Some Longer Elizabethan Poems

by Unknown

An Ode.

S it fell vpon a Day,

In the merrie Month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a groue of Myrtles made,

Beastes did leape, and Birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and Plants did spring:

Euery thing did banish mone,

Saue the Nightingale alone.

Shee (poore Bird) as all forlorne,

Leand her Breast vp-till a Thorne,

And there sung the dolefulst Ditty,

That to heare it was great Pitty.

Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry

Teru Teru, by and by:

That to heare her so complaine,

Scarce I could from Teares refraine:

For her griefes so liuely showne,

Made me thinke vpon mine owne.

Ah (thought I) thou mournst in vaine;

None takes Pitty on thy paine:

Senslesse Trees, they cannot heere thee;

Ruthlesse Beares, they wil not cheer thee.

King Pandion, hee is dead:

All thy friends are lapt in Lead.

All thy fellow Birds doe singe,

Carelesse of thy sorrowing.

Whilst as fickle Fortune smilde,

Thou and I, were both beguilde.

Euerie one that flatters thee,

Is no friend in miserie:

Words are easie, like the winde;

Faithfull friends are hard to finde:

Euerie man will bee thy friend,

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend:

But if store of Crownes be scant,

No man will supply thy want.

If that one be prodigall,

Bountifull, they will him call.

And with such-like flattering,

Pitty but hee were a King.

If hee bee adict to vice,

Quickly him, they will intice.

If to Woemen hee be bent,

They haue at Commaundement.

But if Fortune once doe frowne,

Then farewell his great renowne:

They that fawnd on him before,

Vse his company no more.

Hee that is thy friend indeed,

Hee will helpe thee in thy neede:

If thou sorrowe, hee will weepe;

If thou wake, hee cannot sleepe:

Thus of euerie griefe, in hart,

Hee, with thee, doeth beare a Part.

These are certaine Signes, to knowe

Faithfull friend, from flatt'ring foe.

Written, at the Request of a Gentleman,
vnder a Gentlewoman's Picture.

Uen as Apelles could not paint Campaspes face aright:

Because Campaspes Sun-bright eyes did dimme Apelles sight:

Euen so, amazed at her sight, her sight, all sights excelling,

Like Nyobe the Painter stoode, her sight his sight expelling,

Thus Art and Nature did contend, who should the Victor bee,

Till Art by Nature was supprest, as all the worlde may see.

An Epitaph vpon the Death, of Sir Philip
Sidney, Knight; Lord-gouernour of Vlissing.

Hat England lost, that Learning lov'd, that euery mouth commended,

That fame did prayse, that Prince did rayse, that Countrey do defended,

Here lyes the man: lyke to the Swan, who knowing shee shall die,

Doeth tune her voice vnto the Spheares, and scornes Mortalitie.

Two worthie Earls his vncles were; a Lady was his Mother;

A Knight his father; and himselfe a noble Countesse Brother.

Belov'd, bewaild; aliue, now dead; of all, with Teares for euer;

Here lyes Sir Philip Sidneis Corps, whom cruell Death did seuer,

He liv'd for her, hee dyde for her; for whom he dyde, he liued:

O graunt (O God) that wee of her, may neuer be depriued.

An Epitaph vpon the Death of his Aunt,
Mistresse Elizabeth Skrymsher.

Oe here beholde the certaine Ende, of euery liuing wight:

No Creature is secure from Death, for Death will haue his Right.

He spareth none: both rich and poore, both young and olde must die;

So fraile is flesh, so short is Life, so sure Mortalitie.

When first the Bodye liues to Life, the soule first dies to sinne:

And they that loose this earthly Life, a heauenly Life shall winne,

If they liue well: as well she liv'd, that lyeth Vnder heere;

Whose Vertuous Life to all the Worlde, most plainly did appeere.

Good to the poore, friend to the rich, and foe to no Degree:

A President of modest Life, and peerelesse Chastitie.

Who louing more, Who more belov'd of euerie honest mynde?

Who more to Hospitalitie, and Clemencie inclinde

Then she? that being buried here, lyes wrapt in Earth below;

From whence we came, to whom wee must, and bee as shee is now,

A Clodd of Clay: though her pure soule in endlesse Blisse doeth rest;

Ioying all Ioy, the Place of Peace, prepared for the blest:

Where holy Angells sit and sing, before the King of Kings;

Not mynding worldly Vanities, but onely heavenly Things.

Vnto which Ioy, Vnto which Blisse, Vnto which Place of Pleasure,

God graunt that wee may come at last, t' inioy that heauenly Treasure.

Which to obtaine, to liue as shee hath done let us endeuor;

That wee may liue with Christ himselfe, (above) that liues for euer.

---

A Comparison of the Life
of Man.

Ans life is vvell compared to a feast,

Furnisht with choice of all Varietie:

To it comes Tyme; and as a bidden guest

Hee sets him downe, in Pompe and Maiestie;

The three-folde Age of Man, the Waiters bee,

Then with an earthen voyder (made of clay)

Comes Death, and takes the table clean away.

FINIS.

---

---

ASTROPHEL.
A Pastoral Elegy upon
the death of the most noble
and valorous Knight,
Sir PHILIP SIDNEY.

Dedicated
to the most beautiful and virtuous Lady
the Countess of ESSEX.

[By EDMUND SPENSER, the Countess of PEMBROKE, and others.]

[Printed as an Appendix to _COLIN CLOUT's come home again_, first printed in 1595; but the epistle of which is dated "From my house of Kilcolman, the 27 of December, 1591.">[

---

Astrophel.

Hepherds that wont, on pipes of oaten reed,

Ofttimes to plain your love's concealèd smart;

And with your piteous lays have learned to breed

Compassion in a country lass's heart:

Hearken, ye gentle shepherds, to my song!

And place my doleful plaint, your plaints emong.

To you alone, I sing this mournful verse,

The mournful'st verse that ever man heard tell:

To you whose softened hearts it may empierce

With dolour's dart, for death of Astrophel.

To you I sing, and to none other wight,

For well I wot my rhymes been rudely dight.

Yet as they been, if any nicer wit

Shall hap to hear, or covet them to read:

Think he, that such are for such ones most fit,

Made not to please the living but the dead:

And if in him, found pity ever place;

Let him be moved to pity such a case.

---

ASTROPHEL.
A Pastoral Elegy upon the death of
the most noble and valorous Knight,
Sir Philip Sidney.

Gentle shepherd born in Arcady,

Of gentlest race that ever shepherd bore;

About the grassy banks of Hæmony,

Did keep his sheep, his little stock and store.

Full carefully he kept them day and night

In fairest fields; and Astrophel he hight.

Young Astrophel! the pride of shepherds' praise.

Young Astrophel! the rustic lasses' love.

Far passing all the pastors of his days

In all that seemly shepherd might behove.

In one thing only failing of the best;

That he was not so happy as the rest.

For from the time that first the nymph his mother

Him forth did bring; and taught, her lambs to feed:

A slender swain, excelling far each other

In comely shape, like her that did him breed:

He grew up fast in goodness and in grace;

And doubly fair wox both in mind and face.

Which daily more and more he did augment

With gentle usage and demeanour mild;

That all men's hearts with secret ravishment

He stole away, and wittingly beguiled.

Ne Spite itself—that all good things doth spill—

Found ought in him, that she could say was ill.

His sports were fair, his joyance innocent,

Sweet without sour, and honey without gall;

And he himself seemed made for merriment,

Merrily masking both in bower and hall.

There was no pleasure nor delightful play

When Astrophel so ever was away.

For he could pipe, and dance, and carol sweet;

Emongst the shepherds in their shearing feast:

As summer's lark that with her song doth greet

The dawning day, forth coming from the East.

And lays of love he also would compose.

Thrice happy she! whom he to praise did choose.

Full many maidens often did him woo,

Them to vouchsafe, emongst his rhymes to name:

Or make for them, as he was wont to do,

For her that did his heart with love inflame;

For which they promised to dight for him,

Gay chaplets of flowers and garlands trim.

And many a nymph, both of the wood and brook,

Soon as his oaten pipe began to shrill;

Both crystal wells and shady groves forsook,

To hear the charms of his enchanting skill:

And brought him presents; flowers, if it were prime:

Or mellow fruit, if it were harvest time.

But he for none of them did care a whit;

Yet wood-gods for them oft sighed sore:

Ne for their gifts unworthy of his wit,

Yet not unworthy of the country's store.

For One alone he cared, for One he sighed

His life's treasure, and his dear love's delight.

Stella the fair! the fairest star in sky:

As fair as Venus, or the fairest fair.

A fairer star saw never living eye,

Shot her sharp pointed beams through purest air.

Her, he did love; her, he alone he did honour;

His thoughts, his rhymes, his songs were all upon her.

To her, he vowed the service of his days;

On her, he spent the riches of his wit;

For her, he made hymns of immortal praise:

Of only her; he sang, he thought, he writ.

Her, and but her, of love he worthy deemed:

For all the rest, but little he esteemed.

Ne her with idle words alone he vowed,

And verses vain—yet verses are not vain:

But with brave deeds, to her sole service vowed;

And bold achievements, her did entertain.

For both in deeds and words he nurtured was.

Both wise and hardy—too hardy, alas!

In wrestling, nimble; and in running, swift;

In shooting, steady; and in swimming, strong:

Well made to strike, to throw, to leap, to lift,

And all the sports that shepherds are emong.

In every one, he vanquished every one,

He vanquished all, and vanquished was of none.

Besides, in hunting such felicity

Or rather infelicity, he found;

That every field and forest far away

He sought, where savage beasts do most abound.

No beast so savage, but he could it kill:

No chase so hard, but he therein had skill.

Such skill, matched with such courage as he had,

Did prick him forth with proud desire of praise;

To seek abroad, of danger nought y'drad,

His mistress' name and his own fame to raise.

What need, peril to be sought abroad?

Since round about us, it doth make abode.

It fortuned as he, that perilous game

In foreign soil pursued, far away;

Into a forest wide and waste, he came,

Where store he heard to be of savage prey.

So wide a forest and so waste as this,

Nor famous Ardenne, nor foul Arlo is.

There his well-woven toils and subtle trains

He laid, the brutish nation to enwrap:

So well he wrought with practice and with pains,

That he of them, great troops did soon entrap.

Full happy man! misweening much, was he;

So rich a spoil within his power to see.

Eftsoons, all heedless of his dearest hale,

Full greedily into the herd he thrust

To slaughter them and work their final bale,

Lest that his toil should of their troops be burst.

Wide wounds emongst them, many one he made;

Now with his sharp boar spear, now with his blade.

His care was all, how he them all might kill;

That none might 'scape, so partial unto none.

Ill mind! so much to mind another's ill,

As to become unmindful of his own.

But pardon that unto the cruel skies,

That from himself to them, withdrew his eyes.

So as he raged emongst that beastly rout;

A cruel beast of most accursèd brood,

Upon him turned—despair makes cowards stout;

And with fell tooth, accustomèd to blood,

Launched his thigh with so mischievous might,

That it both bone and muscle rivèd quite.

So deadly was the dint, and deep the wound,

And so huge streams of blood thereout did flow;

That he endurèd not the direful stound

But on the cold dear earth, himself did throw.

The whiles the captive herd his nets did rend,

And having none to let; to wood did wend.

Ah, where were ye this while, his shepherd peers?

To whom alive was nought so dear as he.

And ye fair maids, the matches of his years!

Which in his grace, did boast you most to be?

And where were ye, when he of you had need,

To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed?

Ah, wretched boy! the shape of drearihead!

And sad ensample of man's sudden end!

Full little faileth, but thou shalt be dead;

Unpitied, unplained of foe or friend:

Whilst none is nigh, thine eyelids up to close;

And kiss thy lips like faded leaves of rose.

A sort of shepherds suing of the chase,

As they the forest rangèd on a day;

By fate or fortune came unto the place,

Whereas the luckless boy yet bleeding lay.

Yet bleeding lay, and yet would still have bled,

Had not good hap those shepherds thither led.

They stopped his wound—too late to stop, it was,

And in their arms then softly did him rear:

Tho, as he willed, unto his lovèd lass,

His dearest love, him dolefully did bear.

The doleful'st bier that ever man did see

Was Astrophel, but dearest unto me.

She, when she saw her love in such a plight,

With curdled blood and filthy gore deformed;

That wont to be with flowers and garlands dight,

And her dear favours dearly well adorned.

Her face, the fairest face that eye might see,

She likewise did deform, like him to be.

Her yellow locks that shone so bright and long,

As sunny beams in fairest summer's day;

She fiercely tore: and with outrageous wrong,

From her red cheeks, the roses rent away.

And her fair breast, the treasury of joy;

She spoiled thereof, and fillèd with annoy.

His pallid face, impicturèd with death;

She bathèd oft with tears and drièd oft:

And with sweet kisses, sucked the wasting breath

Out of his lips, like lilies pale and soft.

And oft she called to him, who answered nought;

But only by his looks did tell his thought.

The rest of her impatient regret

And piteous moan, the which she for him made;

No tongue can tell, nor any forth can set:

But he whose heart, like sorrow did invade.

At last, when pain his vital powers had spent,

His wasted life her weary lodge forewent.

Which when she saw, she stayèd not a whit,

But after him, did make untimely haste:

Forthwith her ghost out of her corps did flit,

And followed her mate, like turtle chaste.

To prove that death, their hearts cannot divide;

Which living were in love so firmly tied.

The gods, which all things see, this same beheld.

And pitying this pair of lovers true;

Transformèd them, there lying on the field,

Into one flower that is both red and blue.

It first grows red, and then to blue doth fade;

Like Astrophel, which thereinto was made.

And in the midst thereof a star appears,

As fairly formed as any star in sky;

Resembling Stella in her freshest years,

Forth darting beams of beauty from her eyes:

And all the day it standeth full of dew,

Which is the tears that from her eyes did flow.

That herb of some, "Starlight" is called by name;

Of others Penthia, though not so well:

But thou wherever thou dost find the same,

From this day forth do call it Astrophel.

And whensoever thou it up dost take;

Do pluck it softly, for that shepherd's sake.

Hereof when tidings far abroad did pass,

The shepherds all which lovèd him full dear—

And sure, full dear of all he lovèd was—

Did thither flock to see what they did hear.

And when that piteous spectacle they viewed,

The same with bitter tears they all bedewed.

And every one did make exceeding moan,

With inward anguish and great grief opprest;

And every one did weep and wail and moan,

And means devised to show his sorrow best.

That from that hour since first on grassy green,

Shepherds kept sheep; was not like mourning seen.

But first his sister that Clorinda hight,

The gentlest shepherdess that lives this day;

And most resembling both in shape and sprite,

Her brother dear, began this doleful lay.

Which lest I mar the sweetness of the verse,

In sort as she it sung, I will rehearse.

---

Ye me! to whom shall I, my case complain,

That may compassion my impatient grief?

Or where shall I unfold my inward pain

That my enriven heart may find relief?

Shall I unto the heavenly powers it show,

Or unto earthly men that dwell below?"

"To heavens! Ah, they, alas, the authors were

And workers of my unremèdied woe;

For they foresee what to us happens here,

And they foresaw, yet suffered this be so.

From them comes good, from them comes also ill;

That which they made, who can them warn to spill?"

"To men! Ah, they, alas, like wretched be

And subject to the heaven's ordinance;

Bound to abide whatever they decree,

Their best redress, is their best sufferance.

How then can they, like wretched, comfort me?

The which no less, need comforted to be."

"Then to myself, will I my sorrow mourn,

Sith none alive like sorrowful remains;

And to myself, my plaints shall back return,

To pay their usury with doubled pains.

The woods, the hills, the rivers shall resound

The mournful accent of my sorrow's ground."

"Woods, hills and rivers now are desolate;

Sith he is gone the which them all did grace:

And all the fields do wail their widow-state;

Sith death, their fairest flower did late deface.

The fairest flower in field that ever grew,

Was Astrophel: that 'was,' we all may rue."

"What cruel hand of cursèd foe unknown,

Hath cropped the stalk which bore so fair a flower?

Untimely cropped, before it well were grown,

And clean defacèd in untimely hour.

Great loss to all that ever him see,

Great loss to all, but greatest loss to me."

"Break now your garlands, O ye shepherds' lasses!

Sith the fair flower, which them adorned, is gone:

The flower, which them adorned, is gone to ashes,

Never again let lass put garland on.

Instead of garland, wear sad cypress now;

And bitter elder, broken from the bough."

"Ne ever sing the love-lays which he made;

Whoever made such lays of love as he?

Ne ever read the riddles, which he said

Unto yourselves, to make you merry glee.

Your merry glee is now laid all abed,

Your merry-maker now, alas! is dead."

"Death! the devourer of all world's delight,

Hath robbèd you, and reft from me my joy;

Both you and me and all the world, he quite

Hath robbed of joyance; and left sad annoy.

Joy of the world! and shepherds' pride was he:

Shepherds hope never, like again to see."

"Oh, Death! that hast us of such riches reft,

Tell us at least, What hast thou with it done?

What is become of him, whose flower here left;

Is but the shadow of his likeness gone.

Scarce like the shadow of that which he was:

Nought like, but that he, like a shade, did pass."

"But that immortal spirit, which was deckt

With all the dowries of celestial grace;

By sovereign choice from th' heavenly quires select,

And lineally derived from angels' race:

O what is now of it become aread?

Aye me! can so divine a thing be dead?"

"Ah, no! It is not dead, nor can it die;

But lives for aye in blissful Paradise:

Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie

In bed of lilies, wrapped in tender wise:

And compassed all about with roses sweet,

And dainty violets from head to feet."

"There, thousand birds, all of celestial brood,

To him do sweetly carol day and night;

And with strange notes, of him well understood,

Lull him asleep in angelic delight:

Whilst in sweet dream, to him presented be

Immortal beauties, which no eye may see."

"But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure

Of their divine aspects, appearing plain;

And kindling love in him above all measure

Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain.

For what so goodly form he there doth see,

He may enjoy, from jealous rancour free."

"There liveth he in everlasting bliss,

Sweet spirit! never fearing more to die:

Ne dreading harm from any foes of his,

Ne fearing savage beast's more cruelty.

Whilst we here, wretches! wail his private lack;

And with vain vows do often call him back."

"But live thou there still happy, happy spirit!

And give us leave, thee here thus to lament:

Not thee, that dost thy heaven's joy inherit;

But our own selves, that here in dole are drent.

Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes,

Mourning in others, our own miseries."

---

Which when she ended had, another swain,

Of gentle wit and dainty sweet device;

Whom Astrophel full dear did entertain

Whilst here he lived, and held in passing price:

Hight Thestylis, began his mournful tourn,

And made the Muses in his song to mourn.

And after him, full many other moe,

As every one in order loved him best;

'Gan dight themselves t'express their inward woe

With doleful lays unto the tune addrest.

The which I here in order will rehearse,

As fittest flowers to deck his mournful hearse.

---

The mourning Muse of Thestylis.

Ome forth ye nymphs! come forth! forsake your watery bowers!

Forsake your mossy caves; and help me to lament.

Help me to tune my doleful notes to gurgling sound

Of Liffey's tumbling streams. Come let salt tears of ours,

Mix with his waters fresh. O come let one consent

Join us to mourn with wailful plaints the deadly wound

Which fatal clap hath made, decreed by higher powers;

The dreary day in which they have from us yrent

The noblest plant that might from East to West be found.

Mourn! mourn great Philip's fall! mourn we his woeful end,

Whom spiteful death hath plucked untimely from the tree;

While yet his years in flower did promise worthy fruit.

Ah, dreadful Mars! why didst thou not thy knight defend?

What wrathful mood, what fault of ours hath moved thee,

Of such a shining light to leave us destitute?

Thou with benign aspect sometime didst us behold.

Thou hast in Britons' valour ta'en delight of old,

And with thy presence oft vouchsafed to attribute

Fame and renown to us, for glorious martial deeds:

But now their ireful beams have chilled our hearts with cold.

Thou hast estranged thyself and deignest not our land:

Far off to others now, thy favour, honour breeds;

And high disdain doth cause thee shun our clime, I fear.

For hadst thou not been wroth, or that time near at hand;

Thou wouldst have heard the cry that woeful England made:

Eke Zealand's piteous plaints, and Holland's toren hair

Would haply have appeased thy divine angry mind.

Thou shouldst have seen the trees refuse to yield their shade

And wailing to let fall the honour of their head,

And birds in mournful tunes lamenting in their kind.

Up from his tomb, the mighty Corineus rose,

Who cursing oft the fates that this mishap had bred,

His hoary locks he tare, calling the heavens unkind.

The Thames was heard to roar, the Rhine, and eke the Meuse,

The Scheldt, the Danow self this great mischance did rue:

With torment and with grief, their fountains pure and clear

Were troubled; and with swelling floods declared their woes.

The Muses comfortless, the nymphs with pallid hue;

The sylvan gods likewise came running far and near;

And all, with hearts bedewed, and eyes cast up on high,

"O help! O help, ye gods!" they ghastly 'gan to cry,

"O change the cruel fate of this so rare a wight

And grant that nature's course may measure out his age!"

The beasts their food forsook, and trembling fearfully,

Each sought his cave or den. This cry did them so fright.

Out from amid the waves, by storm then stirred to rage,

This cry did cause to rise th'old father Ocean hoar,

Who grave with eld, and full of majesty in sight,

Spake in this wise, "Refrain," quoth he, "your tears and plaints!

Cease these your idle words! Make vain requests no more!

No humble speech nor moan may move the fixèd stint

Of destiny or death. Such is His will that paints

The earth with colours fresh, the darkest skies with store

Of starry lights: and though your tears a heart of flint

Might tender make; yet nought herein will they prevail."

Whiles thus he said, the noble Knight, who 'gan to feel

His vital force to faint, and death with cruel dint

Of direful dart his mortal body to assail:

With eyes lift up to heaven, and courage frank as steel;

With cheerful face where valour lively was exprest,

But humble mind, he said, "O LORD! if ought this frail

And earthly carcass have Thy service sought t'advance;

If my desire have been still to relieve th'opprest;

If Justice to maintain, that valour I have spent

Which Thou me gav'st; or if henceforth I might advance

Thy name, Thy truth: then spare me, LORD! if Thou think best;

Forbear these unripe years! But if Thy will be bent,

If that prefixèd time be come which Thou hast set:

Through pure and fervent faith, I hope now to be placed

In th'everlasting bliss; which with Thy precious blood

Thou purchase didst for us." With that a sigh he fet,

And straight a cloudy mist his senses overcast.

His lips waxed pale and wan, like damask rose's bud

Cast from the stalk; or like in field to purple flower

Which languisheth, being shred by culter as it past.

A trembling chilly cold ran through their veins, which were

With eyes brimful of tears to see his fatal hour:

Whose blustering sighs at first their sorrow did declare;

Next, murmuring ensued; at last they not forbear

Plain outcries; all against the heavens that enviously

Deprived us of a sprite so perfect and so rare.

The sun his lightsome beams did shroud, and hide his face

For grief; whereby the earth feared night eternally:

The mountains eachwhere shook, the rivers turned their streams;

And th'air 'gan winter-like to rage and fret apace:

And grisly ghosts by night were seen; and fiery gleams

Amid the clouds with claps of thunder, that did seem

To rent the skies; and made both man and beast afraid:

The birds of ill presage this luckless chance foretold

By dernful noise; and dogs with howling made man deem

Some mischief was at hand: for such they do esteem

As tokens of mishap; and so have done of old.

Ah, that thou hadst but heard his lovely Stella plain

Her grievous loss, or seen her heavy mourning cheer;

Whilst she, with woe oppressed, her sorrows did unfold.

Her hair hung loose neglect about her shoulders twain:

And from those two bright stars to him sometime so dear,

Her heart sent drops of pearl; which fell in foison down

'Twixt lily and the rose. She wrung her hands with pain

And piteously 'gan say, "My true and faithful pheer!

Alas, and woe is me! why should my fortune frown

On me thus frowardly to rob me of my joy?

What cruel envious hand hath taken thee away;

And with thee, my content, my comfort and my stay?

Thou only wast the ease of trouble and annoy:

When they did me assail, in thee my hopes did rest.

Alas, what now is left but grief that night and day

Afflicts this woeful life, and with continual rage

Torments ten thousand ways my miserable breast?

O greedy envious heaven! what needed thee to have

Enriched with such a jewel this unhappy age;

To take it back again so soon? Alas, when shall

Mine eyes see ought that may content them, since thy grave

My only treasure hides, the joy of my poor heart?

As here with thee on earth I lived, even so equal

Methinks it were, with thee in heaven I did abide:

And as our troubles all, we here on earth did part;

So reason would that there, of thy most happy state

I had my share. Alas, if thou my trusty guide

Were wont to be: how canst thou leave me thus alone

In darkness and astray; weak, weary, desolate,

Plunged in a world of woe—refusing for to take

Me with thee, to the place of rest where thou art gone?"

This said, she held her peace, for sorrow tied her tongue:

And instead of more words, seemed that her eyes a lake

Of tears had been, they flowed so plenteously therefrom:

And with her sobs and sighs th'air round about her rung.

If Venus when she wailed her dear Adonis slain,

Ought moved in thy fierce heart, compassion of her woe:

His noble sister's plaints, her sighs and tears emong;

Would sure have made thee mild, and inly rue her pain.

Aurora half so fair, herself did never show;

When from old Tithon's bed, she weeping did arise.

The blinded archer-boy, like lark in shower of rain,

Sat bathing of his wings, and glad the time did spend

Under those crystal drops which fell from her fair eyes;

And at their brightest beams him proined in lovely wise.

Yet sorry for her grief, which he could not amend;

The gentle boy 'gan wipe her eyes, and clear those lights:

Those lights through which his glory and his conquests shine.

The Graces tuckt her hair, which hung like threads of gold

Along her ivory breast, the treasure of delights.

All things with her to weep, it seemèd did incline;

The trees, the hills, the dales, the caves, the stones so cold.

The air did help them mourn, with dark clouds, rain and mist;

Forbearing many a day to clear itself again:

Which made them eftsoons fear the days of Pyrrha should

Of creatures spoil the earth, their fatal threads untwist.

For Phœbus' gladsome rays were wishèd for in vain,

And with her quivering light Latona's daughter fair;

And Charles' Wain eke refused to be the shipman's guide.

On Neptune, war was made by Æolus and his train.

Who letting loose the winds, tost and tormented th'air,

So that on every coast, men shipwreck did abide,

Or else were swallowed up in open sea with waves:

And such as came to shore were beaten with despair.

The Medway's silver streams that wont so still to slide,

Were troubled now and wroth; whose hidden hollow caves

Along his banks, with fog then shrouded from man's eye,

Aye "Philip" did resound, aye "Philip" they did cry.

His nymphs were seen no more, though custom still it craves,

With hair spread to the wind, themselves to bathe or sport;

Or with the hook or net, barefooted wantonly

The pleasant dainty fish to entangle or deceive.

The shepherds left their wonted places of resort,

Their bagpipes now were still, their lovely merry lays

Were quite forgot; and now their flocks, men might perceive

To wander and to stray, all carelessly neglect:

And in the stead of mirth and pleasure, nights and days

Nought else was to be heard, but woes, complaints and moan.

But thou, O blessèd soul! dost haply not respect

These tears we shed, though full of loving pure affect;

Having affixt thine eyes on that most glorious throne,

Where full of majesty, the high Creator reigns.

In whose bright shining face thy joys are all complete,

Whose love kindles thy sprite, where happy always one,

Thou liv'st in bliss that earthly passion never stains;

Where from the purest spring the sacred nectar sweet

Is thy continual drink: where thou dost gather now

Of well-employed life, th'estimable gains.

There Venus on thee smiles, Apollo gives thee place;

And Mars in reverent wise doth to thy virtue bow,

And decks his fiery sphere, to do thee honour most.

In highest part whereof, thy valour for to grace,

A chair of gold he sets to thee, and there doth tell

Thy noble acts arew; whereby even they that boast

Themselves of ancient fame, as Pyrrhus, Hannibal,

Scipio and Cæsar, with the rest that did excel

In martial prowess; high thy glory do admire.

All hail! therefore, O worthy Philip immortal!

The flower of Sidney's race, the honour of thy name.

Whose worthy praise to sing, my Muses not aspire.

But sorrowful and sad these tears to thee let fall:

Yet wish their verses might so far and wide thy fame

Extend, that Envy's rage nor time might end the same.

---

A pastoral Eclogue upon the death of Sir Philip Sidney, Knight, &c.

Lycon. Colin.

Lycon.

Olin! well fits thy sad cheer this sad stound,

This woeful stound, wherein all things complain

This great mishap, this grievous loss of ours.

Hear'st thou the Orown? How with hollow sound

He slides away, and murmuring doth plain,

And seems to say unto the fading flowers

Along his banks, unto the barèd trees;

Phillisides is dead. Up, jolly swain!

Thou that with skill canst tune a doleful lay;

Help him to mourn! My heart with grief doth freeze;

Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part

Sure would I bear, though rude: but as I may,

With sobs and sighs I second will thy song;

And so express the sorrows of my heart.

Colin. Ah Lycon! Lycon! what need skill to teach

A grievèd mind pour forth his plaints? How long

Hath the poor turtle gone to school, weenest thou,

To learn to mourn her lost make? No, no, each

Creature by nature can tell how to wail.

Seest not these flocks; how sad they wander now?

Seemeth their leader's bell, their bleating tunes

In doleful sound. Like him, not one doth fail,

With hanging head to show a heavy cheer.

What bird, I pray thee, hast thou seen that prunes

Himself of late? Did any cheerful note

Come to thine ears, or gladsome sight appear

Unto thine eyes, since that same fatal hour?

Hath not the air put on his mourning coat,

And testified his grief with flowing tears?

Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his power,

Doth us invite to make a sad consort:

Come let us join our mournful song with theirs!

Grief will indite, and sorrow will enforce

Thy voice; and Echo will our words report.

Lycon. Though my rude rhymes, ill with thy verses frame,

That others far excel: yet will I force

Myself to answer thee the best I can;

And honour my base words with his high name.

But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit

In secret shade or cave; vouchsafe, O Pan!

To pardon me; and hear this hard constraint

With patience, while I sing; and pity it.

And eke ye rural Muses, that do dwell

In these wild woods: if ever piteous plaint

We did indite, or taught a woeful mind

With words of pure affect, his grief to tell;

Instruct me now! Now Colin then go on;

And I will follow thee, though far behind.

Colin. Phillisides is dead! O harmful death!

O deadly harm! Unhappy Albion!

When shalt thou see emong thy shepherds all

Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath

Envy could touch for virtuous life and skill:

Courteous, valiant, and liberal.

Behold the sacred Pales! where with hair

Untrusst, she sits in shade of yonder hill;

And her fair face bent sadly down, doth send

A flood of tears to bathe the earth: and there

Doth call the heavens despiteful, envious;

Cruel his fate, that made so short an end

Of that same life, well worthy to have been

Prolonged with many years, happy and famous.

The Nymphs and Oreades her round about

Do sit lamenting on the grassy green;

And with shrill cries, beating their whitest breasts,

Accuse the direful dart that Death sent out

To give the fatal stroke. The stars they blame;

That deaf or careless seem at their request.

The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun.

They leave their crystal springs, where they wont frame

Sweet bowers of myrtle twigs and laurel fair;

To sport themselves free from the scorching sun.

And now the hollow caves, where Horror dark

Doth dwell, whence banished is the gladsome air

They seek; and there in mourning spend their time

With wailful tunes; whiles wolves do howl and bark,

And seem to bear a bourdon to their plaint.

Lycon. Phillisides is dead! O doleful rhyme!

Why should my tongue express thee? Who is left

Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint;

Lycon unfortunate? What spiteful fate?

What luckless destiny hath thee bereft

Of thy chief comfort, of thy only stay?

Where is become thy wonted happy state?

Alas, wherein through many a hill and dale,

Through pleasant woods, and many an unknown way,

Along the banks of many silver streams,

Thou with him yodest; and with him did scale

The craggy rocks of th'Alps and Appennine?

Still with the Muses sporting, while those beams

Of virtue kindled in his noble breast;

Which after did so gloriously forth shine?

But, woe is me, they now yquenched are

All suddenly, and death hath them oppressed,

Lo, father Neptune! with sad countenance,

How he sits mourning on the strond now bare

Yonder; where th'Ocean with his rolling waves

The white feet washeth, wailing this mischance,

Of Dover cliffs. His sacred skirt about

The sea gods all are set; from their moist caves,

All for his comfort gathered there they be.

The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout,

The fruitful Severn, with the rest; are come

To help their lord to mourn, and eke to see

The doleful sight, and sad pomp funeral

Of the dead corps passing through his kingdom;

And all their heads with cypress garlands crowned:

With woeful shrieks salute him, great and small.

Eke wailful Echo, forgetting her dear

Narcissus, their last accents doth resound.

Colin. Phillisides is dead! O luckless age!

O widow world! O brooks and fountains clear!

O hills! O dales! O woods that oft have rung

With his sweet carolling, which could assuage

The fiercest wrath of tiger or of bear!

Ye sylvans, fawns and satyrs, that emong

These thickets oft have danced after his pipe!

Ye Nymphs and Naiads with golden hair

That oft have left your purest crystal springs

To hearken to his lays, that coulden wipe

Away all grief and sorrow from your hearts!

Alas! who now is left that like him sings?

When shall you hear again like harmony?

So sweet a sound, who to you now imparts?

Lo where engravèd by his hand yet lives

The name of Stella in yonder bay tree.

Happy name! happy tree! Fair may you grow

And spread your sacred branch, which honour gives,

To famous emperors; and poets crown.

Unhappy flock! that wander scattered now.

What marvel if through grief, ye woxen lean,

Forsake your food, and hang your heads adown?

For such a shepherd never shall you guide;

Whose parting, hath of weal bereft you clean.

Lycon. Phillisides is dead! O happy sprite!

That now in heaven with blessèd souls dost bide.

Look down awhile from where thou sitt'st above,

And see how busy shepherds be to indite

Sad songs of grief, their sorrows to declare;

And grateful memory of their kind love.

Behold myself with Colin gentle swain,

Whose learned Muse thou cherisht most whilere,

Where we thy name recording, seek to ease

The inward torment and tormenting pain

That thy departure to us both hath bred;

Ne can each other's sorrow yet appease.

Behold the fountains now left desolate,

And withered grass with cypress boughs bespread!

Behold these flowers which on thy grave we strew!

Which faded, show the givers' faded state;

(Though eke they show their fervent zeal and pure)

Whose only comfort on thy welfare grew.

Whose prayers importune shall the heavens for aye,

That to thy ashes, rest they may assure;

That learnedst shepherds honour may thy name

With yearly praises; and the nymphs alway,

Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowers;

And that for ever may endure thy fame.

Colin. The sun, lo, hastened hath his face to steep

In western waves, and th'air with stormy showers,

Warns us to drive homewards our silly sheep.

Lycon! let's rise, and take of them good keep.

Virtute summa; cætera fortuna.

L. B.

---

An Elegy, or Friend's Passion
for his Astrophil.

Written upon the death of the Right
Honourable Sir Philip Sidney,
Knight, Lord Governor
of Flushing.

S then, no wind at all there blew,

No swelling cloud accloyed the air,

The sky, like grass of watchet hue,

Reflected Phœbus' golden hair;

The garnished tree no pendant stirred,

No voice was heard of any bird.

There might you see the burly bear,

The lion king, the elephant.

The maiden unicorn was there,

So was Actæon's horned plant:

And what of wild or tame are found,

Were couched in order on the ground.

Alcides' speckled poplar tree;

The palm that monarchs do obtain;

With love juice stained, the mulberry,

The fruit that dews the poet's brain;

And Phillis' filbert there away

Compared with myrtle and the bay:

The tree that coffins doth adorn,

With stately height threat'ning the sky,

And for the bed of love forlorn,

The black and doleful ebony:

All in a circle compassed were

Like to an amphitheatre.

Upon the branches of those trees,

The air-winged people sat,

Distinguishèd in odd degrees;

One sort is this, another that.

Here Philomel that knows full well

What force and wit in love doth dwell.

The sky-bred eagle, royal bird,

Perched there upon an oak above;

The turtle by him never stirred,

Example of immortal love.

The swan that sings about to die;

Leaving Meander, stood thereby.

And that which was of wonder most,

The Phœnix left sweet Araby;

And on a cedar in this coast,

Built up her tomb of spicery.

As I conjecture by the same,

Prepared to take her dying flame.

In midst and centre of this plot,

I saw one grovelling on the grass;

A man or stone, I knew not what.

No stone; of man, the figure was.

And yet I could not count him one,

More than the image made of stone.

At length I might perceive him rear

His body on his elbows' end:

Earthly and pale with ghastly cheer,

Upon his knees he upward tend;

Seeming like one in uncouth stound,

To be ascending out the ground.

A grievous sigh forthwith he throws,

As might have torn the vital strings;

Then down his cheeks the tears so flows

As doth the stream of many springs.

So thunder rends the cloud in twain,

And makes a passage for the rain.

Incontinent with trembling sound,

He woefully 'gan to complain;

Such were the accents as might wound,

And tear a diamond rock in twain.

After his throbs did somewhat stay,

Thus heavily he 'gan to say.

"O sun!" said he, seeing the sun,

"On wretched me, why dost thou shine?

My star is fallen, my comfort done;

Out is the apple of my eyen.

Shine upon those possess delight,

And let me live in endless night!"

"O grief! that liest upon my soul,

As heavy as a mount of lead;

The remnant of my life control,

Consort me quickly with the dead!

Half of this heart, this sprite and will,

Died in the breast of Astrophil."

"And you compassionate of my woe,

Gentle birds, beasts, and shady trees!

I am assured ye long to know

What be the sorrows me aggrieves;

Listen ye then to what ensu'th,

And hear a tale of tears and ruth."

"You knew, who knew not Astrophil?

(That I should live to say I knew,

And have not in possession still!)

Things known, permit me to renew:

Of him you know, his merit such,

I cannot say, you hear too much."

"Within these woods of Arcady,

His chief delight and pleasure took:

And on the mountain Partheny,

Upon the crystal liquid brook,

The Muses met him every day;

That taught him sing, to write, and say."

"When he descended down the mount,

His personage seemed most divine;

A thousand graces one might count

Upon his lovely cheerful eyen:

To hear him speak, and sweetly smile;

You were in Paradise the while."

"A sweet attractive kind of grace;

A full assurance given by looks;

Continual comfort in a face,

The lineaments of Gospel books.

I trow that countenance cannot lie,

Whose thoughts are legible in the eye."

"Was ever eye did see that face;

Was never ear did hear that tongue;

Was never mind did mind his grace;

That ever thought the travail long:

But eyes and ears and every thought,

Were with his sweet perfections caught."

"O GOD! that such a worthy man,

In whom so rare deserts did reign;

Desired thus, must leave us then:

And we to wish for him in vain.

O could the stars that bred that wit,

In force no longer fixèd sit."

"Then being filled with learned dew,

The Muses willèd him to love:

That instrument can aptly show,

How finely our conceits will move.

As Bacchus opes dissembled hearts,

So Love sets out our better parts."

"Stella, a nymph within this wood,

Most rare, and rich of heavenly bliss;

The highest in his fancy stood,

And she could well demerit this.

'Tis likely, they acquainted soon:

He was a sun, and she a moon."

"Our Astrophil did Stella love.

O Stella! vaunt of Astrophil!

Albeit thy graces gods may move;

Where wilt thou find an Astrophil?

The rose and lily have their prime;

And so hath beauty but a time,"

"Although thy beauty do exceed

In common sight of every eye;

Yet in his poesies when we read,

It is apparent more thereby.

He that hath love and judgment too,

Sees more than any others do."

"Then Astrophil hath honoured thee.

For when thy body is extinct,

Thy graces shall eternal be.

And live by virtue of his ink.

For by his verses he doth give

To shortlived beauty aye to live."

"Above all others this is he,

Which erst approvèd in his song

That love and honour might agree,

And that pure love will do no wrong.

Sweet saints! it is no sin nor blame

To love a man of virtuous name."

"Did never love so sweetly breathe

In any mortal breast before?

Did never Muse inspire beneath,

A poet's brain with finer store?

He wrote of love with high conceit;

And beauty reared above her height."

"Then Pallas afterward attired

Our Astrophil with her device,

Whom in his armour heaven admired,

As of the nation of the skies:

He sparkled in his arms afar,

As he were dight with fiery stars."

"The blaze whereof, when Mars beheld

(An envious eye doth see afar)

'Such majesty,' quoth he, 'is seld.

Such majesty, my mart may mar.

Perhaps this may a suitor be

To set Mars by his deity.'"

"In this surmise, he made with speed

An iron can, wherein he put

The thunders that in clouds do breed;

The flame and bolt together shut,

With privy force burst out again;

And so our Astrophil was slain."

His word, "was slain," straightway did move,

And Nature's inward life-strings twitch,

The sky immediately above,

Was dimmed with hideous clouds of pitch.

The wrastling winds, from out the ground

Filled all the air with rattling sound.

The bending trees expressed a groan,

And sighed the sorrow of his fall;

The forest beasts made ruthful moan;

The birds did tune their mourning call,

And Philomel for Astrophil,

Unto her notes, annexed a "phil."

The turtle dove with tones of ruth,

Showed feeling passion of his death;

Methought she said "I tell thee truth,

Was never he that drew in breath,

Unto his love more trusty found,

Than he for whom our griefs abound."

The swan that was in presence here,

Began his funeral dirge to sing;

"Good things," quoth he, "may scarce appear;

But pass away with speedy wing.

This mortal life as death is tried,

And death gives life, and so he died."

The general sorrow that was made

Among the creatures of kind,

Fired the Phœnix where she laid,

Her ashes flying with the wind.

So as I might with reason see

That such a Phœnix ne'er should be.

Haply, the cinders driven about,

May breed an offspring near that kind;

But hardly a peer to that, I doubt:

It cannot sink into my mind

That under branches e'er can be,

Of worth and value as the tree.

The eagle marked with piercing sight

The mournful habit of the place;

And parted thence with mounting flight,

To signify to Jove the case:

What sorrow Nature doth sustain,

For Astrophil, by Envy slain.

And while I followed with mine eye

The flight the eagle upward took;

All things did vanish by and by,

And disappearèd from my look.

The trees, beasts, birds and grove were gone:

So was the friend that made this moan.

This spectacle had firmly wrought

A deep compassion in my sprite;

My molten heart issued, methought,

In streams forth at mine eyes aright:

And here my pen is forced to shrink;

My tears discolour so mine ink.

---

---

An Epitaph upon the Right Honourable
Sir Philip Sidney, Knight, Lord
Governor of Flushing.

O praise thy life or wail thy worthy death;

And want thy wit, thy wit pure, high, divine:

Is far beyond the power of mortal line,

Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.

Yet rich in zeal, though poor in learning's lore;

And friendly care obscured in secret breast,

And love that envy in thy life supprest,

Thy dear life done, and death hath doubled more.

And I, that in thy time and living state,

Did only praise thy virtues in my thought;

As one that seld the rising sun hath sought:

With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate.

Drawn was thy race aright from princely line,

Nor less than such (by gifts that Nature gave,

The common mother that all creatures have)

Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine.

A King gave thee thy name; a kingly mind

That GOD thee gave: who found it now too dear

For this base world; and hath resumed it near,

To sit in skies, and 'sort with powers divine.

Kent, thy birthdays; and Oxford held thy youth.

The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time;

The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime:

Thy will, thy words; thy words, the seals of truth.

Great gifts and wisdom rare employed thee thence,

To treat from kings, with those more great than kings.

Such hope men had to lay the highest things

On thy wise youth, to be transported thence.

Whence to sharp wars, sweet Honour did thee call,

Thy country's love, religion, and thy friends:

Of worthy men, the marks, the lives and ends;

And her defence, for whom we labour all.

These didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,

Grief, sorrow, sickness and base fortune's might.

Thy rising day saw never woeful night,

But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the camp, by thee that day was brought

First, thine own death; and after, thy long fame;

Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilians' shame;

Virtue expressed; and honour truly taught.

What hath he lost? that such great grace hath won.

Young years, for endless years; and hope unsure

Of fortune's gifts, for wealth that still shall 'dure.

O happy race! with so great praises run.

England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same;

Flanders, thy valour: where it last was tried.

The camp, thy sorrow; where thy body died.

Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy virtue's fame.

Nations, thy wit; our minds lay up thy love.

Letters, thy learning; thy loss, years long to come.

In worthy hearts, sorrow hath made thy tomb;

Thy soul and sprite enrich the heavens above.

Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears,

Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs bewail thy fall.

Envy, her sting; and Spite, hath left her gall.

Malice herself, a mourning garment wears.

That day their Hannibal died, our Scipio fell:

Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time:

Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme,

Let angels speak; and heaven, thy praises tell.

---

Another of the same.

Ilence augmenteth grief! writing increaseth rage!

Stald are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age.

Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,

Enraged I write, I know not what. Dead, quick, I know not how.

Hard-hearted minds relent, and Rigour's tears abound,

And Envy strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found;

Knowledge her light hath lost; Valour hath slain her Knight:

Sidney is dead! Dead is my friend! Dead is the world's delight.

Place pensive wails his fall, whose presence was her pride.

Time crieth out "my ebb is come; his life was my springtide."

Fame mourns in that she lost the ground of her reports.

Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts.

He was (woe worth that word!) to each well-thinking mind,

A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined:

Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ;

Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.

He only like himself, was second unto none,

Whose death (though life) we rue, and wrong, and all in vain do moan.

Their loss, not him; wail they, that fill the world with cries.

Death slew not him; but he made death his ladder to the skies.

Now sink of sorrow I, who live, the more the wrong,

Who wishing death, whom death denies, whose thread is all too long;

Who tied to wretched life, who looks for no relief,

Must spend my ever-dying days in never-ending grief.

Heartsease and only I like parallels run on,

Whose equal length keep equal breadth, and never meet in one:

Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrows' cell,

Shall not run out; though leak they will, for liking him so well.

Farewell to you! my hopes, my wonted waking dreams.

Farewell sometimes enjoyèd joy! Eclipsèd are thy beams.

Farewell self-pleasing thoughts! which quietness brings forth.

And farewell friendship's sacred league! uniting minds of worth.

And farewell, merry heart! the gift of guiltless minds;

And all sports! which for life's restore, variety assigns.

Let all that sweet is, void! In me no mirth may dwell.

Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life's content, farewell!

Now rhyme, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill;

And endless grief which deads my life, yet knows not how to kill:

Go, seek that hapless tomb! which if ye hap to find;

Salute the stones that keep the limbs that held so good a mind.

FINIS.

---

ALCILIA:
PHILOPARTHEN's
Loving Folly.

Non Deus (ut perhibent) amor est, sed
amaror, et error.

AT LONDON.

Printed by R. R. for William Mattes,
dwelling in Fleet street, at the sign of the
Hand and Plough.
1595.

---

[The only copy of the 1595 edition, at present known, is in the City Library, at Hamburg.

It was recovered, and reprinted in 1875 by Herr Wilhelm Wagner, Ph.D., in Vol. X. of the Deutschen Shakespeare-Gesellschaft Jahrbuch; copies of this particular text being also separately printed.

A limited Subscription edition, of fifty-one copies, was printed by Rev. A. B. Grosart, LL.D., F.S.A., of Blackburn, in 1879: with a fresh collation of the text by B. S. Leeson, Esq., of Hamburg.

The present modernized text is based on a comparison of the above two reprints of the 1595 edition with the text of the London edition of 1613 in which some headings therein inserted between [ ], on pp. 256, 276, 278) first occur.]

---

A Letter written by a Gentleman to the Author, his friend.

Friend Philoparthen,

N perusing your Loving Folly, and your Declining from it; I do behold Reason conquering Passion. The infirmity of loving argueth you are a man; the firmness thereof, discovereth a good wit and the best nature: and the falling from it, true virtue. Beauty was always of force to mislead the wisest; and men of greatest perfection have had no power to resist Love. The best are accompanied with vices, to exercise their virtues; whose glory shineth brightest in resisting motives of pleasure, and in subduing affections. And though I cannot altogether excuse your Loving Folly; yet I do the less blame you, in that you loved such a one as was more to be commended for her virtue, than beauty: albeit even for that too, she was so well accomplished with the gifts of Nature as in mine conceit (which, for good cause, I must submit as inferior to yours) there was nothing wanting, either in the one or the other, that might add more to her worth, except it were a more due and better regard of your love; which she requited not according to your deserts, nor answerable to herself in her other parts of perfection. Yet herein it appeareth you have made good use of Reason; that being heretofore lost in youthful vanity, have now, by timely discretion, found yourself!

Let me entreat you to suffer these your Passionate Sonnets to be published! which may, peradventure, make others, possessed with the like Humour of Loving, to follow your example, in leaving; and move other Alcilias (if there be any) to embrace deserving love, while they may!

Hereby, also, she shall know, and, it may be, inwardly repent the loss of your love, and see how much her perfections are blemished by ingratitude; which will make your happiness greater by adding to your reputation, than your contentment could have been in enjoying her love. At the least wise, the wiser sort, however in censuring them, they may dislike of your errors; yet they cannot but commend and allow of your reformation: and all others that shall with indifferency read them, may reap thereby some benefit, or contentment.

Thus much I have written as a testimony of the good will I bear you! with whom I do suffer or rejoice according to the quality of your misfortune or good hap. And so I take my leave; resting, as always,

Yours most assured,
Philaretes.

---

Author ipse φιλοπάρθενος ad
libellum suum.

arve liber Domini vanos dicture labores,

Insomnes noctes, sollicitosque dies,

Errores varios, languentis tædia vitæ,

Mærores certos, gaudia certa minus,

Peruigiles curas, suspiria, vota, querelas,

Et quæcunque pati dura coegit amor.

I precor intrepidus, duram comiterque salutans

Hæc me ejus causa sustinuisse refer.

Te grato excipiet vultu rubicundula, nomen

Cum titulo inscriptum viderit esse suum.

Forsitan et nostri miserebitur illa doloris,

Dicet et, ah quantum deseruisse dolet:

Seque nimis sœvam, crudelemque ipsa vocabit,

Cui non est fidei debita cura meæ;

Quod siquidem eveniet, Domino solaminis illud,

Et tibi supremi muneris instar erit.

Si quis (ut est æquum) fatuos damnaverit ignes,

Pigritiæ fructus ingeniique levis:

Tu Dominum cæcis tenebris errasse, sed ipsum

Erroris tandem pænituisse sui,

Me quoque re vera nec tot, nec tanta tulisse,

Sed ficta ad placitum multa fuisse refer.

Ab quanto satius (nisi mens mihi vana) fuisset

Ista meo penitus delituisse sinu:

Quam levia in lucem prodire, aut luce carentis

Insanam Domini prodere stultitiam.

Nil amor est aliud, quam mentis morbus et error

Nil sapienter agit, nil bene, quisquis amat.

Sed non cuique datur sapere, aut melioribus uti,

Forte erit alterius, qui meus error erat.

Cautior incedit, qui nunquam labitur, atqui

Jam proprio evadam cautior ipse malo.

Si cui delicto gravior mea pœna videtur;

Illius in laudes officiosus eris.

Te si quis simili qui carpitur igne videbit,

Ille suam sortem flebit, et ille meam.

Alciliæ obsequium supplex præstare memento,

Non minima officii pars erit illa tui.

Te fortasse sua secura recondet in arca,

Et Solis posthæc luminis orbus eris.

Nil referet, fateor me non prudenter amasse;

Ultima deceptæ sors erit illa spei.

Bis proprio Phœbus cursu lustraverat orbem,

Conscius erroris, stultitiœque meæ,

A quo primus amor cœpit penetrare medullas,

Et falsa accensos nutriit arte focos.

Desino jam nugas amplecti, seria posthæc

(Ut Ratio monet) ac utiliora sequor.

---

Amoris Præludium.

[Vel, Epistola ad Amicam.]

O thee, Alcilia! solace of my youth!

These rude and scattered rhymes I have addressed!

The certain Witness of my Love and Truth,

That truly cannot be in words expressed:

Which, if I shall perceive thou tak'st in gree,

I will, from henceforth, write of none but thee!

Here may you find the wounds yourself have made!

The many sorrows, I have long sustained!

Here may you see that Love must be obeyed!

How much I hoped, how little I have gained!

That as for you, the pains have been endured;

Even so by you, they may, at length, be cured!

I will not call for aid to any Muse

(It is for learned Poets so to do):

Affection must, my want of Art excuse,

My works must have their patronage from You!

Whose sweet assistance, if obtain I might!

I should be able both to speak and write

Nemini datur amare simul et sapere.

Meanwhile, vouchsafe to read this, as assigned

To no man's censure; but to yours alone!

Pardon the faults, that you therein shall find;

And think the writer's heart was not his own!

Experience of examples daily prove

"That no man can be well advised, and love!"

And though the work itself deserve it not

(Such is your Worth, with my great Wants compared!);

Yet may my love unfeignèd, without spot,

Challenge so much (if more cannot be spared!).

Then, lovely Virgin! take this in good part!

The rest, unseen, is sealed up in the heart.

Judge not by this, the depth of my affection!

Which far exceeds the measure of my skill;

But rather note herein your own perfection!

So shall appear my want of Art, not will:

Wherefore, this now, as part in lieu of greater,

I offer as an insufficient debtor!

---

Sic incipit Stultorum Tragicomedia.

T was my chance, unhappy chance to me!

As, all alone, I wandered on my way;

Void of distrust, from doubt of dangers free,

To pass a grove where Love in ambush lay:

Who aiming at me with his feathered dart,

Conveyed it by mine eye unto my heart.

Where, retchless boy! he let the arrow stick,

When I, as one amazèd, senseless stood.

The hurt was great, yet seemèd but a prick!

The wound was deep, and yet appeared no blood!

But inwardly it bleeds. Proof teacheth this.

When wounds do so, the danger greater is.

Pausing a while, and grievèd with my wound,

I looked about, expecting some relief:

Small hope of help, no ease of pain I found.

Like, all at once, to perish in my grief:

When hastily, I pluckèd forth the dart;

But left the head fast fixèd in my heart.

Fast fixèd in my heart, I left the head,

From whence I doubt it will not be removed.

Ah, what unlucky chance that way me led?

O Love! thy force thou might'st elsewhere have proved!

And shewed thy power, where thou art not obeyed!

"The conquest's small, where no resist is made."

But nought, alas, avails it to complain;

I rest resolved, with patience to endure.

The fire being once dispersed through every vein,

It is too late to hope for present cure.

Now Philoparthen must new follies prove,

And learn a little, what it is to love!

---

These Sonnets following were written by the Author (who

giveth himself this feigned name of Philoparthen as his

accidental attribute), at divers times, and upon divers

occasions; and therefore in the form and matter

they differ, and sometimes are quite contrary

one to another: which ought not to be

misliked, considering the very nature

and quality of Love; which is

a Passion full of variety,

and contrariety

in itself.

I.

Ut vidi, ut perii, ut me malus abstulit error.

Nhappy Eyes! that first my heart betrayed,

Had you not seen, my grief had not been such!

And yet, how may I, justly, you upbraid!

Since what I saw delighted me so much?

But hence, alas, proceedeth all my smart:

Unhappy Eyes! that first betrayed my heart!

II.

To seek adventures, as Fate hath assigned,

My slender Bark now floats upon the main;

Each troubled thought, an Oar; each sigh, a Wind,

Whose often puffs have rent my Sails in twain.

Love steers the Boat, which (for that sight, he lacks)

Is still in danger of ten thousand wracks.

III.

What sudden chance hath changed my wonted cheer,

Which makes me other than I seem to be?

My days of joy, that once were bright and clear,

Are turned to nights! my mirth, to misery!

Ah, well I ween that somewhat is amiss;

But, sooth to say, I know not what it is!

IV.

What, am I dead? Then could I feel no smart!

But still in me the sense of grief reviveth.

Am I alive? Ah, no! I have no heart;

For she that hath it, me of life depriveth.

O that she would restore my heart again;

Or give me hers, to countervail my pain!

V.

If it be Love, to waste long hours in grief;

If it be Love, to wish, and not obtain;

If it be Love, to pine without relief;

If it be Love, to hope and never gain;

Then may you think that he hath truly loved,

Who, for your sake! all this and more, hath proved!

VI.

If that, in ought, mine eyes have done amiss;

Let them receive deserved punishment!

For so the perfect rule of Justice is,

Each for his own deeds, should be praised, or shent.

Then, doubtless, is it both 'gainst Law and Sense,

My Heart should suffer for mine Eyes' offence.

VII.

I am not sick, and yet I am not sound;

I eat and sleep, and yet, methinks, I thrive not.

I sport and laugh, and yet my griefs abound;

I am not dead, and yet, methinks, I live not.

"What uncouth cause hath these strange passions bred,

To make at once, sick, sound, alive, and dead?"

VIII.

Something I want; but what, I cannot say.

O, now I know! It is myself I want!

My Love, with her, hath ta'en my heart away;

Yea, heart and all, and left me very scant.

"Such power hath Love, and nought but Love alone,

To make divided creatures live in one."

IX.

Philoparthen. "Come, gentle Death! and strike me with thy dart!

Life is but loathsome to a man opprest."

Death. "How can I kill thee! when thou hast no heart?

That which thou hadst, is in another's breast!"

Philoparthen. "Then, must I live, and languish still in pain?"

Death. "Yea, till thy Love restore thy heart again!"

X.

Were Love a Fire, my tears might quench it lightly;

Or were it Water, my hot heart might dry it.

If Air, then might it pass away more slightly;

Or were it Earth, the world might soon descry it.

If Fire nor Water, Air nor Earth it be;

What then is it, that thus tormenteth me?

XI.

To paint her outward shape and gifts of mind,

It doth exceed my wit and cunning far.

She hath no fault, but that she is unkind.

All other parts in her so complete are,

That who, to view them throughly would devise,

Must have his body nothing else but eyes.

XII.

Fair is my Love! whose parts are so well framed,

By Nature's special order and direction;

That She herself is more than half ashamed,

In having made a work of such perfection.

And well may Nature blush at such a feature;

Seeing herself excelled in her creature.

XIII.

Her body is straight, slender, and upright;

Her visage comely, and her looks demure

Mixt with a cheerful grace that yields delight;

Her eyes, like stars, bright, shining, clear and pure:

Which I describing, Love bids stay my pen,

And says, "It's not a work for mortal men!"

XIV.

The ancient poets write of Graces three,

Which meeting all together in one creature,

In all points, perfect make the Frame to be;

For inward virtues, and for outward feature

But smile, Alcilia! and the world shall see

That in thine eyes, a hundred Graces be!

XV.

As Love had drawn his bow, ready to shoot,

Aiming at me, with resolute intent;

Straight, bow and shaft he cast down at his foot,

And said, "Why, needless, should one shaft be spent?

I'll spare it then, and now it shall suffice

Instead of shafts, to use Alcilia's eyes."

XVI.

Blush not, my Love! for fear lest Phœbus spy!

Which if he do, then, doubtless, he will say,

"Thou seek'st to dim his clearness with thine eye!"

That clearness, which, from East, brings gladsome day:

But most of all, lest Jove should see, I dread;

And take thee up to heaven like Ganymede.

XVII.

Philoparthen. "What is the cause Alcilia is displeased?"

Love."Because she wants that which should most content her."

Philoparathen. "O did I know it, soon should she be eased!"

Love."Perhaps, thou dost! and that doth most torment her."

Philoparthen. "Yet, let her ask! what she desires to have."

Love."Guess, by thyself! For maidens must not crave!"

XVIII.

My Love, by chance, her tender finger pricked;

As, in the dark, I strivèd for a kiss:

Whose blood, I seeing, offered to have licked,

But half in anger, she refusèd this.

O that she knew the difference of the smart

'Twixt her pricked finger, and my piercèd heart!

XIX.

Philoparthen. "I pray thee, tell! What makes my heart to tremble,

When, on a sudden, I, Alcilia spy?"

Love."Because thy heart cannot thy joy dissemble!

Thy life and death are both lodged in her eye."

Philoparthen. "Dost thou not her, with self-same passion strike?"

Love."O, no! Her heart and thine are not alike."

XX.

Such are thy parts of body and of mind;

That if I should not love thee as I do,

I should too much degenerate from Kind,

And think the world would blame my weakness too.

For he, whom such perfections cannot move,

Is either senseless, or not born to love.

XXI.

Alcilia's eyes have set my heart on fire,

The pleasing object that my pain doth feed:

Yet still to see those eyes I do desire,

As if my help should from my hurt proceed.

Happy were I, might there in her be found

A will to heal, as there was power to wound.

XXII.

Unwise was he, that painted Love a boy;

Who, for his strength, a giant should have been.

It's strange a child should work so great annoy;

Yet howsoever strange, too truly seen.

"But what is he? that dares at Love repine;

Whose works are wonders, and himself divine!"

XXIII.

My fair Alcilia! gladly would I know it,

If ever Loving Passion pierced thy heart?

O, no! For, then, thy kindness soon would show it!

And of my pains, thyself wouldst bear some part.

Full little knoweth he that hath not proved,

What hell it is to love, and not be loved.

XXIV.

Love! Art thou blind? Nay, thou canst see too well!

And they are blind that so report of thee!

That thou dost see, myself by proof can tell;

(A hapless proof thereof is made by me);

For sure I am, hadst thou not had thy sight,

Thou never couldst have hit my heart so right.

XXV.

Long have I languished, and endured much smart

Since hapless I, the Cruel Fair did love;

And lodged her in the centre of my heart.

Who, there abiding, Reason should her move.

Though of my pains she no compassion take;

Yet to respect me, for her own sweet sake.

XXVI.

In midst of winter season, as the snow,

Whose milk white mantle overspreads the ground;

In part, the colour of my love is so.

Yet their effects, I have contrary found:

For when the sun appears, snow melts anon;

But I melt always when my sun is gone.

XXVII.

The sweet content, at first, I seemed to prove

(While yet Desire unfledged, could scarcely fly),

Did make me think there was no life to Love;

Till all too late, Time taught the contrary.

For, like a fly, I sported with the flame;

Till, like a fool, I perished in the same.

XXVIII.

After dark night, the cheerful day appeareth;

After an ebb, the river flows again;

After a storm, the cloudy heaven cleareth:

All labours have their end, or ease of pain.

Each creature hath relief and rest, save I,

Who only dying, live; and living, die!

XXIX.

Sometimes I seek for company to sport,

Whereby I might my pensive thoughts beguile;

Sometimes, again, I hide me from resort,

And muse alone: but yet, alas, the while

In changing place, I cannot change my mind;

For wheresoe'er I fly, myself I find.

XXX.

Fain would I speak, but straight my heart doth tremble,

And checks my tongue that should my griefs reveal:

And so I strive my Passions to dissemble,

Which all the art I have, cannot conceal.

Meritum petere grave.

Thus standing mute, my heart with longing starveth!

"It grieves a man to ask, what he deserveth."

XXXI.

Since you desire of me the cause to know,

For which these divers Passions I have proved;

Look in your glass! which will not fail to show

The shadowed portrait of my best beloved.

If that suffice not, look into my heart!

Where it's engraven by a new found art.

XXXII.

The painful ploughman hath his heart's delight;

Who, though his daily toil his body tireth,

Yet merrily comes whistling home at night,

And sweetly takes the ease his pain requireth:

But neither days nor nights can yield me rest;

Born to be wretched, and to live opprest!

XXXIII.

O well were it, if Nature would devise

That men with men together might engender,

As grafts of trees, one from another rise;

Then nought, of due, to women should we render!

But, vain conceit! that Nature should do this;

Since, well we know, herself a woman is!

XXXIV.

Upon the altar where Love's fires burnèd,

My Sighs and Tears for sacrifice I offered;

When Love, in rage, from me his countenance turnèd,

And did reject what I so humbly proffered.

If he, my heart expect, alas, it's gone!

"How can a man give that, is not his own?"

XXXV.

Alcilia said, "She did not know my mind,

Because my words did not declare my love!"

Thus, where I merit most, least help I find;

And her unkindness all too late I prove.

Grant, Love! that She, of whom thou art neglected,

May one day love, and little be respected!

XXXVI.

The Cynic[9] being asked, "When he should love?"

Made answer, "When he nothing had to do;

Amor est otiogorum negotium.

For Love was Sloth!" But he did never prove

By his experience, what belonged thereto.

For had he tasted but so much as I,

He would have soon reformed his heresy.

XXXVII.

O judge me not, sweet Love, by outward show

Though sometimes strange I seem, and to neglect thee!

Yet didst thou, but my inward Passions know,

Thou shouldst perceive how highly I respect thee!

"When looks are fixed, the heart ofttimes doth tremble!

"Little loves he, that cannot much dissemble!"

XXXVIII.

Parting from thee! even from myself I part.

Thou art the star, by which my life is guided!

I have the body, but thou hast the heart!

The better part is from itself divided.

Thus do I live, and this I do sustain,

Till gracious Fortune make us meet again!

XXXIX.

Open the sluices of my feeble eyes,

And let my tears have passage from their fountain!

Fill all the earth, with plaints! the air, with cries!

Which may pierce rocks, and reach the highest mountain

That so, Love's wrath, by these extremes appeased;

My griefs may cease, and my poor heart be eased.

XL.

"After long sickness, health brings more delight."

"Seas seem more calm, by storms once overblown."

"The day more cheerful, by the passed night."

"Each thing is, by his contrary best known."

"Continual ease is pain: Change sometimes meeter."

"Discords in music make music sweeter."

XLI.

Fear to offend forbids my tongue to speak,

And signs and sighs must tell my inward woe:

But (ay the while) my heart with grief doth break,

And she, by signs, my sorrow will not know.

"The stillest streams we see in deepest fords;

And Love is greatest, when it wanteth words."

XLII.

"No pain so great but may be eased by Art."

"Though much we suffer, yet despair we should not."

"In midst of griefs, Hope always hath some part;

And Time may heal, what Art and Reason could not."

O what is then this Passion I endure,

Which neither Reason, Art, nor Time can cure?

XLIII.

Pale Jealousy! Fiend of the eternal Night!

Misshapen creature, born before thy time!

The Imp of Horror! Foe to sweet Delight!

Making each error seem an heinous crime.

Ah, too great pity! (were there remedy),

That ever Love should keep Thee company!

XLIV.

Solstit: brumal.

This Sonnet was devised upon the shortest day of the year.

The days are now come to their shortest date;

And must, in time, by course, increase again.

But only I continue at one state,

Void of all hope of help, or ease of pain;

For days of joy must still be short with me,

And nights of sorrow must prolongèd be.

XLV.

Sleep now, my Muse! and henceforth take thy rest!

Which all too long thyself in vain hath wasted.

Let it suffice I still must live opprest;

And of my pains, the fruit must ne'er be tasted.

Then sleep, my Muse! "Fate cannot be withstood."

"It's better sleep; than wake, and do no good."

XLVI.

Why should I love, since She doth prove ungrateful:

Since, for reward, I reap nought but disdain.

Love thus to be requited, it is hateful!

And Reason would, I should not love in vain.

Yet all in vain, when all is out of season,

For "Love hath no society with Reason."

XLVII.

Heart's Ease and I have been at odds, too long!

I follow fast, but still he flies from me!

I sue for grace, and yet sustain the wrong;

So gladly would I reconcilèd be.

Love! make us one! So shalt thou work a wonder;

Uniting them, that were so far asunder.

XLVIII.

"Uncouth, unkist," our ancient Poet[10] said.

And he that hides his wants, when he hath need,

May, after, have his want of wit bewrayed;

And fail of his desire, when others speed.

Then boldly speak! "The worst is at first entering!"

"Much good success men miss, for lack of venturing!"

XLIX.

Declare the griefs wherewith thou art opprest,

And let the world be witness of thy woes!

Let not thy thoughts lie buried in thy breast;

But let thy tongue, thy discontents disclose!

For "who conceals his pain when he is grieved,

May well be pitied, but no way relieved."

L.

Wretched is he that loving, sets his heart

On her, whose love, from pure affection swerveth;

Ne amor ne signoria vuole compagnia.

Who doth permit each one to have a part

Of that, which none but he alone deserveth.

Give all, or none! For once, of this be sure!

"Lordship and Love no partners may endure."

LI.

Who spends the weary day in pensive thought,

And night in dreams of horror and affright;

Whose wealth is want; whose hope is come to nought;

Himself, the mark for Love's and Fortune's spite:

Let him appear, if any such there be!

His case and mine more fitly will agree.

LII.

Fair tree, but fruitless! sometimes full of sap!

Which now yields nought at all, that may delight me!

Some cruel frost, or some untimely hap

Hath made thee barren, only to despite me!

Such trees, in vain, with hope do feed Desire;

And serve for fuel to increase Love's fire.

LIII.

In company (whiles sad and mute I sit,

My thoughts elsewhere, than there I seem to be)

Possessed with some deep melancholy fit;

One of my friends observes the same in me,

And says in jest, which I in earnest prove,

"He looks like one, that had lost his First Love!"

LIV.

'Twixt Hope and Fear, in doubtful balance peazed,

My fate, my fortune, and my love depends.

Sometimes my Hope is raised, when Love is pleased;

Which Fear weighs down, when ought his will offends.

The heavens are sometimes clear, and sometimes lower;

And "he that loves, must taste both sweet and sour!"

LV.

Retire, my wandering Thoughts! unto your rest!

Do not, henceforth, consume yourselves in vain!

No mortal man, in all points, can be blest;

What now is mine, may be another's pain.

The watery clouds are clear, when storms are past;

And "things, in their extremes, long cannot last."

LVI.

The fire of Love is first bred in the Eye,

Visus. Sermo. Tactus.

And thence conveys his heat unto the Heart,

Where it lies hid, till time his force descry.

The Tongue thereto adds fuel for his part;

The touch of Lips, which doth succeed the same,

Kindles the rest, and so it proves a flame.

LVII.

The tender Sprigs that sprouted in the field,

And promised hope of fruit to him that planted;

Instead of fruit, doth nought but blossoms yield,

Though care, and pain to prune them never wanted:

Even so, my hopes do nought but blossoms prove,

And yield no fruits to recompense my love.

LVIII.

Though little sign of love in show appear;

Yet think, True Love, of colours hath no need!

It's not the glorious garments, which men wear,

That makes them other than they are indeed:

"In meanest show, the most affection dwells;

And richest pearls are found in simplest shells."

LIX.

Let not thy tongue, thy inward thoughts disclose!

Or tell the sorrows that thy heart endures!

Martial. Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet.

Let no man's ears be witness of thy woes!

Since pity, neither help nor ease procures:

And "only he is, truly, said to moan,

Whose griefs none knoweth but himself alone."

LX.

A thousand times; I curse these idle rhymes,

Which do their Maker's follies vain set forth;

Alteri inserviens meipsum conficio.

Yet bless I them again, as many times,

For that in them, I blaze Alcilia's worth.

Meanwhile, I fare, as doth the torch by night,

Which wastes itself in giving others light.

LXI.

Enough of this! For all is nought regarded!

And She, not once, with my complaints is moved.

Die, hapless love! since thou art not rewarded;

Yet ere thou die, to witness that I loved!

Report my truth! and tell the Fair unkind,

That "She hath lost, what none but She shall find!

LXII.

Lovers, lament! You that have truly loved!

For Philoparthen, now, hath lost his love:

The greatest loss that ever lover proved.

O let his hard hap some compassion move!

Who had not rued the loss of her so much;

But that he knows the world yields no more such.

LXIII.

Upon the ocean of conceited error,

My weary spirits, many storms have past;

Which now in harbour, free from wonted terror,

Joy the possession of their rest at last.

And, henceforth, safely may they lie at road!

And never rove for "Had I wist!" abroad!

---

Love's Accusation at the Judgement Seat
of Reason; wherein the Author's whole
success in his love is covertly
deciphered.

[Compare this, with Gascoigne's poem, Vol. I. p. 63.]

N Reason's Court, myself being Plaintiff there,

Love was, by process, summoned to appear.

That so the wrongs, which he had done to me,

Might be made known; and all the world might see:

And seeing, rue what to my cost I proved;

While faithful, but unfortunate I loved.

After I had obtainèd audience;

I thus began to give in evidence.

[The Author's Evidence against Love.]

"Most sacred Queen! and Sovereign of man's heart!

Which of the mind dost rule the better part!

First bred in heaven, and from thence, hither sent

To guide men's actions by thy regiment!

Vouchsafe a while to hear the sad complaint

Of him that Love hath long kept in restraint;

And, as to you it properly belongs,

Grant justice of my undeservèd wrongs!

It's now two years, as I remember well,

Since first this wretch, (sent from the nether hell,

To plague the world with new-found cruelties),

Under the shadow of two crystal Eyes,

Betrayed my Sense; and, as I slumbering lay,

Feloniously conveyed my heart away;

Which most unjustly he detained from me,

And exercised thereon strange tyranny.

Sometime his manner was, in sport and game,

With briars and thorns, to raze and prick the same;

Sometime with nettles of Desire to sting it;

Sometime with pincons[11] of Despair to wring it;

Sometime again, he would anoint the sore,

And heal the place that he had hurt before:

But hurtful helps! and ministered in vain!

Which servèd only to renew my pain.

For, after that, more wounds he added still,

Which piercèd deep, but had no power to kill.

Unhappy medicine! which, instead of cure,

Gives strength to make the patient more endure!

But that which was most strange of all the rest

(Myself being thus 'twixt life and death distrest),

Ofttimes, when as my pain exceeded measure,

He would persuade me that the same was pleasure;

My solemn sadness, but contentment meet;

My travail, rest; and all my sour, sweet;

My wounds, but gentle strokes: whereat he smiled,

And by these slights, my careless youth beguiled.

Thus did I fare, as one that living died,

(For greater pains, I think, hath no man tried)

Disquiet thoughts, like furies in my breast

Nourished the poison that my spirits possesst.

Now Grief, then Joy; now War, then Peace unstable,

Nought sure I had, but to be miserable.

I cannot utter all, I must confess.

Men may conceive more than they can express!

But (to be short), which cannot be excused,

With vain illusions, Love, my hope abused;

Persuading me I stood upon firm ground

When, unawares, myself on sands I found.

This is the point which most I do enforce!

That Love, without all pity or remorse,

Did suffer me to languish still in grief

Void of contentment, succour, or relief:

And when I looked my pains should be rewarded,

I did perceive, that they were nought regarded.

For why? Alas, these hapless eyes did see

Alcilia loved another more than me!

So in the end, when I expected most;

My hope, my love, and fortune thus were crost."

Proceeding further, Reason bad me stay

For the Defendant had some thing to say.

Then to the Judge, for justice, loud I cried!

And so I pausèd: and Love thus replied.

[Love's Reply to the Author.]

"Since Reason ought to lend indifferent ears

Unto both parties, and judge as truth appears;

Most gracious Lady! give me leave to speak,

And answer his Complaint, that seeks to wreak

His spite and malice on me, without cause;

In charging me to have transgressed thy laws!

Of all his follies, he imputes the blame

To me, poor Love! that nought deserves the same.

Himself it is, that hath abusèd me!

As by mine answer, shall well proved be.

Fond youth! thou knowest what I for thee effected!

Though, now, I find it little be respected.

I purged thy wit, which was before but gross.

The metal pure, I severed from the dross,

And did inspire thee with my sweetest fire

That kindled in thee Courage and Desire:

Not like unto those servile Passions

Which cumber men's imaginations

With Avarice, Ambition, and Vainglory;

Desire of things fleeting and transitory.

No base conceit, but such as Powers above

Have known and felt, I mean, th' Instinct of Love;

Which making men, all earthly things despise,

Transports them to a heavenly paradise.

Where thou complain'st of sorrows in thy heart,

Who lives on earth but therein hath his part?

Are these thy fruits? Are these thy best rewards

For all the pleasing glances, sly regards,

The sweet stol'n kisses, amorous conceits,

So many smiles, so many fair intreats,

Such kindness as Alcilia did bestow

All for my sake! as well thyself dost know?

That Love should thus be used, it is hateful!

But 'all is lost, that's done for one ungrateful.'

Where he allegeth that he was abusèd

In that he truly loving, was refusèd:

That's most untrue! and plainly may be tried.

Who never asked, could never be denied!

But he affected rather single life,

Than yoke of marriage, matching with a wife.

And most men, now, make love to none but heires[ses]

Poor love! GOD wot! that poverty empairs.

Worldly respects, Love little doth regard.

'Who loves, hath only love for his reward!'

The description of a foolhardy Lover.

He merits a lover's name, indeed!

That casts no doubts, which vain suspicion breed:

But desperately at hazard, throws the dice,

Neglecting due regard of friends' advice;

That wrestles with his fortune and his fate,

Which had ordained to better his estate;

That hath no care of wealth, no fear of lack,

But ventures forward, though he see his wrack;

That with Hope's wings, like Icarus doth fly,

Though for his rashness, he like fortune try;

That, to his fame, the world of him may tell

How, while he soared aloft, adown he fell.

And so True Love awarded him his doom

In scaling heaven, to have made the sea his tomb;

That making shipwreck of his dearest fame,

Betrays himself to poverty and shame;

That hath no sense of sorrow, or repent,

No dread of perils far or imminent;

But doth prefer before all pomp or pelf,

The sweet of love as dearer than himself.

Who, were his passage stopped by sword and fire,

Would make way through, to compass his Desire.

For which he would (though heaven and earth forbad it)

Hazard to lose a kingdom, if he had it.

These be the things wherein I glory most,

Whereof, this my Accuser cannot boast:

Who was indifferent to his loss or gain;

And better pleased to fail, than to obtain.

All qualified affections, Love doth hate!

And likes him best that's most intemperate.

But hence, proceeds his malice and despite;

While he himself bars of his own delight.

For when as he, Alcilia first affected,

(Like one in show, that love little respected)

He masqued, disguised, and entertained his thought

With hope of that, which he in secret sought;

And still forbare to utter his desire,

Till his delay receive her worthy hire.

And well we know, what maids themselves would have,

Men must sue for, and by petition crave.

But he regarding more his Wealth, than Will;

Hath little care his Fancy to fulfil.

Yet when he saw Alcilia loved another;

The secret fire, which in his breast did smother,

Began to smoke, and soon had proved a flame:

If Temperance had not allayed the same.

Which, afterward, so quenched he did not find

But that some sparks remainèd still behind.

Thus, when time served, he did refuse to crave it;

And yet envied another man should have it!

As though, fair maids should wait, at young men's pleasure,

Whilst they, 'twixt sport and earnest, love at leisure.

Nay, at the first! when it is kindly proffered!

Maids must accept; least twice, it be not offered!

Else though their beauty seem their good t'importune,

Yet may they lose the better of their fortune.

Thus, as this Fondling coldly went about it;

So in the end, he clearly went without it.

For while he, doubtful, seemed to make a stay,

A Mongrel stole the maiden's heart away;

For which, though he lamented much in shew,

Yet was he, inward, glad it fell out so.

Now, Reason! you may plainly judge by this,

Not I, but he, the false dissembler is:

Who, while fond hope his lukewarm love did feed,

Made sign of more than he sustained indeed:

And filled his rhymes with fables and with lies,

Which, without Passion, he did oft devise;

So to delude the ignorance of such

That pitied him, thinking he loved too much.

And with conceit, rather to shew his Wit,

Than manifest his faithful Love by it.

Much more than this, could I lay to his charge;

But time would fail to open all at large.

Let this suffice to prove his bad intent,

And prove that Love is clear and innocent."

Thus, at the length, though late, he made an end,

And both of us did earnestly, attend

The final judgement, Reason should award:

When thus she 'gan to speak. "With due regard,

The matter hath been heard, on either side.

For judgement, you must longer time abide!

The cause is weighty, and of great import."

And so she, smiling, did adjourn the Court.

Little availed it, then, to argue more;

So I returned in worse case than before.

---

Love Deciphered.

Ove and I are now divided,

Conceit, by Error, was misguided.

Alcilia hath my love despised!

"No man loves, that is advised."

"Time at length, hath Truth detected."

Love hath missed what he expected.

Yet missing that, which long he sought;

I have found that, I little thought.

"Errors, in time, may be redrest,"

"The shortest follies are the best."

Love and Youth are now asunder;

Reason's glory, Nature's wonder.

My thoughts, long bound, are now enlarged;

My Folly's penance is discharged:

Thus Time hath altered my estate.

"Repentance never comes too late."

Ah, well I find that Love is nought

But folly, and an idle thought.

The difference is 'twixt Love and me,

That he is blind, and I can see.

Love is honey mixed with gall!

A thraldom free, a freedom thrall!

A bitter sweet, a pleasant sour!

Got in a year, lost in an hour!

A peaceful war, a warlike peace!

Whose wealth brings want; whose want, increase!

Full long pursuit, and little gain!

Uncertain pleasure, certain pain!

Regard of neither right nor wrong!

For short delights, repentance long!

Love is the sickness of the thought!

Conceit of pleasure, dearly bought!

A restless Passion of the mind!

A labyrinth of errors blind!

A sugared poison! fair deceit!

A bait for fools! a furious heat!

A chilling cold! a wondrous passion

Exceeding man's imagination!

Which none can tell in whole, or part,

But only he that feels the smart.

Love is sorrow mixt with gladness!

Fear, with hope! and hope, with madness!

Long did I love, but all in vain;

I loving, was not loved again:

For which my heart sustained much woe.

It fits not maids to use men so!

Just deserts are not regarded,

Never love so ill rewarded!

But "all is lost that is not sought!"

"Oft wit proves best, that's dearest bought!

Women were made for men's relief;

To comfort, not to cause their grief.

Where most I merit, least I find:

No marvel! since that love is blind.

Had She been kind, as She was fair,

My case had been more strange and rare.

But women love not by desert!

Reason in them hath weakest part!

Then, henceforth, let them love that list,

I will beware of "Had I wist!"

These faults had better been concealed,

Than to my shame abroad revealed.

Yet though my youth did thus miscarry,

My harms may make others more wary.

Love is but a youthful fit,

And some men say "It's sign of wit!"

But he that loves as I have done;

To pass the day, and see no sun:

Must change his note, and sing Erravi!

Or else may chance to cry Peccavi!

The longest day must have his night,

Reason triumphs in Love's despite.

I follow now Discretion's lore;

"Henceforth to like; but love no more!"

Then gently pardon what is past!

For Love draws onwards to his last.

"He walks," they say, "with wary eye;

Whose footsteps never tread awry!"

My Muse a better work intends:

And here my Loving Folly ends.

After long storms and tempests past,

I see the haven at the last;

Where I must rest my weary bark,

And there unlade my care and cark.

My pains and travails long endured,

And all my wounds must there be cured.

Joys, out of date, shall be renewed;

To think of perils past eschewed.

When I shall sit full blithe and jolly,

And talk of lovers and their folly.

Then Love and Folly, both adieu!

Long have I been misled by you.

Folly may new adventures try!

But Reason says that "Love must die!"

Yea, die indeed, although grieve him;

For my cold heart cannot relieve him!

Yet for her sake, whom once I loved,

(Though all in vain, as time hath proved)

I'll take the pain, if She consent!

To write his Will and Testament.

---

Love's last Will and Testament.

Y spirit, I bequeath unto the air!

My Body shall unto the earth repair!

My Burning Brand, unto the Prince of Hell;

T'increase men's pains that there in darkness dwell!

For well I ween, above nor under ground,

A greater pain than that, may not be found.

My sweet Conceits of Pleasure and Delight,

To Erebus! and to Eternal Night!

My Sighs, my Tears, my Passions, and Laments,

Distrust, Despair; all these my hourly rents,

With other plagues that lovers' minds enthral:

Unto Oblivion, I bequeath them all!

My broken Bow, and Shafts, I give to Reason!

My Cruelties, my Slights, and forged Treason,

To Womankind! and to their seed, for aye!

To wreak their spite, and work poor men's decay.

Reserving only for Alcilia's part,

Small kindness, and less care of lovers' smart.

For She is from the vulgar sort excepted;

And had She, Philoparthen's love respected,

Requiting it with like affection,

She might have had the praise of all perfection.

This done; if I have any Faith and Troth;

To Philoparthen, I assign them both!

For unto him, of right, they do belong

Who loving truly, suffered too much wrong.

Time shall be sole Executor of my will;

Who may these things, in order due fulfil,

To warrant this my Testament for good;

I have subscribed it, with my dying blood."

And so he died, that all this bale had bred.

And yet my heart misdoubts he is not dead:

For, sure, I fear, should I Alcilia spy;

She might, eftsoons, revive him with her eye!

Such power divine remaineth in her sight;

To make him live again, in Death's despite.

---

The Sonnets following were written by the Author,

after he began to decline from his Passionate

Affection; and in them, he seemeth to

please himself with describing the

Vanity of Love, the Frailty

of Beauty, and the

sour fruits of

Repentance.

I.

Ow have I spun the web of my own woes,

And laboured long to purchase my own loss.

Too late I see, I was beguiled with shows.

And that which once seemed gold, now

proves but dross.

Thus am I, both of help and hope bereaved.

"He never tried that never was deceived.

Chi non si fida, non vient ingannato.

II.

Once did I love, but more than once repent;

When vintage came, my grapes were sour, or rotten.

Long time in grief and pensive thoughts I spent;

And all for that, which Time hath made forgotten.

O strange effects of time! which, once being lost,

Make men secure of that they loved most.

III.

Thus have I long in th'air of Error hovered,

And run my ship upon Repentance's shelf.

Truth hath the veil of Ignorance uncovered,

And made me see; and seeing, know myself.

Of former follies, now, I must repent,

And count this work, part of my time ill spent.

IV.

What thing is Love? "A tyrant of the Mind!"

"Begot by heat of Youth; brought forth by Sloth;

Nursed with vain Thoughts, and changing as the wind!"

"A deep Dissembler, void of faith and troth!"

"Fraught with fond errors, doubts, despite, disdain,

And all the plagues that earth and hell contain!"

V.

Like to a man that wanders all the day

Through ways unknown, to seek a thing of worth,

And, at the night, sees he hath gone astray;

As near his end, as when he first set forth:

Such is my case, whose hope untimely crost,

After long errors, proves my labour lost.

VI.

Failed of that hap, whereto my hope aspired,

Deprived of that which might have been mine own:

Another, now, must have what I desired;

And things too late, by their events are known.

Thus do we wish for that cannot be got;

And when it may, then we regard it not.

VII.

Ingrateful Love! since thou hast played thy part!

(Enthralling him, whom Time hath since made free)

It rests with me, to use both Wit and Art,

That of my wrongs I may revenged be:

And in those eyes, where first thou took'st thy fire!

Thyself shalt perish, through my cold desire.

VIII.

"Grieve not thyself, for that cannot be had!

And things, once cureless, let them cureless rest!"

"Blame not thy fortune, though thou deem it bad!

What's past and gone will never be redrest."

"The only help, for that cannot be gained,

Is to forget it might have been obtained."

IX.

How happy, once, did I myself esteem!

While Love with Hope, my fond Desire did cherish:

My state as blissful as a King's did seem,

Had I been sure my joys should never perish.

"The thoughts of men are fed with expectation."

"Pleasures themselves are but imagination."

X.

Why should we hope for that which is to come,

Where the event is doubtful, and unknown?

Such fond presumptions soon receive their doom,

When things expected we count as our own;

Whose issue, ofttimes, in the end proves nought

But hope! a shadow, and an idle thought.

XI.

In vain do we complain our life is short,

(Which well disposed, great matters might effect)

While we ourselves, in toys and idle sport,

Consume the better part without respect.

And careless (as though time should never end it)

'Twixt sleep, and waking, prodigally spend it.

XII.

Youthful Desire is like the summer season

That lasts not long; for winter must succeed:

And so our Passions must give place to Reason;

And riper years, more ripe effects must breed.

Of all the seed, Youth sowed in vain desires,

I reaped nought, but thistles, thorns, and briars.

XIII.

"To err and do amiss, is given to men by Kind."

"Who walks so sure, but sometimes treads awry?"

But to continue still in errors blind,

Chi non fa, non falla; chi falla, l'amenda.

A bad and bestial nature doth descry.

"Who proves not; fails not; and brings nought to end:

Who proves and fails, may, afterward, amend."

XIV.

There was but One, and doubtless She the best!

Whom I did more than all the world esteem:

She having failed, I disavow the rest;

For, now, I find "things are not as they seem."

"Default of that, wherein our will is crost,

Ofttimes, unto our good availeth most."

XV.

I fare like him who, now his land-hope spent,

By unknown seas, sails to the Indian shore;

Chi va, e ritorna, fa buon viaggio.

Returning thence no richer than he went,

Yet cannot much his fortune blame therefore.

Since "Whoso ventures forth upon the Main,

Makes a good mart, if he return again."

XVI.

Lovers' Conceits are like a flatt'ring Glass,

That makes the lookers fairer than they are;

Who, pleased in their deceit, contented pass.

Such once was mine, who thought there was none fair,

None witty, modest, virtuous but She;

Yet now I find the Glass abusèd me.

XVII.

Adieu, fond Love! the Mother of all Error!

Replete with hope and fear, with joy and pain.

False fire of Fancy! full of care and terror.

Shadow of pleasures fleeting, short, and vain!

Die, loathèd Love! Receive thy latest doom!

"Night be thy grave! and Oblivion be thy tomb!"

XVIII.

Who would be rapt up into the third heaven

To see a world of strange imaginations?

Who, careless, would leave all at six and seven,

Nihil agenda male agere discimus.

To wander in a labyrinth of Passions?

Who would, at once, all kinds of folly prove;

When he hath nought to do, then let him love!

XIX.

What thing is Beauty? "Nature's dearest Minion!"

"The Snare of Youth! like the inconstant moon

Waxing and waning!" "Error of Opinion!"

"A Morning's Flower, that withereth ere noon!"

"A swelling Fruit! no sooner ripe, than rotten!"

"Which sickness makes forlorn, and time forgotten!"

XX.

The Spring of Youth, which now is in his prime;

Winter of Age, with hoary frosts shall nip!

Beauty shall then be made the prey of Time!

And sour Remorse, deceitful Pleasures whip!

Then, henceforth, let Discretion rule Desire!

And Reason quench the flame of Cupid's fire!

XXI.

O what a life was that sometime I led!

When Love with Passions did my peace encumber;

While, like a man neither alive nor dead,

I was rapt from myself, as one in slumber:

Whose idle senses, charmed with fond illusion,

Did nourish that which bred their own confusion.

XXII.

The child, for ever after, dreads the fire;

That once therewith by chance his finger burned.

Water of Time distilled doth cool Desire.

"And far he ran," they say, "that never turned."

After long storms, I see the port at last.

Farewell, Folly! For now my love is past!

XXIII.

Base servile thoughts of men, too much dejected,

That seek, and crouch, and kneel for women's grace!

Of whom, your pain and service is neglected;

Yourselves, despised; rivals, before your face!

The more you sue, the less you shall obtain!

The less you win, the more shall be your gain!

XXIV.

In looking back unto my follies past;

While I the present, with times past compare,

And think how many hours I then did waste

Painting on clouds, and building in the air:

I sigh within myself, and say in sadness,

"This thing which fools call Love, is nought but Madness!"

XXV.

"The things we have, we most of all neglect;

And that we have not, greedily we crave.

The things we may have, little we respect;

And still we covet, that we cannot have.

Yet, howsoe'er, in our conceit, we prize them;

No sooner gotten, but we straight despise them."

XXVI.

Who seats his love upon a woman's will,

And thinks thereon to build a happy state;

Shall be deceived, when least he thinks of ill,

And rue his folly when it is too late.

He ploughs on sand, and sows upon the wind,

That hopes for constant love in Womankind.

XXVII.

I will no longer spend my time in toys!

Seeing Love is Error, Folly, and Offence;

An idle fit for fond and reckless boys,

Or else for men deprived of common sense.

'Twixt Lunacy and Love, these odds appear;

Th' one makes fools, monthly; th' other, all the year.

XXVIII.

While season served to sow, my plough stood still;

My graffs unset, when other's trees did bloom.

I spent the Spring in sloth, and slept my fill;

But never thought of Winter's cold to come;

Till Spring was past, the Summer well nigh gone;

When I awaked, and saw my harvest none.

XXIX.

Now Love sits all alone, in black attire;

His broken bow, and arrows lying by him;

His fire extinct, that whilom fed Desire;

Himself the scorn of lovers that pass by him:

Who, this day, freely may disport and play;

For it is Philoparthen's Holiday.

XXX.

Nay, think not Love! with all thy cunning slight,

To catch me once again! Thou com'st too late!

Stern Industry puts Idleness to flight:

Otia si tellas periere Cupidinis arcus.

And Time hath changed both my name and state.

Then seek elsewhere for mates, that may befriend thee!

For I am busy, and cannot attend thee!

XXXI.

Loose Idleness! the Nurse of fond Desire!

Root of all ills that do our youth betide;

That, whilom, didst, through love, my wrack conspire:

I banish thee! and rather wish t'abide

All austere hardness, and continual pain;

Than to revoke thee! or to love again!

XXXII.

The time will come when, looking in a glass,

Thy rivelled face, with sorrow thou shalt see!

And sighing, say, "It is not as it was!

These cheeks were wont more fresh and fair to be!

But now, what once made me so much admired

Is least regarded, and of none desired!"

XXXIII.

Though thou be fair, think Beauty but a blast!

A morning's dew! a shadow quickly gone!

A painted flower, whose colour will not last!

Temporis soltus honesta est avaritia.

Time steals away, when least we think thereon.

Most precious time! too wastefully expended;

Of which alone, the sparing is commended.

XXXIV.

How vain is Youth that, crossed in his Desire,

Doth fret and fume, and inwardly repine;

As though 'gainst heaven itself, he would conspire;

And with his fraility, 'gainst his fate combine,

Who of itself continues constant still;

And doth us good, ofttimes against our will.

XXXV.

In prime of Youth, when years and Wit were ripe,

Unhappy Will, to ruin led the way.

Wit danced about, when Folly 'gan to pipe;

And Will and he together went astray.

Nought then but Pleasure, was the good they sought!

Which now Repentance proves too dearly bought.

XXXVI.

He that in matters of delight and pleasure,

Can bridle his outrageous affection;

Est virtus placitis abstinuisse bonis.

And temper it in some indifferent measure,

Doth prove himself a man of good direction.

In conquering Will, true courage most is shown;

And sweet temptations makes men's virtues known.

XXXVII.

Each natural thing, by course of Kind, we see,

Invidia fatorum series summisque negatum staro diu.

In his perfection long continueth not.

Fruits once full ripe, will then fall from the tree;

Or in due time not gathered, soon will rot.

It is decreed, by doom of Powers Divine,

Things at their height, must thence again decline.

XXXVIII.

Thy large smooth forehead, wrinkled shall appear!

Vermillion hue, to pale and wan shall turn!

Time shall deface what Youth has held most dear!

Yea, these clear Eyes (which once my heart did burn)

Shall, in their hollow circles, lodge the night;

And yield more cause of terror, than delight!

XXXIX.

Lo here, the Record of my follies past,

The fruits of Wit unstaid, and hours misspent!

Quanto piace al mondo, e breue sogno.

Full wise is he that perils can forecast,

And so, by others' harms, his own prevent.

All Worldly Pleasure that delights the Sense,

Is but a short Sleep, and Time's vain expense!

XL.

The sun hath twice his annual course performed,

Since first unhappy I, began to love;

Whose errors now, by Reason's rule reformed,

Conceits of Love but smoke and shadows prove.

Who, of his folly, seeks more praise to win;

Where I have made an end, let him begin!

J. C.

FINIS.

---

---

DAIPHANTUS,
OR
The Passions of Love.

Comical to read,
But Tragical to act:
As full of Wit, as Experience.

By An. Sc. Gentleman.
Fœlix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum.
Whereunto is added,

The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage.

LONDON:
Printed by T. C. for William Cotton: and are
to be sold at his shop, near Ludgate. 1604.

---

The Argument.

Aiphantus, a younger brother, very honourably descended, brought up but not born in Venice; naturally subject to Courting, but not to Love; reputed a man rather full of compliment, than of true courtesy; more desirous to be thought honest, than so to be wordish beyond discretion; promising more to all, than friendship could challenge; mutable in all his actions, but his affections aiming indeed to gain opinion rather than goodwill; challenging love from greatness, not from merit; studious to abuse his own wit, by the common sale of his infirmities; lastly, under the colour of his natural affection (which indeed was very pleasant and delightful) coveted to disgrace every other to his own discontent: a scourge to Beauty, a traitor to Women, and an infidel to Love.

This He, this creature, at length, falls in love with two at one instant; yea, two of his nearest allies: and so indifferently [equally] yet outrageously, as what was commendable in the one, was admirable in the other. By which means, as not despised, not regarded! if not deceived, not pitied! They esteemed him as he was in deed, not words. He protested, they jested! He swore he loved in sadness; they in sooth believed, but seemed to give no credence to him: thinking him so humorous as no resolution could be long good; and holding this his attestation to them of affection in that kind, [no] more than his contesting against it before time.

Thus overcome of that he seemed to conquer, he became a slave to his own fortunes. Laden with much misery, utter mischief seized upon him. He fell in love with another, a wedded Lady. Then with a fourth, named Vitullia. And so far was he imparadised in her beauty (She not recomforting him) that he fell from Love to Passion, so to Distraction, then to Admiration [wonderment] and Contemplation, lastly to Madness. Thus did he act the Tragical scenes, who only penned the Comical: became, if not as brutish as Actæon, as furious as Orlando. Of whose Humours and Passions, I had rather you should read them, than I act them!

In the end, by one, or rather by all, he was recovered. A Voice did mad him; and a Song did recure him! Four in one sent him out of this world; and one with four redeemed him to the world. To whose unusual strains in Music, and emphatical emphasis in Love; I will leave you to turn over a new leaf!

This only I will end with:

Who, of Love should better write,

Than he that Love learns to indite?

---

To the mighty, learned, and ancient Potentate,

Quisquis, Emperor of

, King of

Great and Little A., Prince of B. C. and

D., &c.; Aliquis wisheth the much

increase of true subjects, free from

Passion, spleen, and melancholy;

and endued with virtue,

wisdom, and

magnanimity.