Upon his Bellama using and forsaking the Walk.
When, walking, I sent forth my watchful eyes
To fetch in objects, like Bellona's spies,
Along this swelling way which chequered was
With smooth-faced pebbles, not with pikèd grass,
Bellama paced, whose only pacing set
1430Upon the pavèd walk a coronet
Of Flora's pride—carnations, tulips, lilies,
Pansies, pinks, roses, daffadowndillies.
Nay more, methought, I saw the rubbish way
Sapphires, pearls, rubies, onyx-stones, outray.
The very channel, proud of her blest weight,
Swelled up with pride unto the ridge's height,
To kiss her feet, and made the way an alley.
With this choice fair mine eyes (ah!) once did dally,
Nature's epitome, whose curious brow
1440Was like a smoothèd mount of bleachèd snow,
At whose clear foot Nature divine did place
Two diamonds, which did enlighten all her face.
So that 'twas like those orbs wherein do stray
The planet-lamps, or Cupid's sucking way;
And from these gems such silver rays were sent
Which hatchèd o'er her light accoutrement.
So that dull fancies would have thought she had
In cambric, holland, or pure lawn, been clad.
Nay, I at first thought it had Cynthia bin
1450Deck'd in her brother's sunshine ermelin.
She shot such glorious beams: but now, alas!
She's gone, she's fled, and lo! the mourning grass
Is hayed already, and th' ungemmed stone
At feathers catch to fly where she is gone.
The branchèd beech, the oak, and tow'ring ash,
Bend both their brows and boughs my face to lash.
The angry thorns my hands, though armèd, scratch,
And testy brambles at my vestures catch
(Which was before the curse of human sin,
1460But now, by her, outsmelled the eglantine),
I, wonder-strucken, asked a holy thistle,
Which with his sharp'ned pikes began to bristle,
(But know at first 'twas but an homely weed,
Her presence made it holy, not its seed)
Why all with ireful looks thus threat'ned me?
'It is supposed, Bellama fair,' quoth he,
'The goddess of this walk was forced by you
To this benighted path to bid adieu.'
'Alas!' quoth I (meanwhile the thistle paus'd),
1470'Their wrath is undeserved, I never caused
By any ill demeans that saint to leave
This place, and widow every branch and greave.
Unto your testates I myself refer,
How choicely I have ever honoured her,
Have paid my tribute-compliments, and gave
Respects as much as due, or she, would have.
But people (worse than those that people stews)
Whose only joy consists in telling news,
Or Pazzell' else with her envenomed lips,
1480Your glory and my comfort do eclipse,
'Tis them they ought to chide, for only they
Compel her to forsake this gloomy way.
Yet spite of all disasters, fate, and hell,
Albino's heart shall with Bellama dwell:
And though chill winter nip both you and me,
We shall, ere long, our suns and summers see.'
This said, he straight forsook his silent grove,
Trimming his looks which passion did untrim,
And hastes to find the object of his love.
1490But such an eye the matron cast on him,
That fury on her looks did seem to dwell,
And envy to her face transplanted hell.
Heartless Albino with much pain did view
How on her looks madness and anger ranged,
And on Bellam' he private glances threw
To bring him word if that she stood unchanged,
If she continued square, despite of them,
Whose jealous eyes did all their actions hem.
Bellama knew the language of his eye,
[1500]But could not give respect to Cupid's law,
For Piazella to her eyes did tie
A constant watch, which kept her eyes in awe:
That she was forced to peep within her veil,
For there the matron did her eyes enjail.
The ragged crew, which are enwrapt in chains
Through grates, more freedom have of sight than she,
Which in them both produced such griefs and pains
Too sharp and loud to be expressed by me.
Albino now does judge his absence better,
1510And chose a proxy to present a letter.
One of his order (deemed a trusty friend
Endeared to him by favours, oath, and vow),
Was his Talthibius, ordained to send
To her whose beauty makes stiff Atlas bow.
The monk embraced the office, and did swear,
By all our scarlet oaths, faith, truth, and care.
Albino now to every Santo prays,
And for success his hands with zeal does rear,
Courting his lady in some Irish lays,
1520And robbed his finger of its golden sphere.
En-nealed I live in hope, and sure grief's waves,
If anchorless, had been t'is wishes graves.