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 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,

sweete

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

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

prunes

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 cheare,
What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that
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 Oreades 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 thei.
time

With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle an 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 unknown 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 suddenly, 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; ( 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 A way 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 sy,
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.
L. B.

Virtute summa: cætera fortuna.

To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death,
And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine,
Is far beyond the powre of mortall line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.

Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore,
And friendly care obscurde in secret brest,
And love that envie in thy life supprest,
Thy deere life done, and death hath doubled more.

And I, that in thy time, and living state,
Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought,
As one that seeld the rising sun hath sought,
With words and teares now waile thy timelesse fate.

Drawne was thy race aright from princely line,
Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that nature gave,

The common mother that all creatures have,) Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine.

A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde, That God thee gave, who found it now too deere For this base world, and hath resumde it neere, To sit in skies, and sort with powres divine.

Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth; The heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers, nor The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime, [time; Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of truth.

Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence, To treat from kings with those more great than kings;