The flowre of Sydneyes race, the honour of thy Yet wish their verses might so farre and wide name! [aspire, Whose worthie praise to sing, thy Muses not Extend, that envies rage, nor time, might end But sorrowfull and sad these teares to thee let the same.

fall;

thy fame

A PASTORALL AEGLOGUE

UPON THE

DEATH OF SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT, ETC.

LYCON.

LYCON.

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 jolly 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 1 second will thy song,
And so expresse the sorrowes of my hart.
Colin, Ah Lycon, Lycon! what need skill,
to teach

That others farre excell, yet will I force My selfe to answere thee the best I can, [ name. And honor my base words with his high 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, [long Colin. Phillisides is dead. O harmfull death, A grieved mynd powre forth his plaints? how O deadly harme! Unhappie Albion, Hath the pore turtle gon to school (weenest When shalt thou see, emong thy shepheards all, thou) [each Any so sage, so perfect? Whom unneath 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 Prolonged with many yeares, happie and

To learne to mourne her lost make! No, no,
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
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

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,

With his sweet caroling, which could asswage
The fiercest wrath of Tygre or of Beare:
Ye Silvans, Fawnes, and Satyres, that emong
That deafe or carelesse seeme at their request. These thickets oft have daunst after his pipe;
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun; Ye Nymphs and Nayades with golden heare
They leave their cristall springs, where they That oft have left your purest cristall springs
wont frame
To hearken to his layes, that coulden wipe
Sweet bowres of Myrtel twigs and Lawrel faire, Away all griefe and sorrow from your harts!
Tosport themselves free from the scorching Sun. Alas! who now is left that like him sings?
And now the hollow caves where horror darke When shall you heare againe like harmonie?
Doth dwell, whence banisht is the gladsome So sweet a sownd who to you now imparts
aire,
[their time Loe where engraved by his hand yet lives
They seeke; and there in mourning spend The name of Stella in yonder bay tree.
With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle Happie name! happie tree! faire may you

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 un-
knowne way,
Along the bankes of many silver streames,
Thou with him yodest; and with him didst scale
The craggie rocks of th' Alpes and Appenine!
Still with the Muses sporting, while those
Of vertue kindled in his noble brest, [beames
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 mis-
chance)

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 king-
dome.
[crown'd,
And all their heads, with Cypres gyrlonds
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

grow,

[gives And spred your sacred branch, which honor To famous Emperors 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.
[above,
Looke down a while from where thou sitst
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 why-
leare,)

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 ;
[strew;

Behold these floures which on thy grave we
Which faded, shew the givers faded state, [pure)
(Though eke they shew their fervent zeale and
Whose onely comfort on thy welfare grew.
Whose praiers importune shall the heav'ns for
That, to thy ashes, rest they may assure: [ay,
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.

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

AN ELEGIE,

OR

FRIENDS PASSION, FOR HIS ASTROPHEL.

WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT,

LORD GOVERNOUR OF FLUSHING.

(This Poem was written by Matthew Roydon.)

AN ELEGIE.

O griefe that liest upon my soule,
As heavie as a mount of lead,
The remnant of my life controll,
Consort me quickly with the dead;
Halfe of this hart, this sprite, and will,
Di'de in the brest of Astrophill.

And you, compassionate of my wo,
Gentle birds, beasts, and shadie trees,
I am assurde ye long to kno
What be the sorrowes me agreev's;
Listen
ye then to that insu'th.

And heare a tale of teares and ruthe.
You knew, who knew not Astrophill?
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still!)
Things knowne permit me to renew ;
Of him you know his merit such,
I cannot say, you heare, too much.
Within these woods of Arcadie
He chiefe delight and pleasure tooke,
And on the mountaine Parthenie,
Upon the chrystall liquid brooke,

The Muses met him ev'ry day
That taught him sing, to write, and say.
When he descended downe to the mount,
His personage seemed most divine,
A thousand graces one might count
Upon his lovely cheerfull eine;

To heare him speake and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.
A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face,
The lineaments of Gospell bookes;

I trowe that countenance cannot lie
Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.
Was never eie did see that face,
Was never eare did heare that tong,
Was never minde did minde his grace,
That ever thought the travell long;

But eies, and eares, and ev'ry thought,
Were with his sweete perfections caught.

O God, that such a worthy man,
In whom so rare desarts did raigne,
Desired thus, must leave us than,
And we to wish for him in vaine!

O could the stars that bred that wit,
In force no longer fixed sit!
Then being fild with learned dew,
The Muses willed him to love;
That instrument can aptly shew,
How finely our conceits will move:
As Bacchus opes dissembled harts,
So Love sets out our be.ter parts.

Stella, a Nymph within this wood,
Most rare and rich of heavenly blis,
The highest in his fancie stood,
And she could well demerite this:
Tis likely they acquainted soone;
He was a Sun, and she a Moone.
Our Astrophill did Stella love;
O Stella, vaunt of Astrophill,
Albeit thy graces gods may move,
Where wilt thou finde an Astrophill!
The rose and lillie have their prime,
And so hath beautie but a time.
Although thy beautie do exceed,
In common sight of ev'ry eie.
Yet in his Poesies when we reede,
It is apparant more thereby,

He that hath love and judgement too
Sees more than any other doo.
Then Astrophill hath honord thee;
For when thy bodie is extinct,
Thy graces shall eternall be
And live by vertue of his inke;

For by his verses he doth give
To short-livde beautie aye to live.
Above all others this is hee,
Which erst approoved in his song,
That love and honor might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints! it is no sinne nor blame,
To love a man of vertuous name.
Did never love so sweetly breath
In any mortall brest before,
Did never Muse inspire beneath
A Poets braine with finer store:

He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beautie reard above her height.
Then Pallas afterward attvrde
Our Astrophill with her device,
Whom in his armor heaven admyrde,
As of the nation of the skies;

He sparkled in his armes afarrs,
As he were dight with fierie starrs.
The blaze whereof when Mars beheld,
(An envious eie doth see afar,)
Such majestie (quoth he) is seeld,
Such majestie my mart may mar;
Perhaps this may a suter be,
To set Mars by his deitie.

In this surmize he made with speede
An iron cane, wherein he put.
The thunder that in cloudes do breede;
The flame and bolt togither shut

With privie force burst out againe,
And so our Astrophill was slaine.

569

AN EPITAPH

UPON THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT,

LORD GOVERNOR OF FLUSHING.

(The Authors of the two following poems are unknown.)

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