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

O night the ease of care the pledge of pleasure,
Desires best meane, harnest of hartes affected,
The seate of peace, the throne which is erected
Of humane life to be the quiet measure,

Be victor still of Phœbus golden treasure:
Who hath our sight with too much sight infected,
Whose light is cause we have our lives neglected
Turning all natures course to selfe displeasure.

These stately starrs in their now shining faces,
With sinlesse sleepe, and silence wisdomes mother,
Witnesse his wrong which by thy helpe is eased:

Thou arte therefore of these our desart places
The sure refuge, by thee and by no other
My soule is bliste, sence joyde, and fortune raysed.

138

[Since wayling is a bud of causefull sorowe]

Since wayling is a bud of causefull sorowe,
Since sorow is the follower of evill fortune,
Since no evill fortune equalls publique damage:
Now Princes losse hath made our damage publique,
Sorow, pay we to thee the rights of Nature,
And inward griefe seale up with outward wailing.

Why should we spare our voice from endlesse wailing,
Who justly make our hearts the seate of sorow?
In such a case where it appeares that nature
Doth add her force unto the sting of fortune:
Choosing alas! this our theatre publique,
Where they would leave trophees of cruell damage,

Then since such pow'rs conspir'd unto our damage
(Which may be know'n, but never help't with wailing)
Yet let us leave a monument in publique
Of willing teares, torne haires, & cries of sorrow.
For lost, lost is by blowe of cruell fortune
Arcadias gemme the noblest childe of nature,

O nature doting olde, ô blinded nature,
How hast thou torne thy selfe! sought thine owne damage!
In graunting such a scope to filthy fortune,
By thy impes losse to fill the world with wai'ling.
Cast thy stepmother eyes upon our sorowe,
Publique our losse: so, see, thy shame is publique.

139

O that we had, to make our woes more publique,
Seas in our eyes, & brasen tongues by nature,
A yelling voice, & heartes compos'd of sorow,
Breath made of flames, wits knowing nought but damage,
Our sports murdering our selves, our musiques wailing,
Our studies fixt upon the falles of fortune.

No, no, our mischiefe growes in this vile fortune,
That private paines can not breath out in publique
The furious inward griefes with hellish wailing:
But forced are to burthen feeble nature
With secret sense of our eternall damage,
And sorow feede, feeding our soules with sorow.

Since sorow then concludeth all our fortune
With all our deathes shew we this damage publique.
His nature feares to die who lives still wailing.

[Since that to death is gone the shepheard hie]

Since that to death is gone the shepheard hie,
Who most the silly shepheards pipe did pryse,
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie.

And you ô trees (if any life there lies
In trees) now through your porous barkes receave
The straunge resounde of these my causefull cries:
And let my breath upon your braunches cleave,
My breath distinguish'd into wordes of woe,
That so I may signes of my sorrowe leave.
But if among your selves some one tree growe,
That aptest is to figure miserie,
Let it embassage beare your grieves to showe.
The weeping Mirrhe I thinke will not denie
Her helpe to this, this justest cause of plaint.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie.

140

And thou poore Earth, whom fortune doth attaint
In Natures name to suffer such a harme,
As for to loose thy gemme, and such a Sainct,
Upon thy face let coaly Ravens swarme:
Let all the Sea thy teares accounted be:
Thy bowels with all killing mettals arme.
Let golde now rust, let Diamonds waste in thee:
Let pearls be wan with woe their damme doth beare:
Thy selfe henceforth the light doo never see.
And you, ô flowers, which sometimes Princes were,
Till these straunge altrings you did hap to trie,
Of Princes losse your selves for tokens reare,
Lilly in mourning blacke thy whitenes die:
O Hyacinthe let Ai be on thee still.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie.

O Echo, all these woods with roaring fill,
And doo not onely marke the accents last,
But all, for all reach out my wailefull will:
One Echo to another Echo cast
Sounde of my griefes, and let it never ende,
Till that it hath all woods and waters past.
Nay to the heav'ns your just complaining sende,
And stay the starrs inconstant constant race,
Till that they doo unto our dolours bende:
And aske the reason of that speciall grace,
That they, which have no lives, should live so long,
And vertuous soules so soone should loose their place?
Aske, if in great men good men doo so thronge,
That he for want of elbowe roome must die?
Or if that they be skante, if this be wronge?
Did Wisedome this our wretched time espie
In our true chest to rob all Vertues treasure?
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie.

And if that any counsell you to measure
Your dolefull tunes, to them still playning say,
To well felte griefe, plainte is the onely pleasure.
O light of Sunne, which is entit'led day,
O well thou doost that thou no longer bidest;
For mourning light her blacke weedes may display.

141

O Phœbus with good cause thy face thou hidest,
Rather then have thy all-beholding eye
Fould with this sight, while thou thy chariot guidest.
And well (me thinks) becomes this vaultie skie
A stately tombe to cover him deceased.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie.

O Philomela with thy brest oppressed
By shame and griefe, helpe, helpe me to lament
Such cursed harmes as cannot be redressed.
Or if thy mourning notes be fully spent,
Then give a quiet eare unto my playning:
For I to teach the world complainte am bent.
You dimmy clowdes, which well employ your stayning
This cheerefull aire with your obscured cheere,
Witnesse your wofull teares with dayly rayning.
And if, ô Sinne, thou ever didst appeare,
In shape, which by mans eye might be perceaved;
Vertue is dead, now set the triumph here.
Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaved
Of what was good, where now no good doth lie;
And by the pompe our losse will be conceaved.
O notes of mine your selves together tie:
With too much griefe me thinkes you are dissolved.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie,

Time ever old, and yong is still revolved
Within it selfe, and never tasteth ende:
But mankind is for aye to nought resolved.
The filthy snake her aged coate can mende,
And getting youth againe, in youth doth flourish:
But unto Man, age ever death doth sende.
The very trees with grafting we can cherish,
So that we can long time produce their time:
But Man which helpeth them, helplesse must perish.
Thus, thus the mindes, which over all doo clime,
When they by yeares experience get best graces,
Must finish then by deaths detested crime.
We last short while, and build long lasting places:
Ah let us all against foule Nature crie:
We Natures workes doo helpe, she us defaces.

142

For how can Nature unto this reply?
That she her child, I say, her best child killeth?
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now apply.

Alas, me thinkes, my weakned voice but spilleth,
The vehement course of this just lamentation:
Me thinkes, my sound no place with sorrow filleth.
I know not I, but once in detestation
I have my selfe, and all what life containeth,
Since Death on Vertues fort hath made invasion.
One word of woe another after traineth:
Ne doo I care how rude be my invention,
So it be seene what sorrow in me raigneth.
O Elements, by whose (men say) contention,
Our bodies be in living power maintained,
Was this mans death the fruite of your dissention?
O Phisickes power, which (some say) hath restrained
Approch of death, alas thou helpest meagerly,
When once one is for Atropos distrained.
Great be Physitions brags, but aid is beggerly,
When rooted moisture failes, or groweth drie,
They leave off all, and say, death commes too eagerlie.
They are but words therefore that men do buy
Of any, since God Æsculapius ceased.
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now apply.

Justice, justice is now (alas) oppressed:
Bountifulnes hath made his last conclusion:
Goodnes for best attire in dust is dressed.
Shepheards bewaile your uttermost confusion;
And see by this picture to you presented,
Death is our home, life is but a delusion.
For see alas, who is from you absented?
Absented? nay I say for ever banished
From such as were to dye for him contented?
Out of our sight in turne of hand is vanished
Shepherd of shepherds, whose well setled order
Private with welth, publike with quiet garnished.
While he did live, farre, farre was all disorder;
Example more prevailing then direction,
Far was homestrife, and far was foe from border.

143

His life a law, his looke a full correction:
And in his health we healthfull were preserved,
So in his sicknesse grew our sure infection.
His death our death. But ah; my Muse hath swarved,
From such deepe plaint as should such woes descrie,
Which he of us for ever hath deserved.
The stile of heavie hart can never flie
So high, as should make such a paine notorious:
Cease Muse therfore: thy dart ô Death applie;
And farewell Prince, whom goodnesse hath made glorious.

[Farewell ô Sunn, Arcadias clearest light]

Farewell ô Sunn, Arcadias clearest light:
Farewell ô pearl, the poore mans plenteous treasure:
Farewell ô golden staffe, the weake mans might:
Farewell ô Joy, the joyfulls onely pleasure.
Wisdome farewell, the skillesse mans direction:
Farewell with thee, farewell all our affection.

For what place now is lefte for our affection,
Now that of purest lampe is quench'd the light,
Which to our darkned mindes was best direction?
Now that the mine is lost of all our treasure?
Now death hath swallow'd up our worldly pleasure,
We Orphans made, void of all publique might?

Orphans indeede, depriv'd of fathers might:
For he our father was in all affection,
In our well-doing placing all his pleasure,
Still studying how to us to be a light.
As well he was in peace a safest treasure:
In warr his wit & word was our direction.

Whence, whence alas, shall we seeke our direction!
When that we feare our hatefull neighbours might,
Who long have gap't to get Arcadians treasure.
Shall we now finde a guide of such affection,
Who for our sakes will thinke all travaile light,
And make his paine to keepe us safe his pleasure?

144

No, no, for ever gone is all our pleasure;
For ever wandring from all good direction;
For ever blinded of our clearest light;
For ever lamed of our sured might;
For ever banish'd from well plac'd affection;
For ever robd of all our royall treasure.

Let teares for him therefore be all our treasure,
And in our wailfull naming him our pleasure:
Let hating of our selves be our affection,
And unto death bend still our thoughts direction.
Let us against our selves employ our might,
And putting out our eyes seeke we our light.

Farewell our light, farewell our spoiled treasure:
Farewell our might, farewell our daunted pleasure:
Farewell direction, farewell all affection.

The ende of the fourth Booke.