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Of such a shining light to leave us destitute?
Thou with benigne aspect sometime didst us behold,
Thou hast in Britons valour tane delight of old,
And with thy presence oft vouchsaft to attribute
Fame and renowme to us for glorious martiall deeds.
But now their [thy] ireful bemes have chill'd our
harts with cold;

Thou hast estrang'd thy self, and deignest not our land:

Farre off to others now thy favour honour breeds, And high disdaine doth cause thee shun our clime, (I feare ;)

For hadst thou not bene wroth, or that time neare at hand,

Thou wouldst have heard the cry that wofull England made;

Eke Zelands piteous plaints, and Hollands toren heare,

Would haply have appeas'd thy divine angry mynd: Thou shouldst have seen the trees refuse to yeeld their shade,

And wailing to let fall the honor of their head; And birds in mournfull tunes lamenting in their kinde.

Up from his tombe the mightie Corineus rose, Who cursing oft the fates that this mishap had bred, His hoary locks he tare, calling the heavens unkinde. The Thames was heard to roare, the Reyne and eke the Mose,

The Schald, the Danow selfe, this great mischance did rue,

With torment and with grief: their fountains pure and cleere

Were troubled, and with swelling flouds declar'd

their woes.

The Muses comfortles, the Nymphs with paled hue, The Silvan gods likewise, came running farre and [hie;

neere,

And all with teares bedeawd, and eyes cast up on O help, O help, ye gods, they ghastly gan to crie. O chaunge the cruell fate of this so rare a wight, And graunt that natures course may measure out his age. [fully,

The beasts their foode forsooke, and, trembling fearEach sought his cave or den, this cry did them so fright.

Out from amid the waves, by storme then stirr❜d to rage,

This crie did cause to rise th' old father Ocean hoare, Who grave with eld, and full of maiestie in sight, Spake in this wise. "Refrain (quoth he) your teares and plaints,

Cease these your idle words, make vaine requests

no more.

No humble speech, nor mone, may move the fixed stint

Of destinie or death: Such is his will that paints The earth with colours fresh; the darkest skies with store [flint

Of starry lights: And though your teares a hart of Might tender make, yet nought herein they will prevaile."

Whiles thus he said, the noble knight, who gan to feele

His vitall force to faint, and death with cruell dint Of direfull dart his mortall bodie to assaile, [steele, With eyes lift up to heav'n, and courage franke as With cheerfull face, where valour lively was exprest, But humble mynd, he said. “O Lord, if ought this fraile

And earthly carcasse have thy service sought t advaunce;

If my desire have bene still to relieve th' opprest; If iustice to maintaine that valour I have spent Which thou me gav'st; or if henceforth I might

advaunce

Thy name, thy truth, then spare me (Lord) if thou think best;

Forbeare these unripe yeares. But if thy will be bent,

If that prefixed time be come which thou hast set; Through pure and fervent faith, I hope now to be plast

In th' everlasting blis, which with thy precious blood

Thou purchase didst for us." With that a sigh he set, And straight a cloudie mist his sences overcast; His lips waxt pale and wan, like damaske roses bud Cast from the stalke, or like in field to purple flowre, Which languisheth being shred by culter as it past. A trembling chilly cold ran throgh their veines, which were

With eies brimfull of teares to see his fatall howre, Whose blustring sighes at first their sorrow did declare,

Next, murmuring ensude; at last they not forbeare
Plaine outcries, all against the heav'ns that enviously
Depriv'd us of a spright so perfect and so rare.
The Sun his lightsom beames did shrowd, and hide
his face

For griefe, whereby the earth feard night eternally: The mountaines eachwhere shooke, the rivers turn'd their streames,

And th' aire gan winterlike to rage and fret apace: And grisly ghosts by night were seene, and fierie gleames,

Amid the clouds with claps of thunder, that did [afeard:

seeme

To rent the skies, and made both man and beast The birds of ill presage this lucklesse chance foretold,

By dernfull noise; and dogs with howling made man deeme

Some mischief was at hand: for such they do esteeme
As tokens of mishap, and so have done of old.
Ah! that thou hadst but heard his lovely Stella
plaine
[cheere,
Her greevous losse, or seene her heavie mourning
While she, with woe opprest, her sorrowes did unfold.
Her haire hung lose, neglect, about her shoulders

twaine;

And from those two bright starres, to him sometime so deere [downe Her heart sent drops of pearle, which fell in foyson Twixt lilly and the rose. She wroong her hands

with paine,

And piteously gan say: "My true and faithfull pheere,

Alas, and woe is me, why should my fortune frowne
On me thus frowardly to rob me of my ioy!

What cruell envious hand hath taken thee away,
And with thee my content, my comfort, and my stay?
Thou onelie wast the ease of trouble and annoy,
When they did me assaile; in thee my hopes did rest.
Alas, what now is left but grief, that night and day
Afflicts this wofull life, and with continuall rage
Torments ten thousand waies my miserable brest!
O greedie envious heav'n, what needed thee to have
Enricht with such a lewell this unhappie age;
To take it back againe so soone! Alas, when shall

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

My onely treasure, hides the ioyes of my poore hart! As here with t hee on earth I liv'd, even so equall Me thinkes it were with thee in heav'n I did abide: And as our troubles all we here on earth did part, So reason would that there of thy most happie state I had my share. Alas, if thou my trustie guide Were wont to be, how canst thou leave me thus alone

In darknesse and astray; weake, wearie, desolate, Plung'd in a world of woe, refusing for to take Me with thee to the place of rest where thou art gone!" [toong;

This said, she held her peace, for sorrow tide her And insteed of more words, seemd that her eies a lake

Of teares had bene, they flow'd so plenteously therefro:

And, with her sobs and sighs, th' aire round about

her roong.

If Venus, when she wail'd her deare Adonis slaine, Ought moov'd in thy fiers hart compassion of her

woe,

His noble sisters plaints, her sighes and teares

emong,

Would sure have made thee milde, and inly rue her paine:

Aurora halfe so faire her selfe did never show, When, from old Tithons bed, shee weeping did arise. The blinded archer-boy, like larke in showre of raine, Sat bathing of his wings, and glad the time did spend

Under those cristall drops, which fell from her faire eies; [wise. And at their brightest beames him proynd in lovely Yet sorie for her grief, which he could not amend, The gentle boy gan wipe her eies, and clear those lights,

Those lights through which his glory and his conquests shine.

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

Along her yvorie brest, the treasure of delights. All things with her to weep, it seemed, did encline, The trees, the hills, the dales, the caves, the stones so cold.

The aire did help them mourne, with dark clouds, raine, and mist,

Forbearing many a day to cleare it selfe againe ; Which made them eftsoones feare the daies of Pirrha shold

Of creatures spoile the earth, their fatall threds

untwist.

For Phoebus gladsome raies were wished for in vaine,

And with her quivering light Latonas daughter faire,

And Charles-waine eke refus'd to be the shipmans guide. [traine,

On Neptune warre was made by Aeolus and his

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

So that on ev'ry coast men shipwrack did abide,
Or else were swallowed up in open sea with waves,
And such as came to shoare were beaten with
despaire.

The Medwaies silver streames, that wont so still to
slide,
[hollow caves,
Were troubled now and wrothe; whose hidden
Along his banks with fog then shrowded from mans

eye,

Ay Phillip did resownd, aie Phillip they did crie. His Nimphs were seen no more (thogh custom stil it craves)

With haire spred to the wynd themselves to bath or sport,

Or with the hooke or net, barefooted wantonly,
The pleasant daintie fish to entangle or deceive.
The shepheards left their wonted places of resort,
Their bagpipes now were still; their loving mery
layes

Were quite forgot; and now their flocks men might perceive

To wander and to straie, all carelesly neglect. And, in the stead of mirth and pleasure, nights and dayes

Nought els was to be heard, but woes, complaints, and mone.

But thou (O blessed soule !) doest haply not

respect [affect, These teares we shead, though full of loving pure Having affixt thine eyes on that most glorious throne,

Where full of maiestie the High Creator reignes; In whose bright shining face thy ioyes are all complete,

Whose love kindles thy spright; where, happie alwaies one,

Thou liv'st in blis that earthly passion never staines; Where from the purest spring the sacred Nectar [now

sweete

Is thy continuall drinke; where thou doest gather
Of well emploied life th' inestimable gaines.
There Venus on thee smiles, Apollo gives thee place,
And Mars in reverent wise doth to thy vertue bow,
And decks his fiery sphere, to do thee honour most.
In highest part whereof, thy valour for to grace,
A chaire of gold he setts to thee, and there doth
tell

Thy noble acts arew, whereby even they that boast
Themselves of auncient fame, as Pirrhus, Hanniball,
Scipio, and Cæsar, with the rest that did excell
In martiall prowesse, high thy glorie do admire.

All haile, therefore, O worthie Phillip immortall, The flowre of Sydneyes race, the honour of thy

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A PASTORALL AEGLOGUE,

UPON THE DEATH OF SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT, &c.*

LYCON. COLIN.

COLIN, well fits thy sad cheare this sad stownd,
This wofull stownd, wherein all things complaine
This great mishap, this greevous losse of owres.
Hear'st thou the Orown? how with hollow sownd
He slides away, and murmuring doth plaine,
And seemes to say unto the fading flowres,
Along his bankes, unto the bared trees;
Phillisides is dead. Up, iolly swaine,
Thou that with skill canst tune a dolefull lay,
Help him to mourn. My hart with grief doth
freese,

Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part
Sure would I beare, though rude: But, as I may,
With sobs and sighes I second will thy song,
And so expresse the sorrowes of my hart.

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

A grieved mynd powre forth his plaints! how long
Hath the pore turtle gon to school (weenest thou)
To learne to mourne her lost make! No, no, each
Creature by nature can tell how to waile.
Seest not these flocks, how sad they wander now?
Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes
In dolefull sound. Like him, not one doth faile
With hanging head to shew a heavie chcare,
What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that prunes
Himselfe of late? did any cheerfull note
Come to thine eares, or gladsome sight appeare
Unto thine eies, since that same fatall howre?
Hath not the aire put on his mourning coat,
And testified his grief with flowing teares?
Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his powre
Doth us invite to make a sad consort;
Come, let us ioyne our mournfull song with theirs.
Griefe will endite, and sorrow will enforce,
Thy voice; and eccho will our words report.
Lycon. Though my rude rymes ill with thy verses
frame,

That others farre excell; yet will I force
My selfe to answere thee the best I can,
And honor 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 pittie it.
And eke ye rurall Muses, that do dwell
In these wilde woods; if ever piteous plaint
We did endite, or taught a wofull minde
With words of pure affect his griefe to tell,
Instruct me now. Now, Colin, then goe on,
And I will follow thee, though farre behinde.
Colin. Phillisides is dead. O harmfull death,
O deadly harme! Unhappie Albion,
When shalt thou see, emong thy shepheards all,
Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath

*The signature to this poem is L. B., that is, Lodowick Bryskett. TODD.

Envie could touch for vertuous life and skill;
Curteous, valiant, and liberall.

Behold the sacred Pales, where with haire
Untrust she sitts, in shade of yonder hill.
And her faire face, bent sadly downe, doth send
A floud of teares to bathe the earth; and there
Doth call the heav'ns despightfull, envious,
Cruell his fate, that made so short an end
Of that same life, well worthie to have bene
Prolongd with many yeares, happie and famous.
The Nymphs and Öreades her round about
Do sit lamenting on the grassie grene;
And with shrill cries, beating their whitest brests,
Accuse the direfull dart that death sent out
To give the fatall stroke. The starres they blame,
That deafe or carelesse seeme at their request.
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun;
They leave their cristall springs, where they wont
frame

Sweet bowres of myrtel twigs and lawrel faire,
To sport themselves free from the scorching sun.
And now the hollow caves where horror darke
Doth dwell, whence banisht is the gladsome aire,
They seeke; and there in mourning spend their

time

With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle and barke,

And seem to beare a bourdon to their plaint.

Lycon. Phillisides is dead. O dolefull ryme! Why should my toong expresse thee? who is left Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint, Lycon unfortunate! What spitefull fate, What lucklesse destinie, hath thee bereft Of thy chief comfort; of thy onely stay! Where is become thy wonted happie state, (Alas!) wherein through many a hill and dale, Through pleasant woods, and many an unknowne Along the bankes of many silver streames, [way, Thou with him yodest; and with him didst scale The craggie rocks of th' Alpes and Appenine ! Still with the Muses sporting, while those beames Of vertue kindled in his noble brest, Which after did so gloriously forth shine! But (woe is me !) they now yquenched are All suddeinly, and death hath them opprest. Loe father Neptune, with sad countenance, How he sitts mourning on the strond now bare, Yonder, where th' Ocean with his rolling waves The white feete washeth (wailing this mischance) Of Dover cliffes. 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 fruitfull Severne, with the rest are come To helpe their lord to mourne, and eke to see The dolefull sight, and sad pomp funerall, Of the dead corps passing through his kingdome. And all their heads, with cypres gyrlonds crown'd, With wofull shrikes salute him great and small.

Eke wailfull Eccho, forgetting her deare Narcissus, their last accents doth resownd.

Colin. Phillisides is dead. O lucklesse age; O widow world; O brookes and fountains cleere; O hills, O dales, O woods, that oft have rong With his sweet caroling, which could asswage The fiercest wrath of tygre or of beare: Ye Silvans, Fawnes, and Satyres, that emong These thickets oft have daunst after his pipe; Ye Nymphs and Nayades with golden heare, That oft have left your purest cristall springs To harken to his layes, that coulden wipe Away all griefe and sorrow from your harts: Alas! who now is left that like him sings? When shall you heare againe like harmonie? So sweet a sownd who to you now imparts? Loe where engraved by his hand yet lives The name of Stella in yonder bay tree. Happie name! happie tree! faire may you grow, And spred your sacred branch, which honor gives To famous Emperours, and Poets crowne. Unhappie flock that wander scattred now, What marvell if through grief ye woxen leane, Forsake your food, and hang your heads adowne! For such a shepheard never shall you guide, Whose parting hath of weale bereft you cleane. Lycon. Phillisides is dead. O happie sprite, That now in heav'n with blessed soules doest bide:

Looke down a while from where thou sitst above,
And see how busie shepheards be to endite
Sad songs of grief, their sorrowes to declare,
And gratefull memory of their kynd love.
Behold my selfe with Colin, gentle swaine,
(Whose lerned Muse thou cherisht most whyleare,)
Where we, thy name recording, seeke to ease
The inward torment and tormenting paine,
That thy departure to us both hath bred;
Ne can each others sorrow yet appease.
Behold the fountains now left desolate,

And withred grasse with cypres boughes be spred;
Behold these floures which on thy grave we strew;
Which, faded, shew the givers faded state,
(Though eke they shew their fervent zeale and pure,)
Whose onely comfort on thy welfare grew.
Whose praiers importune shall the heav'ns for ay,
That, to thy ashes, rest they may assure:
That learnedst shepheards honor may thy name
With yeerly praises, and the Nymphs alway
Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowres;
And that for ever may endure thy fame.
[steep

Colin. The Sun (lo!) hastned hath his face to In western waves; and th' aire with stormy showres Warnes us to drive homewards our silly sheep: Lycon, lett's rise, and take of them good keep.

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AN ELEGIE,

OR FRIENDS PASSION, FOR HIS ASTROPHILL.

WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY KNIGHT, LORD GOVERNOUR OF FLUSHING*.

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