So all with rufull spectacles is fild,
Fit for Megera or Persephone;
But I that in true tragedies am skild,
The flowre of wit, finde nought to busie me:
Therefore I mourne, and pitifully mone,
Because that mourning matter I have none.-
Then gan she wofully to waile, and wring
Her wretched hands in lamentable wise;
And all her sisters, thereto answering,
Threw forth lowd shrieks and drerie dolefull cries.
So rested she and then the next in rew
Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.
Where be the sweete delights of learnings treasure,
That wont with comick sock to beautefie
The painted theaters, and fill with pleasure
The listners eyes and eares with melodie;
In which I late was wont to raine as queene,
And maske in mirth with graces well beseene?
O! all is gone; and all that goodly glee,
Which wont to be the glorie of gay wits,
Is layd abed, and no where now to see;
And in her roome unseemly Sorrow sits,
With hollow browes and greisly countenaunce,
Marring my ioyous gentle dalliaunce.
And him beside sits ugly Barbarisme,
And brutish Ignorance, ycrept of late
Out of dredd darknes of the deepe abysme,
Where being bredd, he light and Heaven does hate:
They in the mindes of men now tyrannize,
And the faire scene with rudenes foule disguize.
All places they with follie have possest,
And with vaine toyes the vulgar entertaine;
But me have banished, with all the rest
That whilome wont to wait upon my traine,
Fine Counterfesaunce, and unhurtfull Sport,
Delight, and Laughter, deckt in seemly sort.
All these, and all that els the comick stage
With seasoned wit and goodly pleasance graced,
By which mans life in his likest imáge
Was limned forth, are wholly now defaced;
And those sweete wits, which wont the like to frame,
Are now despizd, and made a laughing game.
And he, the man whom Nature selfe had made
To mock her selfe, and Truth to imitate,
With kindly counter under mimick shade,
Our pleasant Willy, ah! is dead of late:
With whom all ioy and iolly meriment
Is also deaded, and in dolour drent.
In stead thereof scoffing Scurrilitie,
And scornfull Folly with Contempt is crept,
Rolling in rymes of shamelesse ribaudrie
Without regard, or due decorum kept;
Each idle wit at will presumes to make,
And doth the learneds taske upon him take.
But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen
Large streames of honnie and sweete nectar flowe,
Scorning the boldnes of such base-borne men,
Which dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe;
Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell,
Than so himselfe to mockerie to sell.
So am I made the servant of the manie,
And laughing stocke of all that list to scorne,
Not honoured nor cared for of anie;
But loath'd of losels as a thing forlorne:
Therefore I mourne and sorrow with the rest,
Untill my cause of sorrow be redrest.—
Therewith she lowdly did lament and shrike,
Pouring forth streames of teares abundantly;
And all her sisters, with compassion like,
The breaches of her singulfs did supply.
So rested shee: and then the next in rew
Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.
Like as the dearling of the Summers pryde,
Faire Philomele, when Winters stormie wrath
The goodly fields, that earst so gay were dyde
In colours divers, quite despoyled hath,
All comfortlesse doth hide her chearelesse head
During the time of that her widowhead:
So we, that earst were wont in sweet accord
All places with our pleasant notes to fill,
Whilest favourable times did us afford
Free libertie to chaunt our charmes at will;
All comfortlesse upon the bated bow,
Like wofull culvers, doo sit wayling now.
For far more bitter storme than winters stowre
The beautie of the world hath lately wasted,
And those fresh buds, which wont so faire to flowre,
Hath marred quite, and all their blossoms blasted;
And those yong plants, which wont with fruit t'abound
Now without fruite or leaves are to be found.
A stonie coldnesse hath benumbd the sence
And livelie spirits of each living wight,
And dimd with darknesse their intelligence,
Darknesse more than Cymerians daylie night:
And monstrous Error, flying in the ayre,
Hath mard the face of all that semed fayre.
Image of hellish horrour, Ignorance,
Borne in the bosome of the black abysse,
And fed with Furies milke for sustenaunce
Of his weake infancie, begot amisse
By yawning Sloth on his owne mother Night;
So hee his sonnes both syre and brother hight.
He, armd with blindnesse and with boldnes stout,
(For blind is bold) hath our fayre light defaced;
And, gathering unto him a ragged rout
Of Faunes and Satyres, hath our dwellings raced;
And our chast bowers, in which all vertue rained,
With brutishnesse and beastlie filth hath stained.
The sacred springs of horsefoot Helicon,
So oft bedeawed with our learned layes,
And speaking streames of pure Castalion,
The famous witnesse of our wonted praise,
They trampled have with their fowle footings trade,
And like to troubled puddles have them made.
Our pleasant groves, which planted were with paines,
That with our musick wont so oft to ring,
And arbors sweet, in which the shepheards swaines
Were wont so oft their pastoralls to sing,
They have cut downe, and all their pleasaunce mard,
That now no pastorall is to bee hard.
In stead of them, fowle goblins and shriek-owles
With fearfull howling do all places fill;
And feeble Eccho now laments, and howles,
The dreadfull accents of their outcries shrill.
So all is turned into wildernesse,
Whilest Ignorance the Muses doth oppresse.
And I, whose ioy was earst with spirit full
To teach the warbling pipe to sound aloft,
(My spirits now dismayd with sorrow dull)
Doo mone my miserie with silence soft.
Therefore I mourne and waile incessantly,
Till please the Heavens affoord me remedy.-
Therewith shee wayled with exceeding woe,
And pitious lamentation did make;
And all her sisters, seeing her doo soe,
With equall plaints her sorrowe did partake.
So rested shee: and then the next in rew
Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.
Whoso hath in the lap of soft Delight
Been long time luld, and fed with pleasures sweet,
Fearles through his own fault or Fortunes spight
To tumble into sorrow and regreet,
Yf chaunce him fall into calamitie,
Finds greater burthen of his miserie.
So wee that earst in ioyance did abound,
And in the bosome of all blis did sit,
Like virgin queenes, with laurell garlands cround,
For vertues meed and ornament of wit;
Sith Ignorance our kingdome did confound,
Be now become most wretched wightes on ground.
And in our royall thrones, which lately stood
In th' hearts of men to rule them carefully,
He now hath placed his accursed brood,
By him begotten of fowle Infamy;
Blind Error, scornefull Follie, and base Spight,
Who hold by wrong that wee should have by right.
They to the vulgar sort now pipe and sing,
And make them merrie with their fooleries;
They cherelie chaunt, and rymes at randon fling,
The fruitfull spawne of their ranke fantasies;
They feede the eares of fooles with flattery,
And good men blame, and losels magnify.
All places they doo with their toy es possesse,
And raigne in liking of the multitude;
The schooles they fill with fond new-fanglenesse,
And sway in court with pride and rashnes rude;
Mongst simple shepheards they do boast their skill,
And say their musicke matcheth Phoebus quill.
The noble hearts to pleasures they allure,
And tell their prince that learning is but vaine;
Faire ladies loves they spot with thoughts impure,
And gentle mindes with lewd delights distaine;
Clerks they to loathly idlenes entice,
And fill their bookes with discipline of vice.
So every where they rule, and tyrannize,
For their usurped kingdomes maintenaunce,
The whiles we silly maides, whom they dispize
And with reprochfull scorne discountenaunce,
From our owne native heritage exilde,
Walk through the world of every one revilde.
Nor anie one doth care to call us in,
Or once vouchsafeth us to entertaine,
Unlesse some one perhaps of gentle kin,
For pitties sake, compassion our paine,
And yeeld us some reliefe in this distresse;
Yet to be so reliev'd is wretchednesse.
So wander we all carefull comfortlesse,
Yet none doth care to comfort us at all;
So seeke we helpe our sorrow to redresse,
Yet none vouchsafes to answere to our call;
Therefore we mourne and pittilesse complaine,
Because none living pittieth our paine.-
With that she wept and wofullie waymented, That naught on Earth her griefe might pacifie; And all the rest her dolefull din augmented With shrikes, and groanes, and grievous agonie. So ended shee: and then the next in rew Began her piteous plaint, as doth ensew.
Ye gentle spirits! breathing from above,
Where ye in Venus silver bowre were bred,
Thoughts halfe devine, full of the fire of love,
With beawtie kindled, and with pleasure fed,
Which ye now in securitie possesse,
Forgetfull of your former heavinesse:
Now change the tenor of your joyous layes,
With which ye use your loves to deifie,
And blazon foorth an earthlie beauties praise
Above the compasse of the arched skie:
Now change your praises into piteous cries,
And eulogies turne into elegies.
Such as ye wont, whenas those bitter stounds
Of raging love first gan you to torment,
And launch your hearts with lamentable wounds
Of secret sorrow and sad languishment,
Before your loves did take you unto grace;
Those now renew, as fitter for this place.
For I that rule, in measure moderate,
The tempest of that stormie passion,
And use to paint in rimes the troublons state
Of lovers life in likest fashion,
Am put from practise of my kiudlie skill,
Banisht by those that Love with leawdnes fill.
Love wont to be schoolmaster of my skill,
And the devicefull matter of my song;
Sweete Love devoyd of villanie or ill,
But pure and spotles, as at first he sprong
Out of th' Almighties bosome, where he nests ;
From thence infused into mortall brests.
Such high conceipt of that celestiall fire,
The base-borne brood of Blindnes cannot gesse,
Ne ever dare their dunghill thoughts aspire
Unto so loftie pitch of perfectnesse,
But rime at riot, and doo rage in love;
Yet little wote what doth thereto behove.
Faire Cytheree, the mother of Delight,
And queene of beautie, now thou maist go pack;
For lo! thy kingdome is defaced quight,
Thy scepter rent, and power put to wrack;
And thy gay sonne, the winged god of love,
May now goe prune his plumes like ruffed dove.
And ye three twins, to light by Venus brought,
The sweete companions of the Muses late,
From whom whatever thing is goodly thought,
Doth borrow grace, the fancie to aggrate;
Go beg with us, and be companions still,
As heretofore of good, so now of ill.
For neither you nor we shall anie more
Find entertainment or in court or schoole :
For that, which was accounted heretofore
The learneds meede, is now lent to the foole;
He sings of love, and maketh loving layes,
And they him heare, and they him highly prayse.
With that she powred foorth a brackish flood
Of bitter teares, and made exceeding mone;
And all her sisters, seeing her sad mood,
With lowd laments her answered all at one.
So ended she: and then the next in rew
Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.
To whom shall I my evill case complaine,
Or tell the anguish of my inward smart,
Sith none is left to remedie my paine,
Or deignes to pitie a perplexed hart;
But rather seekes my sorrow to augment
With fowle reproach, and cruell banishment?
For they, to whom I used to applie
The faithfull service of my learned skill,
The goodly off-spring of loves progenie,
That wont the world with famous acts to fill;
Whose living praises in heroick style,
It is my chiefe profession to compyle;
They, all corrupted through the rust of time,
That doth all fairest things on Earth deface,
Or through unnoble sloth, or sinfull crime,
That doth degenerate the noble race;
Have both desire of worthie deeds forlorne,
And name of learning utterly doo scorne.
Ne doo they care to have the auncestrie
Of th' old heroës memorizde anew ;
Ne doo they care that late posteritie
Should know their names, or speak their praises dew,
But die forgot from whence at first they sprong,
As they themselves shal be forgot ere long.
What bootes it then to come from glorious
Forefathers, or to have been nobly bredd ?
What oddes twixt Irus and old Inachus,
Twixt best and worst, when both alike are dedd ;
If none of neither mention should make,
Nor out of dust their memories awake?
Or who would ever care to doo brave deed,
Or strive in vertue others to excell;
If none should yeeld him his deserved meed,
Due praise, that is the spur of dooing well?
For if good were not praised more than ill,
None would choose goodnes of his owne freewill.
Therefore the Nurse of Vertue I am hight,
And golden Trompet of Eternitie,
That lowly thoughts lift up to Heavens hight,
And mortall men have powre to deifie :
Bacchus and Hercules I raisd to Heaven,
And Charlemaine amongst the starris seaven.
But now I will my golden clarion rend,
And will henceforth immortalize no more;
Sith I no more find worthie to commend
For prize of value, or for learned lore:
For noble peeres, whom I was wont to raise,
Now onely seeke for pleasure, nought for praise.
Their great revenues all in sumptuous pride
They spend, that nought to learning they may spare;
And the rich fee, which poets wont divide,
Now parasites and sycophants doo share:
Therefore I mourne and endlesse sorrow make,
Both for my selfe and for my sisters sake.—
With that she lowdly gan to waile and shrike,
And from her eyes a sea of teares did powre;
And all her sisters, with compassion like,
Did more increase the sharpnes of her showre.
So ended she: and then the next in rew
Began her plaint, as doth herein ensew.
What wrath of gods, or wicked influence
Of starres conspiring wretched men t' afflict,
Hath powrd on Earth this noyous pestilence,
That mortall mindes doth inwardly infect
With love of blindnesse and of ignorance,
To dwell in darknesse without sovenance?
What difference twixt man and beast is left,
When th' heavenlie light of knowledge is put out,
And th' ornaments of wisdome are bereft ?
Then wandreth he in error and in doubt,
Unweeting of the danger bee is in,
Through fleshes frailtie, and deceipt of sin.
In this wide world in which they wretches stray,
It is the onelie comfort which they have,
It is their light, their loadstarre, and their day;
But Hell, and darknesse, and the grislie grave,
Is Ignorance, the enemy of Grace,
That mindes of men borne heavenlie doth debace.
Through knowledge we behould the worlds creation,
How in his cradle first he fostred was;
And judge of Natures cunning operation,
How things she formed of a formlesse mas:
By knowledge wee do learne our selves to knowe,
And what to man, and what to God, wee owe.,
From hence wee mount aloft unto the skie,
And looke into the christall firmament;
There we behold the Heavens great hierarchie,
The starres pure light, the spheres swift movement,
The spirites and intelligences fayre,
And angels waighting on th' Almighties chayre.
And there, with humble minde and high insight,
Th' Eternall Makers maiestie wee viewe,
His love, his truth, his glorie, and his might,
And mercie more then mortall men can vew.
O soveraigne lord, O soveraigne happinesse,
To see thee, and thy mercie measurelesse !
Such happines have they, that do embrace
The precepts of my heavenlie discipline;
But shame and sorrow and accursed case
Have they, that scorne the schoole of arts divine,
And banish me, which do professe the skill
To make men heavenly wise through humbled will.
However yet they mee despise and spight,
I feede on sweet contentment of my thought,
And, please my selfe with mine owne selfe-delight,
In contemplation of things heavenlie wrought:
So, loathing Earth, I looke up to the sky,
And, being driven hence, I thether fly.
Thence I behold the miserie of men,
Which want the bliss that wisedom would them
And like brute beasts doo lie in loathsome den
Of ghostly darknes, and of gastlie dreed:
For whom I mourne, and for my selfe complaine,
And for my sisters eake whom they disdaine.-
With that shee wept and waild so pityouslie,
As if her eyes had beene two springing wells;
And all the rest, her sorrow to supplie,
Did throw forth shriekes and cries and dreery yells.
So ended shee; and then the next in rew
Began her mournfull plaint, as doth ensew.
A dolefull case desires a dolefull song, Without vaine art or curious complements; And squallid Fortune, into basenes flong, Doth scorne the pride of wonted ornaments. Then fittest are these ragged rimes for mee, To tell my sorrowes that exceeding bee.
For the sweet numbers and melodious measures,
With which I wont the winged words to tie,
And make a tunefull diapase of pleasures,
Now being let to runne at libertie
By those which have no skill to rule them right,
Have now quite lost their naturall delight.
Heapes of huge words uphoorded hideously,
With horrid sound though having little sence,
They thinke to be chiefe praise of poëtry;
And, thereby wanting due intelligence,
Have mard the face of goodly poësie,
And made a monster of their fantasie.
Whilom in ages past none might professe
But princes and high priests that secret skill;
The sacred lawes therein they wont expresse,
And with deepe oracles their verses fill:
Then was shee held in soveraigne dignitie,
And made the noursling of nobilitie.
But now nor prince nor priest doth her maintayne,
But suffer her prophaned for to bee
Of the base vulgar, that with hands uncleane
Dares to pollute her hidden mysterie;
And treadeth under foote hir holie things,
Which was the care of Kesars and of kings.
One onelie lives, her ages ornament,
And myrrour of her Makers maiestie,
That with rich bountie, and deare cherishment,
Supports the praise of noble poësie;
Ne onelie favours them which it professe,
But is her selfe a peereles poëtesse.
Most peereles prince, most peereles poëtesse,
The true Pandora of all heavenly graces,
Divine Elisa, sacred emperesse!
Live she for ever, and her royall p'laces
Be fild with praises of divinest wits,
That her eternize with their heavenlie writs! ·
He shall inspire my verse with gentle mood
Of poets prince, whether he woon beside
Faire Xanthus sprincled with Chimæras blood;
Or in the woods of Astery abide;
Or whereas Mount Parnasse, the Muses brood,
Doth his broad forhead like two hornes divide,
And the sweete waves of sounding Castaly
With liquid foote doth slide downe easily.
Wherefore ye sisters, which the glorie bee
Of the Picrian streames, fayre Naiades,
Go too; and, dauncing all in companie,
Adorne that god: and thou holie Pales,
To whome the honest care of husbandrie
Returneth by continuall successe,
Have care for to pursue his footing light [dight.
Throgh the wide woods, and groves, with green leaves
Professing thee I lifted am aloft
Betwixt the forrest wide and starrie sky:
And thou, most dread Octavius, which oft
To learned wits giv'st courage worthily,
O come, thou sacred childe, come sliding soft,
And favour my beginnings graciously:
For not these leaves do sing that dreadfull stound,
When giants bloud did staine Phlegræan ground.
Nor how th' halfe horsy people, Centaures hight,
Fought with the bloudie Lapithaes at bord;
Nor how the East with tyranous despight
Burnt th' Attick towres, and people slew with sword;
Nor how Mount Athos through exceeding might
Was digged downe; nor yron bands abord
The Pontick sea by their huge navy cast;
My volume shall renowne, so long since past.
Nor Hellespont trampled with horses feete,
When flocking Persians did the Greeks affray ;
But my soft Muse, as for her power more meete,
Delights (with Phoebus friendly leave) to play
An easie running verse with tender feete.
And thou, dread sacred child, to thee alway,
Let everlasting lightsome glory strive,
Through the worlds endles ages to survive.
And let an happie roome remaine for thee
Others the utmost boughs of trees doe crop,
And brouze the woodbine twiggés that freshly bud;
This with full bit doth catch the utmost top
Of some soft willow, or new growen stud;
This with sharpe teeth the bramble leaves doth lop,
And chaw the tender prickles in her cud,
The whiles another high doth overlooke
Her owne like image in a christiall brooke.
O the great happines, which shepheards have,
Who so loathes not too much the poore estate,
With minde that ill use doth before deprave,
Ne measures all things by the costly rate
Of riotise, and semblants outward brave!
No such sad cares, as wont to macerate
And rend the greedie mindes of covetous men,
Do ever creepe into the shepheards den.
Ne cares he if the fleece, which him arayes,
Be not twice steeped in Assyrian dye;
Ne glistering of golde, which underlayes
The summer beames, doe blinde his gazing eye;
Ne pictures beautie, nor the glauncing rayes
Of precious stones, whence no good commeth by;
Ne yet his cup embost with imagery
Of Boetus or of Alcons vanity.
Ne ought the whelky pearles esteemeth hee,
Which are from Indian seas brought far away:
But with pure brest from carefull sorrow free,
On the soft grasse his limbs doth oft display,
In sweete spring time, when flowres varietie
With sundrie colours paints the sprinckled lay;
There, lying all at ease from guile or spight,
With pype of fennie reedes doth him delight.
There he, lord of himselfe, with palme bedight,
His looser locks doth wrap in wreath of vine:
There his milk-dropping goats be his delight,
And fruitefull Paies, and the forrest greene,
And darkesome caves in pleasaunt vallies pight,
Wheras continuall shade is to be seene,
And where fresh springing wells, as christall neate,
Do alwayes flow, to quench his thirstie heate,
O! who can lead then a more happie life
Mongst heavenly ranks, where blessed soules do rest; Than he, that with cleane minde, and heart sincere,
And let long lasting life with ioyous glee,
As thy due meede that thou deservest best,
Hereafter many yeares remembred be
Amongst good men, of whom thou oft are blest;
Live thon for ever in all happinesse!
But let us turne to our first businesse.
The fiery Sun was mounted now on hight
Up to the heavenly towers, and shot each where
Out of his golden charet glistering light;
And fayre Aurora, with her rosie heare,
The hatefull darknes now had put to flight;
When as the shepheard, seeing day appeare,
His little goats gan drive out of their stalls,
To feede abroad, where pasture best befalls.
To an high mountaines top he with them went, Where thickest grasse did cloath the open hills: They now amongst the woods and thickets ment, Now in the valleies wandring at their wills, [scent; Spread themselves farre abroad through each deSome on the soft greene grasse feeding their fills; Some, clambring through the hollow cliffes on hy, Nibble the bushie shrubs which growe thereby.
No greedy riches knows nor bloudie strife,
No deadly fight of warlick fleete doth feare;
Ne runs in perill of foes cruell knife,
That in the sacred temples he may reare
A trophee of his glittering spoyles and treasure,
Or may abound in riches above measure.
Of him his God is worshipt with his sythe,
And not with skill of craftsman polished:
He ioyes in groves, and makes himselfe full blythe
With sundrie flowers in wilde fieldes gathered;
Ne frankincens he from Panchæa buyth:
Sweete Quiet harbours in his harmeles head,
And perfect Pleasure buildes her ioyous bowre,
Free from sad cares, that rich mens hearts devowre.
This all his care, this all his whole indevour,
To this his minde and senses he doth bend,
How he may flow in quiets matchles treasour,
Content with any food that God doth send;
And how his limbs, resolv'd through idle leisour,
Unto sweete sleepe he may securely lend,
In some coole shadow from the scorching heat,
The whiles his flock their chawed cuds do eate
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