, from mee for ever gooes.

Leave of my Sheepe my sighes burne up youre feelde,
My Playntes calle wolves, my plagues in yow prevayle,
My Sunne ys gonn̄, from stormes that shoulde us shielde:
Leave of my Sheepe, sorowe hathe hoysed saile.

Wayle in my woes, taste of youre Masters payne,
My sunne ys gonne, now Cloudy greeves assayle;
Leave Leaving not my mourning to meyntayne,
Yow beare no wolle, and losse ys all my gayne.

126

[A Hatefull Cry, with hate to heale]

A Hatefull Cry, with hate to heale,
A bloody help, with blood to save,
A foolish thinge, with fooles to deale:
Let hym bee boulde, that Bobbes will have.
But, who by meanes of wysdome hye:
Hathe saved his Charge? yt ys even I.

Lett other deck theyre pryde with scarres,
And of theyre woundes make brave lame showes,
First lett them dye, then passe the starres,
When rotten fame will tell theyre Blowes.
But eye from blood, and eare frome Crye,
Who hathe saved all? It ys even I.

127

[Apollo greate, whose beames the greater worlde do lighte]

Apollo greate, whose beames the greater worlde do lighte,
And in oure litle worlde doste clere oure inwarde sighte:
Whiche ever shynes, thoughe hidd from earthe, by earthly shade,
Whose Lightes do ever live, but in oure Darcknes fade.
Thow God whose youth was deckt with spoyle of Pithons skynn
So humble knowledge can throwe downe the Snakish synn
Latonas sonne, whose byrthe in paynes and travell longe,
Dothe teache to learne the good, which Travells doo belonge.
In travell of oure lyfe, a short, but tedyous space,
Whyle brickle Hower glass ronnes, guyde thow oure panting Race,

128

Give us foresightfull myndes, give us myndes to obaye,
What foresight telles oure thoughtes uppon thy knowledg stay,
Lett so oure fruites growe up, that nature bee meyntaynde,
But so oure hartes keepe downe, wth vyce they bee not staynde.
Lett this assured Holde, oure Judgementes ever take,
That, no thinge wynnes the heaven, but what dothe earthe forsake.

Here endes the Second Booke or Acte.

129

HERE BEGIN THE SECOND EGLOGUES.

[Thow Rebell vyle, come, to thy Master yeelde]

Reason.
Thow Rebell vyle, come, to thy Master yeelde;

Passion.
No Tyrant, no, myne, myne shall bee the feelde.

R.
Can Reason, then a Tyrant coumpted bee?

P.
Yf Reason will that Passyons bee not free.

R.
But Reason will, that Reason governe moste:

P.
And Passyon will that passyon rule the Roste.

R.
Youre will ys will but Reason, Reason ys:

P.
Will hathe his will, when Reasons will dothe mysse.

R.
Whome passyon leades unto his deathe, ys bent:

P.
And lett hym dye, so that hee dye content.

R.
By Nature yow, to Reason faythe hathe sworne:

P.
Not so; but Fellowlike together borne.

R.
Who passyon dothe ensewe lives in anoye;

P.
Who passyon dothe forsake, lives voyde of Joye.

R.
Passyon ys blynde, and treades an unknowne trace:

P.
Reason hathe eyes, to see his owne evell Case.

Reason.
Dare passyons then abyde in Reasons lighte?

Passyon.
And ys not Reason dym̄ed with passyons mighte?

R.
O Foolish thinge, whiche glory doest destroy.

P.
O gloryous Tytle of a Foolish Toye.

130

R.
Weykenes yow are, dare yow with oure strengthe feighte?

P.
Bycause, oure Weykenes weykeneth all youre mighte.

R.
O sacred Reason helpp oure vertuous Toyles?

P.
O passyon pass, on feeble Reasons spoylles.

R.
Wee with oure selves abyde a dayly stryfe:

P.
Wee gladly use the sweetenes of oure Lyfe.

R.
But, yet oure stryfe sure peace in ende dothe breede?

P.
Wee now have peace, youre peace wee doo not neede.

R.
Wee are too stronge, but, reason, seekes not blood;

P.
Whoo bee too weyke, do fayne they bee too good.

R.
Thoughe wee can not orecome, oure Cause ys Just:

P.
Lett us orecome, and lett us bee unjust.

R.
Yet, passyon yeelde, at lengthe to Reasons strooke:

P.
What shall wee wynn by taking Reasons yooke.

R.
The Joyes yow have shall bee made permanent:

P.
And so wee shall with greef Learne to repent.

R.
Repent in Deede, but, that shall bee youre Blisse:

P.
Howe knowe wee that, synce present Joyes wee misse.

R.
Yow knowe yt not, of Reason, therefore knowe yt:

P.
No Reason yet, had ever skill to showe yt.

Then Let us bothe to Heavenly Rules give place:
Whiche Reasons skill, and Passyons doo deface.

131

[Dorus tell mee, where ys thy wonted Motyon?]

Dicus. Dorus.
Dicus.
Dorus tell mee, where ys thy wonted Motyon?
To make these woodes resound thy Lamentacyon:
Thy Sainte ys Deade, or Deade ys thy Devotyon,
For, who dothe holde his Love in estimatyon,
(To witnes that hee thinckes his thoughtes Delicious)
Seekes to make eche thing Badge of his sweet passyon.

Dorus.
But what dothe make thee Dicus, so suspicyous?
Of my due faythe whiche needes must bee Immutable,
Who others vertue doubtes, them selves are vicyous?
Not so, allthoughe my mettle were moste mutable,
Her Beames hathe wroughte therein moste sure impressyon.
To suche a force, soone Chaunge were nothing sutable.

Dicus.
The hart well sett, dothe never shonne Confessyon,
Yf Noble bee thy Bandes, make them Notoryous,
Sylence dothe seeme the Maske of base oppressyon.
Who gloryes in his Love dothe make Love gloryous,
But who dothe beare, or bydes mute willfully,
Shewes guylty hart dothe deeme his state opprobrious.
Then thow that framest bothe wordes and voyce moste skillfully
Yeelde to oure eares a sweete & sounde Relacyon,
Yf Love tooke thee by force, or caughte thee guylefully:

Dorus.
Yf Sunnye Beames shame Heavenly habitatyon,
Yf Three leaved grasse seeme to the Sheepe unsavery,
Then base and sowre ys Loves moste hye vocatyon,
Or yf sheepes Cryes can help the Sunnes owne bravery,
Then may I hope, my pype may have abillity,
To help her prayes, who deckes mee in her slavery.
No, No, No wordes enoble self Nobility.
As for youre Doubtes, her voyce was yt deceyved mee,
Her eyes the force beyonde my possibility.

Dicus.
Thy wordes, well voyste, well graste, had allmoste heaved mee,
Quite from my self to Love Loves Contemplacyon,
Till of these thoughtes thy soeden end bereved mee,
Go on therefore, and tell us by what fashyon,
In thy owne proof hee gettes so straunge possession,
And howe possest, hee strengthens the Invasyon?

132

Dorus.
Sighte ys his Roote, in thoughte ys his progressyon,
His Chyldehood wonder, Prentiship, attention,
His youthe Delighte, his Age the sowles oppressyon.
Doubt ys his sleepe, hee waketh in Inventyon,
Fancy ys his foode, his Cloathing all of Carefullnes,
Beuty his Booke, his play Lovers Discention,
His eyes are curyous searche, but wylde with warefullnes.
His wynges Desyer ofte Clipte with Desperatyon,
Largess his handes coulde never skill of sparefullnes,
But howe hee dothe by mighte, or by perswasyon,
To Conquer and his Conquest howe to ratify,
Experyence Doubtes, and Schooles holde Disputatyon.

Dicus.
But so thy Sheepe may thy good wisshes satisfy,
With large encrease, and woolle of fyne perfection,
So shee thy Love, her eyes, thy eyes may gratify,
As thow wilte give oure sowles a dere refection,
By telling how shee was, howe nowe shee framed ys,
To help oure hurte in thee her owne infection.

Dorus.

Blessed bee the Name, wherewith my Mistris named ys,
Whose woundes are salves, whose yokes please more then plesure dothe
Her staynes are beames vertue the faulte shee blamed ys,
The harte, eye, eare, here onely fynde his treasures dothe
All Nombring Artes her endles graces nomber not,
Tyme, Place, lyfe witt scarcely her rare giftes mesure dothe,
Ys shee in rage? So ys the Sunne is Somer hott,
Yet harvest bringes, Dothe shee (alas) absent her self?
The Sunn̄ ys hidd his kyndely shadowe Combers nott.

But when to give some grace shee dothe content her self,
O then yt shynes, then are the heavens distributed,
And Venus seemes to make up her, shee spent her self,
Thus then I say, my myscheefes have contributed,
A greater good by her devyne Reflection,
My harmes to mee my Bliss to her attributed,
Thus shee ys framed, her eyes are my direction,
Her Love my Lyfe, her Anger my Instruction,
Lastly what so shee bee ys my protection.

133

Dicus.
Thy saftye sure ys wrapped in Destruction,
For that Construction thy owne wordes do beare,
A Man to feare a Womans muddy eye,
Or Reason lye, a slave to servyle sence,
There seeke defence, where weykenes ys the force,
Ys Late Remorse, in folly dearely boughte,

Dorus.

If I had thoughte, to heare Blaspheymous wordes,
My Brest to swordes, My sowle to hell have soulde,
I sooner woulde, then thus my eares defyle,
With wordes too vyle, whiche vyler breath dothe brede.

O Hearde, take heede, for I a wolffe have founde,
Who hunting rounde the strongest for to kill,
His Chest dothe fill with earthe of others woe,
And Loden so, pulles downe, pulde downe destroyes.

O Shepeheardes boyes, eschewe these toungues of venym
Whiche doo envenym, bothe the Sowle and senses,
Oure best Defences, are to flee theyre adders,
O tungues, even Ladders, made to clyme Dishonour.
Who judge that Honor, whiche hathe scoape to slaunder?

Dicus.
Dorus, yow wander, farr in greate Reproches,
So Love encroaches, in youre charmed reason,
But yt ys season, for to ende oure singinge,
Suche Anger bringing, as for my fancy
In sicke mans franzy, rather takes Compassyon,
Then Rage for Rage, rather my wish I send to thee,
Thow soone may have some help, or chaunge of passyon,
Shee ofte her Lookes the starres theyre favoure bend to thee,
Fortune, store, Nature, healthe, Love graunte perswasyon,
A Quyet mynde, none but thy self can lend to thee,
Thus I commend all oure Former Love.

Dorus.
Well doo I prove, error lyes ofte in zeale,
Yet ys yt zeale, thoughe error of true harte,
Noughte coulde Imparte, suche heates to frendly mynde,
But for to fynde, thy wordes did her disgrace,
Whose onely face, the litle heaven ys,
Whiche whoo dothe myss his eyes are but Dilusyons,
Barred from his cheefest object of Delightfullnes,
Throwne on this earthe the Chaos of Confusyons,

134

As for thy wish, to my enraged spytefullnes,
The Lovely blowe with rare Rewarde my prayer ys,
Thow mayste Love her, that I may see thy spytefullnes,
The quyet mynde wherof my self ympairer ys,
As thow doest thincke, shoulde moste of all disquyet mee,
Withoute her Love, then any mynde who fayrer ys,
Her onely Care, from surfett woes can dyet mee,
Shee holdes the Ballance of my Contentacyon,
Her cleared lookes (nought ellse) in stormes can quyet mee
Nay, rather then my ease, Discontentatyon
Shoulde breede to her, Lett mee for aye dejected bee,
From my Joye whiche might her greef occasyon,
With so sweete plaigues my happy harmes infected bee,
Payne willes mee dye, yet payne of Deathe I mortify,
For thoughe lyfe yrckes, in lyfe my Loves protected bee,
Thus for eche Chaunge, my Chaungeles harte I fortify.

[And are yow there oulde Pas? in trouthe I ever thoughte]

Nico. Pas. Dicus.
Nico.
And are yow there oulde Pas? in trouthe I ever thoughte,
Amongst us all wee should fynde oute some thing of noughte.

Pas.
And I am here the same, so mote I thryving bee,
Dispayrde, in all this flock, to fynde a knave, but thee,

Nico.
A, nowe I see why thow arte in thy self so blynde?
Thy gray hoode hydes the thinge that thow dispayrst to fynde.

Pas.
My gray hood ys myne owne, all bee yt bee but graye,
Nott as the scripp thow stolest while Dorus sleeping lay.

135

Nico.
Myne was the scripp but thow that seeming rayed wth Love,
Did snatche from Hyppas hand her greeny wroughten glove,

Pas.
Ah foole, so Courtyers doo, but, who did lyvely skipp?
When for a Treene dish stollen the father did thee whipp,

Nico.
In deed the witche thy Dame her Crouche from shoulder spredd,
For pillfering Lalus lambe wth Crouche to bless thy hedd.

Pas.
My voyce the Lambe did wynn̄, Menalchas was the Judge,
Of singing Matche wee made, when hee wth shame did trudge,

Nico.
Couldest thow make Lalus flee, so Nightingales avoyde,
When with the Cawyng Crowes theyre musick ys anoyde,

Pas.
Na, like to Nightingales, the other byrdes give eare,
My pype and songe made hym bothe songe & pype forsweare.

Nico.
I thincke yt well suche voyce woulde make one Musick hate,
But yf I had bene there thaddst founde an other Mate.

Pas.
An other sure as ys a Gander from a Goose,
But still when thow doest singe mee thinckes a Coulte ys loose.

Nico.
Well aymed by my hatt, for as thow sangest last day,
The Neighboures all did crye, Alas what Asse dothe bray,

Pas.
But here ys Dicus oulde, Lett hym then speake the worde,
To whither with best Cause the Nymphes fayre flowers afforde,

Nico.
Content, but I will Lay a wager thereunto,
That, proffett may ensue to hym that best can doo.
I have, and longe shall have a white greate Nymble Catt,
A Kinge uppon a Mowse a strong foe to a Ratt.
Fyne eares, Longe tayle hee hathe with lyons curbed Clawe,
Whiche ofte hee lifteth up and stayes his lifted pawe.

136

Deepe musing to hym self, wch (after mewyng) showes,
Till with likt berde his eye of fyer, espyes his foes.
Yf yow (alas pore yf) doo wynn̄, then wynn̄ yow this,
And yf I better singe lett mee thy Hyppa kisse.

Pas.
Kisse her, now mayste thow kiss, I have a fitter Matche,
A prity Curr yt ys, his name, I wus ys Catche.
No eare nor taile hee hathe, least they shoulde hym disgrace,
A Ruddy hayer his Coate with fyne longe speckled face
Hee never musing standes, but, with hym self will playe,
Leaping at every flee, and angry with a Flea.
Hee efte woulde kill a Mouse, but hee disdaynes the feighte,
And makes oure home good sporte wth dauncing bolte uprighte,
This ys my Pawne, the pryce, let Dicus Judgment showe,
Suche Oddes I willing laye, for hym and yow I knowe.

Dicus.
Singe then my Laddes, and singe, wth better vayne, then yett,
Or else with singing worse, my skill may hardly hitt.

Nico.
Who doubtes but Pas fyne pype, ageane will bringe,
The auncyent prayse to Arcadia Shepeheardes skill,
Pan ys not deade synce Pas begyns to singe.

Pas.
Who ever more will love Appollos quyll?
Synce Nico dothe to singe, so wydely gape,
Nico his place farr better furnish will.

Nico.
Was this not hee, who for Siringas scape,
Raging in woes, first pastors tought to play,
Do yow not heare his voyce, and see his shape.

Pas.
This ys not hee, that fayled her to gayne,
(Whiche made a Bay) made Bay a holly tree
But this ys one that doth his Musick stayne.

Nico.
O Faunes, O Fayries all, and doo yow see?
And suffer suche a wronge, a wronge, I trowe,
That Nico must with Pas compared bee.

Pas.
O Nymphes, I tell yow newes, for Pas yow knowe,
Whyle I was warbling oute youre wonted prayse,
Nico woulde needes with Pas his baggpype blowe.

Nico.
Yf never I did fayle youre holy dayes,
With Daunces, Carrolls, or with Barley breake,
Let Pas now knowe how Nico maketh layes.

137

Pas.
Yf eche day hathe bene holly for youre sake,
Unto my Pype, O Nymphes now help my pype,
For Pas well knowes what Layes can Nico make.

Nico.
Alas, howe ofte I looke on Cheryes rype,
Mee thinckes I see the Lippes my Leuca hathe,
And wanting her, my weeping eyes I wype.

Pas.
Alas when I in springe mete Roses rathe,
And thinck from Hyppas sweete redd Lippes I live,
I leave my eyes unwypte, my Cheekes to bathe,

Nico.
As I of late, nere Busshes used my sive,
I spyde my Thrush, where shee did make her Nest,
That will I take, and to my Leuca give.

Pas.
But, longe have I a Sparrowe gayly drest
As white as Milke, and comming to the Calle,
To putt yt with my hande in Hyppas brest.

Nico.
I ofte doo sue, and Leuca saythe, I shall,
But, when I did come nere with heate and hope
Shee ranne away, and threwe at mee a Balle.

Pas.
Hyppa once sayde, shee lefte the wickett ope,
For mee to come, and so shee did, I came,
But in the place founde no thinge, but a Rope.

Nico.
When Leuca dothe appeare, the Sunne for shame,
Dothe hyde hym self, for to hym self hee sayes,
Yf Leuca live, shee darcken will my fame,

Pas.
When Hyppa dothe come forthe, the Sunne displayes,
His uttmoste Lighte, for well his witt dothe knowe,
Hyppas fayre Beames emblemish muche his Rayes.

Nico.
Leuca to mee, did yester morninge shewe,
In perfect Lighte, whiche coulde mee not deceyve,
Her naked Legg, more whyte then snowe.

Pas.
But, yester nighte by Lighte I did receyve,
From Hyppas eyes wch full in Darckenes shyne,
I sawe her Arme, where purest Lillyes cleave.

Nico.
Shee once starcke nakte did bathe a litle tyne,
But still mee thoughte with Beutyes from her fell
Shee did the water washe and make more fyne.

Pas.
Shee once to coole her self stoode in a well,
But ever synce, that well ys well besoughte,
And for Rose water soulde of rarest smell.

138

Nico.
To Rivers bancke, beeyng a wallking broughte,
Shee bid mee spye her Baby in the brooke,
Alas sayde I, this Babe dothe nurse my thoughte.

Pas.
As in a glasse I helde, shee once did looke,
I sayde my handes well payde her for myne eyes,
Synce in my handes self goodly sighte shee tooke.

Nico.
O yf I had a Ladder for the skyes,
I woulde clyme upp and bringe a prety starr,
To weare uppon her neck that open lyes.

Pas.
O yf I had Appolloes golden Carre,
I woulde come downe, and yeelde to her my place,
That shyning now shee then might shyne more farr.

Nico.
No thinge O Leuca, shall thy fame deface,
Whyles Shepeheardes Tunes bee hearde or Rhymes bee redd,
Or while that Shepeheardes love a Lovely face,

Pas.
Thy Name O Hyppa shall with prayse bee spredd
As farr as any Shepeheardes pyping bee.
As farr as Love possesseth any hedd.

Nico.
Thy Monument ys layde in many a Tree,
With Name engraved so thoughe thy body dye,
The after Folckes shall wonder still at thee.

Pas.
So ofte these woodes have hearde my Hyppa crye,
That after deathe, to heaven in woodes resounde,
With Ecchos help shall Hyppa, hippa flye.

Nico.
Peace, peace good Pas, thow wearest eeven the grounde,
With sluttish songe, I pray thee learne to blea?
For, good thow mayest yet prove in Sheepish sounde.

Pas.
My father hathe at home a prety Jay,
Goo wynne of hym for chattering prayse or shame,
For so yet of a Conquest, speake thow may.

Nico.
Tell mee, (and, bee my Pan) the Monsters name?
That hathe fowre Legges and with twoo onely goes?
That hathe fowre eyes, and onely Twoo can frame?

Pas.
Tell this (and Phebus bee,) what Monster growes?
With so strange Lyves, that body can not rest?
In ease, untill that body lyfe forgoes?

Dicus.
Inuff, inuff, so evell hathe done the best,
That since the having of them to neyther ys due,
Lett Catt and Dogg feight whiche shall have bothe yow.

139

[As I behynde a Busshe did sitt]

Histor.
As I behynde a Busshe did sitt,
I sylent hearde more Wordes of witt,
Then earst I knew, but first did playne,
The one whiche tother woulde refrayne.

[Alas how longe this Pillgrimage dothe last]

Plangus. Boulon.
Plangus.

Alas how longe this Pillgrimage dothe last,
What greater evills have now the Heavens in store?
To cupple com̄yng harmes with sorrowes past,
Longe synce my voyce ys hoarse, and throate ys sore
With Cryes to skyes, and Curses to the grounde,
But, more I playne, I feele my woes the more.

Ah where was first, that Crewell Cunning founde,
To frame of earthe a vessell of the mynde
Where yt shoulde bee the self destruction bounde,
What needed so hye spirites suche Mansions blynde?
Or wrapt in flessh, what doo they here obtayne?
But gloryous Name of wretched humane kynde,

140

Balles to the starres, and Thralles to fortunes raigne,
Turned from them selves infected with theyre Cage
Where deathe ys fearde, and lyfe ys helde wth payne,
Lyke Players placed to fill a filthy stage,
Where Chaunge of thoughtes one foole to other shewes
And all but Jestes, save onely sorowes rage?

The Chylde feeles that the Man that feeling knowes,
With Cryes first borne, the presage of his lyfe,
Where witt butt serves to have true taste of woes,
A Shopp of shame, a Booke where Blottes are ryfe,
This Body ys, this Body so composde,
As in yt self, to nourish mortall stryfe.

So dyvers bee the Elementes disposde,
In this weyke worcke, that yt can never bee,
Made uniforme to any estate reposde,
Greef onely makes his wretched state to see,
Even lyke a Topp, wch noughte, but whipping mooves,
This Man, this talking beaste, this walking Tree.

Greef ys the Stone whiche fynest Judgment prooves,
For, who greeves not hathe but a blockish brayne,
Synce Cause of greef, no Cause from lyfe remooves,

Boulon.
Howe longe wilt thow with monefull Musick stayne?
The Cherefull Notes, these pleasaunt places yeelde,
Where as good happes a perfect state meynteyne.

Plangus.

Curste bee good happes, and Curst bee they that buylde,
Theyre hopes on happes, and do not make dispayre,
For all these certeyne Blowes, the surest sheelde,
Shall I that sawe Eronas shyning hayre?
Torne with her handes, and those same handes of snowe,
With Losse of purest blood, them selves to teare.

Shall I that sawe those Brestes, where Beutyes flowe
Swelling with sighes made pale, wth myndes diseaze
And sawe those eyes (those sunnes) suche showers to showe
Shall I whose eares her mornefull wordes do seaze,
(Her wordes in Syrop layde of sweetest breathe)
Relent those thoughtes wch then did so displease.

141

No, no, Dispayre, my daily Lesson sayeth,
And saythe allthoughe I seeke my Lyfe to flye,
Plangus must live to see Eronas deathe,
Plangus must live some help for her to trye,
Thoughe Dispayre (for love so forceth mee)
Plangus dothe Lyve, and shall Erona dye?

Erona dye? O heaven, yf heaven there bee,
Hathe all the whirling Course so smalle effect?
Serve all thy Starry eyes this shame to see,
Lett Doltes in haste some Alters fayre erect,
To those hye powers wch idely sitt above,
And vertue doo in greatest neede neglect.

Boulon.

O Man take heede, how thow the goddes do moove,
To Causefull Wrathe, whiche thow canst not resist,
Blaspheymous wordes the Speaker vayne dothe prove,
Alas, whyle wee are wrapt in Foggy Myst,
Of oure self Love, (so passyons doo deceyve)
Wee thincke they hurte, where moste they doo assist.

To harme us wormes, shoulde they by Justice leave,
His Nature, nay, hym self for so yt ys,
What glory from oure Losse can wee receyve,
But still oure daseled eyes theyre way do myss,
Whyle that wee doo at his sweete scourge repyne,
The kyndely way to beate us on to bliss.

Yf shee must dye then hathe shee lost the lyne,
Of loathsome dayes, whose losse how canst thow mone,
That doest so well theyre myseryes defyne,
But, suche wee are with inward Tempest blowne,
Of wyndes cleane Contrary, in waves of will,
Wee moane that Losse, (wch had) wee did bemone.

Plangus.

And shall shee dye, shall crewell fyer spill?
Those Beames that sett so many hartes on fyer.
Hathe shee not force eeven deathe with Love to kyll,
Nay, eeven coulde Deathe enflamde with whott desyer?
Her to enjoy, where Joy yt self ys thralle?
Will spoyle the Earthe of his moste riche attyre.

142

Thus, Deathe becomes a Rivall to us all,
And hopes with fowle embracementes her to gett,
In whose decay, vertues fayre shryne must falle,
O vertue weyke, shall Deathe his Tryumphe sett?
Uppon thy spoyles whiche never shoulde lye waste
Lett Deathe first dye, bee thow his worthy Lett.

By what Eclips shall that Sunne bee defaste?
What Myne hathe earst throwne downe so fayre a Tower?
What Sacriledg hathe suche a Sainte disgraste?
The worlde the garden ys, shee ys the Flower?
That sweetens all the place, shee ys the guest,
Of rarest pryce, bothe heaven & earth her Bower.

And shall (O, mee) all this in Asshes rest?
Alas yf yow a Phenix now will have,
Burnt by the Sunne, shee first must buyld her Nest,
But well yow knowe, the gentle Sunne woulde save,
Suche Beames so like his owne wch mighte have Myghte,
In him the thoughtes of Phaetons Dam̄ to grave.

Therefore alas, yow use vyle Vulcans spyte,
Whiche nothing spares to melt that virgin waxe,
Whiche while yt ys, yt ys all Asias lighte,
O Mars for what dothe serve thy armed Axe,
To let that witoulde Beast consume in flames,
Thy Venus Chylde, whose Beuty Venus lackes.

O Venus, yf her prayse, no Envy frames,
In thy hye mynde gett her thy husbandes grace,
Sweete speaking ofte, a Currish harte reclaymes,
O Eyes of myne, where once shee sawe her face,
(Her face whiche was more lyvely in her hart)
O Brayne, where thoughte of her hathe onely place?

O hande wch tuched her hande when wee did parte,
O Lyppes that kist that hand with my Teares sprent.
O Toungue then dumbe, not daring tell my smarte,
O Sowle whose Love, in her ys onely spent?
What ere yow see thincke, tuche, kisse, speake or Love,
Let all for her, and unto her bee bent.

143

Boulon.

Thy wayling wordes doo muche my Spirites moove,
They uttered are in suche a feeling fashion,
That sorowes worcke ageanst my will I prove,
Mee thinckes I am partaker of youre passyon,
And in thy Case do glasse myne owne debility,
Self guylty folcke, must proove to feele Compassyon.

Yet Reason saythe, Reason shoulde have hability,
To holde these worldly thinges in suche proportion,
As let them come or goo with even facility.
But, oure Desyers Tyrannicall extortion,
Dothe force us there, to sett oure cheef Delightfullnes,
Where, but a Bayting place, ys all oure portion.

But still allthoughe wee faile of perfect Rightfullnes,
Seeke wee to tame these Chyldish Superfluityes,
Let us not wincke, thoughe voyde of purest sightfullnes.
For, what can breede more peevish Incongruityes,
Then Man to yeelde to female Lamentacyons.
Let us some Gram̄er learne of oure Congruityes?

Plangus.

Yf throughe myne eares perse any Consolacyons,
By wyse Discourse, sweete Tunes or Poettes fiction,
Yf oughte I cease these Odyous exclamacyons,
Whyle that my sowle, shee shee Lives in affliction,
Then lett my Lyfe on earthe longe tyme maynteyned bee,
To wretched mee, the last worste Malediction.

Can I that knewe her sacred partes restrayned bee?
From any Joye, knowe fortunes vyle displacing her?
In morrall Rules, Lett raging woes conteyned bee,
Can I forgett, when they in prison placing her,
With swelling hart in spyte, and due Disdeynfullnes,
Shee lay for Deade, till I helpt with unlasing her.

Can I forgett from howe muche mourning playnfullnes?
With Dyamond in wyndow glasse shee graved
Erona dye, and ende this ougly paynefullnes,
Can I forgett, in how strange phrase shee craved?
That quickly they woulde her burne downe or smother.
As yf by deathe shee onely mighte bee saved.

144

Then lett mee eke forgett my hande from other,
Lett mee forgett that Plangus I am called,
Lett me forgett I am sonne to my Mother,
But, yf my memory thus must bee thralled,
To that straunge stroke wch conquerd all my sences,
Can thoughte still thincking so rest unappalled?

Boulon.

Who still dothe seeke ageanst hym self Offences,
What pardon can avayle, or who employes hym?
To hurt hym self what sheeldes can bee defences.
Woo to pore Man, eche owteward thing anoyes hym,
In dyvers kyndes, yet, as hee were not filled,
Hee heapes in Inward greef, that moste destroyes hym.

Thus ys oure Thoughte (with payne) for Thistells tilled,
Thus bee oure noblest partes dryed up with sorrowe,
Thus ys oure mynde, with too muche mynding spilled,
One daye layes up store of greef for the morowe.
And whose good happ dothe leave hym unprovyded
Condoling Cause, of Frendship hee will borrowe.

Betuixt the good, and shade of good denyed,
Wee pity deeme that, whiche but weykenes ys,
So are wee from oure hye Creation slyded,
But Plangus leste I may youre sicknes mysse,
Or Rubbing hurt the sore I here do ende,
The Asse did hurt when hee did thincke to kisse.

Thus did they say, and then away did wende,
Hye tyme for mee, for scattered were my Sheepe,
While I theyre speeche in my Rude Ryming pend,
Yet for that Nighte my Cabban did them keepe,
Whyle Plangus did a Story straunge declare,
But, hoarse and Drye, my Pypes I now must spare.

152

[Fayre Rockes, goodly Rivers, sweete Woodes, when shall I see peace?]

Philisides.

Fayre Rockes, goodly Rivers, sweete Woodes, when shall I see peace?

Eccho. peace.

Peace? what barres mee my toungue, who ys yt yt comes mee so nye?

I.

Oh I, do knowe what Guest I have mett, yt ys Eccho.

yt ys Eccho.

Well mett Eccho, approche then tell mee thy will too?—

I will too.

Eccho, what doo I gett yeelding my spirit to my greeves?—

greeves.

What Medcyn may I fynde for a payne yt drawes mee to deathe?

Deathe.

O poysonus Medecyn what worse to mee, can bee then yt?—

yt.

In what state was I then when I tooke this Deadly disease?

ease.

What maner of a mynde, wch had to that Honor a vayne?

vayne.

Hathe not Reason enoughe vehemency the Desyer to reproove?

prove.

Ofte proove I but what salve, when reason seekes to bee gon̄?

One.

Oh what ys yt, what ys yt that may bee a salve to my Love?

Love.

What doo Lovers seeke for, Long seeking for to enjoy?

Joye.

153

What bee the Joyes for wch to enjoy they want to the paynes?

paynes.

Then to an earnest Loove, what dothe best victory lende?

Ende.

Ende, but I can never ende, love will not give mee the Leave.

leave.

Howe bee the myndes disposde that can not taste thy Phisick?

Sick.

Yet, say ageane thy advyse, for the evills that I tolde thee?

I tolde thee.

Dothe the Infected wretche of his evell the extremity knowe?

No.

But yf hee knowe not his harmes what guydes hathe hee while hee ys blynde?

blynde.

What blynde Guydes can hee have that leanes to a fancye?

a fancy.

Can fancyes want eyes? or hee falle that steppeth a lofte?

ofte.

What Causes first made these Tormentes on mee to lighte?

Light.

Can then a Cause bee so lighte, that forceth a Man to go dye?

I.

Yet tell mee what lighte thing I had in mee to draw mee to dye?

ey.

Eye sight made mee to yeelde but what first prest to myne eyes?

eyes.

Eyes hurters eyes hurte but what from them to mee falles?

falles.

But when I first did falle what broughte moste falle to my hart?

Arte.

Arte? What can bee that Arte wch thow doest meane by thy speeche?

speeche.

What bee the fruites of speaking Arte, what growes by the wordes?

wordes.

O muche more then wordes, those wordes seemd more to mee blesse.

lesse.

O when shall I bee knowne where moste to bee knowne I doo longe?

Longe.

Long bee thy woes for suche Newes: But how Reckes shee my thoughtes?

oughtes.

154

Then, then what do I gayne, since unto her will I do wynde?

wynde.

Wynde Tempestes and stormes yet in ende what gives shee desyer?

Ire.

Silly Rewarde, yet among women hathe shee of vertue ye moste.

moste.

What greate name may I give to so heavenly a woman?

a woman.

Woe, but seemes to mee Joy yt agrees to my thoughtes so?

I thought so.

Thincke so, for of my desyered blisse yt ys onely the Course.

Curse.

Curst by thy self for cursing yt wch leades mee to Joyes?

toyes.

What bee ye sweete Creatures where lovely demaundes bee not hearde?

harde.

Hard to bee gott, butt gott constant to bee helde like steeles.

eeles.

How can they bee unkynde speake for thow haste nerely pryed?

pryde.

Whence can pryde come there, since springes of beuty bee thence?

thence.

Horrible ys thy Blasphemy, unto the moste holy.

O ly

Thow lyest false Eccho, theyre myndes as vertue bee Just.

Just.

Mockest thow those Dyamondes wch onely bee matcht by ye goddes.

oddes.

Oddes? what an oddes ys there synce them to ye heavens I preferr.

err.

Tell yet ageane mee the names of these fayre formd to do evells?

Devills.

Devills? yf in hell suche Devills do abyde to the helles I do go?

go.

155

[My Muse, what ailes this Ardoure?]

My Muse, what ailes this Ardoure?
To blase my onely Secrettes:
Alas yt ys no glory,
To singe my owne decayed state:
Alas yt ys no Comfort,
To speake withoute an aunswer,
Alas yt ys no wisdome,
To shewe the woundes without Cure.

My Muse what ailes this Ardoure?
My eyes bee Dym̄, my Lym̄es shake,
My voyce ys hoarse, my throate scortche,
My toungue to this my Roof cleaves,
My fancy amasde, my thoughtes Dulde.
My hart dothe ake, my lyfe fayntes,
My sowle begins to take leave,
So greate a passyon all feele.
To thincke a sore so Deadly,
I shoulde so rashly ripp up.

My Muse what ailes this Ardoure?
Yf unto Songe thow arte bent,
Goo singe the falle of oulde Thebes,
The warres of ougly Centaures,
The Lyfe, the Deathe of Hector,
So may thy Songe bee famous.
Or yf to love thow arte bent,
Recounte the Rape of Europe
Adonis ende, Venus Nett.
The Sleepy Kisse, the Mone stale
So may thy Songe bee pleasant.

My Muse what ailes this Ardoure?
To blase my onely Secrettes.
Wherein doo onely florish,
The sory fruites of Anguish,
The Songe therof, alas will,
The Tunes bee cryes, the Wordes playntes,
The Singer ys the songes Theme,
Wherein no eare can have Joy,
Nor eye receyves an object,
Myne plesure here in fame gott.

156

My Muse what ailes this Ardoure?
Alas shee saythe I am thyne,
So are thy paynes, my paynes too?
Thy heated hart my seate ys,
Wherein I burne, thy Breathe ys,
My voyce to hott to keepe in,
Besydes, to heare the Aucthor
Of all my harmes, lo here shee,
That onely can redress thee,
Of her I will demaund help.

My Muse I yeelde, My Muse singe?
But all thy Song herein knitt,
The Lyfe wee Leade ys all Love,
The Love wee holde ys all deathe.
Nor oughte I crave to feede deathe,
Nor oughte I seeke to shone deathe.
But onely that my Goddess
My lyfe my Deathe dothe Counte hers.

[Reason, tell mee thy Mynde, yf here bee Reason?]

Reason, tell mee thy Mynde, yf here bee Reason?
In this straunge vyolence to make resistance,
Where sweete Graces erect the stately Banner?
Of Vertues Regiment shyning in harness
Of Fortunes Dyadems by Beauty mustered,
Say then Reason (I say) what ys thy Counsell?

Her Loose hayer bee the shott, The Brestes the Pykes bee,
Skoutes eche Motion ys, The handes the Horsemen,
Her Lyppes are the Riches, the Warryers to meyntayne,
Where well Couched abydes a Coffer of Perle,
Her Legges, Cariage ys of all the sweete Campe,
Say then Reason (I say) what ys thy Counsell?

Her Cannons bee her eyes, Myne eyes, the Walles bee?
Whiche at first volley gave to open entrie,

157

Nor Ramper did abyde, my Brayne was up blowne,
Undermynde wth a speeche, the perser of thoughtes,
Thus weykened by my self, no help remayneth.
Say then Reason (I say) what ys thy Counsell?

And now Fame, the Herralde of her true Honor,
Dothe proclayme with a sounde made all by mens mouthes,
That Nature, Soveraigne of Earthly Dwellers
Comaundes all Creatures to yeelde obaysance?
Under this her owne her onely Darling.
Say then Reason (I say) what ys thy Counsell.

Reason sighes, but in ende hee thus dothe answer?
Noughte can Reason avayle in heavenly Matters
Thus Natures Dyamond receyve thy Conquest,
Thus Pure Perle I do yeelde my sences and sowle,
Thus sweete payne I do yeelde what ere I can yeelde.
Reason looke to thy self I serve a Goddess.

[O sweete woodes, the Delighte of Solitarynes?]

O sweete woodes, the Delighte of Solitarynes?
O howe muche I doo like youre solitarynes,
Where Mans mynde hathe a freed Consideracyon,
Of goodnes, to receyve Lovely direction,
Where Sences do beholde the order of heavenly Hoaste,
And wyse thoughtes do beholde what the Creator ys,
Contemplacyon here holdeth his onely seate,
Bounded with no Limittes borne wth a winge of hope,
Clymes even unto the Starres Nature ys under yt.
Naughte disturbes thy quyett all to thy service yeelde,
Eche sighte Drawes on a thought, thoughte Mother of scyence,
Sweete Byrdes kyndely do graunte harmony unto thee.
Fayre Trees, shade ys ynoughe fortification,
Nor Daunger to thy self, yf not in thy self.

O sweete woodes the Delighte of Solitarynes?
O howe muche do I like youre solitarynes,
Here, no treason ys hidd vailed in Innocency,

158

Nor Envyes snaky eye fyndes any harboure here,
Nor Flaterers venymous Insinuations,
Nor Cunning Humoristes pudled opinyons.
Nor Courteous Ruyning of proffered usury,
Nor Tyme prattled away, Cradle of Ignorance,
Nor tryffling Tytle of vanity daseleth us.
Nor golden Manackles stande for a Paradyse,
Here wronges name ys unhearde, Sclaunder a Monster ys.
Keepe thy Spirite from abuse, here no abuse dothe haunte,
What Man graftes in a Tree dissimulation.

O sweete woodes the Delighte of Solitarynes?
O howe well do I like youre solitarynes?
Yet Dere sowle, yf a Sowle closde in a Mansion,
As sweete as vyolettes, fayre as a Lilly ys,
Streighte as a Cedar, a voyce staynes the Canarie Birdes
Whose shade safety dothe holde, Daunger avoydeth her.
Suche wysdome, that in her lives speculation.
Suche goodnes, that in her Simplicity tryumphes,
Where Envyes snakye eye wincketh or else dyeth,
Slaunder wanteth, a Pretext Flatery gone beyonde.
O yf suche a one hathe bent to a Lovely lyfe,
Her stepps glad wee receyve, glad wee receyve her eyes,
And thincke not shee dothe hurt oure solitarynes?
For, suche Company deckes suche solitarynes.

Here ende the Second Eglogues. and Second Booke.