Part 17
_Naijs._ Neuer were poore distressed Gerles so glad, As when kinde, loued _Corbilus_ we saw, 10 When our much haste vs so much weakned had, That scarcely we our wearied breathes could draw, In this next Groue vnder an aged Tree, So fell a monster lying there we found, As till this day, our eyes did neuer see, Nor euer came on the Elizian ground. Halfe man, halfe Goate, he seem'd to vs in show, His vpper parts our humane shape doth beare, But he's a very perfect Goat below, His crooked Cambrils arm'd with hoofe and hayre. 20
_Claia._ Through his leane Chops a chattering he doth make Which stirres his staring beastly driueld Beard, And his sharpe hornes he seem'd at vs to shake, Canst thou then blame vs though we are afeard.
_Corbilus._ Surely it seemes some Satyre this should be, Come and goe back and guide me to the place, Be not affraid, ye are safe enough with me, Silly and harmlesse be their Siluan Race.
_Claia._ How _Corbilus_; a Satyre doe you say? How should he ouer high _Parnassus_ hit? 30 Since to these fields there's none can finde the way, But onely those the Muses will permit.
_Corbilus._ 'Tis true; but oft, the sacred Sisters grace The silly Satyre, by whose plainnesse, they Are taught the worlds enormities to trace, By beastly mens abhominable way; Besyde he may be banisht his owne home By this base time, or be so much distrest, That he the craggy by-clift Hill hath clome To finde out these more pleasant Fields of rest. 40
_Naijs._ Yonder he sits, and seemes himselfe to bow At our approach, what doth our presence awe him? Me thinks he seemes not halfe so vgly now, As at the first, when I and _Claia_ saw him.
_Corbilus._ 'Tis an old Satyre, Nimph, I now discerne, Sadly he sits, as he were sick or lame, His lookes would say, that we may easly learne How, and from whence, he to _Elizium_ came. Satyre, these Fields, how cam'st thou first to finde? What Fate first show'd thee this most happy store? 50 When neuer any of thy Siluan kinde Set foot on the Elizian earth before?
_Satyre._ O neuer aske, how I came to this place, What cannot strong necessity finde out? Rather bemoane my miserable case, Constrain'd to wander this wide world about: With wild _Silvanus_ and his woody crue, In Forrests I, at liberty and free, Liu'd in such pleasure as the world ne'r knew, Nor any rightly can conceiue but we. 60 This iocond life we many a day enioy'd, Till this last age, those beastly men forth brought, That all those great and goodly Woods destroy'd. Whose growth their Grandsyres, with such sufferance sought, That faire _Felicia_ which was but of late, Earth's Paradice, that neuer had her Peere, Stands now in that most lamentable state, That not a Siluan will inhabit there; Where in the soft and most delicious shade, In heat of Summer we were wont to play, 70 When the long day too short for vs we made, The slyding houres so slyly stole away; By _Cynthia's_ light, and on the pleasant Lawne, The wanton Fayry we were wont to chase, Which to the nimble clouen-footed Fawne, Vpon the plaine durst boldly bid the base. The sportiue Nimphes, with shouts and laughter shooke The Hils and Valleyes in their wanton play, Waking the Ecchoes, their last words that tooke, Till at the last, they lowder were then they. 80 The lofty hie Wood, and the lower spring, Sheltring the Deare, in many a suddaine shower; Where Quires of Birds, oft wonted were to sing, The flaming Furnace wholly doth deuoure; Once faire _Felicia_, but now quite defac'd, Those Braueries gone wherein she did abound, With dainty Groues, when she was highly grac'd With goodly Oake, Ashe, Elme, and Beeches croun'd: But that from heauen their iudgement blinded is, In humane Reason it could neuer be, 90 But that they might haue cleerly seene by this, Those plagues their next posterity shall see. The little Infant on the mothers Lap For want of fire shall be so sore distrest, That whilst it drawes the lanke and empty Pap, The tender lips shall freese vnto the breast; The quaking Cattle which their Warmstall want, And with bleake winters Northerne winde opprest, Their Browse and Stouer waxing thin and scant, The hungry Groues shall with their Caryon feast. 100 Men wanting Timber wherewith they should build, And not a Forrest in _Felicia_ found, Shall be enforc'd vpon the open Field, To dig them caues for houses in the ground: The Land thus rob'd, of all her rich Attyre, Naked and bare her selfe to heauen doth show, Begging from thence that _Iove_ would dart his fire Vpon those wretches that disrob'd her so; This beastly Brood by no meanes may abide The name of their braue Ancestors to heare, 110 By whom their sordid slauery is descry'd, So vnlike them as though not theirs they were, Nor yet they sense, nor vnderstanding haue, Of those braue Muses that their Country song, But with false Lips ignobly doe depraue The right and honour that to them belong; This cruell kinde thus Viper-like deuoure That fruitfull soyle which them too fully fed; The earth doth curse the Age, and euery houre Againe, that it these viprous monsters bred. 120 I seeing the plagues that shortly are to come Vpon this people cleerely them forsooke: And thus am light into Elizium, To whose straite search I wholly me betooke.
_Naijs._ Poore silly creature, come along with vs, Thou shalt be free of the Elizian fields: Be not dismaid, nor inly grieued thus, This place content in all abundance yeelds. We to the cheerefull presence will thee bring, Of _Ioues_ deare Daughters, where in shades they sit, 130 Where thou shalt heare those sacred Sisters sing, Most heauenly Hymnes, the strength and life of wit:
_Claia._ Where to the Delphian God vpon their Lyres His Priests seeme rauisht in his height of praise: Whilst he is crowning his harmonious Quiers With circling Garlands of immortall Bayes.
_Corbilus._ Here liue in blisse, till thou shalt see those slaues, Who thus set vertue and desert at nought: Some sacrific'd vpon their Grandsires graues, And some like beasts in markets sold and bought. 140 Of fooles and madmen leaue thou then the care, That haue no vnderstanding of their state: For whom high heauen doth so iust plagues prepare, That they to pitty shall conuert thy hate. And to Elizium be thou welcome then, Vntill those base Felicians thou shalt heare, By that vile nation captiued againe, That many a glorious age their captiues were.
SONGS FROM THE 'SHEPHERD'S GARLAND'
[From the Edition of 1593]
The Gods delight, the heauens hie spectacle, Earths greatest glory, worlds rarest miracle.
Fortunes fay'rst mistresse, vertues surest guide, Loues Gouernesse, and natures chiefest pride.
Delights owne darling, honours cheefe defence, Chastities choyce, and wisdomes quintessence.
Conceipts sole Riches, thoughts only treasure, Desires true hope, Ioyes sweetest pleasure.
Mercies due merite, valeurs iust reward, Times fayrest fruite, fames strongest guarde. 10
Yea she alone, next that eternall he, The expresse Image of eternitie.
_From Eclogue ij_
Tell me fayre flocke, (if so you can conceaue) The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse, If this be wrought me my light to bereaue, By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips Or vgly _Saturne_ from his combust sent, This fatall presage of deaths dreryment.
Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes, Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze vpon thy light, Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise, Expell'st the clouds of my harts lowring night, 10 Goddes reiecting sweetest sacrifice, Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.
May purest heauens scorne my soules pure desires? Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons? May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers? Or Saints refuse the poores deuotions? Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind, When loues Religion shalbe thus prophayn'd.
Yet needes the earth must droope with visage sad, When siluer dewes been turn'd to bitter stormes, 20 The Cheerful _Welkin_, once in sables clad, Her frownes foretell poore humaine creatures harmes. And yet for all to make amends for this, The clouds sheed teares, and weepen at my misse.
_From Eclogue iij_
O thou fayre siluer Thames: O cleerest chrystall flood, _Beta_ alone the Phenix is, of all thy watery brood, The Queene of Virgins onely she: And thou the Queene of floods shalt be: Let all thy Nymphes be ioyfull then to see this happy day, Thy _Beta_ now alone shalbe the subiect of my laye.
With daintie and delightsome straines of sweetest virelayes: Come louely shepheards sit we down and chant our _Betas_ prayse: And let vs sing so rare a verse, Our _Betas_ prayses to rehearse, 10 That little Birds shall silent be, to heare poore shepheards sing, And riuers backward bend their course, and flow vnto the spring.
Range all thy swannes faire Thames together on a rancke, And place them duely one by one, vpon thy stately banck, Then set together all agood, Recording to the siluer flood, And craue the tunefull Nightingale to helpe you with her lay, The Osel and the Throstlecocke, chiefe musicke of our maye.
O! see what troups of Nimphs been sporting on the strands, And they been blessed Nimphs of peace, with Oliues in their hands. 20 How meryly the Muses sing, That all the flowry Medowes ring, And _Beta_ sits vpon the banck, in purple and in pall, And she the Queene of Muses is, and weares the Corinall.
Trim vp her Golden tresses with _Apollos_ sacred tree, O happy sight vnto all those that loue and honor thee, The Blessed Angels haue prepar'd, A glorious Crowne for thy reward, Not such a golden Crowne as haughty _Cæsar_ weares, But such a glittering starry Crowne as _Ariadne_ beares. 30
Make her a goodly Chapilet of azur'd Colombine, And wreath about her Coronet with sweetest Eglentine: Bedeck our _Beta_ all with Lillies, And the dayntie Daffadillies, With Roses damask, white, and red, and fairest flower delice, With Cowslips of Jerusalem, and cloues of Paradice.
O thou fayre torch of heauen, the days most dearest light, And thou bright shyning _Cinthya_, the glory of the night: You starres the eyes of heauen, And thou the glyding leuen, 40 And thou O gorgeous _Iris_ with all strange Colours dyd, When she streams foorth her rayes, then dasht is all your pride.
See how the day stands still, admiring of her face, And time loe stretcheth foorth her armes, thy _Beta_ to imbrace, The Syrens sing sweete layes, The Trytons sound her prayse, Goe passe on Thames and hie thee fast vnto the Ocean sea, And let thy billowes there proclaime thy _Betas_ holy-day.
And water thou the blessed roote of that greene Oliue tree, With whose sweete shadow, al thy bancks with peace preserued be, 50 Lawrell for Poets and Conquerours, And mirtle for Loues Paramours: That fame may be thy fruit, the boughes preseru'd by peace, And let the mournful Cipres die, now stormes and tempest cease.
Wee'l straw the shore with pearle where _Beta_ walks alone, And we wil paue her princely Bower with richest Indian stone, Perfume the ayre and make it sweete, For such a Goddesse it is meete, For if her eyes for purity contend with Titans light, No maruaile then although they so doe dazell humaine sight. 60
Sound out your trumpets then, from _London's_ stately towres, To beate the stormie windes a back and calme the raging showres, Set too the Cornet and the flute, The Orpharyon and the Lute, And tune the Taber and the Pipe, to the sweet violons, And moue the thunder in the ayre, with lowdest Clarions.
_Beta_ long may thine Altars smoke, with yeerely sacrifice, And long thy sacred Temples may their Saboths solemnize, Thy shepheards watch by day and night, Thy Mayds attend the holy light, 70 And thy large empyre stretch her armes from east vnto the west, And thou vnder thy feet mayst tread, that foule seuen-headed beast.
_From Eclogue iv_
_Melpomine_ put on thy mourning Gaberdine, And set thy song vnto the dolefull Base, And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face, with weeping verse, attend his hearse, Whose blessed soule the heauens doe now enshrine.
Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell, Warble forth your wamenting harmony, And at his drery fatall obsequie, with Cypres bowes, 10 maske your fayre Browes, And beat your breasts to chyme his burying peale.
Thy birth-day was to all our ioye, the euen, And on thy death this dolefull song we sing, Sweet Child of _Pan_, and the _Castalian_ spring, vnto our endless mone, from vs why art thou gone, To fill vp that sweete Angels quier in heauen.
O whylome thou thy lasses dearest loue, When with greene Lawrell she hath crowned thee, 20 Immortal mirror of all Poesie: the Muses treasure, the Graces pleasure, Reigning with Angels now in heauen aboue.
Our mirth is now depriu'd of all her glory, Our Taburins in dolefull dumps are drownd. Our viols want their sweet and pleasing sound, our melodie is mar'd and we of ioyes debard, O wicked world so mutable and transitory. 30
O dismall day, bereauer of delight, O stormy winter, sourse of all our sorrow, O most vntimely and eclipsed morrow, to rob us quite, of all delight, Darkening that starre which euer shone so bright.
Oh _Elphin_, _Elphin_, Though thou hence be gone, In spight of death yet shalt thou liue for aye, Thy Poesie is garlanded with Baye: and still shalt blaze 40 thy lasting prayse: Whose losse poore shepherds euer shall bemone.
Come Girles, and with Carnations decke his graue, With damaske Roses and the hyacynt: Come with sweete Williams, Marioram and Mynt, with precious Balmes, with hymnes and psalmes, This funerall deserues no lesse at all to haue.
But see where _Elphin_ sits in fayre Elizia, Feeding his flocke on yonder heauenly playne, 50 Come and behold, you louely shepheards swayne, piping his fill on yonder hill, Tasting sweete _Nectar_, and _Ambrosia_.
_From Eclogue vij_
_Borrill._
Oh spightfull wayward wretched loue, Woe to _Venus_ which did nurse thee, Heauens and earth thy plagues doe proue, Gods and men haue cause to curse thee. Thoughts griefe, hearts woe, Hopes paine, bodies languish, Enuies rage, sleepes foe, Fancies fraud, soules anguish, Desires dread, mindes madnes, Secrets bewrayer, natures error, 10 Sights deceit, sullens sadnes, Speeches expence, Cupids terror, Malcontents melancholly, Liues slaughter, deaths nurse, Cares slaue, dotard's folly, Fortunes bayte, world's curse, Lookes theft, eyes blindnes, Selfes will, tongues treason, Paynes pleasure, wrongs kindnes, Furies frensie, follies reason: 20 With cursing thee as I began, Neither God, neither man, Neither Fayrie, neither Feend.
_Batte._
Loue is the heauens fayre aspect, loue is the glorie of the earth, Loue only doth our liues direct, loue is our guyder from our birth,
Loue taught my thoughts at first to flie, loue taught mine eyes the way to loue, Loue raysed my conceit so hie, 30 loue framd my hand his arte to proue.
Loue taught my Muse her perfect skill, loue gaue me first to Poesie: Loue is the Soueraigne of my will, loue bound me first to loyalty.
Loue was the first that fram'd my speech, loue was the first that gaue me grace: Loue is my life and fortunes leech, loue made the vertuous giue me place.
Loue is the end of my desire, 40 loue is the loadstarre of my loue, Loue makes my selfe, my selfe admire, loue seated my delights aboue.
Loue placed honor in my brest, loue made me learnings fauoret, Loue made me liked of the best, loue first my minde on virtue set.
Loue is my life, life is my loue, loue is my whole felicity, Loue is my sweete, sweete is my loue, 50 I am in loue, and loue in mee.
_From Eclogue viij_
Farre in the countrey of _Arden_ There wond a knight hight _Cassemen_, as bolde as _Isenbras_: Fell was he and eger bent, In battell and in Tournament, as was the good sir _Topas_. He had as antique stories tell, A daughter cleaped _Dowsabell_, a mayden fayre and free: And for she was her fathers heire, 10 Full well she was ycond the leyre, of mickle curtesie. The silke wel couth she twist and twine, And make the fine Marchpine, and with the needle werke, And she couth helpe the priest to say His Mattens on a holyday, and sing a Psalme in Kirke. She ware a frocke of frolicke greene, Might well beseeme a mayden Queene, 20 which seemly was to see. A hood to that so neat and fine, In colour like the colombine, ywrought full featously. Her feature all as fresh aboue, As is the grasse that grows by Doue, as lyth as lasse of Kent: Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll, As white as snow on peakish hull, or Swanne that swims in Trent. 30 This mayden in a morne betime, Went forth when May was in her prime, to get sweet Cetywall, The hony-suckle, the Harlocke, The Lilly and the Lady-smocke, to decke her summer hall. Thus as she wandred here and there, Ypicking of the bloomed Breere, she chanced to espie A shepheard sitting on a bancke, 40 Like _Chanteclere_ he crowed crancke, and pip'd with merrie glee: He leard his sheepe as he him list, When he would whistle in his fist, to feede about him round: Whilst he full many a caroll sung, Vntill the fields and medowes rung, and that the woods did sound: In fauour this same shepheards swayne, Was like the bedlam _Tamburlayne_, 50 which helde prowd Kings in awe: But meeke he was as Lamb mought be, Ylike that gentle _Abel_ he, whom his lewd brother slaw. This shepheard ware a sheepe gray cloke, Which was of the finest loke, that could be cut with sheere, His mittens were of Bauzens skinne, His cockers were of Cordiwin his hood of Meniueere. 60 His aule and lingell in a thong, His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong, his breech of Coyntrie blew: Full crispe and curled were his lockes, His browes as white as _Albion_ rockes, so like a louer true. And pyping still he spent the day, So mery as the Popingay: which liked _Dowsabell_, That would she ought or would she nought, 70 This lad would neuer from her thought: she in loue-longing fell, At length she tucked vp her frocke, White as the Lilly was her smocke, she drew the shepheard nie, But then the shepheard pyp'd a good, That all his sheepe forsooke their foode, to heare his melodie. Thy sheepe quoth she cannot be leane, That haue a iolly shepheards swayne, 80 the which can pipe so well. Yea but (sayth he) their shepheard may, Jf pyping thus he pine away, in loue of _Dowsabell_. Of loue fond boy take thou no keepe, Quoth she, looke well vnto thy sheepe, lest they should hap to stray. Quoth he, so had I done full well, Had I not seene fayre _Dowsabell_, come forth to gather Maye. 90 With that she gan to vaile her head, Her cheekes were like the Roses red, but not a word she sayd. With that the shepheard gan to frowne, He threw his pretie pypes adowne, and on the ground him layd. Sayth she, I may not stay till night, And leaue my summer hall vndight, and all for long of thee. My Coate sayth he, nor yet my foulde, 100 Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould, except thou fauour me. Sayth she yet leuer I were dead, Then I should lose my maydenhead, and all for loue of men: Sayth he yet are you too vnkind, If in your heart you cannot finde, to loue vs now and then: And J to thee will be as kinde, As _Colin_ was to _Rosalinde_, 110 of curtesie the flower; Then will I be as true quoth she, As euer mayden yet might be, vnto her Paramour: With that she bent her snowe-white knee, Downe by the shepheard kneeled shee, and him she sweetely kist. With that the shepheard whoop'd for ioy, Quoth he, ther's neuer shepheards boy, that euer was so blist. 120
[From the Edition of 1605]
_From Eclogue ij_
Then this great Vniuerse no lesse, Can serue her prayses to expresse: Betwixt her eies the poles of Loue, The host of heauenly beautyes moue, Depainted in their proper stories, As well the fixd as wandring glories, Which from their proper orbes not goe, Whether they gyre swift or slowe: Where from their lips, when she doth speake, The musick of those sphears do breake, 10 Which their harmonious motion breedeth: From whose cheerfull breath proceedeth: That balmy sweetnes that giues birth To euery ofspring of the earth. Her shape and cariage of which frame In forme how well shee beares the same, Is that proportion heauens best treasure, Whereby it doth all poyze and measure, So that alone her happy sight Conteynes perfection and delight. 20
_From Eclogue ij_
Vppon a bank with roses set about, Where pretty turtles ioyning bil to bill, And gentle springs steale softly murmuring out Washing the foote of pleasures sacred hill: There little loue sore wounded lyes, His bowe and arowes broken, Bedewd with teares from Venus eyes Oh greeuous to be spoken.
Beare him my hart slaine with her scornefull eye Where sticks the arrowe that poore hart did kill, 10 With whose sharp pile request him ere he die, About the same to write his latest will, And bid him send it backe to mee, At instant of his dying, That cruell cruell shee may see My faith and her denying.
His chappell be a mournefull Cypresse Shade, And for a chauntry Philomels sweet lay, Where prayers shall continually be made By pilgrim louers passing by that way. 20 With Nymphes and shepheards yearly moane His timeles death beweeping, In telling that my hart alone Hath his last will in keeping.
[From the Edition of 1606]
_From Eclogue vij_
Now fye vpon thee wayward loue, Woe to _Venus_ which did nurse thee, Heauen and earth thy plagues doe proue, Gods and men haue cause to curse thee. What art thou but th' extreamst madnesse, Natures first and only error That consum'st our daies in sadnesse, By the minds Continuall terror: Walking in Cymerian blindnesse, In thy courses voy'd of reason. 10 Sharp reproofe thy only kindnesse, In thy trust the highest treason? Both the Nymph and ruder swaine, Vexing with continuall anguish, Which dost make the ould complaine And the young to pyne and languishe, Who thee keepes his care doth nurse, That seducest all to folly, Blessing, bitterly doest curse, Tending to destruction wholly: 20 Thus of thee as I began, So againe I make an end, Neither god neither man, Neither faiery, neither feend.
BATTE.