THE INDVCTION.
My muse, that mongst meane birds whilome, did waue her flaggie wing,And cuckow-like ofCastae’swrongs, in rustick tunes did sing,Now with the morne’s cloud climing lark must mount a pitch more hie,And like Ioue’s bird with stedfast lookes outbraue the sunne’s bright eie:Yea she, that whilome begger-like her beggers ape did sing,Which iniur’d by the guilt of time to light she durst not bring:In stately stile tragedian-like with sacred furie fed,Must now record the tragicke deeds of greatHeröesdead,Vouchsafe then thou great king of heau’n, the heau’nly drops t’infuseOf sacred iuyce into my pen, giue strength vnto my museTo mount aloft with powerfull wings, and let her voice be strong,That she may smite the golden starres with sound of her great song:When loue-borne Phœbus fierie steeds about the world had bin,And wearied with their yearely taske, had taken vp their inneFarre in the south, when cold had nipt the hawthorne’s rugged rinde,And liuely sap of summer sweet, from blast of blustring windeHad sunken downe into the roote, whose thornie browes besprentWith frostie dew, did hang their heads, and summer’s losse lament;My limbes benumb’d with vnkind cold, my life-blood waxing chill,As was my wont I walked forth to ease me of such ill:But when I came in fields abroad, and view’d the wastefull spightOf wrathfull winter, grieu’d I was to see so sad a sight:The shadie woods, in which the birds to build their neasts were seene,Whose wauing heads in aire shot vp were crown’d with youthfull greene:Now clad in coate of motlie hue did maske in poore array,Rough Boreas with his blustering blasts had blowen their leaues away:In stead of blossomes on the boughes, the spring whilome begun,Which through the leaues did seeme to laugh vpon the summer’s sunne,Now nought but hoarie frost was seene, each branch teares downe did send,Whose dewie drops on ysiccles vpon each bough depend:The mistresse of the woods quaint quire, the warbling Philomele,That wont to rauish with delight, th’inhabitants, that dwellAbout the greene wood side, forgot the layes she sung before,For griefe of summer’s golden losse she now could sing no more:And all the quire that wont with her to beare a part and singConcordant discords in sweet straine for welcome of the spring,Sate silent on the frostie bow, and shuddering all for cold,Did shroud the head beneath the wing, the day was waxed old,None but the red-brest and the wren did sing the euen away,And that in notes of sad record for summer’s late decay:The field, which whilomeCerescrown’d with golden eares of corne,And all the pasture-springing meades, whichPalesdid adorne,Lookt pale for woe, the winterie snow had couered all their greene,Nought else vpon the grasselesse ground, but winter’s waste was seene:The shepheard’s feeble flocke pent vp within the bounded fold,So faint for food, that scarce their feete their bodies could vphold,Did hang the head with heauie cheare, as they would learne to mourneThe thrall in which they now did liue, by shepheard left forlorne:All sweet delight of summer past, cold winter’s breath had blasted,The sunne in heau’n shone pale on earth to see her wombe so wasted:All which, as I grieu’d at such sight, the fields alone did range,Did teach me know all things on earth were subiect vnto change:How fond (me thought) were mortall men, the trustlesse stay to trust,Of things on earth, since heere on earth all things returne to dust?Who so in youth doth boast of strength, me thought the loftie oakeWould teach him that his strength must vade, when age begins to yokeHis youthfull necke, euen by it selfe, his leauie lockes being shed,And branched armes shrunke vp with frost, as if they had been dead:The louely lillie, that faire flower for beautie past compare,Whom winter’s cold keene breath had kill’d, and blasted all her faire,Might teach the fairest vnder heau’n, that beautie’s freshest greeneWhen spring of youth is spent, will vade, as it had neuer been;The barren fields, which whilome flower’d as they would neuer fade,Inricht with summer’s golden gifts, which now been all decay’d,Did shew in state there was no trust, in wealth no certaine stay,One stormie blast of frowning chance could blow them all away;Out of the yeares alternate course this lesson I did con,In things on earth of most auaile assurance there was none:But fancie feeding on these thoughts, as I alone did wend,The clocke did strike, whose chime did tell the day was at an end;The golden sunne, daies guide, was gone, and in his purple bedHad laid him downe, the heau’ns about their azure curtaines spread,And all the tapers lighted were, as t’were the watch to keepe,Lest past her houre night should vsurpe, while he secure did sleepe;Then clad in cloake of mistie fogges the darke night vp did come,And with grim grislie looke did seeme to bid me get me home;Home was I led, not as before with solace from the field,The wofull waste of summer past had all my pleasure spill’d:When home I came, nipt with sharpe cold of Boreas bitter aire,After repast to my warme bed forthwith I made repaire,Where, for the nights were tedious growen, and I disturb’d in mindWith thoughts of that daies obiect seene, not vnto sleepe inclin’d,I vp did sit, my backe behind the pillow soft did stay,And call’d for light, with booke in hand to passe the time away;Of which each line which I did reade, in nature did agreeWith that true vse of things which I the day before did seeA Mirrour hight for Magistrates, for title it did beare,In which by painfull pens, the fals of princes written were:There, as in glasse, I did behold, what day before did show,That beautie, strength, wealth, world’s vaine pompe, and all to dust do go:There did I see triumphant death beneath his feet tread downeThe state of kings, the purple robe, the scepter and the crowne:Without respect with deadly dart all princes he did strike,The vertuous and the vicious prince to him been both alike:Nought else they leaue vntoucht of death except a vertuous name,Which dies, if that the sacred nine eternize not the same:Why then (ye thrice three borne of Ioue) why then be ye despis’d?Is vertue dead? hath daintie ease in her soft armes surpris’dThe manhood of the elder world? hath rust of time deuour’dTh’Heröe’sstocke that on your heads such golden blessings showr’d?This silent night, when all things lie in lap of sweet repose,Ye only wake, the powres of sleepe your eyes do neuer close,To shew the sempiternitie, to which their names ye raiseOn wings of your immortall verse that truly merit praise:But where’s the due of your desert, or where your learning’s meed?Not only now the baser sprite, whom dunghill dust doth breed,But they that boast themselues to be in honor’s bosome borne,Disdaine your wisdome, and do hold your sectaries in scorne:No maruell then, me thought, it was, that in this booke I read,So many a prince I found exempt, as if their names been dead,Who for desert amongst the best a place might iustly claime:But who can put on any spirit to memorize the nameOf any dead, whose thanklesse race t’whom learning shapes the legIn humble wise, yet in contempt bids learned wits go beg?As thus in bed with booke in hand I sate contemplating,The humorous night was waxed olde, still silence husht each thing,The clocke chim’d twelue, to which as I with listning eares attend,As signes of fraile mortalitie all things I apprehend;The daylight past, as life I deeme, the night as death to come,The clocke that chim’d, death’s fatall knell, that call’d me to my doome,Still silence rest from worldly cares, my bed the graue I thinke,In which, with heart to heau’n vp-lift, at length I downe did sinke:Where after still repose when as thin vapors had restrain’dThe mouing powers of common sense, and sleepe each sense enchain’d,Whether the watchfull fantasie did now in sleepe restoreThe species of things sensible, which I had seene before:And so some dreame it only was, which I intend to tell,Or vision sent I’le not discusse, to me it thus befell:A sudden sound of trumpe I heard, whose blast so loud was blowne,That in a trance I senselesse lay, fraile mortall there was noneThat heard such sound, could sense retaine: my chamber wals did shake,Vp flew the doores, a voice I heard, which thus distinctly spake:“Awake from sleepe, lift vp thy head, and be no whit dismai’d,I serue the deities of heau’n, their hests must be obei’d,And now am sent from her that keepes the store-house of the mind:The mother of the muses nine, for thee she hath assign’dFor her designe, the night to come in sleepe thou must not spend:Prepare thy selfe, that gainst she come, her will thou maist attend.”As to these words I listning lay, and had resumed spright,I boldly looked round about, and loe, there stood in sightTrue fame, the trumpeter of heau’n, that doth desire inflameTo glorious deeds, and by her power eternifies the name:A golden trumpe her right hand held, which when she list to sound,Can smite the starres of heau’n, and bring the dead from vnder ground:Vpon her head a chaplet stood of neuer vading greene,Which honor gaue, to giue to them that fauour’d of her been:Her wings were white as snow, with which she compast heau’n and earthWith names of such, whom honor did renowne for deeds of worth:As I beheld her princely port, yet trembling all for feare,A sound of heau’nly harmony did pierce my pleased eare,In rapture of whose sweet delight, as I did rauisht lie,The goddesse dread whom fame forespoke did stand before mine eie,The ladie of mount Helicon, the great Pierian dame,From whom the learned sisters nine deriue their birth and name,In golden garments clad she was, which time can neuer weare,Nor fretting moth consume the same, which did embroydered beareThe acts of oldHeröesdead, set downe in stately verse,Which sitting by the horse-foot spring, Ioue’s daughters did rehearse:Fiue damsels did attend on her, who with such wondrous skillDo in their seuerall functions worke, to serue their ladie’s will,That what she seekes on earth, to see, to heare, smell, taste or touch,They can present the same with speed, their power and skill are such:As in amazement at such sight I in my bed did lie,She thus bespake: “I am,” quoth she, “the ladie Memorie,Ioue’s welbelou’d Mnemosyne, that keepes the wealthie storeOf time’s rich treasure, where the deeds that haue been done of yoreI do record, and when in bookes I chance to find the fameOf any after death decai’d, I do reuiue the same:Turning the volume large of late, in which myCliosingsThe deeds of worthie Britaines dead, I find that many kingsExempted are, whose noble acts deserue eternitie,And mongst our Mirrours challenge place for all posteritie:For which, my station I haue left, and now am come to thee,This night thou must abandon sleepe, my pen-man thou must bee.”To this said I: “O goddesse great, the taske thou dost imposeExceeds the compasse of my skill, t’is fitter farre for those,Whose pens sweet nectar do distill, to whom the power is giuenVpon their winged verse to rap their readers vp to heau’n:The pinions of my humble muse be all too weake to flieSo large a flight; theirs be this taske that loue to soare on high:But how can they such taske vp-take, that in a stately straineHaue rais’d the dead out of the dust; yet after all their paine,When their sweet muse in vertue’s praise hath powred out their store,Are still despis’d and doom’d for aye with vertue to be poore.”To this, “alas,” quoth Memorie, “it grieues me to beholdThe learned wits left all forlorne, t’whom whilome it was toldMæcenas was reuiu’d againe: yet grieue I more to seeThe loathed lozell to prophane that sacred mysterie:Each vulgar wit, that what it is, could neuer yet define,In ragged rimes with lips profane, will call the learned nineTo helpe him vtter forth the spawne of his vnfruitfull braine,Which makes our peerelesse poesie to be in such disdaine,That now it skils not whether Pan do pipe, or Phœbus play,Tom Tinkar makes best harmonie to passe the time away:For this I grieue, for this the seed of Ioue are held in scorne,Yet not for this our worthies dead are to be left forlorne:For so no future age should know the truth of things forepast,The names of their forefathers dead would in the dust be cast:Then do not thou thy helpe denie, I will conduct thy pen,And fame shall summon vp the ghosts of all those worthie men,That mongst our Mirrours are not found, that each one orderlyMay come to thee, to tell the truth of his sad tragedie.”Thus hauing said, she tooke the booke from vnderneath my head,And turning ore the leaues, at last, she thus began to reade.
My muse, that mongst meane birds whilome, did waue her flaggie wing,And cuckow-like ofCastae’swrongs, in rustick tunes did sing,Now with the morne’s cloud climing lark must mount a pitch more hie,And like Ioue’s bird with stedfast lookes outbraue the sunne’s bright eie:Yea she, that whilome begger-like her beggers ape did sing,Which iniur’d by the guilt of time to light she durst not bring:In stately stile tragedian-like with sacred furie fed,Must now record the tragicke deeds of greatHeröesdead,Vouchsafe then thou great king of heau’n, the heau’nly drops t’infuseOf sacred iuyce into my pen, giue strength vnto my museTo mount aloft with powerfull wings, and let her voice be strong,That she may smite the golden starres with sound of her great song:When loue-borne Phœbus fierie steeds about the world had bin,And wearied with their yearely taske, had taken vp their inneFarre in the south, when cold had nipt the hawthorne’s rugged rinde,And liuely sap of summer sweet, from blast of blustring windeHad sunken downe into the roote, whose thornie browes besprentWith frostie dew, did hang their heads, and summer’s losse lament;My limbes benumb’d with vnkind cold, my life-blood waxing chill,As was my wont I walked forth to ease me of such ill:But when I came in fields abroad, and view’d the wastefull spightOf wrathfull winter, grieu’d I was to see so sad a sight:The shadie woods, in which the birds to build their neasts were seene,Whose wauing heads in aire shot vp were crown’d with youthfull greene:Now clad in coate of motlie hue did maske in poore array,Rough Boreas with his blustering blasts had blowen their leaues away:In stead of blossomes on the boughes, the spring whilome begun,Which through the leaues did seeme to laugh vpon the summer’s sunne,Now nought but hoarie frost was seene, each branch teares downe did send,Whose dewie drops on ysiccles vpon each bough depend:The mistresse of the woods quaint quire, the warbling Philomele,That wont to rauish with delight, th’inhabitants, that dwellAbout the greene wood side, forgot the layes she sung before,For griefe of summer’s golden losse she now could sing no more:And all the quire that wont with her to beare a part and singConcordant discords in sweet straine for welcome of the spring,Sate silent on the frostie bow, and shuddering all for cold,Did shroud the head beneath the wing, the day was waxed old,None but the red-brest and the wren did sing the euen away,And that in notes of sad record for summer’s late decay:The field, which whilomeCerescrown’d with golden eares of corne,And all the pasture-springing meades, whichPalesdid adorne,Lookt pale for woe, the winterie snow had couered all their greene,Nought else vpon the grasselesse ground, but winter’s waste was seene:The shepheard’s feeble flocke pent vp within the bounded fold,So faint for food, that scarce their feete their bodies could vphold,Did hang the head with heauie cheare, as they would learne to mourneThe thrall in which they now did liue, by shepheard left forlorne:All sweet delight of summer past, cold winter’s breath had blasted,The sunne in heau’n shone pale on earth to see her wombe so wasted:All which, as I grieu’d at such sight, the fields alone did range,Did teach me know all things on earth were subiect vnto change:How fond (me thought) were mortall men, the trustlesse stay to trust,Of things on earth, since heere on earth all things returne to dust?Who so in youth doth boast of strength, me thought the loftie oakeWould teach him that his strength must vade, when age begins to yokeHis youthfull necke, euen by it selfe, his leauie lockes being shed,And branched armes shrunke vp with frost, as if they had been dead:The louely lillie, that faire flower for beautie past compare,Whom winter’s cold keene breath had kill’d, and blasted all her faire,Might teach the fairest vnder heau’n, that beautie’s freshest greeneWhen spring of youth is spent, will vade, as it had neuer been;The barren fields, which whilome flower’d as they would neuer fade,Inricht with summer’s golden gifts, which now been all decay’d,Did shew in state there was no trust, in wealth no certaine stay,One stormie blast of frowning chance could blow them all away;Out of the yeares alternate course this lesson I did con,In things on earth of most auaile assurance there was none:But fancie feeding on these thoughts, as I alone did wend,The clocke did strike, whose chime did tell the day was at an end;The golden sunne, daies guide, was gone, and in his purple bedHad laid him downe, the heau’ns about their azure curtaines spread,And all the tapers lighted were, as t’were the watch to keepe,Lest past her houre night should vsurpe, while he secure did sleepe;Then clad in cloake of mistie fogges the darke night vp did come,And with grim grislie looke did seeme to bid me get me home;Home was I led, not as before with solace from the field,The wofull waste of summer past had all my pleasure spill’d:When home I came, nipt with sharpe cold of Boreas bitter aire,After repast to my warme bed forthwith I made repaire,Where, for the nights were tedious growen, and I disturb’d in mindWith thoughts of that daies obiect seene, not vnto sleepe inclin’d,I vp did sit, my backe behind the pillow soft did stay,And call’d for light, with booke in hand to passe the time away;Of which each line which I did reade, in nature did agreeWith that true vse of things which I the day before did seeA Mirrour hight for Magistrates, for title it did beare,In which by painfull pens, the fals of princes written were:There, as in glasse, I did behold, what day before did show,That beautie, strength, wealth, world’s vaine pompe, and all to dust do go:There did I see triumphant death beneath his feet tread downeThe state of kings, the purple robe, the scepter and the crowne:Without respect with deadly dart all princes he did strike,The vertuous and the vicious prince to him been both alike:Nought else they leaue vntoucht of death except a vertuous name,Which dies, if that the sacred nine eternize not the same:Why then (ye thrice three borne of Ioue) why then be ye despis’d?Is vertue dead? hath daintie ease in her soft armes surpris’dThe manhood of the elder world? hath rust of time deuour’dTh’Heröe’sstocke that on your heads such golden blessings showr’d?This silent night, when all things lie in lap of sweet repose,Ye only wake, the powres of sleepe your eyes do neuer close,To shew the sempiternitie, to which their names ye raiseOn wings of your immortall verse that truly merit praise:But where’s the due of your desert, or where your learning’s meed?Not only now the baser sprite, whom dunghill dust doth breed,But they that boast themselues to be in honor’s bosome borne,Disdaine your wisdome, and do hold your sectaries in scorne:No maruell then, me thought, it was, that in this booke I read,So many a prince I found exempt, as if their names been dead,Who for desert amongst the best a place might iustly claime:But who can put on any spirit to memorize the nameOf any dead, whose thanklesse race t’whom learning shapes the legIn humble wise, yet in contempt bids learned wits go beg?As thus in bed with booke in hand I sate contemplating,The humorous night was waxed olde, still silence husht each thing,The clocke chim’d twelue, to which as I with listning eares attend,As signes of fraile mortalitie all things I apprehend;The daylight past, as life I deeme, the night as death to come,The clocke that chim’d, death’s fatall knell, that call’d me to my doome,Still silence rest from worldly cares, my bed the graue I thinke,In which, with heart to heau’n vp-lift, at length I downe did sinke:Where after still repose when as thin vapors had restrain’dThe mouing powers of common sense, and sleepe each sense enchain’d,Whether the watchfull fantasie did now in sleepe restoreThe species of things sensible, which I had seene before:And so some dreame it only was, which I intend to tell,Or vision sent I’le not discusse, to me it thus befell:A sudden sound of trumpe I heard, whose blast so loud was blowne,That in a trance I senselesse lay, fraile mortall there was noneThat heard such sound, could sense retaine: my chamber wals did shake,Vp flew the doores, a voice I heard, which thus distinctly spake:“Awake from sleepe, lift vp thy head, and be no whit dismai’d,I serue the deities of heau’n, their hests must be obei’d,And now am sent from her that keepes the store-house of the mind:The mother of the muses nine, for thee she hath assign’dFor her designe, the night to come in sleepe thou must not spend:Prepare thy selfe, that gainst she come, her will thou maist attend.”As to these words I listning lay, and had resumed spright,I boldly looked round about, and loe, there stood in sightTrue fame, the trumpeter of heau’n, that doth desire inflameTo glorious deeds, and by her power eternifies the name:A golden trumpe her right hand held, which when she list to sound,Can smite the starres of heau’n, and bring the dead from vnder ground:Vpon her head a chaplet stood of neuer vading greene,Which honor gaue, to giue to them that fauour’d of her been:Her wings were white as snow, with which she compast heau’n and earthWith names of such, whom honor did renowne for deeds of worth:As I beheld her princely port, yet trembling all for feare,A sound of heau’nly harmony did pierce my pleased eare,In rapture of whose sweet delight, as I did rauisht lie,The goddesse dread whom fame forespoke did stand before mine eie,The ladie of mount Helicon, the great Pierian dame,From whom the learned sisters nine deriue their birth and name,In golden garments clad she was, which time can neuer weare,Nor fretting moth consume the same, which did embroydered beareThe acts of oldHeröesdead, set downe in stately verse,Which sitting by the horse-foot spring, Ioue’s daughters did rehearse:Fiue damsels did attend on her, who with such wondrous skillDo in their seuerall functions worke, to serue their ladie’s will,That what she seekes on earth, to see, to heare, smell, taste or touch,They can present the same with speed, their power and skill are such:As in amazement at such sight I in my bed did lie,She thus bespake: “I am,” quoth she, “the ladie Memorie,Ioue’s welbelou’d Mnemosyne, that keepes the wealthie storeOf time’s rich treasure, where the deeds that haue been done of yoreI do record, and when in bookes I chance to find the fameOf any after death decai’d, I do reuiue the same:Turning the volume large of late, in which myCliosingsThe deeds of worthie Britaines dead, I find that many kingsExempted are, whose noble acts deserue eternitie,And mongst our Mirrours challenge place for all posteritie:For which, my station I haue left, and now am come to thee,This night thou must abandon sleepe, my pen-man thou must bee.”To this said I: “O goddesse great, the taske thou dost imposeExceeds the compasse of my skill, t’is fitter farre for those,Whose pens sweet nectar do distill, to whom the power is giuenVpon their winged verse to rap their readers vp to heau’n:The pinions of my humble muse be all too weake to flieSo large a flight; theirs be this taske that loue to soare on high:But how can they such taske vp-take, that in a stately straineHaue rais’d the dead out of the dust; yet after all their paine,When their sweet muse in vertue’s praise hath powred out their store,Are still despis’d and doom’d for aye with vertue to be poore.”To this, “alas,” quoth Memorie, “it grieues me to beholdThe learned wits left all forlorne, t’whom whilome it was toldMæcenas was reuiu’d againe: yet grieue I more to seeThe loathed lozell to prophane that sacred mysterie:Each vulgar wit, that what it is, could neuer yet define,In ragged rimes with lips profane, will call the learned nineTo helpe him vtter forth the spawne of his vnfruitfull braine,Which makes our peerelesse poesie to be in such disdaine,That now it skils not whether Pan do pipe, or Phœbus play,Tom Tinkar makes best harmonie to passe the time away:For this I grieue, for this the seed of Ioue are held in scorne,Yet not for this our worthies dead are to be left forlorne:For so no future age should know the truth of things forepast,The names of their forefathers dead would in the dust be cast:Then do not thou thy helpe denie, I will conduct thy pen,And fame shall summon vp the ghosts of all those worthie men,That mongst our Mirrours are not found, that each one orderlyMay come to thee, to tell the truth of his sad tragedie.”Thus hauing said, she tooke the booke from vnderneath my head,And turning ore the leaues, at last, she thus began to reade.
My muse, that mongst meane birds whilome, did waue her flaggie wing,And cuckow-like ofCastae’swrongs, in rustick tunes did sing,Now with the morne’s cloud climing lark must mount a pitch more hie,And like Ioue’s bird with stedfast lookes outbraue the sunne’s bright eie:Yea she, that whilome begger-like her beggers ape did sing,Which iniur’d by the guilt of time to light she durst not bring:In stately stile tragedian-like with sacred furie fed,Must now record the tragicke deeds of greatHeröesdead,Vouchsafe then thou great king of heau’n, the heau’nly drops t’infuseOf sacred iuyce into my pen, giue strength vnto my museTo mount aloft with powerfull wings, and let her voice be strong,That she may smite the golden starres with sound of her great song:When loue-borne Phœbus fierie steeds about the world had bin,And wearied with their yearely taske, had taken vp their inneFarre in the south, when cold had nipt the hawthorne’s rugged rinde,And liuely sap of summer sweet, from blast of blustring windeHad sunken downe into the roote, whose thornie browes besprentWith frostie dew, did hang their heads, and summer’s losse lament;My limbes benumb’d with vnkind cold, my life-blood waxing chill,As was my wont I walked forth to ease me of such ill:But when I came in fields abroad, and view’d the wastefull spightOf wrathfull winter, grieu’d I was to see so sad a sight:The shadie woods, in which the birds to build their neasts were seene,Whose wauing heads in aire shot vp were crown’d with youthfull greene:Now clad in coate of motlie hue did maske in poore array,Rough Boreas with his blustering blasts had blowen their leaues away:In stead of blossomes on the boughes, the spring whilome begun,Which through the leaues did seeme to laugh vpon the summer’s sunne,Now nought but hoarie frost was seene, each branch teares downe did send,Whose dewie drops on ysiccles vpon each bough depend:The mistresse of the woods quaint quire, the warbling Philomele,That wont to rauish with delight, th’inhabitants, that dwellAbout the greene wood side, forgot the layes she sung before,For griefe of summer’s golden losse she now could sing no more:And all the quire that wont with her to beare a part and singConcordant discords in sweet straine for welcome of the spring,Sate silent on the frostie bow, and shuddering all for cold,Did shroud the head beneath the wing, the day was waxed old,None but the red-brest and the wren did sing the euen away,And that in notes of sad record for summer’s late decay:The field, which whilomeCerescrown’d with golden eares of corne,And all the pasture-springing meades, whichPalesdid adorne,Lookt pale for woe, the winterie snow had couered all their greene,Nought else vpon the grasselesse ground, but winter’s waste was seene:The shepheard’s feeble flocke pent vp within the bounded fold,So faint for food, that scarce their feete their bodies could vphold,Did hang the head with heauie cheare, as they would learne to mourneThe thrall in which they now did liue, by shepheard left forlorne:All sweet delight of summer past, cold winter’s breath had blasted,The sunne in heau’n shone pale on earth to see her wombe so wasted:All which, as I grieu’d at such sight, the fields alone did range,Did teach me know all things on earth were subiect vnto change:How fond (me thought) were mortall men, the trustlesse stay to trust,Of things on earth, since heere on earth all things returne to dust?Who so in youth doth boast of strength, me thought the loftie oakeWould teach him that his strength must vade, when age begins to yokeHis youthfull necke, euen by it selfe, his leauie lockes being shed,And branched armes shrunke vp with frost, as if they had been dead:The louely lillie, that faire flower for beautie past compare,Whom winter’s cold keene breath had kill’d, and blasted all her faire,Might teach the fairest vnder heau’n, that beautie’s freshest greeneWhen spring of youth is spent, will vade, as it had neuer been;The barren fields, which whilome flower’d as they would neuer fade,Inricht with summer’s golden gifts, which now been all decay’d,Did shew in state there was no trust, in wealth no certaine stay,One stormie blast of frowning chance could blow them all away;Out of the yeares alternate course this lesson I did con,In things on earth of most auaile assurance there was none:But fancie feeding on these thoughts, as I alone did wend,The clocke did strike, whose chime did tell the day was at an end;The golden sunne, daies guide, was gone, and in his purple bedHad laid him downe, the heau’ns about their azure curtaines spread,And all the tapers lighted were, as t’were the watch to keepe,Lest past her houre night should vsurpe, while he secure did sleepe;Then clad in cloake of mistie fogges the darke night vp did come,And with grim grislie looke did seeme to bid me get me home;Home was I led, not as before with solace from the field,The wofull waste of summer past had all my pleasure spill’d:When home I came, nipt with sharpe cold of Boreas bitter aire,After repast to my warme bed forthwith I made repaire,Where, for the nights were tedious growen, and I disturb’d in mindWith thoughts of that daies obiect seene, not vnto sleepe inclin’d,I vp did sit, my backe behind the pillow soft did stay,And call’d for light, with booke in hand to passe the time away;Of which each line which I did reade, in nature did agreeWith that true vse of things which I the day before did seeA Mirrour hight for Magistrates, for title it did beare,In which by painfull pens, the fals of princes written were:There, as in glasse, I did behold, what day before did show,That beautie, strength, wealth, world’s vaine pompe, and all to dust do go:There did I see triumphant death beneath his feet tread downeThe state of kings, the purple robe, the scepter and the crowne:Without respect with deadly dart all princes he did strike,The vertuous and the vicious prince to him been both alike:Nought else they leaue vntoucht of death except a vertuous name,Which dies, if that the sacred nine eternize not the same:Why then (ye thrice three borne of Ioue) why then be ye despis’d?Is vertue dead? hath daintie ease in her soft armes surpris’dThe manhood of the elder world? hath rust of time deuour’dTh’Heröe’sstocke that on your heads such golden blessings showr’d?This silent night, when all things lie in lap of sweet repose,Ye only wake, the powres of sleepe your eyes do neuer close,To shew the sempiternitie, to which their names ye raiseOn wings of your immortall verse that truly merit praise:But where’s the due of your desert, or where your learning’s meed?Not only now the baser sprite, whom dunghill dust doth breed,But they that boast themselues to be in honor’s bosome borne,Disdaine your wisdome, and do hold your sectaries in scorne:No maruell then, me thought, it was, that in this booke I read,So many a prince I found exempt, as if their names been dead,Who for desert amongst the best a place might iustly claime:But who can put on any spirit to memorize the nameOf any dead, whose thanklesse race t’whom learning shapes the legIn humble wise, yet in contempt bids learned wits go beg?As thus in bed with booke in hand I sate contemplating,The humorous night was waxed olde, still silence husht each thing,The clocke chim’d twelue, to which as I with listning eares attend,As signes of fraile mortalitie all things I apprehend;The daylight past, as life I deeme, the night as death to come,The clocke that chim’d, death’s fatall knell, that call’d me to my doome,Still silence rest from worldly cares, my bed the graue I thinke,In which, with heart to heau’n vp-lift, at length I downe did sinke:Where after still repose when as thin vapors had restrain’dThe mouing powers of common sense, and sleepe each sense enchain’d,Whether the watchfull fantasie did now in sleepe restoreThe species of things sensible, which I had seene before:And so some dreame it only was, which I intend to tell,Or vision sent I’le not discusse, to me it thus befell:A sudden sound of trumpe I heard, whose blast so loud was blowne,That in a trance I senselesse lay, fraile mortall there was noneThat heard such sound, could sense retaine: my chamber wals did shake,Vp flew the doores, a voice I heard, which thus distinctly spake:“Awake from sleepe, lift vp thy head, and be no whit dismai’d,I serue the deities of heau’n, their hests must be obei’d,And now am sent from her that keepes the store-house of the mind:The mother of the muses nine, for thee she hath assign’dFor her designe, the night to come in sleepe thou must not spend:Prepare thy selfe, that gainst she come, her will thou maist attend.”As to these words I listning lay, and had resumed spright,I boldly looked round about, and loe, there stood in sightTrue fame, the trumpeter of heau’n, that doth desire inflameTo glorious deeds, and by her power eternifies the name:A golden trumpe her right hand held, which when she list to sound,Can smite the starres of heau’n, and bring the dead from vnder ground:Vpon her head a chaplet stood of neuer vading greene,Which honor gaue, to giue to them that fauour’d of her been:Her wings were white as snow, with which she compast heau’n and earthWith names of such, whom honor did renowne for deeds of worth:As I beheld her princely port, yet trembling all for feare,A sound of heau’nly harmony did pierce my pleased eare,In rapture of whose sweet delight, as I did rauisht lie,The goddesse dread whom fame forespoke did stand before mine eie,The ladie of mount Helicon, the great Pierian dame,From whom the learned sisters nine deriue their birth and name,In golden garments clad she was, which time can neuer weare,Nor fretting moth consume the same, which did embroydered beareThe acts of oldHeröesdead, set downe in stately verse,Which sitting by the horse-foot spring, Ioue’s daughters did rehearse:Fiue damsels did attend on her, who with such wondrous skillDo in their seuerall functions worke, to serue their ladie’s will,That what she seekes on earth, to see, to heare, smell, taste or touch,They can present the same with speed, their power and skill are such:As in amazement at such sight I in my bed did lie,She thus bespake: “I am,” quoth she, “the ladie Memorie,Ioue’s welbelou’d Mnemosyne, that keepes the wealthie storeOf time’s rich treasure, where the deeds that haue been done of yoreI do record, and when in bookes I chance to find the fameOf any after death decai’d, I do reuiue the same:Turning the volume large of late, in which myCliosingsThe deeds of worthie Britaines dead, I find that many kingsExempted are, whose noble acts deserue eternitie,And mongst our Mirrours challenge place for all posteritie:For which, my station I haue left, and now am come to thee,This night thou must abandon sleepe, my pen-man thou must bee.”To this said I: “O goddesse great, the taske thou dost imposeExceeds the compasse of my skill, t’is fitter farre for those,Whose pens sweet nectar do distill, to whom the power is giuenVpon their winged verse to rap their readers vp to heau’n:The pinions of my humble muse be all too weake to flieSo large a flight; theirs be this taske that loue to soare on high:But how can they such taske vp-take, that in a stately straineHaue rais’d the dead out of the dust; yet after all their paine,When their sweet muse in vertue’s praise hath powred out their store,Are still despis’d and doom’d for aye with vertue to be poore.”To this, “alas,” quoth Memorie, “it grieues me to beholdThe learned wits left all forlorne, t’whom whilome it was toldMæcenas was reuiu’d againe: yet grieue I more to seeThe loathed lozell to prophane that sacred mysterie:Each vulgar wit, that what it is, could neuer yet define,In ragged rimes with lips profane, will call the learned nineTo helpe him vtter forth the spawne of his vnfruitfull braine,Which makes our peerelesse poesie to be in such disdaine,That now it skils not whether Pan do pipe, or Phœbus play,Tom Tinkar makes best harmonie to passe the time away:For this I grieue, for this the seed of Ioue are held in scorne,Yet not for this our worthies dead are to be left forlorne:For so no future age should know the truth of things forepast,The names of their forefathers dead would in the dust be cast:Then do not thou thy helpe denie, I will conduct thy pen,And fame shall summon vp the ghosts of all those worthie men,That mongst our Mirrours are not found, that each one orderlyMay come to thee, to tell the truth of his sad tragedie.”Thus hauing said, she tooke the booke from vnderneath my head,And turning ore the leaues, at last, she thus began to reade.
My muse, that mongst meane birds whilome, did waue her flaggie wing,
And cuckow-like ofCastae’swrongs, in rustick tunes did sing,
Now with the morne’s cloud climing lark must mount a pitch more hie,
And like Ioue’s bird with stedfast lookes outbraue the sunne’s bright eie:
Yea she, that whilome begger-like her beggers ape did sing,
Which iniur’d by the guilt of time to light she durst not bring:
In stately stile tragedian-like with sacred furie fed,
Must now record the tragicke deeds of greatHeröesdead,
Vouchsafe then thou great king of heau’n, the heau’nly drops t’infuse
Of sacred iuyce into my pen, giue strength vnto my muse
To mount aloft with powerfull wings, and let her voice be strong,
That she may smite the golden starres with sound of her great song:
When loue-borne Phœbus fierie steeds about the world had bin,
And wearied with their yearely taske, had taken vp their inne
Farre in the south, when cold had nipt the hawthorne’s rugged rinde,
And liuely sap of summer sweet, from blast of blustring winde
Had sunken downe into the roote, whose thornie browes besprent
With frostie dew, did hang their heads, and summer’s losse lament;
My limbes benumb’d with vnkind cold, my life-blood waxing chill,
As was my wont I walked forth to ease me of such ill:
But when I came in fields abroad, and view’d the wastefull spight
Of wrathfull winter, grieu’d I was to see so sad a sight:
The shadie woods, in which the birds to build their neasts were seene,
Whose wauing heads in aire shot vp were crown’d with youthfull greene:
Now clad in coate of motlie hue did maske in poore array,
Rough Boreas with his blustering blasts had blowen their leaues away:
In stead of blossomes on the boughes, the spring whilome begun,
Which through the leaues did seeme to laugh vpon the summer’s sunne,
Now nought but hoarie frost was seene, each branch teares downe did send,
Whose dewie drops on ysiccles vpon each bough depend:
The mistresse of the woods quaint quire, the warbling Philomele,
That wont to rauish with delight, th’inhabitants, that dwell
About the greene wood side, forgot the layes she sung before,
For griefe of summer’s golden losse she now could sing no more:
And all the quire that wont with her to beare a part and sing
Concordant discords in sweet straine for welcome of the spring,
Sate silent on the frostie bow, and shuddering all for cold,
Did shroud the head beneath the wing, the day was waxed old,
None but the red-brest and the wren did sing the euen away,
And that in notes of sad record for summer’s late decay:
The field, which whilomeCerescrown’d with golden eares of corne,
And all the pasture-springing meades, whichPalesdid adorne,
Lookt pale for woe, the winterie snow had couered all their greene,
Nought else vpon the grasselesse ground, but winter’s waste was seene:
The shepheard’s feeble flocke pent vp within the bounded fold,
So faint for food, that scarce their feete their bodies could vphold,
Did hang the head with heauie cheare, as they would learne to mourne
The thrall in which they now did liue, by shepheard left forlorne:
All sweet delight of summer past, cold winter’s breath had blasted,
The sunne in heau’n shone pale on earth to see her wombe so wasted:
All which, as I grieu’d at such sight, the fields alone did range,
Did teach me know all things on earth were subiect vnto change:
How fond (me thought) were mortall men, the trustlesse stay to trust,
Of things on earth, since heere on earth all things returne to dust?
Who so in youth doth boast of strength, me thought the loftie oake
Would teach him that his strength must vade, when age begins to yoke
His youthfull necke, euen by it selfe, his leauie lockes being shed,
And branched armes shrunke vp with frost, as if they had been dead:
The louely lillie, that faire flower for beautie past compare,
Whom winter’s cold keene breath had kill’d, and blasted all her faire,
Might teach the fairest vnder heau’n, that beautie’s freshest greene
When spring of youth is spent, will vade, as it had neuer been;
The barren fields, which whilome flower’d as they would neuer fade,
Inricht with summer’s golden gifts, which now been all decay’d,
Did shew in state there was no trust, in wealth no certaine stay,
One stormie blast of frowning chance could blow them all away;
Out of the yeares alternate course this lesson I did con,
In things on earth of most auaile assurance there was none:
But fancie feeding on these thoughts, as I alone did wend,
The clocke did strike, whose chime did tell the day was at an end;
The golden sunne, daies guide, was gone, and in his purple bed
Had laid him downe, the heau’ns about their azure curtaines spread,
And all the tapers lighted were, as t’were the watch to keepe,
Lest past her houre night should vsurpe, while he secure did sleepe;
Then clad in cloake of mistie fogges the darke night vp did come,
And with grim grislie looke did seeme to bid me get me home;
Home was I led, not as before with solace from the field,
The wofull waste of summer past had all my pleasure spill’d:
When home I came, nipt with sharpe cold of Boreas bitter aire,
After repast to my warme bed forthwith I made repaire,
Where, for the nights were tedious growen, and I disturb’d in mind
With thoughts of that daies obiect seene, not vnto sleepe inclin’d,
I vp did sit, my backe behind the pillow soft did stay,
And call’d for light, with booke in hand to passe the time away;
Of which each line which I did reade, in nature did agree
With that true vse of things which I the day before did see
A Mirrour hight for Magistrates, for title it did beare,
In which by painfull pens, the fals of princes written were:
There, as in glasse, I did behold, what day before did show,
That beautie, strength, wealth, world’s vaine pompe, and all to dust do go:
There did I see triumphant death beneath his feet tread downe
The state of kings, the purple robe, the scepter and the crowne:
Without respect with deadly dart all princes he did strike,
The vertuous and the vicious prince to him been both alike:
Nought else they leaue vntoucht of death except a vertuous name,
Which dies, if that the sacred nine eternize not the same:
Why then (ye thrice three borne of Ioue) why then be ye despis’d?
Is vertue dead? hath daintie ease in her soft armes surpris’d
The manhood of the elder world? hath rust of time deuour’d
Th’Heröe’sstocke that on your heads such golden blessings showr’d?
This silent night, when all things lie in lap of sweet repose,
Ye only wake, the powres of sleepe your eyes do neuer close,
To shew the sempiternitie, to which their names ye raise
On wings of your immortall verse that truly merit praise:
But where’s the due of your desert, or where your learning’s meed?
Not only now the baser sprite, whom dunghill dust doth breed,
But they that boast themselues to be in honor’s bosome borne,
Disdaine your wisdome, and do hold your sectaries in scorne:
No maruell then, me thought, it was, that in this booke I read,
So many a prince I found exempt, as if their names been dead,
Who for desert amongst the best a place might iustly claime:
But who can put on any spirit to memorize the name
Of any dead, whose thanklesse race t’whom learning shapes the leg
In humble wise, yet in contempt bids learned wits go beg?
As thus in bed with booke in hand I sate contemplating,
The humorous night was waxed olde, still silence husht each thing,
The clocke chim’d twelue, to which as I with listning eares attend,
As signes of fraile mortalitie all things I apprehend;
The daylight past, as life I deeme, the night as death to come,
The clocke that chim’d, death’s fatall knell, that call’d me to my doome,
Still silence rest from worldly cares, my bed the graue I thinke,
In which, with heart to heau’n vp-lift, at length I downe did sinke:
Where after still repose when as thin vapors had restrain’d
The mouing powers of common sense, and sleepe each sense enchain’d,
Whether the watchfull fantasie did now in sleepe restore
The species of things sensible, which I had seene before:
And so some dreame it only was, which I intend to tell,
Or vision sent I’le not discusse, to me it thus befell:
A sudden sound of trumpe I heard, whose blast so loud was blowne,
That in a trance I senselesse lay, fraile mortall there was none
That heard such sound, could sense retaine: my chamber wals did shake,
Vp flew the doores, a voice I heard, which thus distinctly spake:
“Awake from sleepe, lift vp thy head, and be no whit dismai’d,
I serue the deities of heau’n, their hests must be obei’d,
And now am sent from her that keepes the store-house of the mind:
The mother of the muses nine, for thee she hath assign’d
For her designe, the night to come in sleepe thou must not spend:
Prepare thy selfe, that gainst she come, her will thou maist attend.”
As to these words I listning lay, and had resumed spright,
I boldly looked round about, and loe, there stood in sight
True fame, the trumpeter of heau’n, that doth desire inflame
To glorious deeds, and by her power eternifies the name:
A golden trumpe her right hand held, which when she list to sound,
Can smite the starres of heau’n, and bring the dead from vnder ground:
Vpon her head a chaplet stood of neuer vading greene,
Which honor gaue, to giue to them that fauour’d of her been:
Her wings were white as snow, with which she compast heau’n and earth
With names of such, whom honor did renowne for deeds of worth:
As I beheld her princely port, yet trembling all for feare,
A sound of heau’nly harmony did pierce my pleased eare,
In rapture of whose sweet delight, as I did rauisht lie,
The goddesse dread whom fame forespoke did stand before mine eie,
The ladie of mount Helicon, the great Pierian dame,
From whom the learned sisters nine deriue their birth and name,
In golden garments clad she was, which time can neuer weare,
Nor fretting moth consume the same, which did embroydered beare
The acts of oldHeröesdead, set downe in stately verse,
Which sitting by the horse-foot spring, Ioue’s daughters did rehearse:
Fiue damsels did attend on her, who with such wondrous skill
Do in their seuerall functions worke, to serue their ladie’s will,
That what she seekes on earth, to see, to heare, smell, taste or touch,
They can present the same with speed, their power and skill are such:
As in amazement at such sight I in my bed did lie,
She thus bespake: “I am,” quoth she, “the ladie Memorie,
Ioue’s welbelou’d Mnemosyne, that keepes the wealthie store
Of time’s rich treasure, where the deeds that haue been done of yore
I do record, and when in bookes I chance to find the fame
Of any after death decai’d, I do reuiue the same:
Turning the volume large of late, in which myCliosings
The deeds of worthie Britaines dead, I find that many kings
Exempted are, whose noble acts deserue eternitie,
And mongst our Mirrours challenge place for all posteritie:
For which, my station I haue left, and now am come to thee,
This night thou must abandon sleepe, my pen-man thou must bee.”
To this said I: “O goddesse great, the taske thou dost impose
Exceeds the compasse of my skill, t’is fitter farre for those,
Whose pens sweet nectar do distill, to whom the power is giuen
Vpon their winged verse to rap their readers vp to heau’n:
The pinions of my humble muse be all too weake to flie
So large a flight; theirs be this taske that loue to soare on high:
But how can they such taske vp-take, that in a stately straine
Haue rais’d the dead out of the dust; yet after all their paine,
When their sweet muse in vertue’s praise hath powred out their store,
Are still despis’d and doom’d for aye with vertue to be poore.”
To this, “alas,” quoth Memorie, “it grieues me to behold
The learned wits left all forlorne, t’whom whilome it was told
Mæcenas was reuiu’d againe: yet grieue I more to see
The loathed lozell to prophane that sacred mysterie:
Each vulgar wit, that what it is, could neuer yet define,
In ragged rimes with lips profane, will call the learned nine
To helpe him vtter forth the spawne of his vnfruitfull braine,
Which makes our peerelesse poesie to be in such disdaine,
That now it skils not whether Pan do pipe, or Phœbus play,
Tom Tinkar makes best harmonie to passe the time away:
For this I grieue, for this the seed of Ioue are held in scorne,
Yet not for this our worthies dead are to be left forlorne:
For so no future age should know the truth of things forepast,
The names of their forefathers dead would in the dust be cast:
Then do not thou thy helpe denie, I will conduct thy pen,
And fame shall summon vp the ghosts of all those worthie men,
That mongst our Mirrours are not found, that each one orderly
May come to thee, to tell the truth of his sad tragedie.”
Thus hauing said, she tooke the booke from vnderneath my head,
And turning ore the leaues, at last, she thus began to reade.