PANDORA, The Musyque of the beautie of his Mistresse Diana.
❧ Composed by John Soowthern Gentleman, and dedicated to the right Honorable, Edward Deuer, Earle of Oxenford. &c. 1584. Iune. 20.
Non careo patria, Me caret Illa magis.
Jmprinted at London for Thomas Hackette, and are to be solde at his shoppe in Lumbert streete, vnder the Popes head. 1584.
To the ryght honourable the Earle of Oxenford. &c. Ode. 1.
Strophe. 1.
THis earth, is the nourishing teate,
As well that deliuers to eate:
As els throwes out all that we can
Deuise, that should be naedefull fore
The health, of or disease or sore,
The houshold companions of man.
And this earth, hath hearbes soueraine,
To empeach sicknesses sodaine,
If they be well aptlie applide.
And this yearth, spues vp many a breuage,
Of which if we knew well the vsage:
Would force the force
Acherontide.
Bréefe, it lendes vs all that we haue,
With to liue: and it is our graue.
But with all this, yet cannot giue,
Vs fayre renowmes, when we be dead.
And in déede they are onelie made,
By our owne vertues whiles we liue.
Antistrophe.
¶ And Marbles (all be they so strong,)
Cannot maintaine our renowmes long:
And neither they he but abuses,
To thinke that other thinges haue puissaunce,
To make for time any resistaunce,
Saue onelie the well singing
Muses.
And the fayre
Muses that prouide,
For the wise, an immortall name:
Doo neuer garnishe any head.
With Lawrell, by hearesay of Fame.
Nor euerie one that can rime,
Must not thinke to triumph on time.
For they giue not their Diuine furie,
To euerie doting troupe that comes.
Nor the touch of eu'rie ones thommes,
Is not of an eternall durie.
Epode.
¶ No, no, the high singer is hée
Alone: that in the ende must bée
Made proude, with a garland lyke this,
And not eu'rie ryming nouice,
That writes with small wit, and much paine:
And the (Gods knowe) idiot in vaine,
For it's not the way to
Parnasse,
Nor it wyll neither come to passe,
If it be not in some wise fiction,
And of an ingenious inuension:
And infanted with pleasant trauaill,
For it alone must win the Laurell.
And onelie the Poet well borne,
Must be he that goes to
Parnassus:
And not these companies of Asses,
That haue brought verce almost to scorne.
Strophe.
2.
¶ Making speake (her with a swéete brute)
The ten diuers tongues of my Lute,
I will
Fredone in thy honour,
These renowmed songs of
Pindar:
And immitate for thée
Deuer,
Horace, that braue Latine Harper.
And stand vp Nymphes
Aganapide,
Stand vp my wantons
Parnasside,
Stand vp wantons and that we sing,
A newe dittie
Calaborois,
To the
Iban harpe
Thebanois,
That had such a murmuring string.
For I will shewt, héere with my verees,
(Following the auncient traces)
As high vp to the ayre this Hymne,
(With a strong bowe and armes, presumpstous)
As
Deuer is both wise and vertuous,
And as of my Harpe, he is digne.
Antistrophe.
¶
Muses, you haue had of your father,
Onelie, the particuler fauer,
To kéepe fro the réeue enfernall:
And therefore my wantons come sing,
Vpon your most best speaking string,
His name that dooth chéerishe you all.
Come Nimphes while I haue a desire,
To strike on a well sounding
Lyre,
Of our vertues
Deuer the name.
Deuer, that had giuen him in parte:
The Loue, the Warre, Honour, and Arte,
And with them an eternall Fame.
Come Nimphes, your puissaunce is diuine:
And to those that you shew no fauour;
Quicklie they are depriude of honour,
And slaues to the chaines
Cossitine.
Epode,
¶ Amongst our well renowmed men,
Deuer merits a syluer pen,
Eternally to write his honour,
And I in a well polisht verse,
Can set vp in our Vniuerse,
A Fame, to endure for euer.
And fylde with a
Furiae extreme;
Vpon a well superbus ryme:
(On a ryme, and both strong and true)
I wyll
(Deuer) pushe thy louanges,
To the eares of people estraunges:
And rauishe them with thy vertus.
But in trueth I vse but to sing,
After the well intuned string,
Of eyether of the great
Prophêts,
Or
Thebain, or
Calaborois:
Of whether of whome yet the voice,
Hath not béene knowne to our
Poëts.
Strophe. 3.
¶ But what shall I beginne to touch:
O
Muses what haue I begunne,
But speake wantons, what haue I donne:
Take it of the charge is too much.
No, no, if I would there were made,
I could take an entyre
Iliade,
Of onelie his noble antiquitie.
But his vertues would blushe with shame:
If I should not by his owne name,
Giue him a laude to our posteritie.
But if I will thus like
Pindar,
In many discourses
Egar,
Before I wyll come to my point:
Or, or touch his infinitie
Of vertues, in this
Poiesie,
Our song wyll neuer be conioint.
Antistrophe.
¶ For who marketh better then hée,
The seuen turning flames of the Skie:
Or hath read more of the antique.
Hath greater knowledge in the tongues:
Or vnderstandes sooner the sownes,
Of the learner to loue Musique.
Or else who hath a fayrer grace,
In the
Centauriane arte of
Thrace,
Halfe-horse, halfe-man, and with lesse paine,
Dooth bring the Coorsser, indomtable,
To yéeld to the raynes of his bridle;
Vaulting, on the edge of a plaine.
And it pleases me to saye too,
(With a louange, I protest true)
That in England we cannot sées,
Any thing lyke
Deuer, but hée.
Onelie himselfe he must resemble,
Vertues so much in him assemble.
Epode.
¶ And nought escapes out of my hand,
In this
Ode, but it's veritée:
And héere I sweare
Deuer tis thée,
That art ornament of England.
Vaunting me againe of this thing:
Which is, that I shall neuer sing,
A man so much honoured as thée,
And both of the
Muses and mée.
And when I gette the spoyle of
Thebes,
Hauing charged it on my shoulders.
In verses exempte fro the webbes,
Of the ruinous
Filandinge systers:
I promise to bullde thée a glorie,
That shall euer line in memorie.
¶ In meane while, take this lyttle thing:
But as small as it is:
Deuere.
Vaunt vs that neuer man before,
Now in England, knewe
Pindars string.
‘Non car
[...] patria, Me caret Illa magi
[...].’
Sonnet to the Reader.
THou find'st not heere, neither the furious alarmes,
Of the pride of
Spaine, or subtilnes of
France:
Nor of the rude English, or mutine
Almanes:
Nor neither of
Naples, noble men of armes.
No, an Infant, and that yet surmounteth Knights:
Hath both vanquished me, and also my Muse.
And vvere it not: this is a lawfull excuse.
If thou hearst not the report, of their great fights,
Thou shalt see no death of any valliant soldier,
And yet I sing the beauty of a fierce vvarrier.
And amore alone I must strike on my
Leer,
And but
Eroto I knowe no other Muse.
And harke all you that are lyke vs amourous.
And you that are not, goe read some other where.
Sonnets. 1. To his Mystresse Diana.
TIs fyrst to you
Dian, that I haue togethers,
Giuen me and my voice, making you the
Idôll:
To which I offer both the body and soule,
Of these teares of my eyes, that fall héere like riuers.
But in some thinges fabelons, you must be content
To see what it is, of vs Louers the flame,
And reade you must vnder a Goddesses name,
Of your beates the delycate ornament.
And where as these which are to apayse your cruelties:
Shall not proscribe well, your excellent rareties.
Excuse mee Nymphe, as you would haue in some
[...]s
[...]te.
Of heauen your fayre semblance: for I doo not meane,
To sing you now: but
Dian, when you haue bene,
More gratious vnto mée: I wyll sing you better.
Sonnet. 2.
THe Gréeke Poet, to whome
Bathill was the guide,
Made her immortall, by that which he did sing:
And (were it so I knowe not but) of
Corîne,
We faine the patrone of the Latine
Ouide.
And since them
(Petrarque) a wise
Florentîne,
Hath turnde his Mistres into a tree of Baye.
And he that soong the eldest daughter of
Troye,
In
Fraunce hath made of her, an astre Diuine.
And lyke these knowne men, can your
Soothern, write too:
And as long as
Englishe lasts, immortall you.
I the penne of
Soothern will my sayre
Diana,
Make thée immortall: if thou wilt giue him fauour:
For then hée'll sing
Petrark, Tîen, Ouide, Ronsar:
And make thee
Cassander, Corine, Bathyll, Laura.
Sonnet. 3.
THat death that despises at all kinde of beautie.
And would make all loue, goe into
Charons passage:
Would haue hit the eyes, wherein I liue in seruage:
The eyes both to fayre, and too full of crueltie.
But
Cupid that styll in those eyes was indompted:
The infant knew well, where after this death sought:
And began to crie (death) if thou ende thy thought,
We shall neither of vs, be againe redoubted.
But (death) if thout let me liue in these eyes styll:
Thou shalt sée (O then) how nobelly I wyll.
Hoyse thy honour? for I haue not halfe thy might▪
And yet in these eyes, I conquer all the world:
Death hearing this, let him line styll in the syght:
Fro whence he shewteth such sharpe arrowes of gold.
Sonnet. 4.
WHen nature made my
Diana, that before
All other
Nymphes: showld force the hearts rebell
[...]nt:
She gaue her the masse, of beauties excellent,
That she kéepe since long, in her coffers in store.
And at her framing,
Paphae came fro the skies,
with the swéetnes, and graces, of
Erycêene:
And swore that it should make her so fayre
[...] Quéene,
Of beautie: that the Gods should dwell in her eyes.
But she hardlie was come to vs. fro aboue:
Though? but my soule was inflamed with her loue.
And I serue her in spite of the troupe
Celêst.
For tell mee? why did not they lykewise ordaine:
That in reward of my loue, she shewd againe,
Estéeme me onely, and onely, loue me best.
Sonnet. 5.
OF stars, and of forrests,
Dian. is the honor:
And to the seas, to the Goddesse, is the guide:
And she hath
Luna, Charon, and
Eumenîde:
To make brightnes, to giue death, and to cause horror.
And my warrier, my light, shines in thy fayre eyes:
My dread is of thée, the to great excellence:
Thy wordes kyll mee: and thus thou hast the puissaunce,
Of her that rules the slodes, and lyghines the skies.
And as syluer
Pheb, is the after, most clare:
So is thy beauty, the beauty, the most rare.
Wherefore I call thée
Dian, for thy beantee,
For thy wisedome, and for thy puissannce Celest.
And yet thou must be but a Goddesse terest:
And onely because of thy great crueltée.
Sonnet. 6.
OF
Pyladeus, and of
Oresteus, we haue
made many disputes, in the temple of death:
And in the Church of
Troy, we pro
[...]ue
Choreb's faith,
Who made for
Cassander, his h
[...]rn
[...]s, his graue.
And there is one, on the mountaine
Cancasein,
With an Eagle, on his heart
Philosiphâll.
And there is a stone of a mad
Cisyphâll,
Least alwayes behind him, and caried in vaine.
These temples, and this rocke, is in my obiect:
The church is my soule, the slint is my subiect.
My verses are the labours of
Sisyphêus:
And for willing shew your fayre beauties, its vaine.
Of
Promet, for not canning. I haue the paine:
Th'Eagle's cruell, and
(Nymphe) you are rigrous.
Sonnet. 7.
I Am not (my, cruell warrier) the
Thebain,
That my infancie, should be strangled with Serpents:
Nor neither did my nurse giue thée any torments:
nor I suckt neither
Vropae, nor
Elthâin.
I came not (my warrier) of the blood
Lidain:
Nor neyther am I of the race, of
Ixiôn:
Nor
Ioue, neither bare my mother, affection:
Nor I am no infant
Egier, nor
Danain.
Nor I am neither the nephew of
Atlas,
That made the earth dronke, with the blood of
Arguss:
But yet I know wherefore I haue all my wounds.
I am none of these which I haue sayd
(Diân)
But I am that verie miserable man,
Who for regarding thée, was eaten of Houndes.
Elegia. 1. To the Echon.
O Dolefull voice, that doost aunswer,
The wéepings of my care:
And that héere in these mozie groues,
Hast pittie on my dolanc
[...].
And th
[...] of whome she emptie mouth,
(At least) dooth make a semblaunce,
To séele my wounds that procéede of
Two eyes, to gréene, and fayre.
O speake since thou canst not liue except
I shall giue the brethe:
And since my gréeuous voice, is onelie
the nurce of thy steme:
I crying
Dian, why makest thou
Dye Iohn, aunswer agen:
Wouldst thou I lou'de no more,
Or doost thou Prophesie my death.
O noble Nymph tell mée, or doost
Thou now inflame againe,
With the antiqueus amor, that
Thou louedst so in vaine.
Or is it that remembring my
Loue, I should pittie thine.
For the like dollor that thou hadst,
Euen the like doo I suffer:
And the like amore that thou hadst,
The like to mee dooth offer:
Saue that thy loue was not so fayre,
Nor so cruelly as mine.
Elegia. 2. To the Gods.
WHen the eye of the world dooth washe,
his golden shining heaire,
In the large Occean seas: and that
They haue couerd the lyght:
Amurmuring repose, and a
Restfull and sléepy night,
Is spreded both ouer the earth,
The waters and the ayre.
But I chaunge nature then? For than,
Dooth my brightest
Aurôr,
In a swéete dreame present her selfe,
O dreame, no dreame: but well,
The
Ambrozie, the
Nectar, and
The
Manna, Eternell.
And to be bréefe, a vision that
I lyke a God adore.
Wherefore farewell, day of nights, and
Welcome night waking daye:
And farewell waking, of my sléepe,
Welcome sléepe, lyuing ioye.
But what say I, my wealth is false,
And my euill verita-ble:
And I plaine of them both, for I
Haue in neither delight:
Except ye Gods will short these dayes,
And eternishe this night:
An
[...] that God that will doo it, shall
be a God charita-ble.
Elegia. 3. To his Diana.
IF the secretnesse of my thoughtes,
Were opened to you,
Or if else my dolorous heart,
Had of speaking the vsage:
Or (warrier) if my constancie,
Were painted in my visage:
Or that if ye knewe my torment,
How it is great and true.
Or, or if any golden wordes,
In well composed verse,
Could liuelelie shewe the picture,
Of an amourous rage:
Then should I without doubt amolishe
a
Tigers courage.
And moue to pittie (warrier) if
it were the vniuerce.
But since wordes, neither can prescribe
My amore, nor my paine:
Tyme shall it selfe, witnesse how much
Both are in me certaine:
And that of my passioned soule,
The Diuine great loyalties:
Doo the sacrednesse of all others,
I of the Gods passe:
And more then the syluer maiesties,
of your Christall face,
Vnderneath, tother
Phebes, doo
Excell all other
Beutaes.
Sonnet. 8.
THough I wish to haue your fauour, which is such,
That it is but for Gods, thinke you my
Audâce,
Like his that in your stéede, dyd a clowde imbrace:
Or his that was a harte, by seéing so much.
Or would you else because of my hautaine thought,
That I might augment the Sepulchres of
Thrace:
Or that I were as the giant
Briarâs:
Or paide lyke the wagoner so euelie taught.
No? lybertie,
Rome, thy wrath the seas
(Diân)
Grée
[...]e,
Pirats? thy merie Must saue
Ariôn.
Or if thou wylt none of these aforesayde thinges:
Because thou sayst that my mindes are set so high,
If thou thinkst I beginne lyke
Icâr to
[...]lie:
Since th'eyes are my sonne, let thy loue be my winges.
Sonnets. 9.
IT is after our deathes, a thing mani-fest.
we bothe goe to hell, and suffer hellishe paines:
you, for your rigour, I, for my thoughts haultaines,
That attempt to loue a Goddesse so Celest.
But as for mee I shall be lyttle afflicted,
Tis you (my warrier) that must haue the torment:
For I that but, in séeing you am content:
you, with mée, I'll blesse the place so much detested.
And my soule that is raued with your fayre eyes,
In the midst of hell, wyll establishe, a skeyes:
Making my bright day, in the eternall night.
And when all the damned else are in annoy:
I'll smyle in that glorie, séeing you my ioy:
And being once there, goe not out of our sight.
Sonnet. 10.
THe heauens willing shew fauour among our paines.
And to make both runne, of my wéeping the streame:
And also eternall, your rigor extreame:
turnd your heart, to rocke, and my eyes to fountaynes:
And
Cupid dooth bache him in my syluer ryuers:
And being come out, of the flodes, of my yll:
He flies to your rocke, where as vpon a hyll,
The lyttle wanton, dooth prime, and rowse his feathers.
But when thy winter comes, and that thou art olde,
Felling thy rocke-hart, vnder his tallons colde:
Hée'll byd thee adiew with an eternall farewell.
And then thou hast fayre to say Loue is a rage:
Olde folke say so, cause
Cupid dooth abhorre age:
But were they lou'de then, I doubt th'ed not be cruell.
Elegia. 4. To the prisoners.
CVpid hath swelde my stomacke, with
On such a sacred poyson,
And I am in Quéene
Venus fetters,
so well entertained:
That lyke a captiue, languishing,
And with dolour, tormented,
I thinke my selfe well happy, to
Be in a Womans prison.
Now? As for you wretches that nothing,
but yrons can punishe,
If you lyst you may haue a hope,
to be at lyber-tie:
But as for mée? I tell you, I'll
die in captiui-tie:
Consuming héere in the quicke-siluer-fayre-eyes
of my Goddesse,
And well I am contented indéede,
with her extréeme rigore.
Swearing, that I neuer fell in
My soule so great a dolore,
As when I thinke for her likewise,
Some other should haue passion.
And with all this too, yet I haue
Neither lost all my iudgement:
For we saye that man is happy,
onelie, that is well content,
And I tell you, (you wretches) it
is all my contentation.
Elegia. 5. To his thoughts.
MY thoughts, to full of thought, to thoughtfull
thoughts giue now? Repose,
Both to my dolefull soule, and to
my hope that is in vaine:
For well though my teares drop, fro my
eyes like a swift fountaine?
Murmuring my
Alas: she hearkeneth
not to my propose.
My thoughts, too full of thought, and too
Farre engrau'n in my heart.
My thoughts too full of thought, that giue
mée ouer to my dolore:
My thoughts too thoughtfull, if you propose
yet any more langore:
My thought full thoughts, (O Gods) doo aduaunce
therewithall my mort.
And Opinastres thoughts the causers
of my extréeme paines.
And thoughts that boyle this sulfer humor
in my drooping vaines.
Speake thoughtfull thoughts, why féede you me
With this
Abist esperaunce.
When possessing the ioye, of which
I haue had such desyres:
And for Idolling the fayre eyes,
In which are my plasyres:
In the end thoughtes, for reward thought
Dooth bréede mée a repentaunce.
Elegia. 6. To his Diana.
MY hope dooth fell mée, that after
This great rigour, of you:
I shall with sacred guerdons,
Be recom-pensed for wrong:
Shewing mée that I merite it,
Being patience so long.
But this imagind hope, (my cruell
warrier) is it true,
My hope dooth tell mée too
(Diana)
That your Diuine beau-tie,
Cannot be accompanied with
Such crueltie as thine.
But what is't (my angrie warrier)
That yéeldes this plague of mine:
Fortune? or the origene of
The cause of cru-eltie.
My hope dooth tell mée too (my warrier)
that my dolefull langore:
Will in a passient ende, amolishe
your extréeme great rigore:
The which all if it can, when your
Mothers gone we shall trie,
But if it cannot doo it then,
But would yet féede mée styll,
With presses of time: I'll giue ou'r:
And eu'r after I will,
Estéeme our Fortune, too much lowe,
For a hope set so high.
Sonnet. 11.
HE that was the first, that put these lyttle winges,
On the backe of a more, that high God immortell:
He might better haue had employed his pensell,
To paint hopping butter-flyes, or Genny wrens.
But if in place of them, the doting foole had
Painted his fierce howe, and his rigorous draftes,
And shewde what kinde of thinges, are his golden shaftes:
Then had he béene apt to haue painted a God.
And you that paint next, you must vse other colore:
wherewith you may better shew his diuine rigore:
And for his bowe, giue him a great harquebous.
Or beléeue you not, goe and looke on
Diân,
And hauing seéne her fayre eyes. I estée me than,
you'll giue him some thing more then it rigorous.
Sonnet. 12.
AEnêas, Orphêus, Cephall, and
Demophôn:
Of
Pocris, of
Eurydice, Phyllis, and
Creuse:
Haue made complaintes, as they haue béene amorous,
Saying, theyr mistresses, did doo them all wrong,
Though they themselues to theyr loues, did all amisse.
For one gaue
Phyllis, a poore mournefull se-quell,
And th'other, left
Procris, in the vall's of hell,
And with t'others fault, di-ed
Euridice.
Aenêas, the last was thought to haue least fault.
Though the presumpsion is yet great for all that.
But
(Dian) you knoe
(Dian) your amourous,
Hath not learned lyke any of them
Protê.
Though you are
Demoph, Cephall, Orpheus, Aenê:
And he be
Eurid, Phyllis, Procris, and
Creuse.
Sonnets. 13.
HE that wyll be subiect to
Cupidos call,
Is chaungd euerie day. I doo not knoe how.
And of this, I my selfe haue made prooues enowe.
As
Metamorphosd, but wot not wherewithall,
Fyrst? I was turned to a wandering Harte,
And sawe my stomacke pierst with a dolefull arrow.
Next? Into a Swan, and with a note of sorrowe.
I foresong my death, in
Elegicall arte.
Since that, to a Flowre, and since withred away:
Since that, to a Fountaine, and since. I am drie:
And now that
Salamander, liue in my flame.
But ye Gods, if euer I haue my owne choyce,
I wyll be turn'd, into well singing voyce:
And there in louange, the fayre eyes of Ma-dame.
Ode. 2. to his Diana.
Strophe
AS the little
Melisset flyes,
(Wanton enfantines of the Skyes)
With their théeuishe pretie tongettes,
Take the best of the fayrest blomes,
Masoning it on their thyettes,
And therewith build their honny commes.
Euenso with a sprite vigelant,
I robbe héere, the most excellant
Blossomes: in. the garden
Thebêin.
And will that through the vniuerce,
The honny destyld in my verce:
Beare out these fayre gréene eies of thine.
And I will that our
England sée,
By this
Nectar, that I let fall
On thee to annoint thee with all,
What kinde of beauties are in thée.
Antistrophe.
All the superbus frontispisses,
And all the threatning ediffices,
And all the high buildinges are lost,
Of
Corinthia, in pride extréeme.
But that which their Poets did bost,
will euer triumph ouer tyme.
I I golde is
Eliths Palase:
And golde is the Church of
Parnasse:
And those that can enter therein,
Happy are they, and euer shall
Treade on the blacke roofe enfernall,
Liuing with the enfant
Troyen,
That fylles the
Nectar Olympien,
Into the great coope of the God,
that thondred the menacing head,
Of the high
Orgullus Phlegren.
What, what, my too cruell
Diana,
A number haue excelde in
Beautae:
And yet it is onelie
Hellina,
That lyues: and where in saue in
Poisae.
Epode.
But thou for whome I writ so well:
And that I wyll make eternell.
And thou for whome my holie paines,
Dooth chase ignoraunce held so long:
Conioyning in a vulgar song:
The secretes, both Gréekes, and Lataines.
Think'st thou it is nothing, to haue
The penne of
Soothern for thy trompet.
Yes, yes, to whome
Soothern is
Poëte,
The honour goes not to the graue.
And
Iuno, it's an other thing,
To heare a well learned voice sing,
Or to sée workes of a wise hand:
Then it's to heare our doting rimors,
Whose labours doo bring both dishonors,
To themselues, and to our
England.
FINIS.
❧ Foure Epytaphes, made by the Countes of Oxenford, after the death of her young Sonne, The Lord Bulbecke, &c.
HAd with moorning the Gods, left their willes vndon,
They had not so soone herited such a soule:
Or if the mouth, tyme dyd not glotton vp all.
Nor I, nor the world, were depriu'd of my Sonne,
Whose brest
Venus, with a face dolefull and milde,
Dooth washe with golden teares, inueying the skies:
And when the water of the Goddesses eyes,
Makes almost aliue, the Marble, of my Childe:
One hyds her leaue styll, her dollor so extreme,
Telling her it is not, her young sonne
Papheme,
To which she makes aunswer with a voice inflamed,
(Féeling therewith her venime, to be more bitter)
As I was of
Cupid, euen so of it mother:
" And a womans last chylde, is the most beloued.
An other.
IN dolefull wayes I spend the wealth of my time:
Gold, the best of all mettelles. Nightingale, the sweetest of all byrdes. And Roses the fairest of all flowers.
Féeding on my heart, that euer comes agen.Since the ordinaunce, of the
Destin's, hath ben,
To end of the
Saissons, of my yéeres the prime.
With my Sōne, my Gold, my Nightingale, and Rose,
Is gone: for t'was in him and no other where:
And well though mine eies run downe like fountaines here,
The stone wil not speak yet, that doth it inclose.
And
Destins, and Gods, you might rather haue tanne,
My twentie yéeres: then the two daies of my sonne.
And of this world what shall I hope, since I knoe,
That in his respect, it can yéeld me but mosse:
Or what should I consume any more in woe,
When Destins, Gods, and worlds, are ll in my losse.
An other.
THe heuens, death, and life? haue coniured my yll:
For death hath take away the breath of my sonne:
The heuens receue, and consent, that be hath donne:
And my life dooth kéepe mée heere against my will.
But if our life be caus'de with moisture and heate.
I care neither for the death, the life, nor skyes:
For I'll sigh him warmth, and weat him with my eies:
(And thus I shall be thought a second
Promët)
And as for life, let it doo me all despite:
For if it leaue me, I shall goe to my childe:
And it in the heuens, there is all my delyght.
And if I liue, my vertue is immortall.
" So that the heuens, death and life, when they doo all
" Their force: by sorrowfull vertue th'are beguild.
An other.
I Dall, for
Adon, neu'r shed so many teares:
Nor
Thet', for
Pelid: nor
Phoebus, for
Hyacinthus:
Nor for
Atis, the mother of
Prophetesses:
As for the death of
Bulbecke, the Gods haue cares.
At the brute of it, the
Aphroditan Quéene,
Caused more siluer to distyll fro her eyes:
Then when the droppes of her chéekes raysed Daisyes:
And to die with him, mortall, she would haue béene.
The
Charits, for it breake their
Peruqs, of golde:
The
Muses, and the
Nymphes of Caues: I beholde:
All the Gods vnder
Olympus are constraint,
On
Laches, Clothon, and
Atropos to plaine.
And yet beautie, for it dooth make no complaint:
For it liu'd with him, and died with him againe.
¶ Others of the fowre last lynes, of other that she made also.
11 My Sonne is gone? and with it, death end my sorrow,
12 But death makes mee aunswere? Madame, cease these mones:
13 My force is but on bodies of blood and bones:
14 And that of yours, is no more now, but a shadow.
An other.
11 Amphiôns wife was turned to a rocke. O
12 How well I had béene, had I had such aduenture,
13 For then I might againe haue béene the Sepulcure,
14 Of him that I bare in mée, so long ago.
FINIS.
Epitaph, made by the Queenes Maiestie, at the death of the Princesse of Espinoye.
WHen the warrier
Phoebus, goth to make his round,
With a painefull course, to too ther
Hemisphêre:
A darke shadowe, a great horror, and a feare,
In I knoe not what clowdes inueron the ground.
And euen so for
Pinoy, that fayre vertues Lady,
(Although
Iupiter haue in this
Orizôn,
Made a starre of her, by the
Ariadnan crowne)
Morns, dolour, and gréefe, accompany our body.
O
Atropos, thou hast doone a worke per-uerst.
And as a byrde that hath lost both young, and nest:
About the place where it was, makes many a tourne.
Euen so dooth
Cupid, that infaunt, God, of amore,
Flie about the tombe, where she lyes all in dolore,
Wéeping for her eies, wherein he made soiourne.
FINIS.
❧ Verses taken out of his Stanses, Hymnes, and Elegias: all dedicated or sent to his Mistresse Diana.
Elegia.
IN which you ask't my name (confesse
your selfe, if't be not so)
And whether I before, had euer
béene in loue or no.
My name, quoth I, is
Soothern, and
Madame, let that suffice:
That
Soothern which will rayse the
Englishe
language to the Skies.
The wanton of the
Muses, and
Whose well composed ryme,
Will liue in despite of the heuens,
And Triumph ouer tyme. &c.
Elegia.
But how farre are the wordes contrarie
to the déedes of men.
The selfe same night I went where I
admyred you agen.
Your syluer
Phebes eyes, and your
Well set and crisped heair:
Your
Venus porte, and your countenaunce
of the God of war:
Your
Iban throte, your marble brow,
With your soft chéekes of Roses:
And your Straberie lyps, wherein
Your téeth of pearle reposes.
Bréefe, I saw you
(Dian) in whome
The Gods did all their best,
To sée what they could doo, when they
Would frame a worke Celest. &c.
Elegia.
But how vaine and short are the delightes
and plasires humaine.
And of the solace of this world:
What else dooth there remaine,
Sauing but repentaunce: and what
Is it that beareth breath,
But by the hauing life, it is
Subiected vnto death. &c.
Himne.
The more stronger the Castle is,
And harder to be wonne,
The more eternall honour hath,
The man that can get it.
And vertue neuer will giue ou'r,
Without a great conflict. &c.
Himne.
To iudge a Humaine heart tis a
Labyrinth, much vnwide,
Wherein we loose vs, if we haue
Not experaunce for guide. &c.
Elegia.
The woman nere so constaunt, or
the Castle nere so strong:
If th'one will heare, and th'other speake,
They doo not endure long. &c.
¶ New kinde of verces deuised by him: and are a wofull kinde of meter, to sing a loue, or death in.
LIke the dolefull birde languishing,
the which dooth sing,
Her fatall song in swéete accordes,
Betaking her selfe to her death,
wearie of breath:
On
Meander her storie bordes.
And euen so I, without hope that
it helpes me ought,
Bedew thy handes, héere with my teares:
For I perceiue by thy rigore,
that-to my dolore:
The Gods themselues haue stopt their eares.
Though speake
Dian, what might thou meane,
by this extreame.
Crueltie, hauing such Diuine
Fayre eyes: Doost thou thinke that when death,
hath tooke my breath:
That I will ende these cries of mine.
No, no, thou art deceiu'd for then,
my sprite agen,
Shall followe thée fro place to place,
Exclayming on thy crueltie,
voide of pittie. &c.
FINIS.
Ode.
COme, come
Simonid, and
Anacreon,
Come and laye your money to mine:
And let vs goe and finde out
Corydon:
And be once dronke with new wine.
Boye: bring hyther the greatest glasse,
And fyll, though it runne tyll to morrowe.
Héere holde my
Anacre-on quasse,
When we are droonke, we haue no sorrowe.
But first I would thy
Bathyll were
Come with her Lute, that we might daunce.
And that our olde
Ronsard of
Fraunce,
With his
Cassandra too were here.
And what sayst
Simon'd shall we send,
For our Wenches, now at beginning:
Hâ, he that loues not Wine, and Women,
Will neuer make a holsome ende.
❧ Odellet.
DIan, if it might come to passe:
Or that I might haue my desire:
I would to the Gods that I were,
Turned into thy looking Glasse.
Or to the pillowe of this bead:
Whereon thou layst thy daintie head.
Or to water, that I might wash thée:
Or to thy roabe, that thou mightst weare mée:
Or that hang here on thy teatine,
I would I were these pearles of thine.
Or my
Dian, to tell thée true,
I would I could be but thy shew.
Odellet.
SOme will sing the great feates of Armes
Of
Rome: some other the alarmes
of
Thebs: and some other of
Troye,
And both the siedge, and the efroye.
But what haue I to doe with warriers:
Meddle I then with those that fit:
No, no, I nere hurt any yet:
Nor nere men to come among soldiers.
I care not for the
Thracian God:
I am no man that seeketh blood:
But like the olde
Poët Annacron,
It pleases mée well to be
Biberon.
And thus in a Sellor to quaffe,
So that some Wench be by to lauffe.
And with
Bacchus, and
Citherais,
I meane to spend all my whole dayes.
Odellet.
BOy: reach hyther the bottle, that
I may taste of thy crimson lycor:
For when I am in any dolor,
It onelie reioyces my heart.
The deuill made money I thinke:
For without money, what a liuing,
Haue we that serue couetous women:
And without it we can not drinke.
Learning is not now woorth a penny,
And these wiues care for no fayre lookes,
And what shall a man doo with Bookes.
Faith hang, if he can get no mony.
Odellet.
BVt why since, death will not retard,
For any gift that we her offer:
My
Dyolle, what helpes it to gard,
This golde, a rousting in a coffer.
Is't not better that whiles we liue,
We giue our selues to learning: when
Better then ought else we can giue,
(Dead) it makes vs to reuiue agen.
FINIS.
Stansse.
DIeus que ie hay (ronsard) qui rien nese propoze,
Qu'a tromper vne amour d'un lāguage allechant,
Dian ie vos pry aiez loreille e cloze,
Affin de n'ouyr point la doulceur de son chant.
Non ie hay plus que mort sa Casandre implacable,
An caeur ou le Burin d'une douce Pitye,
Ne seut grauer benin vn seull trait d'amytie,
" Car on doibt payer l'amour d'une amitye semblable.
Quadran.
Lon ne peut inger lesant dans le visage,
Sy l'amant est fidelle, ou volage, en amoure:
Pour le scau
[...]ir an vray fueilletez le Courage,
" Car la durable amytye ne se'preuue en vn ioure.
Quadran.
Non non, Ie ne tiens point pour guerrier valeureux,
Vng tas de ieunes sots qui ventant leur Vaillance,
" Au fruit on congnoist larbre: a la perseuerance,
" Lon remarque anssi tost vn gallant amoureus.
FINIS.