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 désarts 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 better 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 eic,
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.
This word (was slaine) straightway did move,
And natures inward life strings twitch;
The skie immediately above
Was dimd with hideous clouds of pitch,
The wrastling winds from out the ground
Fild all the aire with ratling sound.
The bending trees exprest a grone,
And sigh'd the sorrow of his fall;
The forrest beasts made ruthfull mone,
The birds did tune their mourning call,
And Philomell for Astrophill
Unto her notes annext a phill.
The Turtle dove with tunes of ruthe
Shewd feeling passion of his death;
Me thought she said, I tell thee truthe,
Was never he that drew in breath
Unto his love more trustie found,
Than he for whom our griefs abound.
The swan, that was in presence heere,
Began his funerall dirge to sing:
Good things (quoth he) may scarce appeere,
But passe away with speedie wing.
This mortall life as death is tride,
And death gives life; and so he di'de.
The generall sorrow that was made,
Among the creatures of each kinde,
Fired the Phoenix where she laide,
Her ashes flying with the winde,
So as I might with reason see,
That such a Phoenix nere should bee.
Haply the cinders, driven about,
May breede an offspring neere that kinde
But hardly a peere to that, I doubt;
It cannot sinke into my minde,
That under branches ere can bee
Of worth and value as the tree.
The Egle markt with pearcing sight
The mournfull habite of the place,
And parted thence with mounting flight
To signifie to Jove the case,
What sorrow nature doth sustaine
For Astrophill by envie slaine.
And while I followed with mine eie
The flight the Egle upward tooke,
All things did vanish by and by,
And disappeared from my looke:
The trees, beasts, birds, and grove was gone;
So was the friend that made this mone.
This spectacle had firmly wrought
A deepe compassion in my spright;
My molting hart issude, me thought,
In streames forth at mine eies aright:
And here my pen is forst to shrinke,
My teares discollor so mine inke.
ΑΝ ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ
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
lore,
And friendly care obscurde in secret brest,
And love that envie in thy life supprest,
Thy deere life done, and death, hath doubled
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 time-
lesse fate.
Drawne was thy race aright from princely
[gave, Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that nature The common mother that all creatures have,) Doth vertue show, 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; [nor time; The heavens made hast, and staid nor yeers,
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime,
Thy will, thy words; thy words the seales of
truth.
Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee
thence,
[kings;
To treat from kings with those more great than
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence!
Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee
call,
Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and
ends,
And her defence, for whom we labor all.
There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,
In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe; [might: Thy soule and spright enrich the heavens above.
Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes
Thy rising day saw never wofull night,
But past with praise from of this worldly
Back to the campe, by thee that day was
Thy liberall hart imbalmed in gratefull teares, Yoong sighes, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy fall:
Envie her sting, and spite hath left her gall; Malice her selfe a mourning garment weares. [fame; First thine owne death, and after thy long That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell; Teares to the soldiers, the proud Castilians Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time! [rine, Whose vertues, wounded by my worthlesse Let Angels speake, and heaven thy praises tell.
Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught.
Whose deth (though life) we rue, and wrong, and al in vain do mone:
SILENCE augmenteth grief, writing encreaseth He, onely like himselfe, was second unto none, rage, the wonder of our age; Stald are my thoughts, which lov'd, and lost, Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with losse, not him, waile they, that fill the frost ere now, [quick, I know not how. world with cries; [ladder to the skies. Enrag'de I write, I know not what: dead, Death slue not him, but he made death his Hard harted mindes relent, and rigors teares Now sinke of sorrow I, who live; the more the abound, [no fault she found; [thred is al to long, And envie strangely rues his end, in whom Who wishing death, whom deth denies, whose Knowledge her light hath lost, valor hath Who tied to wretched life, who lookes for no slaine her knight; [worlds delight. Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the Place pensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride; [my spring tide: Time crieth out, My ebbe is come; his life was Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her reports; [sundry sorts. Ech living wight laments his lacke, and all in He was (wo worth that word!) to ech well thinking minde [vertue ever shinde, A spotlesse friend, a matchles man, whose Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, [deepest works of wit. Highest conceits, longest foresights, and
reliefe,
[ending griefe.
Must spend my ever dying daies in never
Harts ease and onely I, like parallels run on,
Whose equall length keep equall bredth, and
never meet in one; [sorrowes cell,
Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my
Shall not run out, though leake they will, fo
liking him so well.
Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking
dreames;
[thy beames!
Farewell, sometimes enjoyed joy; eclipsed are
Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts which quiet-
nes brings foorth; [minds of woorth.
And farewel friendships sacred league, uniting
And farewell mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin mindes, [assignes; [knowes not how to kill, And all sports, which, for lives restore, varietie And endlese griefe, which deads my life, yet Let all, that sweete is, voyd; in me no mirth Go, seeke that haples tombe; which if ye hap may dwell: [content, farewell! to finde, [so good a minde. Phillip, the cause of all this woe, my lives Salute the stones, that keep the lims that held
AMORETTI AND EPITHALAMION.
WRITTEN NOT LONG SINCE BY
SIR ROBART NEEDHAM, KNIGHT.
SIR, to gratulate your safe return from Ire- her former perfection long wished for in land, I had nothing so readie, nor thought any Englande, nowe at the length crossing the thing so meete, as these sweete conceited Seas in your happy companye, (though to Sonets, the deede of that wel deserving gen- your selfe unknowne) seemeth to make choyse tleman, maister Edmond Spenser: whose name of you, as meetest to give her deservea sufficiently warranting the worthinesse of the countenaunce, after her retourne: entertaine work, I do more confidently presume to her, then, (Right worshipfull) in sorte best bepublish it in his absence, under your name, to seeming your gentle minde, and her merite, whom (in my poore opinion) the patronage and take in worth my good will herein, who therof doth in some respectes properly apper- seeke no more but to shew my selfe yours in taine. For, besides your judgement and e- all dutifull affection. lighte in learned poesie, this gentle Muse, for
DARKE is the day, when Phœbus face is
shrowded,
And weaker sights may wander soone astray:
But, when they see his glorious raies unclowded,
With steddy steps they keepe the perfect way:
So, while this Muse in forraine landes doth stay,
Invention weepes, and pens are cast aside;
The time, like night, deprivd of chearefull day;
And few do write, but (ah!) too soone may slide.
Then, hie thee home, that art our perfect guide,
And with thy wit illustrate Englands fame,
Daunting thereby our neighboures auncient pride,
That do, for poesie, challendge cheefest name :
So we that live, and ages that succeede,
With great applause thy learned works shall
reede.
G. W. SENIOR.
Ah! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine,
Pyping to shepherds thy sweete rounde laies:
Or whether singing, in some lofty vaine,
Heroick deedes of past or present daies;
Or whether in thy lovely mistris praise,
Thou list to exercise thy learned quill;
Thy muse hath got such grace and power to
please,
With rare invention, bewtified by skill,
As who therein can ever joy their fill!
O! therefore let that happy muse proceede
To clime the height of Vertues sacred hill,
Where endles honour shall be made thy meede:
Because no malice of succeeding daies
Can rase those records of thy lasting praise.
G. W. I.
Fresh Love, that long hath slept in cheeriesse
bower,
HAPPY, ye leaves! when as those lilly hands,
Which hold my life in their dead-doing might, Wils him awake, and soone about him dight
Shall handle you, and hold in loves soft bands, His wanton wings and darts of deadly power.
Lyke captives trembling at the victors sight. For lusty Spring now in his timely howre
And happy lines! on which, with starry light, Is ready to come forth, him to receive;
Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to And warnes the Earth with divers-colord flowre
look,
To decke hir selfe, and her faire mantle weave.
Then you, faire flowre! in whom fresh youth
doth raine,
And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright,
Written with teares in harts close-bleeding
book.
And happy rymes! bath'd in the sacred brooke
Of Helicon, whence she derived is;
When ye behold that Angels blessed looke,
My soules long-lacked foode, my heavens blis;
Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please
alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none!
Unquiet thought! whom at the first I bred
Of th' inward bale of my love-pined hart;
And sithens have with sighes and sorrowes fed,
Till greater then my wombe thou woxen art:
Breake forth at length out of the inner part,
In which thou lurkest lyke to vipers brood;
And seeke some succour both to ease my smart,
And also to sustayne thy selfe with food.
But, if in presence of that fayrest proud
Thou chance to come, fall lowly at her feet;
And, with meeke humblesse and afflicted mood,
Pardon for thee, and grace for me, intreat :
Which if she graunt, then live, and my love
cherish :
[perish.
If not, die soone; and I with thee will
Prepare your selfe new love to entertaine.
Rudely thou wrongest my deare harts desire,
In finding fault with her too portly pride:
The thing which I doo most in her admire,
Is of the world unworthy most envide:
For in those lofty lookes is close implide,
Scorn of base things, and sdeigne of foule dis-
honor:
Thretning rash eies which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they ne dare to looke upon her.
Such pride is praise; such portlinesse is
honor;
That boldned innocence beares in hir eies;
And her faire countenance, like a goodly ban-
Spreds in defiaunce of all enemies. [ner,
Was never in this world ought worthy tride,
Without some spark of such self-pleasing
pride.
Be nought dismayd that her unmoved mind
Doth still persist in her rebellious pride:
Such love, not lyke to lusts of baser kynd,
The harder wonne, the firmer will abide.
The durefull Oake, whose sap is not yet dride,
The soverayne beauty which I doo admyre,
Witnesse the world how worthy to be prayzed! But, when it once doth burne, it doth divide
Is long ere it conceive the kindling fyre;
The light whereof hath kindled heavenly fyre Great heat, and makes his flames to heaven
In my fraile spirit, by her from basenesse So hard it is to kindle new desire [aspire.
[dazed, In gentle brest, that shall endure for ever:
That, being now with her huge brightnesse Deepe is the wound, that dints the parts entire
Base thing I can no more endure to view:
But, looking still on her, I stand amazed
At wondrous sight of so celestiall hew. [dew,
So when my toung would speak her praises
It stopped is with thoughts astonishment;
And, when my pen would write her titles true,
It ravisht is with fancies wonderment:
Yet in my hart I then both speake and write
The wonder that my wit cannot endite.
With chast affects that naught but death can
Then thinke not long in taking litle paine
To knit the knot, that ever shall remaine.
Fayre eyes! the myrrour of my mazed hart,
What wondrous vertue is contaynd in you,
The which both lyfe and death forth from you
Into the object of your mighty view? [dart,
For, when ve mildly looke with lovely hew,
Then is my soule with life and love inspired:
But when ye lowre, or looke on me askew,
Then doe I die, as one with lightning fyred.
But, since that lyfe is more then death desyred.
|