Cephalus and Procris :: :: University of Virginia Library

Cephalus and Procris

Narcissus. By Thomas Edwards. From the unique copy in the Cathedral library, Peterborough. Edited by Rev. W. E. Buckley ... with an appendix from divers sources

Edwards, Thomas

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To the Right worshipfull Master Thomas Argall Esquire.

CEPHALVS and Procris.

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To the Right worshipfull Master Thomas Argall Esquire.

Deere Sir the titles resyant to your state,
Meritorious due: because my penne is statelesse,
I not set downe, nor will I straine it foorth,
To tilt against the Sunne, with seeming speeches,
Suffizeth all are ready and awaite,
With their hartes-soule, and Artes perswasiue mistresse,
To tell the louely honor, and the worth,
Of your deseruing praise, Heroicke graces:
What were it then for me to praise the light?
When none, but one, commendes darke shady night.

Then as the day is made to shame the sinner,
To staine obscuritie, inur'd supposes,
And mainetaine Artes inestimable treasure,
To blind-fold Enuie, barbarisme scorning,
O with thy fauour, light a young beginner,
From margining reproach, Satyricke gloses,
And gentle Sir, at your best pleasing leysure,
Shine on these cloudy lines, that want adorning,
That I may walke, where neuer path was seene,
In shadie groues, twisting the mirtle greene.

Thomas Edwards.

CEPHALVS and Procris.

To the Honorable Gentlemen & true fauourites of Poetrie.

Faire and bright Cynthia, Ioues great ornament,

A pariphrisis of the Night.

Richly adorning nightes darke firmament,
Scoured amidst the starry Canapie
Of heauens celestiall gouernement, well nie
Downe to the euer ouer-swelling tide,
Where old Oceanus was wont t'abide,
At last began to crie, and call amaine,
Oh what is he, my loue so long detaines!
Or i'st Ioues pleasure Cynthia shall alone,
Obscure by night, still walke as one forlorne:
Therewith away she headlong postes along
Salt washing waues, rebellious cloudes among,
So as it seem'd minding the heauens to leaue,
And them of light, thus strangely to bereaue.

A description of the Morning.

With that Aurora starting from her bed,
As one that standes deuising, shakes his head,
Not minding either this or that to doe,
So are her thoughtes, nor quicke, nor ouerslow;

Phebus halfe wrothe to see the globe stand still,
The world want light, a woman haue her will:

To post foorth gan another Phaeton,
And swore once more, he should the world vppon,
Or as tis thought to trie th'aduentrous boy.
Yet some suppose, he meant vpon this day,
A Sympathy of sorrowes to aduaunce.
The boy thus proude-made, hotly gan to praunce,
And now heauens coape, Ioues pallace chrystaline
Downe dingeth Atlas, and straight doth decline
In such aboundant measure, as tis said,
Since that same day the light of heauens decaide;
A metamorphosis on earth 'mongst men,
As touching constancy hath bene since then,
And this is true maidens, since that same day,
Are saide for louers neuer more to pray.

But to returne, Phebe in million teares,
Moanes to her selfe, and for a time forbeares,
Aurora she her swift bright shining rayes,
On Phebus charyot tosse, and oft assayes,
With her sweete lookes, her fathers wroth t'appease,
But all she doth, he tels her, doth disease,
Like to the vncorrected headstrong childe,
That neuer felt his parentes strokes but milde,
Growne vp to ryper yeares, disdaines a checke:
(For nature ouergon comes to defect:)

So now Aurora hauing felt the pride
Of heauen and earth, turning her selfe a side,
Rapt with a suddaine extasie of minde,
Vnto her selfe (thus saide) Goddesse diuine:
How hapt that Phebus mou'd amid his chase,
Should such kinde frendship scorne for to imbrace,
I will no more (quoth she) godd it along
Such vnaccustom'd wayes, ne yet among

Such as is Titan, better fittes it me,
With Vesper still to liue, then such as he,
Though well I wot, honor is set on high,
Yet gentle Humilitie is best, say I.
No more she spake, but like the swelling tide,
That hauing passage skymes, scorning a guide,
Vntill the vaste receipte of Neptunes bower,
Kils the hoat fume, euen so, away she skoures,
Lawlesse as twere sans thought or any dread,
Like to banditos mong'st the mountaine heard.

And now vpon her gentle louely

Aurora filia Titanis & Terræ.

mother,
Bright as the morning, comes the mornings honor,
All snowy white, saue purpled heere and there,
So beautifull as beauty might despaire,
And stand amaz'd, noting her wanton eie,
Which at a trice could all the world espie,
Vpon her head, a coronet did stand,
Of seuerall flowers gathered by Titan.

An imitation taken from the Thracians called Acroconiæ, that vsually weare long haire downe to their wasts.

A vale she wore downe trayling to her thighes,
The stuffe whereof, I gesse, of such emprize,
As Gods themselues are doubtfull of the arte,
Seeming as aire with otomie disperst,
Her handes, a meny Poets

Dead as mē.

dead and gone,
Haue heretofore (excelling) wrote vpon.
It shall suffize Venus doth grace to her,
In that she waites before, like to a Starre,
Directing of her steps along'st the zone,
Neuer ouertaken by the Horizon,
Ne yet in daunger put of any Lake,
The frozen Pole she warnes her to forsake:
And all

Pleiades the seauen starres, supposed to be the daughters of Licurgus.

Licurgus daughters Dion noates,
Base in respect of duetie, and out-coates,

Each God and Goddesse, such is beauties pride,
That Neptunes honor hath no larger tide:
One lastes but a time, till time is come againe,
The other euer ouer-rules too certaine.

Thus at the last, Aurora vanquishing
Heauens glory, and earthes cause of mourning:
“For now the sparckling vault of Ioues high seate,
“Was not so fild with ouer-swaying heate:
“Red-hoat disdaine gaue beauty place, for why?
“Venus had conquered base necessitie.
Along'st she passed by Hesperides,
Laden with honor of those golden eies:
And stately bode them stoupe to honor vs,
And stoupe they did, thinking twas Venus.
Then from this golden Orchard to the Tower,
Where Ioue in likenes of a golden shower,
Rauisht faire

Ouid lib. 2, de Tristibus.

Danae, she in rauishment
Of strange delightes, the day there almost spent.
Thence to th'Idalian mount, where Venus doues,
Plume on the feathers, sent by their true loues:
As Itis Pheasant feathers, Progne, and
Tereus, they the Lapwincke winges did send:

Ouid Metam.

Faire Philomela from the Nightingale
Sent likewise feathers, plucked from her taile,
And many others that denying loue,
Dide with despight, and here their cause did moue,
Then on her swift-heeld Pegasus, amaine
Of Colchos golden Fleece a sight to gaine,
And with the swift windes Harrould Mercury,
The golden Sonne-beames of Apolloes tree:
Where valorous warlike Knightes, for feates ydone
Are registred, yclept Knightes of the Sonne:

Knightes of the Garter, auncient knightes of Rhodes,
She mainely postes, and there a time abodes,

I do not tell you all that she did see,
In honor done of this same golden tree.
Knightes did their due, and Poets had no lesse,
Then what for Triumphes euery one can gesse.
Hence twas that Hermes stole from heauen the power,
To soueranize on schollers idle howres,
And had not Ioue bene fauourable then,
They never should haue bene accounted men,
But liu'd as pesants, shaddowes, imagies,
And nere haue had the princes similies.

Hence post we foorth vnto an Ocean
That beats against the bankes of Helycon,
Whereon if so the ruler of the East,
But cast an eie, we are not meanely blest,
No more but so, for more were ouer much,
Gold is approu'd but by a slender touch.

And now bright Phebus mounted, gan display
His Orient sunne-beames, on the liuely day,
Aurora made vnto the Siluan shore,
Where Satyres, Goat-heardes, Shepheards kept of yore,
A sacred and most hallowed cristall spring,
Long'st which oft Cephalus yode on hunting,
And much delighted in the murmyring water,
Whose silent noates gaue Eccho of their author,
And as in Rondelaies of loue they sung,
It aunsweare made, yet bod them hold their toung:
No base groome durst his case here to bemoane,
But quench his thirst, and so part, and be gone.
But Cephalus, a man of some compare,
Bore hound, and horse, through depth without despaire,

And when the heate of Sommer stung him thro,
His yuorie limbes heere bath'd, and washt he to,
His Steede orecome with anger in the chase,
His dogs halfe tir'd, or put vnto disgrace,
Heere, and but here, he sought for remedie,
Nor durst the Siluans shrincke, but aide him presently.
What shall I say in pride of him and his?
Man, horse, and dogs, pleasd th'inamored Procris:
But how with him Aurora was in loue,
A richer braine the taske would highly moue.

Vpon a milke white courser swift as winde,
Betrapt with yssyckles of gold, that chim'bde;
By sweete Zephirus, and the gentle aire,
That breathed life (as twere) to kill despaire,
Rode he vpright as any heisell wan,
His Steede was wrought, & now would needes be gon:
Whose ouer head-strong prauncing checkt the earth,
In scornefull sorte, and whose loude neighing breath
Rent throgh the clouds, like Ioues swift quickning thũder,
And passage bod, or it would pash't in sunder.
So war-like Mars-like fit for Venus Court,
Hotly the gallant gentleman did sort,
Now here, now there, his Steede began to rage,
And sent foorth some to bid the cloudes a badge
Of his proud stomacke, who would not be proude,
That is well backt, and in his pride alloude?
“Heere could I tell you many a prettie storie,
“Of some eterniz'd by an others glory,
“Of men transfourm'd to apes, of womens euils,
“Of fiendes made Angels, and of angels diuels,
“Of many braue knightes done to shame, and more,
“How schollers fauourites waxe ouer poore,

“But oh faire Muse, let slip to treate of such,
“A taske thou hast, that tyres thee too too much,
“And none (Gods know) thy boldnesse will out backe,
“But naked trueth, that garded coates doth lacke.
“Heroicke Parramore of Fairie land,
“That stately built, with thy immortall hand,
“A golden, Angellike, and modest Aulter,
“For all to sacrifice on, none to alter.
“Where is that vertuous Muse of thine become?
“It will awake, for sleepe not prooues it dumme.
“And thou Arcadian knight, earthes second Sunne,
“Reapt ere halfe ripe, finisht ere halfe begunne,
“And you that tread the pathes, were these haue gone,
“Be your soules agentes in our tragicke song,
“And when the daughter of dispaire is dead,
“And ougly nightes blacke Æthiopian head,
“Ycoucht, and woxen pale, for griefe and shame,
“Then shall our quill, lift honor to your name.
O high Apollo, giue thou skill to vs,
That we may queintly follow Cephalus,
That now is mounted, ready to surprize,
What game so ere is seaz'd-on by his eies;
Aurora met him, in his furious chase,
As winde doth reigne, so did she him embrace,
And his fierce courage, on the harmefulle Boare,
Ere he did part, should be asswag'd she swore.
His amber-couloured tresses, neuer yet cut,
Into her luke-warme bussome she did put.
She wringes his handes, and hugges him twixt her armes,
(Apes die by culling) yet he tooke no harme:
Anone with smiles, she threates his chast conceites,
And (looking on his eies) him she entreates,

With kisses, sighes, and teares reuying them,
As though their sexe of duetie should woe men,
He striuing to be gone, she prest him downe:
She striuing to kisse him, he kist the growne,
And euermore on contrarieties,
He aunsweare made, vnto her Deitie,
Her garland deckt with many a prettie gemme,
And flowers sweete as May, she gaue to hem:
Her feete (immodest dame) she bear'd to show him,
And askt him, yea, or no, if he did know them,
And therewithall, she whispers in his eare,
Oh, who so long, is able to forbeare!
A thousand prettie tales she tels him too,
Of Pan his Sirinx, of Ioues Io,
Of Semele, the Arcadian Nimphes disport,
Their stealth in loue, and him in couert sorte,
Like to th'vnhappie Spider, would intangle;
He flie-like striues, and to be gone doth wrangle:
And tels, he can no more of loue or beautie,
Then ruffe-beard Satyres, that nere heard of duetie,
Therefore to cut of all disquietnesse,
Rudely he throwes her from his down-soft brest:
And with his Steede cuts through the riotouse thornes,
That shipwracke make of what is not their owne:
His speare halfe bleeding, with a sharpe desire,
To taint the hot-Boare seemed to aspire:
The ruffe and hidious windes, twixt hope and feare,
Whisle amaine into his greedie eares,
His Steede vpstartes, and courage freshly takes,
The Rider fiercely, after hotly makes.
Halfe droncke, with spitefull mallice gainst the Boare,
He prickt him forward, neuer prickt before.

The toyling dogs therewith do mainely runne,
And hauing found the game, their Lord to come
They yalpe couragiously, as who would say,
Come maister come, the footing serues this way.
Therewith more fierce then Aoris did hie,
In his swift chase the game for to espie,
He gets him gon, nor neede wa'st to say goe,
O cruell men, that can leaue wemen so!

By this the sport grew hot on either part,
Aurora she was bitten to the hart,
A dogged part it was, she telleth oft,
To bite so deadfully a hart so soft,
Aie me, had Cupid bene a rightfull lad,
He neuer should haue shot a dart so bad.
But what preuailes? a meny sad laments,
And Madrigals with dolefull tunes she sent,
Vnto the heauens Lampe Phebus mournefully,
All balefull, treating pittie from his eies,
She does her orizons, and tels how many
Haue loued her, before nere scorn'd by any:
Her handes so white as yuorie streame,
That through the rockes makes passage vnto him:
Halfe blacke with wrathfull wringing them together
She reares to heauen, and downe vnto her mother,
Anon she faintly lets them fall againe,
To heauen, earth, father, mother, all in vaine,
“For loue is pittilesse, rude, and impartiall,
“When he intendes to laugh at others fall.

Afresh the sport of Cephalus began,
Erewhile at fault, his dogges now liuely ran,
And he quicke-lifted, when he list to heare,
Ore tooke them straight, and with his venum'd speare,

Gashly did wound the Boare couragiously,
The dogs vpon him likewise liuely flie,
His entrals bleeding-ripe before for feare,
Now twixt their grim chaps, pel mel they do teare,
The master proude at such a stately prize,
Fils his high thoughtes, and gluts his greedie eies,
He bathes himselfe, (as twere) in Seas of blisse;
But what is victorie, where no praise is?
Pittilesse he scornes the plaintes Aurora sendeth,
For where her loue beginneth, his loue endeth,
And seeme she neuer so ore-gone with griefe,
He treble ioyes; o bare and base reliefe!
“Euen like two Commets at one instant spred,
“The one of good, the other shame and dread:
“Pestering th'aire with vapours multiplying,
“So is our Theame now quicke, and then a dying.

Once more she met him, and thus gently spake,
(If wemen had no tounges, their hartes would breake,)
Oh Cephalus for pittie loue me sweete!
Or if not loue, yet do me gently greete,
Tis Action shewes th'intent, but smile vpon me,
Or giue a kisse, a kisse hath not vndone thee:
(Quoth he) these desertes haue I meny a time,
In winters rage, and in the Sommers prime,
Mounted as now with horse, and houndes good store,
Chaste, and encountred with the gag tooth'd Boare,
Rousd vp the fearefull Lion from his caue,
(That duld the heauens, when he began to raue)
Pursu'd the Lizard, Tyger and a crew
Of vntam'd beastes; yet none tam'd me as yew.
Admit that woemen haue preheminence,
To make men loue; yet for so foule offence,

As for to violate the marriage bed,
Were ouer much to be inamored;
Her who I honor, and am tied to,
Would deeply scorne, I should another woe:
Admit the contrary, is it no sinne,
In loue to end, where I did not begin?
Oh tis a fault, a sinne exceeding any!
Then pardon me, for I scorne to loue many.

Twixt shame and feare scorn'd, and denied so,
Poore soule she blusht, not wotting what to do,
Her teares were issuelesse, her speech was done,
“The spring being stopt, how can the riuer runne,
Her hart (poore hart) was ouercharg'd with griefe,
“Tis worse then death to linger on reliefe.

At last she spake, and thus she mildly said,
Oh, who to choose, would liue, and die a maide!
What heauenly ioy may be accounted better,
Then for a man to haue a woman debter?
Now thou art mine in loue: Loue me againe.
Then I am thine, is it not heartie gaine,
Vpon aduantage to take double fee?
Thou shalt haue double, treble, pleaseth thee:
These curled, and vntewed lockes of thine,
Let me but borrow vpon pawne of mine.
These (oh immortall) eies, these sacred handes,
Lend me I pray thee, on sufficient bandes:
Wilt thou not trust me? By the sacred throne,
That Phebus in the mid day sits vpon,
I will not kepe them past a day or twaine,
But Ile returne them safely home againe,

These lockes (quoth he) that curled I do weare,
Within their folding billowes they do beare,

The deere remembrance twixt my loue and mee,
Therefore I cannot lend them vnto thee,
These eies delight, those eies did them mainetaine,
And therefore can not lend them foorth againe,
These handes gaue faith of my true faithfulnesse,
And therefore will not lend them; pardons vs.
“All sad, and in her widdow-hood of sorrow,
“Like to the Pilgrim longing for the morrow,
“Tires on the tedious day, and tels his case
“Vnto the ruthelesse Eccho what he was.

So doth Aurora rioteously complaine
Of loue, that hath her hart vniustly slaine,
And furiously she throwes her armes about him,
As who would say, she could not be without him;
Fast to his girted side she neately clinges,
Her haire let loose about his shoulders flinges:
Nay twere immodest to tell the affection
That she did show him, least it draw to action.

“Faire Cytherea, mistris of delight,
“Heere was accompanied with foule despight,
“The boy woxt proude to see the morning pale,
“And hence it was Ioue plucked of his vale,
“That he might pittie her, and note his wrath,
“But scornefully he smiles, and helpeth nothe:
“Whereat reuengefully to loue he gaue,
“Perpetuall blindnes in his choice to haue,
“And too too true we finde it euery day;
“That loue since then hath bene a blinded boy,
“And knowes not where (unhappy wegg) to dart,
“But desperately, vncounceld slayes the hart.
By this deepe chat on either part was one,
And Cephalus would now perforce be gone.

What can a woman more then to entreate?
Is it for men to practise on deceite?
Like to the toiling Sisiphus in vaine,
She roules the stone, that tumbleth backe againe,
And striue she ne're so much to conquer him,
It will not be for he hates such, so sinne:
Againe she pleades his constancie to misse,
Requitall in the lowest degree by Procris;
Inferring more to proue her argument,
That woemen cannot be with one content.

Cephalus as now vnto her speech gaue heede,
Againe (quoth she) attir'd in marchants weede,
Home to thy faire spouse, moue her vnto ruth,
Pleade tediously on loue, boast of thy youth,
And if not youth, nor loue, can her obtaine,
Promise rewardes for some consent for gaine:
I say no more, but if I were a man,
These cheekes for loue should neuer look so wan.

Drown'd in a sea of ouerswelling hate,
As one that lies before his enimie prostrate,
Willing to liue, yet scorning to beg life,
So feares he now (as twere) with his false wife;
Sometimes he cals her faire, chast, wise, and graue,
Anon with too too wrathfull tauntes he raues,
(Quoth he) shall I, where erst I might commaunde,
Goe and intreate with knee, and cap in hand,
Or shall I die, tormented thus in minde,
Iust Radamanth, what torture canst thou finde,
For woemen that disloyall, counterfeite,
Loue to their peeres, and yet would slay their hartes?
Hast thou no more tubs bottomelesse to fill?
Hast thou no more stones to rowle vp the hill?

Hast thou no more wheeles to teare of their flesh,
That so disloyally in loue transgresse?
Hast thou no torment, neuer yet inflicted
On woemens flesh, and all this while neglected?
If so I pray thee graunt this boone to mee,
That Procris therewith may tormented be,
Oh! he is deafe, and damned let him liue,
He will not heare, his kingdome too well thriues.
Proserpina, great goddesse of the Lake,
Some pittie sweete on the distressed take:
And when the Chaos of this worldes disdaine,
Hath sent this bodie to th'Elizium plaine,
And left this Center barren of repast,
Ile honor thee eternall with my ghost,
Which said, “as one that banisht doth remaine,
“Would rather die then longing be detained,
Desperate he goes vnto his innocent wife,
What's she would wed t'abide so bad a life?
And now the tombe that closeth rotten bones,
(Deceitfull man) disguised is come home,
He asketh for himselfe, himselfe being there,
Would it not make a thousand woemen feare?
He tels her of his long indur'd laments,
By sea and land, that he for her hath spent,
And would haue said more, but she straight was gone,
Is not the fault especiall in the man?
Then after makes he by her slender vale,
He holdes her fast, and tels her meny a tale,
He threw her downe vpon the yeelding bed,
And swore he there would loose his maiden-head,
She (as some say, all woemen stricktly do,)
Faintly deni'd what she was willing too:

But when he saw her won to his desire,
(Discourteous man) did heape flax on the fire,
What there did want in wordes most subtilly,
By liberall giftes he did the same supply,
Hauing pursued so egerly his drift,
Procris vnarm'd suspecting not his shifte;
What for desire of stealth in loue commended,
Or gold s' aboundant dealt, she him befrended,
At least gaue notice of her willing minde,
(Æsopian snakes will alwaies proue vnkind,)
At first content to parley hand in hand,
After steale kisses, talke of Cupids band,
And by degrees applide the tex so well,
As (cunning counter-feite) he did excell,
And what but now gently he might obtaine,
O what but now, she wisht cald backe againe,
“The duskie vapours of the middle earth,
“Drawne from contagious dewes, & noisome breathes,
“Choakt the cleere day; and now from Acheron,
“Blacke dismall night was come the world vppon,
“Fitting true louers, and their sweete repast,
“Cinthia arose from Neptunes couch at last.
Oh! then this scape of Cephalus was spide,
Treason may shadowed be but neuer hid;
Vnhappy woman, she the dull night spent
In sad complaintes, and giddie merrymentes,
Sometimes intending to excuse her crime,
By vowes protesting, and an other time,
(Remotiue woman) would haue done worse harme,
Hymen therewith sent forth a fresh alarme,
But Chauntecleere that did the morne bewray,
With his cleere noates gaue notice of the day,

Whereat she starts, and in a desperate moode,
Skipt from the bed, all wrathfull where she stoode,
Vow'd to herselfe perpetuall banishment,
Mournefull complaintes, out-cries, and languishment;
Then to the craggie vaulted caues, whose sound
Small mourning doth a treble griefe resound,
Amid the thickest of the desertes, she
Distressed woman, forlorne, sollitarie,
With many a direfull song, fits the thicke groue,
And heere and there in vncouth pathes doth roue.

Cephalus we leaue vnto his secrete muse,
Lamie by chaunce some sacred herbe to vse,
On deere compassion of some louers plaintes,
Among the woods and moorie fennes she hauntes,
Such euill pleasing humours, fairie elues,
Obserue and keepe autenticke mong'st themselues;
And now was she of purpose trauailing,
Intending quietly to be a gathering
Some vnprophane, or holy thing, or other:
Good Faierie Lady, hadst thou bene loues mother,
Not halfe so meny gallants had bene slaine,
As now in common are with endlesse paine,
This Lady compassing her secret fauour;
Procris espi'd wondring at her behauiour,
Amaz'd she stoode at such a heauenly sight,
To see so debonary a saint at such a hight,
Her haire downe trailing, and her robes loose worne,
Rushing through thickets, and yet neuer torne,
Her brest so white as euer womans was,
And yet made subiect to the Sunnes large compasse:
Each so officious, and became her so,
As Thames doth Swannes, or Swans did euer Po,

Procris in steede of tearmes her to salute,
With teares and sighes, (shewing her toung was mute)
She humbly downe vnto her louely feete,
Bow'd her straight bodie Lamie to greete:
Therewith the Lady of those pretie ones,
That in the twylight mocke the frozen zone,
And hand in hand daunce by some siluer brooke,
One at an other pointing, and vp looke,
(Like rurall Faunes) vpon the full fa'st Moone,
Intreating Venus some heroicke boone,
Gently gan stoupe, and with her sacred haire,
Her louely eies, and face so ouer faire,
She neatly couers, and her vngirt gowne,
Deafely commits vnto the lowly growne,
She dandleth Procris thereon prettily,
And chaunteth soueraigne songs full merrily,
And gins to prancke her vp with many a flower,
And vow'd she should be Oboron's parramore.
“Euen like to one thats troubled in his sleepe,
“Amazed startes of nothe scarce taking keepe,
“But in a furie tels what he hath done,
So she of Cephalus a tale begun,
Whereby the Lady quickely vnderstood,
The cause she was so grieued and so wood,
Aie me, who can (quoth Lamie) be so cruell,
As to conuert the building Oake to fuell?
Or rob the Ceder from his royall armes,
That spread so faire, or do a woman harme?
Wast not inough for Læda's Swanly scape,
That Iupiter was author of the rape?
What can be more for Cephalus then this,
That Cephalus was author of thy misse?

The fault ydone must be to him alluded,
That in the complot hath thee so abused,
I pray thee tell me, who would not consent,
Amorously boorded, and in merriment?
Say that thou hadst not yeelded therevnto,
As one vnknowne, vnmaskt thou would'st it do,
Methinkes the pastime had bene ouer pleasing,
So sweetely stolne, and won by such false leasing,
A wonder sure that Cephalus a man,
Giuen to hunting, with the game not ran;
But thou wilt say, he gaue thee too much law,
Whereby to course, his dogs the game not saw,
Tut twas in thee to bring the sport to passe,
Knowing his dogs, and where the huntsman was,
In soothe, if he had hunted cunningly,
He should haue prickt out where the game did lie,
But peraduenture I will not say so,
His dogs were tir'd: and if new sport not kno,
For some a moneth, and meny men a weeke,
Cherrish their curs before for game they seeke,
And then no maruaile though they backe did beate,
When they were strengthlesse, and orecome with heate,
If it be royall too, I heard some say,
Till warrant had, ther's none must coorse or play,
But it is wonder, he on his owne land,
Would not strik't dead, hauing't so faire at stand,
A was not halfe couragious on the sport,
For who would yeeld when he hath won the fort?
An other time he vowes (perhaps) to kill,
But in meane while poore Procris wants her will,
It is but game (quoth she) doth stand betweene you,
And what but sporting doth he disallow?

To end which controuersie (quoth she) againe,
Shew him an other course vpon the plaine,
And if he then beate backe, or sleeping follow,
Once more giue notice by a siluer hollow,
It may be he will haue some deep surmize,
That ther's new footing, note his greedie eies,
For thei' le be pliant, sheuering in his head,
Like to a greedie Priapus in bed,
For pittie, ruthe, compassion, loue, or lust,
He can not choose but yeeld perforce he must,
Perswade thy selfe, a womans wordes can wound,
Her teares oh they are able to confound:
Then Procris cease, and prey thee mourne no more,
There be that haue done ten times worse before.

Carelesse of what the eluish wanton spake,
Procris begins a fresh her plaintes to make,
She kneeleth downe close by the riuers side,
And with her teares did make a second tide,
She vp to heauen heaues her immortall eies,
Casting them downe againe she seem'd to die,
No shew of pleasance from her face did come,
Except the teares ioyd on her cheekes to runne,
Her handes full often would haue helpt each other,
But were so weake they could not meete together:
Some orizons I gesse she would haue done,
But they alack were finisht ere begun.
Thus for a season liuelesse she doth liue,
And prayes to death, but deafe he nothing giues;
Continuing for a space thus desolate,
The new sprung flowers her sences animate,
Her head and eies then she ginnes to mainetaine,
As one halfe sorrowing that she liu'd againe,

Their former strength her handes possesse at last,
Which serue to drie the teares that she doth wast.

Thus in distressefull wise, as though she had
Bene rauisht, wounded, or at least halfe mad,
Like a Thessalian Metra, of our storie
To haue no part, nor rob vs of our glory,
She fiercely raues, and teares in carelesse sorte,
The louely flowers (God wot) that hurteth not.
At length the silent Morpheus with his lute,
About her tyring braine gan to salute
Her vnto rest, the Driades consent,
With downe of thissels they made her a tent,
Where softly slumbering shadowed from the Sunne,
To rest herselfe deuoutly she begun.

But note the sequel, an vnciuill Swaine,
That had bene wandring from the scorched plaines,
Espi'd this Amoretta where she lay,
Conceited deedes base Clownes do oft bewray,
Rude as he was in action, roughe, and harsh,
Dull, sluggish, heauie, willfull, more then rash,
He paces long'st, and round about her tent,
And which way he had gone againe he went;
His rude borne basenesse holdes him thus excus'd,
In age we do the like in youth we vs'd,
Nor stood he long on tearmes, but rusheth in,
And boldly thus to boord her doth begin.

O gentle Goddesse loues owne louely mother!
(For fairer then thy selfe, I know no other,)
What sacrilegious obsequies vndone,
Art thou perfourming to thy winged Sonne?
Or are these cloistred willow walles the show,
Of thy fell hate to him that thou doest owe,

Tis mercenary toyling thus alone,
Tell me (I pray thee) wherefore doest thou moane?
Amid extreames who would not show his griefe?
The riuer pent seldome yeeldes reliefe:
But being deuided flowes and nurseth many,
Sorrow (I gesse) did neuer good to any,
Thou art too peeuish, faith, be rul'd by me;
Who liues content, hath not securitie,
And sooner fades the flower then the weede,
Woemen are onely made on for their deedes,
Few reape the stubble, when the corne is gon,
A Hermitage compared to a region,
Hath no exceede, but takes disgrace therein:
So woemen liuing sollitarie, sin,
More by the wrong they do commit thereby,
Then mong'st many acting the contrary:
This said, he bow'd his body to embrace her,
Thinking thereby, that he should greatly grace her,
And would haue told her something in her eare,
But she orecome with melancholy feare,
Diu'd downe amid the greene and rosey briers,
Thinking belike with teares to quench desire,
Aie me (I wot) who euer the like tried,
Knowes tis a hell to loue, and be denied.
And who so is most politicke, true loue
Will send his wits, or headlong, or to Ioue.
The dowdy yongster had by this so well
Perswaded Procris from her solemne Cell,
That now as heeretofore through thicke and thin,
Like some pernitious hegg surpriz'd with sin,
Cutting the aire with braine-sick shreekes and cries,
Like a swift arrow with the winde she highes,

For that same Swaine yspoken of, did tell her,
Where and with what Nimphe Cephalus did err,
Still doth the morning add vnto our muse,
And of Auroraes sweete some sweete to vse,
Lets mount couragiously, ha done with hate,
Tis seruile still on sorrow to dilate.
“The staring massacres, blood-dronken plots,
“Hot riotous hell-quickeners, Italian-nots:
“That tup their wits with snaky Nemesis,
“Teate-sucking on the poyson of her mis,
“With ougly fiendes ytasked let them bee,
“A milder fury to enrich seeke wee,
“If Homer did so well the feates ypaint
“Of an Vlysses, then how much more quaint,
“Might his sweete verse th'immortall Hector graced,
“And praise deseruing all, all haue imbraced?
“But what is more in vre, or getteth praise,
“Then sweete Affection tun'd in homely layes?
“Gladly would our Cephalian muse haue sung
“All of white loue, enamored with a tounge,
“That still Styll musicke sighing teares together,
“Could one conceite haue made beget an other,
“And so haue ransackt this rich age of that,
“The muses wanton fauourites haue got
“Heauens-gloryfier, with thy holy fire,
“O thrise immortall quickener of desire,
“That scorn'st this

He mindes in respect of Poets and their fauourites.

vast and base prodigious clime,
“Smyling at such as beg in ragged rime,
“Powre from aboue, or fauour of the prince,
“Distilling wordes to hight the quintessence
“Of fame and honor: such I say doest scorne,
“Because thy stately verse was Lordly borne,

“Through all Arcadia, and the Fayerie land,
“And hauing smale true grace in Albion,
“Thy natiue soyle, as thou of right deserued'st,
“Rightly adornes one now, that's richly serued:
“O to that quick sprite of thy smooth-cut quill,
“Without surmise of thinking any ill.
“

He thinkes it the duetie of euery one that sailes, to strike maine-top, before that great & mighty Poet COLLYN.

I offer vp in duetie and in zeale,
“This dull conceite of mine, and do appeale,
“With reuerence to thy
“On will I put that breste-plate and there on,
“Riuet the standard boare in spite of such:
“As thy bright name condigne or would but touch,
“Affection is the whole Parenthesis,
“That here I streake, which from our taske doth misse.

And now conclude we in a word or twaine,
Viragon-like, Procris the woods containe;
Where by direction from the Swaine she lay,
Shrowded with smale bowes from the scorching day,
Close by th'accustom'd harbour of her loue,
Where he to sollace did him selfe approue,
It was his guize through melancholy anger,
Heere to oppose his body, as no straunger,
But well affected, and acquainted too,
With strange perfourmances, that oft did doo
Him honor, seruice, in respect of her,
That in the skie sits honoured as a Starre,
Soft stealing bare-foote Faieries now and then,
(That counted are as Iewels worne of men,)
Together with the scornefull mocking Eccho,
Nymphes, Driades, and Satyres many mo
Then I can tell you, would full oft most trim,
Like gliding ghoastes about his cabine swim,

As what might seeme to imitate delight,
Sweete thoughts by day, and musicke in the night,
Causing the one so to confirme the other,
As Reuels, Maskes, and all that Cupids mother,
Could summon to the earth, heere was it done,
A second heauen, (aie me) there was begunne.

She waues herselfe, supposing that thereby,
Aurora to embrace he would come nie;
But he mistrusting some deuouring beast,
Till he could finde some pray, himselfe did rest,
Vnder that thicket, eft-soone with the dart,
He of Aurora had acted a part,
Fitter for some rude martialist then one,
That should haue bene the accent of her moane.
Now in her bowels bathes the dart a good,
The liuely, fresh, and rosey couloured blood
Then did rebate, in steade whereof pale death,
Lay with his surquedie to draw her breath,
Her speach past sence, her sences past all speaking,
Thus for prolonged life he fals entreating.
Thou saffron God (quoth he) that knits the knot
Of marriage, do'st, heauēs know, thou knowest not what,
How art thou wrath, that mak'st me of this wrong
Author and Actor, and in tragicke song,
Doest binde my temples, eke in sable cloudes,
Encampes the honor thereto is allowde,
O Hymen hast thou no remorse in loue?
Then Hyems hencefoorth be till I approoue
Againe the fruites, and comfort issuelesse,
Of Iealousie in marriage had a mis.

Heere was no want of hate, foule Achoron,
Styx, and Cocytus, duskie Phlegyton,

Eumenydes, and all the hell houndes then,
Spued foorth disgrace, oh what hath Cupid done!
Pherecydes, Puppius, and Philocles mourne,
Mourne with Cephalus, and your Hymni turne
To dismall nightes darke ougly stratagems,
To tragicke out-cries, wonderment of men,
And those that take delight in amorous loue,
Be their Heraclian wits subiect to moue
An other Sunne to grace our Theater,
That sadly mournes in blacke, with heauy cheere,
Duld with a still continuing heauinesse;
O! in extreames who comes to visite vs?

FINIS.

LENVOY.

Betwixt extreames
Are ready pathes and faire,
On straight and narrow went
Leades passengers in dreames,
And euer as the aire,
Doth buzze them with content,
A cruelle ougly fenne;
Hated of Gods and men,

Cals out amaine,
O whether but this way:
Or now, or neuer bend,
Your steps this goale to gaine,
The tother tels you stray,
And neuer will finde ende,
Thus hath the Gods decreed,
To paine soules for their deedes.

These monsters tway,
Ycleeped are of all,
Dispaire and eke debate,
Which are (as Poets say)
Of Enuies whelpes the fall,
And neuer come too late:
By Procris it appeeres,
Whose proofe is bought so deere.

Debate a foote,
And Iealousie abroade,
For remedie dispaire,
Comes in a yellow coate,
And actes where wysardes troade,
To shew the gazers faire,
How subtilly he can cloake,
The tale an other spoake.

O time of times,
When monster-mongers shew,
As men in painted cloathes,
For foode euen like to pine,
And are in weale Gods know,
Vpheld with spiced broathes,
So as the weakest seeme,
What often we not deeme.

Abandon it,
That breedes such discontent,
Foule Iealousie the sore,
That vile despight would hit,
Debate his Chorus spent,
Comes in a tragicke more,

Then Actors on this Stage,
Can plausiuely engage.

Oh Cephalus,
That nothe could pittie moue,
To tend Auroraes plaintes,
Now sham'd to tell vnto vs,
How thou would'st gladly loue,
So Procris might not faint,
Full oft the like doth hap,
To them that thinke to scape.

But aie me shee,
Vnmercifully glad,
To spie her wedded mate,
Rest from all woemen free,
Yet amorously clad,
Thought on her bended knee,
Of him to be receau'd
But aie me was deceiu'd.

Oft hits the same,
For who the innocent,
To catch in secret snares,
(And laughes at their false shame,)
Doth couertly inuent,
Themselues not throughly ware,
Are oft beguil'd thereby,
Woemen especially.

Faire Procris fall,
The merriment of moe,
That tread in vncouth wents,
Remaine for sample shall,

And learne them where to goe,
Their eares not so attent,
To vile disloyaltie,
Nurse vnto Iealousie.

Aurora shee,
Too amorous and coye,
Toyde with the hunters game,
Till louing not to see,
Spide loue cloth'd like a boy;
Whereat as one asham'd,
She starts, and downe-ward creepes,
Supposing all a sleepe.

“The seruitor,
“That earst did brauely skoure,
“Against the frontier heate,
“For fame and endlesse honor,
“Retir'd for want of power,
“Secure himselfe would seate,
So she but all too soone,
Her honor ere begun,

Did famish cleane:
For where she sought to gaine,
The type of her content,
By fatall powers diuine,
Was suddainely so stain'd,
As made them both repent,
And thus enamoured,
The morning since look't red.

As blushing thro,
Some tinssell weau'd of lawne,
Like one whose tale halfe spent,
His coulour comes and goes,
Desirous to be gone,
In briefe shewes his intent,

Not halfe so stately done,
As what he erst begun,

Euen so, and so,
Aurora pittiously,
For griefe and bitter shame,
Cries out, oh let me goe,
(For who but sluggards eie,
The morning seekes to blame?)
Let schollers only mourne,
For this same wretched tourne.

A iust reward
To such as seeke the spoyle,
Of any wedded state,
But what do we regard?
So liue by others toyle,
And reape what they haue got,
No other reckoning wee,
Suppose but all of glee.

Aie me the Sonne,
Ere halfe our tale is quit,
His strength rebates amaine,
A clymate cold and wan,
That cannot strength a wit,
By Arte to tell the same,
Faire Cynthia shine thou bright,
Hencefoorth Ile serue the night.

FINIS.

Th. Edwards.

NARCISSVS

Aurora musæ amica.

You that are faire, and scorne th'effectes of loue,
You that are chaste, and stand on nice conceites,
You Delians that the Muses artes can moue,
You that for one poore thing make thousands treate,
You that on beauties honor do curuate;
Come sing with me, and if these noates be lowe,
You shall haue some prickt higher ere ye goe.

I tune no discord, neither on reproache,
With hideous tearmes in thwarting any dame,
But euen in plaine-song, plodding foorth of each,
That Cynicke beauties visor on doth frame,
Sing I, and so sing all that beautie name:
If there be any that account it harsh,
Why let them know, it is Narcissus verse.

Now geue me leaue, for now I minde to trie you,
Sweete Muses but to harbour mong'st so many,
On rich Parnassus mount, if not so nie you,
O yet in some low hollow Caue with any,
That but the name of Poetry do carry:
Corycyus some haue told you let lie vast,
There let me liue a while, though die disgra'st.

Euen word for word, sence, sentence, and conceite
I will vnfold, if you will giue me leaue,
Euen as Narcissus playning did entreate
Mee to sit downe, nor will I you deceive,
Of any glory that you can receive,
By this sad tale, and if it do you pleasure,
No doubt there will be better done at leisure.

With fixed eies, handes ioyntly vpwardes reard,
His bodie all to mournefull sorrow bent,
Imbracing clowdie sighes, as one prepard,
To tell some leaden-tale, not merryment,
With melancholy action onwardes went:
And thus he spake, and smiling too, begun,
And thus he wept, and ended to his song.

Whilest I was young nurst in the blessed heauen,
Of those sweete Ioyes, which men allude to loue,
Euen in the hight thereof was I bereauen,
Of those sweete pleasures, ere I could approue,
The essence of that organing from Ioue:
For looke how Gnats soft singing swarme together,
So did faire Ladies round about me houer.

Aie me, I not respected dalliance then,
Though many did incyte me to disport,
I knew not I what ioyes they gaue to men,
But as the banquet past, they as the shot,
Pleasing euils acting or acting not,
Gods know I knew not, nor accounted euer
Of fairest woemen but as fowlest weather.

I thought no good compar'd vnto deceite,
Fancie was alwaies dull, and knew not mee,
When Ladies did with kisses me entreate,
As in a traunce I lay, and would not see,
Of dalliance so farre I stole in degree,
What good did Nature giuing me such beautie,
And would not shew me there to all the duetie?

I not regarded plaintes, or nice smiles speaking,
Eies modest wandering, toung alluring obiectes,
Sighes raysing teares, shame with the white rose streking,
But counted her, and her as natures abiectes,
He that nere paine did feele, all doubtes doth neglect;
So carelesse were my thoughtes and all my actions,
As I accounted nere to feele subiection.

I stood as nice as any she aliue,
On this curl'd locke the other wreathed haire,
And told how some had power to make men wiue,
And some againe to bring them to dispaire,
Had I but told them they could charme the aire;
Such was beliefe, and such is still in louers,
That one may cause them thinke, or ought discouer.

O had I bene lesse faire, or they more wittie,
Then had I not thus playn'd in tragicke song,
Then had I not bene pointed at by pittie,
Nor throwne my selfe Care-swallowing griefes among,
Nor these teares thus vnto the world haue throng'd:
But what auailes, sigh, weepe, mourne, houle, lament?
In vaine wordes, action, teares, and all are spent.

Would some good man had massacred my face,
Blinde stroke my eies, as was my hart thereto,
Dasht in my throate, my teeth, done some disgrace,
For with my tounge some say they were vndoe,
Or me foredone to shame, ere they did woe.
I am perswaded then, I had not beene,
What now I am, nor halfe these griefes had seene.

“Looke how at suddaine thunder in the aire,
“Th'amazed starts, looking from whence it comes,
“So on report of any passing faire,
“The greedie people in the streetes do runne,
“Where first the Wonder-breeder it begunne:
It was enough to say Narcissus came,
The crie thereof gaue grace vnto my name.

How many times haue I been luld a sleepe,
In Ladies bowers, and carried to and fro,
Whilest but a stripling, Lord, how would they peepe
On this, and that, not knowing what to do?
Nature they blam'd, and yet they prais'd it to:
Had Priapus Narcissus place enioy'd,
He would a little more haue done then toy'd.

Some with Still musicke, some with pleasing songes,
Some with coy smiles, mixt now and then with frownes,
Some with rich giftes, all with alluring tounges,
And many with their eies to th'earth cast downe,
Sighing foorth sorrow that did so aboune,
Sufficient to approue on thrice more coye,
And yet (poore wenches) could not get a boy.

Anone the fayrest gins thus to salute,
Narcissus, oh Narcissus looke vpon mee,
There are (quoth she) ten thousand that would greet
Her, who thou maist command, yet scornst I see.
Reak'st thou no more of loue, of life, of beautie?
Ioues Iô was transform'd vnto a cow,
So would I low, might I be lou'de of yow.

Another queintly thus disputes with me,
As now and then amongst my fellow peeres,
I wont to sport awaie the time, quoth she,
Well now (Narcissus) I perceiue a cheere,
You pricke a cast to touch the mistres neere.
Ah short in faith, I wish you no more harme,
Than that you had some Marie in your armes.

The cast is mine (quoth I) she it denide,
I wrangl'de, striu'de, and would not yeeld the thro,
Vnto a standing measure Ile be tride,
Whether (quoth she) that I haue won't or no,
Striue, wrangle, measure, doo what I could do:
Somewhat she aild, and this I found at last,
For want of rubs I ouerthrew the cast.

Then came the neatest one of all my louers,
The onely patterne of simplicitie,
Her sister-hood would not a thought discouer,
That should foretell whereon she did relie,
Not for a world, her loue was bent so holly,
When she did sweare, her oath was by this booke,
And then would kisse, and round about her looke.

I haue not tolde you in what neat attire,
She came to visit me her onely brother,
Nor how she cloakt her spirituall desire,
That was so feruent towards me boue others,
Her chast not-soes, and toying lyke a mother:
Nor will I tell you, least some olde wife saie,
Narcissus was a cruell wanton boie.

“Oh what is beautie more than to the sicke
“A potion adding spirit to the patient,
“Which for a time hath operation quicke,
“But when that nature workes her due euent,
“Is ruinous and quite without content:
“Then youth and beautie hold not hands together,
“For youth is best, where beautie hath another.

Yet youth and beautie hold you hands together,
For you are seemely ornaments of nature,
And will delight the sonne of such a mother,
And glad the Sire that put such proofe in vre,
Beautie and youth are baites without a lure:
That scorning pride, so farre exceed compare,
As makes you seeme what yet you neuer were.

Faire Adonis in pride that shewes so hot,
Clad in rich purple haire, with amorous hew,
Causing to leaue her Doue-drawne chariot,
Loue sole commander, and to follow yow,
Not for the palme of glorie but for yew:
Come tune with me true desolations noate,
For none but we can beauties blindnes coate.

For none but we, we, but none for vs mourne;
Thrice faire Adonis by this cooling water,
Come seate thy louely branches, and Ile turne
These plains to meades, these meades to plaine teares after,
When with recording noates of their first author;
We'le take more ioy in counting ouer sorrowes,
Than Venus gazing on her ingling sparrowes.

Come, come Adonis, let vs meete each other,
Imbrace thou sighs, with teares I'le fil the aire,
And though we both were haplesse boies together,
Yet let vs now contend against the faire,
Beautie like winter bringeth on despaire:
Fruit ouer-ripe, Iems valued past their worth,
Redoune small honor to their bringer forth.

Nay if thou wilt not, choose, seest who comes here?
Tis one that hath the map of sorrow drawen,
Welcome Leander, welcome, stand thou neere,
Alacke poore youth, what hast thou for a pawne,
What, not a rag, where's Heroes vale of lawne?
Her buskins all of shels ysiluered ore,
What hast thou noth? then pack yonder's the doore.

Yet staie a while, for thou shalt mourne with me,
Yet get thee gone, for I will mourne alone;
Yet staie awhile, extreames are bad we see,
And yet it skils not, for thou canst not mone,
Thou wilt not moane, thy teares were long since done:
And were thy griefes againe for to lament,
Thou couldst not shed such teares as I haue spent.

No, no Leander, thou lasciuiously
Didst plaie with loue, and with thy loue hadst sport,
Nere didst thou mourne, but as thou liuedst didst dy,
Telling Musæus, he the world of what
Thy dandling tresses of faire Hero got:
I tearme her faire, for thou didst make her faire,
For without men alacke they nothing are.

But tell me, tell me, whether art thou bent,
Hath Tempe now disgorg'd her loue-mates hether,
Or haue you license for some merriment,
To visit faire Elizium, tell me whether,
What melancholy man, answerest to neither?
It skils not much, for thought you will not saie,
Abydos can your wantonnes display.

Oh cease Narcissus, be not so mis-lead,
Thou art in furie and deceiued quite,
Looke round about thee where are anie dead,
Or ghosts afrighting come to dim thy sight?
Thou doest mistake, and dreamst to serue the night:
Night onely cheefe companion for thy care,
Yet when he comes, canst not of him beware.

Thou sable winged messenger of Ioue,
True honor of content and sad complaints,
Comfort to them that liuing die in loue,
Hate to the scornfull and nice dames so quaint,
Deepe searcher of our secret teares and plaints:
Wide ope thy wings, I'le houer twixt thy armes,
And like the cock when morne comes sound alarme.

Was euer boy afflicted thus before?
Was euer man halfe partner of my griefe?
Was euer Nymph or Goddesse knowne of yore,
To languish thus and neuer haue reliefe?
Was euer goddesse, man, or boy the chiefe?
The onely subiect for a wrathfull pen,
Heauens iudge, earth deem, ges you the soules of men.

Is this the happie blisseful ioy of beautie?
Is this the summer sporting with delight?
Then cage vp me sor winter's best, saie I,
And sing who list in such sunne-shining light,
Obscuritie and sweet thought wandering night
Are fit companions for my troubled ghoast,
Farewell, the Sunne's too hot to be my hoast.

I, I, Narcissus, in some pitchie caue,
Or vgly dungeon where the serpents lie,
There rest thy selfe, and when thou ginst to raue,
Their musicke shall consort melodiouslie,
Vnto thy sighs and deepe lamenting cries:
For since the earth hath none that pittie moues,
To tell thy tale, tell thou scornst such as loue.

I there's the sore, tell how thou scornst to loue,
Tell to thy shame, tell to thy ouerthrow,
Tell them beneath, or tell to them aboue,
Tell who thou wilt, long since ther's none but know,
And know Narcissus, more than thou canst show:
For he that sorrow hath possest, at last
In telling of his tale is quite disgra'st.

What shall I then but languish in complaining,
Since deepest teares haue smallest comfort shewen;
And if I had the richest wordes remaining,
That euer tragicke massacre made knowen,
Or poets imping them now perfect growen:
Yet these and all, could not my thoughts discouer,
And this I got scorning to be a louer.

Now comes the swelling soules shame to be told,
Now presseth on my long neglected care,
How shall I tell my griefe, or how vnfolde
The coie disdaines I vsde, and what they were,
Or how with anie comfort shall appeare?
The one halfe to the world of my distresse,
You that did vrge this sore make it seeme lesse.

Now make it seeme lesse, now or neuer do it,
You faire alluring Nymphs, you pretie ones,
Take from this broken song, or adde you to it,
Descant on which part best shall please, for none
Shall be accounted sweet that sing alone:
Then faire dames sing a treble to my base,
With teares be yours, with sighs Ile shew my case.

And if the world esteeme of bare good will,
Then I am he, the onely subiect yet,
That ere inserted to inrich a quill,
Or could command the sternest muse to write,
I craue not then for anie to indite,
But to the world and ages yet to cum,
Narcissus poet shall not be found dum.

This said, a million of deepe-searching sighes,
(The messengers to tragike thoughts and cries)
Hee doth prepare as actors in his night,
And then addrest to speake he onward highes,
And thus gainst loue begins to tyrannize:
“If beautie bring vs so to be mis-led,
“Of such a relique who's inamoured?

So witlesse, fond, saue thou was neuer anie,
Forlorne Narcissus to thy selfe complaining,
Oh cruell Loue that hath vndone so many,
Hast thou yet power or anie hope remaining,
To chase from these faire springs hatefull disdayning?
Oh no, loues darts haue all but one euent,
Once shooting, vertue of the rest are spent.

See foulings Queene, see how thou trainst me forth,
Thou gauest me beautie, which the world admir'd,
But when I came to talent out the worth,
What issue ioy'd it that my youth requir'd,
A brain-sick hot conceit by loue inspir'd,
A flaming blast, no sooner seene than gon,
A sinke to swallow vp the looker on.

“For as amid the troupe of warlike men,
“Their generall for safetie flies amaine,
“Who fatall death by fortunes aide doth ken,
“Sad messenger his hoped wish detaines,
“So was Narcissus to his treble paine:
“Loues generall, and mongst his faire ones flew,
“Whilest in the troup was slaine ere ioyes he knew.

And which I mourne for most, disastrous chance,
I tooke the Iewels which faire Ladies sent me,
And manie pretie toies, which to aduance
My future bane, vnwillingly they meant me,
Their whole attire and choice suites not content me;
But like a louer glad of each new toy,
So I a woman turned from a boy.

Which once perform'd, how farre did I exceed
Those stately dames, in gesture, modest action,
Coy lookes, deep smiles, faining heroique deeds,
To bring them all vnder my owne subiection,
For as a woman tired in affection,
Some new disport neare thought on is requir'd,
So now I long'd to walke to be admir'd.

The life obtaining fields, we liuely trace,
And like yong fawnes delight to sport each other,
Some framing odes, and others in their grace,
Chaunt soueraigne sweet Sonetto's to loues mother,
Thus euerie Nymph would gladly be a louer;
And loue himselfe might have enamoured beene,
If he had eies, and these choice dames had seene.

Yet I was carelesse, for selfe-loue orethrew me,
I scornd to heare how he could slaie or wound,
And yet full oft, so many nymphs as knew me,
Would saie that once blind loue would cast me downe,
Foule fall that poare blind boy whose power abownes;
Well, well, I see tis shame to threat the Gods,
Whose deepe authoritie gaines treble ods.

As thus we like to wanton wenches were,
In seuerall sports best pleasing and delightfull,
Seuered at last I to a fount drew neere,
Oh that alone a boy should be so wilfull!
As children vse gainst pretie toies be spightfull:
In playing till they spoiled be or harm'd,
So playd I with this coole-spring till it warm'd.

For as I gaz'd into this shallow spring,
I rear'd my voice, mistrusting that nor this,
Oh what diuine Saint is it that doth sing!
Let me intreate to haue of thee a kisse,
See who Narcissus lou'd, see where's his misse:
His owne conceit with that of his did fire him,
When others actual colde it did desire him.

Lead by my attractiue Syren-singing selfe,
Vnto this Sun-shine-shadow for the substance,
Hard at the brinke, prying from forth the shelfe,
That grounded hath my ioyes and pleasing essence,
I claim'd th'authoritie of them were absence:
And made this well my ill, this bowre my bane,
This daily good become my hourly wane.

Yet dreading of no ill, close downe I lay,
By this same goodly fountaine deere and precious,
Beset with azured stones bonnie and gay,
Like a yong woer that should visite vs,
Oh that bright-seeming things should be so vicious,
Base imperfection Nature doth abhorre,
Then why should I deceiued be thus farre?

Neuer was she more perfectly imbraced,
Than in her worke vnto Narcissus done,
If arte, proportion should haue thus disgraced,
Where should our artists then haue rai'sd theyr Sunne,
That in this cast vp Chaos is begunne?
Loues minion did her deitie here show,
That Nature should not claime what she did ow.

Immortall strife that heauens should be at iarre,
Why should the one seeke to disgrace the rest;
Were there no women, there would be no warre,
For pride in them claimes her due interest,
Presumptuous women thus to scorne the blest:
But gainst their sex why doo I raue thus vile,
That lou'd Narciss; in loue that was a child?

Now had my eyes betooke themselues to gaze,
On this cleere-spring where as a man distract,
The more I sought allusions forth to raze,
The more I found my senses in defact,
And could not choose but yeeld to this enact,
That I beheld the fairest faire that euer
Earth could desire, or heauens to earth deliuer.

Yet striue I did, and counted it deceit,
I chid the wanton fond toies that I vs'd,
And with sharpe taunts would faine haue sound retreit,
And tolde my selfe how of my selfe refus'd,
Many faire Ladies were and how abus'd
Through base disdaine, then calling vnto Ioue,
He would not heare, thus I was for'st to loue.

For'st vnto loue, I for'st perforce to yeld,
Not as the groueling coyne-imbracing fathers,
Doo now in common make their children yld,
By chopping them to church that like of neither,
But by stern fate vnweldie that was euer:
Was I vnhappie that I was or any,
Loues yong Adultus fauoured of so many?

“As when the English globe-incompasser,
“By fame purueying found another land,
“Or as the troupe at Bosworth, Richards err,
“Done to disgrace, a taske nere tooke in hand,
“By Hercules were readie for command:
So hauing euer fortunatly sped,
Suppos'd that shaddowes would bee enamored.

For see how Esops dog was quite forgone,
And lost the substance weening further gaine,
So was I gazing on this Orient Sunne,
Stroke blinde, Gods knowe, vnto my treble paine,
Leaping at shaddowes, loosing of the maine:
When I loues pleasance thought to have imbraced,
My sun-shine light darke clouds sent foul disgraced.

Yet such a humor tilted in my brest,
As few could threat the none-age of my voice,
For though the heauens had here set vp their rest,
I proudly boasted that she was my choice,
And for my sake earth onely thus was blest:
And tolde them since they fashioned this golde,
To coine the like, how they had lost their mold.

Sad and drier thoughts a foot, my wearied lims,
Close as I could to touch this Saint I couched,
My bodie on the earth sepulchrizing him,
That dying liu'd, my lips hers to haue touched,
I forc'd them forward, and my head downe crouched:
And so continued treating, till with teares
The spring run ore, yet she to kisse forbare.

Looke on those faire eies, smile to shew affection,
Tell how my beautie would inrich her fauour,
Talke Sun-go-downe, no rules tending to action,
But she would scorne, & sweare so God should saue her,
Her loue burnt like perfume quite without sauour:
Yet if (quoth she) or I but dreamt, she spake it,
Tis but a kisse you craue, why stoupe and take it.

Neuer the greedie Tantalus pursued,
To touch those seeming apples more than I,
Vow'd in conceit her fauour to haue vs'de,
I hastned forward, and her beckning spie,
Like affection offering, and like curtesie:
Now was the heauen, ah now was heauen a hell,
I ioy'd, but what can anie louer tell?

A coole effect for my affections burning,
A sad receit to mittigate my paine,
What shall I be like to the Polyp turning,
Or an Orpheus going to hel againe?
No, loue nere bled but at the master vaine:
And there will I benum the liuely flesh,
And strike by arte or nature shall transgresse.

Then like a cunning pilate making out,
To gaine the Oceans currant stem I forward,
Top gallant hoist amaine, safely about
The loftie fer with spread sailes hal'd I onward,
To make sure passage, but alacke too backward,
The sea prefer'd our vintage, for the bloome
Was blasted quite, ere fruit was seene to come.

For as I thought downe stouping to haue kist her,
My loose-borne tresses that were lawlesse euer,
Troubled the spring, and caus'd me that I mist her,
Who so before no such fond toies could seuer,
My hope to haue inioy'd her loue, but rather,
Haire, hart and all would sacrifiz'd and done,
To foulest shame this faire one to haue wonne.

Who knowes not that in deepest waters lies
The greatest danger, or who will not know it?
Monsters of time, whose ruine each one spies,
And to the world in teares lamenting show it,
That beautie hath small good for men to owe it:
But as a relique for the sight alone,
Is to be dandled, kist, and lookt vpon.

At last, for what but time perfection giues?
Againe, O, O, againe my ladies fauour,
I haue obtain'd, at least againe she liues,
And now what doubt, but doubtlesse I shal haue her,
It is the water, and not she that wauers:
Slanderous men that count of them so slightly,
Who would exceed if you were what you might be?

See when I spread my armes her to imbrace,
She casteth hers as willingly to meet me,
And when I blush, how it procures her grace,
If weepe or smile, she in same method greets me,
And how so ere I boord her, she salutes me,
As willing to continue pleasance, yet,
Saue smiling kisses I can nothing get.

But how deceiu'd, what Saint doo I adore?
Her lips doo moue, and yet I cannot heare her,
She beckens when I stoope, yet euermore
Am farthest off, when I should be most neere her,
And if with gentle smiles I seeme to cheere her:
Vnlike a louer weepes to see me sport,
And ist not strange? Ioyes when she sees me hurt.

Oh why doth Neptune closet vp my deere?
She is no Mermaid, nor accounted so,
Yet she is faire, and that doth touch him neere,
But she's a votarie, then let her go,
What beautie but with wordes men can vndo?
Oh Neptune she's a Syren, therefore nay,
Syrens are fittest to adorne the sea.

Then tie me fast where still these eares may heare her,
Oh then I feare these eies will climbe too high!
Yet let me then these bankes be somewhat neerer,
Oh then this tongue will cause this heart to die,
And pining so for loue, talke ouer-lauishly:
And yet they shal not, for with sighing praiers,
Ile busie them not thinking of the faire.

Oh thrice immortall, let me come vnto thee,
Within whose limits linkt is natures pride,
Accept my vowes, except thou wilt vndoo me,
She is my loue, and so shall be my bride,
Then part vs not, least that I part this tide:
In spite of Ioue, if thou doest her detaine,
Ile fetch her forth, or quel th'ambitious maine.

Some saie the heauens haue derogated farre,
And gladly done on misconceited weeds,
To cloake their scapes, yet heauens scape you this starre
For know she is immortall for her deeds,
And wo to him that playes with Saints I reed:
The earth a paradise where she is in,
Equals the heauens, were it not toucht with sin.

“Now Phœbus gins in pride of maiestie,
“To streake the welkin with his darting beames,
“And now the lesser planets seeme to die,
“For he in throane with christall dashing streames,
“Richer than Indiaes golden vained gleames
“In chariot mounted, throwes his sparkling lookes,
“And vnawares pries midst this azured brooke.

At whose hot shining, rich-dew-summoning,
The gooddest Nymph that euer fountaine kept,
Her courage was euen then a womanning,
And sorrowful he sawe her there, she wept,
And wrung her hands, & downwards would haue crept,
But that I staid her, ah I doo but dreame!
It was a vapor that did dull the streame.

It was a vapor fuming, whose assent,
Loosing the vitall organ whence it sprang,
Much like an vntrain'd faulkon loftly bent,
Wanting the meanes, tottering till tir'd doth hang
Beating the aire: so till the strength was spent,
This saffron pale congealed fuming mist,
Bearded my senses when my loue I mist.

And yet tis Phœbus or some richer one,
That ouerpries me thus, it cannot be,
But Ioue or some, that pittying my sad mones,
Comes to redresse my plaints, and comming see,
My heauenly loue in her diuinitie:
Ioue pittie not, nor hearken to my plaints,
I treate to mortall ones, not heauenly saints.

Sufficeth you haue manie be as faire,
Besides the queene of dalliance and her Nuns,
Chast votaries for Gods to chase th'aire,
And can Arcadian Nymphs neuer yet wun,
In naming godhood, them from hating turne:
Alacke this is the daughter of a neat-heard,
And I am treating but to be her shep-heard.

Some yet may fortune aske me how my state,
From lordly pompe, and fames eterniz'd throne,
Diu'd downe to yonger method and the mate,
Of each forsaken louer quite forlorne,
Am thus in bastardie vnlawfull borne:
Why are not princes subject to report,
What cloistred ill but fame doth beare from court?

Liui'as rich statues in his gallery,
Portraide by lyfe, as they in sundrie shapes,
Mask't through the cloudie stitched canapie,
Where Venus and her blind ones, acting rapes,
Incestuous, lawlesse, and contentious scapes;
Were they remembred, who would be a louer?
Nor I, nor Venus, were she not loues mother.

Oh extreame anguish of the soules affliction!
Pining in sorrow, comfortlesse alone,
Hate to the heauens, admitting intercession,
But as a meanes to aggrauate our mones,
Prolonging dated times to leaue's forlorne:
Raising new seeds to spring and shaddow vs,
Whose ghosts we wrong'd, and thus do follow vs.

But how am I in passion for her sake?
That tyres as much, and equals teare with teare,
That beates the aire with shrikes, and praiers make,
In iust proportion, and with like sad feare,
As I haue done, a louing show doth beare;
Women doo yeeld, yet shame to tell vs so,
Tis action more than speech doth grace a show.

And I not much vnlike the Romane actors,
That girt in Pretextati seamed robes,
Charged the hearts and eyes of the spectators,
With still continuing sorrow, flintie Niobes,
And of each circled eie fram'd thousand globes:
And to become flat images, not men,
So now must I with action grace the pen.

For what with wordes the Chorus setteth forth,
Is but t'explaine th'ensuing tragicke scene,
And what is sayd, is yet of litle worth,
Tis I the siege must countenance, and then
Will leaue you all in murmuring sort like men.
Hard at the point of some extremitie,
Vnarm'd to fight, and know not where to flie.

Nor shall I want the meanes to grace my tale,
Abundant store of sweet perswasiue stories,
Though they haue past, and got the golden vale,
From artes bright eie, yet Ascraes gentle vallies,
Haue shrouded my sad tale, I in the glorie,
Of well accepted fauour and of time,
Thus poasted out, haue smiled on my rime.

Shame wer't to scape the telling of my shame,
How being faire and beautious past compare,
I scorn'd loue, yet lou'd one of my owne name,
My selfe complaining of my face too faire,
And telling how my griefes procured teares:
Confused arguments, vaine, out of date,
And yet it does me good to shew my state.

Long I continued as a doating matron,
Some new assault assailing her coole breast,
Delights to kisse yong children, plaie the wanton,
And would I know not what, thinking the rest,
Ioying in that I found vnhappiest:
Carelesse of loue, respecting not her honor,
Which now I feele in dotage looking on her.

Nay on her shaddow, on her shaddow nay,
Vpon thy owne Narcissus loue thy selfe,
Fie wanton, fie, know'st not thou art a boy,
Or hath a womans weeds, thee sinful elfe,
Made wilfull like themselues, or how growen coy?
Wer't thou a woman, this is but a shaddo,
And seldome do their sex themselues vndo.

A forrest Nymph, whil'st thus I stood debating,
Gan oft and oft to tell me pleasing tales,
And sometimes talkt of loue, and then of hating,
Anone she trips it by the short nipt dales,
And then againe the tottering rockes she scales:
But when I cald for her to come vnto me,
A hollow siluer sound bad come and woo me.

Anon I chaunt on pleasing roundelaies,
That told of shepheards, and their soueraigne sportes,
Then blith she pip'd to send the time awaie,
And clapt my cheekes, praising my nimble throate,
And kisse she will too twixt each sharpe prickt noate.
But if I tell her all that's done is fruitles,
She answeres I, I, to thy tother mistres.

Thus whil'st the Larke her mounted tale begun,
Vnto the downe-soft Tythons blushing Queene,
And rising with her noates sweet orizons,
At Ioves high-court gan Phœbus steads to weene,
How well appointed, and how brauely seene,
That all in rage they tooke such high disgrace,
The heauens dispatcht poast from Auroraes pallace.

Eccho complayning Cythereas sonne,
To be a boy vniust, cruell, vnkinde,
The Gods before her tale was throughly done,
Thus for'st agreement twixt our wauering minde,
She to a voice, the Syluans plaints to finde:
And for redresse of her increasing sorrow,
To hold darke night in chase, to mocke the morrow.

This done, amaine vnto the spring I made,
Where finding beautie culling nakednes,
Sweet loue reuiuing all that heauens decaide,
And once more placing gentle maidenlikenes,
Thus sought I fauour of my shaddowed mistres;
Imbracing sighs, and telling tales to stones,
Amidst the spring I leapt to ease my mones.

Where what I gain'd, iudge you that vainly sue,
To shaddowes wanting appetite and sence,
If there be anie comfort tell me true?
And then I hope you'le pardon my offence,
Pardon my tale, for I am going hence:

Ovid. 3. Met. Narcissus fuit Cephisi fluuii, ex Liriope nympha, filius.

Cephisus now freez'd, whereat the sea-nymphs shout,
And thus my candle flam'd, and here burnt out.

FINIS.

L'ENVOY.

Scarring beautie all bewitching,
Tell a tale to hurt it selfe,
Tels a tale how men are fleeting,
All of Loue and his power,
Tels how womens shewes are pelfe,
And their constancies as flowers.

Aie me pretie wanton boy,
What a sire did hatch thee forth,
To shew thee of the worlds annoy,
Ere thou kenn'st anie pleasure:
Such a fauour's nothing worth,
To touch not to taste the treasure.

Poets that diuinely dreampt,
Telling wonders visedly,
My slow Muse haue quite benempt,
And my rude skonce haue aslackt,
So I cannot cunningly,
Make an image to awake.

Ne the frostie lims of age,
Vncouth shape (mickle wonder)
To tread with them in equipage,

As quaint light blearing eies,
Come my pen broken vnder,
Magick-spels such deuize.

Collyn was a mighty swaine,
In his power all do flourish,
We are shepheards but in vaine,
There is but one tooke the charge,
By his toile we do nourish,
And by him are inlarg'd.

He vnlockt Albions glorie,
He twas tolde of Sidneys honor,
Onely he of our stories,
Must be sung in greatest pride,
In an Eglogue he hath wonne her,
Fame and honor on his side.

Deale we not with Rosamond,
For the world our sawe will coate,
Amintas and Leander's gone,
Oh deere sonnes of stately kings,
Blessed be your nimble throats,
That so amorously could sing.

Adon deafly masking thro,
Stately troupes rich conceited,
Shew'd he well deserued to,
Loues delight on him to gaze,
And had not loue her selfe intreated,
Other nymphs had sent him baies.

Eke in purple roabes distaind,
Amid'st the Center of this clime,
I haue heard saie doth remaine,
One whose power floweth far,
That should haue bene of our rime,
The onely obiect and the star.

Well could his bewitching pen,
Done the Muses obiects to vs,
Although he differs much from men,
Tilting under Frieries,
Yet his golden art might woo vs,
To haue honored him with baies.

He that gan vp to tilt,
Babels fresh remembrance,
Of the worlds-wracke how twas spilt,
And a world of stories made,
In a catalogues semblance
Hath alike the Muses staide.

What remaines peerelesse men,
That in Albions confines are,
But eterniz'd with the pen,
In sacred Poems and sweet laies,
Should be sent to Nations farre,
The greatnes of faire Albions praise.

Let them be audacious proude,
Whose deuises are of currant,
Euerie stampe is not allow'd,

Yet the coine may proue as good,
Yourselues know your lines haue warrant,
I will talke of Robin Hood.

And when all is done and past,
Narcissus in another sort,
And gaier clothes shall be pla'st,
Eke perhaps in good plight,
In meane while I'le make report,
Of your winnings that do write.

Hence a golden tale might grow,
Of due honor and the praise,
That longs to Poets, but the show
were not worth the while to spend,
Sufficeth that they merit baies,
Saie what I can it must haue end,
Then thus faire Albion flourish so,
As Thames may nourish as did Pô.

FINIS.

Tho: Edwards.