Of all the kindes of common countrey life,Methinkes a shepheards life is most content;His state is quiet peace, devoyd of strife;His thoughts are pure from all impure intent,His pleasures rate sits at an easie rent;He beares no mallice in his harmles hart,Malicious meaning hath in him no part.He is not troubled with th' afflicted minde,His cares are onely over silly sheepe;He is not unto jealozie inclinde,(Thrice happie man) he knowes not how to weepe;Whilst I the treble in deepe sorrowes keepe.I cannot keepe the meane; for why (alas)Griefes have no meane, though I for meane doe passe.No briefes nor semi-briefes are in my songs,Because (alas) my griefe is seldome short;My prick-song's alwayes full of largues and longs,(Because I never can obtaine the portOf my desires: hope is a happie fort).Prick song (indeed) because it pricks my hart;And song, because sometimes I ease my smart.The mightie monarch of a royall realme,Swaying his scepter with a princely pompe,Of his desires cannot so steare the healme,But sometime falls into a deadly dumpe;When as he heares the shrilly sounding trumpeOf forren enemies, or home-bred foes,His minde of griefe, his hart is full of woes.Or when bad subjects gainst their soveraigne(Like hollow harts) unnaturally rebell,How carefull is he to suppresse againeTheir desperate forces, and their powers to quellWith loyall harts, till all againe be well.When (being subdu'd) his care is rather more,To keepe them under, than it was before.Thus is he never full of sweete content,But either this or that his joy debars:Now noblemen gainst noblemen are bent,Now gentlemen and others fall at jarrs:Thus is his countrey full of civill warrs;He still in danger sits, still fearing death,For traitors seeke to stop their princes breath.The whylst the other hath no enemie,Without it be the wolfe and cruell fates,(Which no man spare): when as his disagree,He with his sheephooke knaps them on the pates,Schooling his tender lambs from wanton gates.Beasts are more kinde than men, sheepe seeke not blood,But countrey caytives kill their countreyes good.The courtier he fawns for his princes favour,In hope to get a princely ritch reward;His tongue is tipt with honey for to glaver,Pride deales the deck, whilst chance doth choose the card;Then comes another and his game hath mard,Sitting betwixt him and the morning sun;Thus night is come before the day is done.Some courtiers, carefull of their princes health,Attend his person with all dilligence;Whose hand's their hart, whose welfare is their wealth,Whose safe protection is their sure defence,For pure affection, not for hope of pence:Such is the faithfull hart, such is the minde,Of him that is to vertue still inclinde.The skilfull scholler, and brave man at armes,First plies his booke, last fights for countries peace;Th' one feares oblivion, th' other fresh alarmes:His paines nere ende, his travailes never cease;His with the day, his with the night increase:He studies how to get eternall fame,The souldier fights to win a glorious name.The knight, the squire, the gentleman, the clowne,Are full of crosses and calamities,Lest fickle fortune should begin to frowne,And turne their mirth to extreame miseries,Nothing more certaine than incertainties!Fortune is full of fresh varietie,Constant in nothing but inconstancie.The wealthie merchant that doth crosse the seas,To Denmarke, Poland, Spaine, and Barbarie,For all his ritches, lives not still at ease;Sometimes he feares ship-spoyling pyracie,Another while deceipt and treacherieOf his owne factors in a forren land;Thus doth he still in dread and danger stand.Well is he tearmd a merchant-venturer,Since he doth venter lands, and goods and all;When he doth travell for his traffique far,Little he knowes what fortune may befall,Or rather, what mis-fortune happen shall:Sometimes he splits his ship against a rocke,Loosing his men, his goods, his wealth, his stocke.And if he so escape with life away,He counts himselfe a man most fortunate,Because the waves their rigorous rage did stay,(When being within their cruell powers of late,The seas did seeme to pittie his estate).But yet he never can recover health,Because his joy was drowned with his wealth.The painfull plough-swaine, and the husband-man,Rise up each morning by the breake of day,Taking what toyle and drudging paines they can,And all is for to get a little stay;And yet they cannot put their care away:When night is come, their cares begin afresh,Thinking upon their morrowes busines.Thus everie man is troubled with unrest,From rich to poore, from high to low degree:Therefore I thinke that man is truly blest,That neither cares for wealth nor povertie,But laughs at Fortune, and her foolerie,That gives rich churles great store of golde and fee,And lets poore schollers live in miserie.O, fading branches of decaying bayes,Who now will water your dry-wither'd armes?Or where is he that sung the lovely layesOf simple shepheards in their countrey-farmes?Ah! he is dead, the cause of all our harmes:And with him dide my joy and sweete delight;The cleare to clowdes, the day is turnd to night.Sydney, the syren of this latter age;Sydney, the blasing-starre of England's glory;Sydney, the wonder of the wise and sage;Sydney, the subject of true vertues story:This syren, starre, this wonder, and this subject,Is dumbe, dim, gone, and mard by fortune's object.And thou, my sweete Amintas, vertuous minde,Should I forget thy learning or thy love,Well might I be accounted but unkinde,Whose pure affection I so oft did prove,Might my poore plaints hard stones to pitty move!His losse should be lamented of each creature,So great his name, so gentle was his nature.But sleepe his soule in sweet Elysium,(The happy haven of eternall rest);And let me to my former matter come,Proving, by reason, shepheard's life is best,Because he harbours vertue in his brest;And is content, (the chiefest thing of all),With any fortune that shall him befall.He sits all day lowd-piping on a hill,The whilst his flocke about him daunce apace,His hart with joy, his eares with musique fill:Anon a bleating weather beares the bace,A lambe the treble, and to his disgraceAnother answers like a middle meane,Thus every one to beare a part are faine.Like a great king he rules a little land,Still making statutes and ordayning lawes,Which if they breake, he beates them with his wand;He doth defend them from the greedy jawesOf rav'ning woolves, and lyons bloudy pawes.His field, his realme; his subjects are his sheepe;Which he doth still in due obedience keepe.First he ordaines by act of parlament,(Holden by custome in each country towne),That if a sheepe (with any bad intent)Presume to breake the neighbour hedges downe,Or haunt strange pastures that be not his owne,He shall be pounded for his lustines,Untill his master finde out some redres.Also if any prove a stragellerFrom his owne fellowes in a forraine field,He shall be taken for a wanderer,And forc'd himselfe immediatly to yeeld;Or with a wyde-mouth'd mastive curre be kild;And if not claimd within a twelve month's space,He shall remaine with land-lord of the place.Or if one stray to feede far from the rest,He shall be pincht by his swift pye-bald curre;If any by his fellowes be opprest,The wronger, (for he doth all wrong abhorre),Shall be well bangd so long as he can sturre,Because he did anoy his harmeles brother,That meant not harme to him nor any other.And last of all, if any wanton weather,With briers and brambles teare his fleece in twaine,He shall be forc'd t' abide cold frosty weather,And powring showres of ratling stormes of raine,Till his new fleece begins to grow againe:And for his rashnes he is doom'd to goeWithout a new coate all the winter throw.Thus doth he keepe them still in awfull feare,And yet allowes them liberty inough;So deare to him their welfare doth appeare,That when their fleeces gin to waxen rough,He combs and trims them with a rampicke bough,Washing them in the streames of silver Ladon,To cleanse their skinnes from all corruption.Another while he wooes his country wench,With chaplet crownd and gaudy girlonds dight,Whose burning lust her modest eye doth quench;Standing amazed at her heavenly sight,Beauty doth ravish sense with sweet delight,Clearing Arcadia with a smoothed browe,When sun-bright smiles melt flakes of driven snowe.Thus doth he frollicke it each day by day,And when night comes drawes homeward to his coate,Singing a jigge or merry roundelay,For who sings commonly so merry a noate,As he that cannot chop or change a groate?And in the winter nights his chiefe desire,He turnes a crabbe or cracknell in the fire.He leads his wench a country horne-pipe round,About a may-pole on a holy-day,Kissing his lovely lasse with garlands crownd,With whoopping heigh-ho singing care away.Thus doth he passe the merry month of May,And all th' yere after, in delight and joy;Scorning a king, he cares for no annoy.What though with simple cheere he homely fares,He lives content; a king can doo no more,Nay, not so much, for kings have manie cares,But he hath none, except it be that soreWhich yong and old, which vexeth ritch and poore,The pangs of love. O! who can vanquish Love?That conquers kingdomes, and the gods above.Deepe-wounding arrow, hart-consuming fire,Ruler of reason, slave to tyrant beautie,Monarch of harts, fuell of fond desire,Prentice to folly, foe to fained duetie.Pledge of true zeale, affections moitie,If thou kilst where thou wilt, and whom it list thee,Alas! how can a silly soule resist thee?By thee great Collin lost his libertie,By thee sweet Astrophel forwent his joy;By thee Amyntas wept incessantly,By thee good Rowland liv'd in great annoy;O cruell, peevish, vylde, blind-seeing boy,How canst thou hit their harts, and yet not see?If thou be blinde, as thou art faind to bee.A shepheard loves no ill, but onely thee;He hath no care, but onely by thy causing:Why doost thou shoot thy cruell shafts at mee?Give me some respite, some short time of pausing:Still my sweet love with bitter lucke th'art sawcing:Oh, if thou hast a minde to shew thy might,Kill mightie kings, and not a wretched wight.Yet, O enthraller of infranchizd harts,At my poore hart if thou wilt needs be ayming,Doo me this favour, show me both thy darts,That I may chuse the best for my harts mayming,A free consent is priviledgd from blaming.Then pierce his hard hart with thy golden arrow,That thou my wrong, that he may rue my sorrow.But let mee feele the force of thy lead pyle,What should I doo with love when I am old?I know not how to flatter, fawne, or smyle;Then stay thy hand, O cruell bowman, hold!For if thou strik'st me with thy dart of gold,I sweare to thee by Joves immortall curse,I have more in my hart than in my purse.The more I weepe, the more he bends his brow,For in my hart a golden shaft I finde.Cruell, unkinde, and wilt thou leave me so?Can no remorce nor pittie move thy minde?Is mercie in the heavens so hard to finde?Oh, then it is no mervaile that on earthOf kinde remorce there is so great a dearth.How happie were a harmles shepheards life,If he had never knowen what love did meane;But now fond Love in every place is rife,Staining the purest soule with spots uncleane,Making thicke purses thin, fat bodies leane.Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven, a hell,Where pleasure, paine, and sad repentance dwell!There are so manie Danaes now a dayes,That love for lucre, paine for gaine is sold;No true affection can their fancie please,Except it be a Jove, to raine downe goldInto their laps, which they wyde open hold:Iflegem ponecomes, he is receav'd,WhenVix haud habeois of hope bereav'd.Thus have I showed, in my countrey vaine,The sweet content that shepheards still injoy;The mickle pleasure and the little paineThat ever doth awayte the shepheards boy:His hart is never troubled with annoy;He is a king, for he commands his sheepe;He knowes no woe, for he doth seldome weepe.He is a courtier, for he courts his love;He is a scholler, for he sings sweet ditties;He is a souldier, for he wounds doth prove;He is the fame of townes, the shame of citties:He scornes false fortune, but true vertue pitties.He is a gentleman, because his natureIs kinde and affable to everie creature.Who would not then a simple shepheard bee,Rather than be a mightie monarch made?Since he injoyes such perfect libertieAs never can decay, nor never fade:He seldome sits in dolefull cypresse shade,But lives in hope, in joy, in peace, in blisse,Joying all joy with this content of his.But now good fortune lands my little boateUpon the shoare of his desired rest:Now must I leave awhile my rurall noate,To thinke on him whom my soule loveth best;He that can make the most unhappie blest;In whose sweete lap Ile lay me downe to sleepe,And never wake till marble stones shall weepe.FINIS.
Of all the kindes of common countrey life,Methinkes a shepheards life is most content;His state is quiet peace, devoyd of strife;His thoughts are pure from all impure intent,His pleasures rate sits at an easie rent;He beares no mallice in his harmles hart,Malicious meaning hath in him no part.
He is not troubled with th' afflicted minde,His cares are onely over silly sheepe;He is not unto jealozie inclinde,(Thrice happie man) he knowes not how to weepe;Whilst I the treble in deepe sorrowes keepe.I cannot keepe the meane; for why (alas)Griefes have no meane, though I for meane doe passe.
No briefes nor semi-briefes are in my songs,Because (alas) my griefe is seldome short;My prick-song's alwayes full of largues and longs,(Because I never can obtaine the portOf my desires: hope is a happie fort).Prick song (indeed) because it pricks my hart;And song, because sometimes I ease my smart.
The mightie monarch of a royall realme,Swaying his scepter with a princely pompe,Of his desires cannot so steare the healme,But sometime falls into a deadly dumpe;When as he heares the shrilly sounding trumpeOf forren enemies, or home-bred foes,His minde of griefe, his hart is full of woes.
Or when bad subjects gainst their soveraigne(Like hollow harts) unnaturally rebell,How carefull is he to suppresse againeTheir desperate forces, and their powers to quellWith loyall harts, till all againe be well.When (being subdu'd) his care is rather more,To keepe them under, than it was before.
Thus is he never full of sweete content,But either this or that his joy debars:Now noblemen gainst noblemen are bent,Now gentlemen and others fall at jarrs:Thus is his countrey full of civill warrs;He still in danger sits, still fearing death,For traitors seeke to stop their princes breath.
The whylst the other hath no enemie,Without it be the wolfe and cruell fates,(Which no man spare): when as his disagree,He with his sheephooke knaps them on the pates,Schooling his tender lambs from wanton gates.Beasts are more kinde than men, sheepe seeke not blood,But countrey caytives kill their countreyes good.
The courtier he fawns for his princes favour,In hope to get a princely ritch reward;His tongue is tipt with honey for to glaver,Pride deales the deck, whilst chance doth choose the card;Then comes another and his game hath mard,Sitting betwixt him and the morning sun;Thus night is come before the day is done.
Some courtiers, carefull of their princes health,Attend his person with all dilligence;Whose hand's their hart, whose welfare is their wealth,Whose safe protection is their sure defence,For pure affection, not for hope of pence:Such is the faithfull hart, such is the minde,Of him that is to vertue still inclinde.
The skilfull scholler, and brave man at armes,First plies his booke, last fights for countries peace;Th' one feares oblivion, th' other fresh alarmes:His paines nere ende, his travailes never cease;His with the day, his with the night increase:He studies how to get eternall fame,The souldier fights to win a glorious name.
The knight, the squire, the gentleman, the clowne,Are full of crosses and calamities,Lest fickle fortune should begin to frowne,And turne their mirth to extreame miseries,Nothing more certaine than incertainties!Fortune is full of fresh varietie,Constant in nothing but inconstancie.
The wealthie merchant that doth crosse the seas,To Denmarke, Poland, Spaine, and Barbarie,For all his ritches, lives not still at ease;Sometimes he feares ship-spoyling pyracie,Another while deceipt and treacherieOf his owne factors in a forren land;Thus doth he still in dread and danger stand.
Well is he tearmd a merchant-venturer,Since he doth venter lands, and goods and all;When he doth travell for his traffique far,Little he knowes what fortune may befall,Or rather, what mis-fortune happen shall:Sometimes he splits his ship against a rocke,Loosing his men, his goods, his wealth, his stocke.
And if he so escape with life away,He counts himselfe a man most fortunate,Because the waves their rigorous rage did stay,(When being within their cruell powers of late,The seas did seeme to pittie his estate).But yet he never can recover health,Because his joy was drowned with his wealth.
The painfull plough-swaine, and the husband-man,Rise up each morning by the breake of day,Taking what toyle and drudging paines they can,And all is for to get a little stay;And yet they cannot put their care away:When night is come, their cares begin afresh,Thinking upon their morrowes busines.
Thus everie man is troubled with unrest,From rich to poore, from high to low degree:Therefore I thinke that man is truly blest,That neither cares for wealth nor povertie,But laughs at Fortune, and her foolerie,That gives rich churles great store of golde and fee,And lets poore schollers live in miserie.
O, fading branches of decaying bayes,Who now will water your dry-wither'd armes?Or where is he that sung the lovely layesOf simple shepheards in their countrey-farmes?Ah! he is dead, the cause of all our harmes:And with him dide my joy and sweete delight;The cleare to clowdes, the day is turnd to night.
Sydney, the syren of this latter age;Sydney, the blasing-starre of England's glory;Sydney, the wonder of the wise and sage;Sydney, the subject of true vertues story:This syren, starre, this wonder, and this subject,Is dumbe, dim, gone, and mard by fortune's object.
And thou, my sweete Amintas, vertuous minde,Should I forget thy learning or thy love,Well might I be accounted but unkinde,Whose pure affection I so oft did prove,Might my poore plaints hard stones to pitty move!His losse should be lamented of each creature,So great his name, so gentle was his nature.
But sleepe his soule in sweet Elysium,(The happy haven of eternall rest);And let me to my former matter come,Proving, by reason, shepheard's life is best,Because he harbours vertue in his brest;And is content, (the chiefest thing of all),With any fortune that shall him befall.
He sits all day lowd-piping on a hill,The whilst his flocke about him daunce apace,His hart with joy, his eares with musique fill:Anon a bleating weather beares the bace,A lambe the treble, and to his disgraceAnother answers like a middle meane,Thus every one to beare a part are faine.
Like a great king he rules a little land,Still making statutes and ordayning lawes,Which if they breake, he beates them with his wand;He doth defend them from the greedy jawesOf rav'ning woolves, and lyons bloudy pawes.His field, his realme; his subjects are his sheepe;Which he doth still in due obedience keepe.
First he ordaines by act of parlament,(Holden by custome in each country towne),That if a sheepe (with any bad intent)Presume to breake the neighbour hedges downe,Or haunt strange pastures that be not his owne,He shall be pounded for his lustines,Untill his master finde out some redres.
Also if any prove a stragellerFrom his owne fellowes in a forraine field,He shall be taken for a wanderer,And forc'd himselfe immediatly to yeeld;Or with a wyde-mouth'd mastive curre be kild;And if not claimd within a twelve month's space,He shall remaine with land-lord of the place.
Or if one stray to feede far from the rest,He shall be pincht by his swift pye-bald curre;If any by his fellowes be opprest,The wronger, (for he doth all wrong abhorre),Shall be well bangd so long as he can sturre,Because he did anoy his harmeles brother,That meant not harme to him nor any other.
And last of all, if any wanton weather,With briers and brambles teare his fleece in twaine,He shall be forc'd t' abide cold frosty weather,And powring showres of ratling stormes of raine,Till his new fleece begins to grow againe:And for his rashnes he is doom'd to goeWithout a new coate all the winter throw.
Thus doth he keepe them still in awfull feare,And yet allowes them liberty inough;So deare to him their welfare doth appeare,That when their fleeces gin to waxen rough,He combs and trims them with a rampicke bough,Washing them in the streames of silver Ladon,To cleanse their skinnes from all corruption.
Another while he wooes his country wench,With chaplet crownd and gaudy girlonds dight,Whose burning lust her modest eye doth quench;Standing amazed at her heavenly sight,Beauty doth ravish sense with sweet delight,Clearing Arcadia with a smoothed browe,When sun-bright smiles melt flakes of driven snowe.
Thus doth he frollicke it each day by day,And when night comes drawes homeward to his coate,Singing a jigge or merry roundelay,For who sings commonly so merry a noate,As he that cannot chop or change a groate?And in the winter nights his chiefe desire,He turnes a crabbe or cracknell in the fire.
He leads his wench a country horne-pipe round,About a may-pole on a holy-day,Kissing his lovely lasse with garlands crownd,With whoopping heigh-ho singing care away.Thus doth he passe the merry month of May,And all th' yere after, in delight and joy;Scorning a king, he cares for no annoy.
What though with simple cheere he homely fares,He lives content; a king can doo no more,Nay, not so much, for kings have manie cares,But he hath none, except it be that soreWhich yong and old, which vexeth ritch and poore,The pangs of love. O! who can vanquish Love?That conquers kingdomes, and the gods above.
Deepe-wounding arrow, hart-consuming fire,Ruler of reason, slave to tyrant beautie,Monarch of harts, fuell of fond desire,Prentice to folly, foe to fained duetie.Pledge of true zeale, affections moitie,If thou kilst where thou wilt, and whom it list thee,Alas! how can a silly soule resist thee?
By thee great Collin lost his libertie,By thee sweet Astrophel forwent his joy;By thee Amyntas wept incessantly,By thee good Rowland liv'd in great annoy;O cruell, peevish, vylde, blind-seeing boy,How canst thou hit their harts, and yet not see?If thou be blinde, as thou art faind to bee.
A shepheard loves no ill, but onely thee;He hath no care, but onely by thy causing:Why doost thou shoot thy cruell shafts at mee?Give me some respite, some short time of pausing:Still my sweet love with bitter lucke th'art sawcing:Oh, if thou hast a minde to shew thy might,Kill mightie kings, and not a wretched wight.
Yet, O enthraller of infranchizd harts,At my poore hart if thou wilt needs be ayming,Doo me this favour, show me both thy darts,That I may chuse the best for my harts mayming,A free consent is priviledgd from blaming.Then pierce his hard hart with thy golden arrow,That thou my wrong, that he may rue my sorrow.
But let mee feele the force of thy lead pyle,What should I doo with love when I am old?I know not how to flatter, fawne, or smyle;Then stay thy hand, O cruell bowman, hold!For if thou strik'st me with thy dart of gold,I sweare to thee by Joves immortall curse,I have more in my hart than in my purse.
The more I weepe, the more he bends his brow,For in my hart a golden shaft I finde.Cruell, unkinde, and wilt thou leave me so?Can no remorce nor pittie move thy minde?Is mercie in the heavens so hard to finde?Oh, then it is no mervaile that on earthOf kinde remorce there is so great a dearth.
How happie were a harmles shepheards life,If he had never knowen what love did meane;But now fond Love in every place is rife,Staining the purest soule with spots uncleane,Making thicke purses thin, fat bodies leane.Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven, a hell,Where pleasure, paine, and sad repentance dwell!
There are so manie Danaes now a dayes,That love for lucre, paine for gaine is sold;No true affection can their fancie please,Except it be a Jove, to raine downe goldInto their laps, which they wyde open hold:Iflegem ponecomes, he is receav'd,WhenVix haud habeois of hope bereav'd.
Thus have I showed, in my countrey vaine,The sweet content that shepheards still injoy;The mickle pleasure and the little paineThat ever doth awayte the shepheards boy:His hart is never troubled with annoy;He is a king, for he commands his sheepe;He knowes no woe, for he doth seldome weepe.
He is a courtier, for he courts his love;He is a scholler, for he sings sweet ditties;He is a souldier, for he wounds doth prove;He is the fame of townes, the shame of citties:He scornes false fortune, but true vertue pitties.He is a gentleman, because his natureIs kinde and affable to everie creature.
Who would not then a simple shepheard bee,Rather than be a mightie monarch made?Since he injoyes such perfect libertieAs never can decay, nor never fade:He seldome sits in dolefull cypresse shade,But lives in hope, in joy, in peace, in blisse,Joying all joy with this content of his.
But now good fortune lands my little boateUpon the shoare of his desired rest:Now must I leave awhile my rurall noate,To thinke on him whom my soule loveth best;He that can make the most unhappie blest;In whose sweete lap Ile lay me downe to sleepe,And never wake till marble stones shall weepe.
FINIS.
Loe here behold these tributarie tearesPaid to thy faire but cruell tyrant eyes;Loe here the blossome of my youthfull yeares,Nipt with the fresh of thy wraths winter, dyes!Here on Loves altar I doo offer upThis burning hart for my soules sacrifice;Here I receave this deadly-poysned cu[p]Of Circe charm'd, wherein deepe magicke lyes.Then teares, if you be happie teares indeed,And hart, if thou be lodged in his brest,And cup, if thou canst helpe despaire with speed,Teares, hart, and cup, conjoine to make me blest!Teares move, hart win, cup cause, ruth, love, desire,In word, in deed; by moane, by zeale, by fire.FINIS.
Loe here behold these tributarie tearesPaid to thy faire but cruell tyrant eyes;Loe here the blossome of my youthfull yeares,Nipt with the fresh of thy wraths winter, dyes!Here on Loves altar I doo offer upThis burning hart for my soules sacrifice;Here I receave this deadly-poysned cu[p]Of Circe charm'd, wherein deepe magicke lyes.Then teares, if you be happie teares indeed,And hart, if thou be lodged in his brest,And cup, if thou canst helpe despaire with speed,Teares, hart, and cup, conjoine to make me blest!Teares move, hart win, cup cause, ruth, love, desire,In word, in deed; by moane, by zeale, by fire.
FINIS.
You modest dames, inricht with chastitie,Maske your bright eyes with Vestaes sable vaile,Since few are left so faire or chast as shee,Matter for me to weepe, you to bewaile!For manie seeming so, of Vertue faile,Whose lovely cheeks, with rare vermilion tainted,Can never blush, because their faire is painted.O faire-foule tincture, staine of woman kinde,Mother of Mischiefe, daughter of Deceate,False traitor to the soule, blot to the minde,Usurping tyrant of true beauties seate!Right cousner of the eye, lewd follies baite,The flag of filthines, the sinke of shame,The divells dye, dishonour of thy name!Monster of art, bastard of bad desier,Il-worshipt idoll, false imagerie!Ensigne of vice, to thine owne selfe a lier,Silent inchaunter, mindes anatomie,Sly bawd to lust, pandor to infamie,Slaunder of Truth, truth of dissimulation,Staining our clymate more than anie nation!What shall I say to thee, thou scorne of Nature,Blacke spot of sinne, vylde lure of lecherie,Injurious blame to everie fæmale creature,Wronger of time, broker of trecherie,Trap of greene youth, false womens witcherie,Handmaid of pride, highway to wickednesse,Yet pathway to repentance nere the lesse?Thou dost entice the minde to dooing evill,Thou setst dissention twixt the man and wife;A saint in show, and yet indeed a devill,Thou art the cause of everie common strife;Thou art the life of Death, the death of Life!Thou doost betray thyselfe to infamie,When thou art once discerned by the eye.Ah, little knew Matilda of thy being,Those times were pure from all impure complection;Then Love came of Desert, Desert of seeing,Then Vertue was the mother of Affection,But Beautie now is under no subjection;Then women were the same that men did deeme,But now they are the same they doo not seeme.What fæmale now intreated of a kingWith gold and jewels, pearles and precious stones,Would willingly refuse so sweete a thing,Onely for a little show of Vertue ones?Women have kindnes grafted in their bones.Gold is a deepe-perswading orator,Especially where few the fault abhor.But yet shee rather deadly poyson chose,Oh cruell bane of most accursed clime!Than staine that milk-white mayden virgin rose,Which shee had kept unspotted till that time,And not corrupted with this earthly slime.Her soule shall live, inclosd eternallyIn that pure shrine of immortality!This is my doome, and this shall come to passe,For what are pleasures but still vading joyes?Fading as flowers, brittle as a glasse,Or potters clay, crost with the least annoyes?All things in this life are but trifling toyes,But Fame and Vertue never shall decay,For Fame is toomblesse, Vertue lives for aye!FINIS.
You modest dames, inricht with chastitie,Maske your bright eyes with Vestaes sable vaile,Since few are left so faire or chast as shee,Matter for me to weepe, you to bewaile!For manie seeming so, of Vertue faile,Whose lovely cheeks, with rare vermilion tainted,Can never blush, because their faire is painted.
O faire-foule tincture, staine of woman kinde,Mother of Mischiefe, daughter of Deceate,False traitor to the soule, blot to the minde,Usurping tyrant of true beauties seate!Right cousner of the eye, lewd follies baite,The flag of filthines, the sinke of shame,The divells dye, dishonour of thy name!
Monster of art, bastard of bad desier,Il-worshipt idoll, false imagerie!Ensigne of vice, to thine owne selfe a lier,Silent inchaunter, mindes anatomie,Sly bawd to lust, pandor to infamie,Slaunder of Truth, truth of dissimulation,Staining our clymate more than anie nation!
What shall I say to thee, thou scorne of Nature,Blacke spot of sinne, vylde lure of lecherie,Injurious blame to everie fæmale creature,Wronger of time, broker of trecherie,Trap of greene youth, false womens witcherie,Handmaid of pride, highway to wickednesse,Yet pathway to repentance nere the lesse?
Thou dost entice the minde to dooing evill,Thou setst dissention twixt the man and wife;A saint in show, and yet indeed a devill,Thou art the cause of everie common strife;Thou art the life of Death, the death of Life!Thou doost betray thyselfe to infamie,When thou art once discerned by the eye.
Ah, little knew Matilda of thy being,Those times were pure from all impure complection;Then Love came of Desert, Desert of seeing,Then Vertue was the mother of Affection,But Beautie now is under no subjection;Then women were the same that men did deeme,But now they are the same they doo not seeme.
What fæmale now intreated of a kingWith gold and jewels, pearles and precious stones,Would willingly refuse so sweete a thing,Onely for a little show of Vertue ones?Women have kindnes grafted in their bones.Gold is a deepe-perswading orator,Especially where few the fault abhor.
But yet shee rather deadly poyson chose,Oh cruell bane of most accursed clime!Than staine that milk-white mayden virgin rose,Which shee had kept unspotted till that time,And not corrupted with this earthly slime.Her soule shall live, inclosd eternallyIn that pure shrine of immortality!
This is my doome, and this shall come to passe,For what are pleasures but still vading joyes?Fading as flowers, brittle as a glasse,Or potters clay, crost with the least annoyes?All things in this life are but trifling toyes,But Fame and Vertue never shall decay,For Fame is toomblesse, Vertue lives for aye!
FINIS.
P.6, l. 1.—Blin.] To cease.
Mon that loveth falsnesse and nule neverblynne,Sore may him drede the lyf that he is ynne.
Mon that loveth falsnesse and nule neverblynne,Sore may him drede the lyf that he is ynne.
Wright's Political Songs, p. 212.
P.7, l. 25.—Her hart more hard than adamant or steele.] Compare "Midsummer Night's Dream," ii. 2.—
"You draw me,you hard-hearted adamant;But yet you draw not iron, for my heartIs true as steel: leave you your power to draw,And I shall have no power to follow you."
"You draw me,you hard-hearted adamant;But yet you draw not iron, for my heartIs true as steel: leave you your power to draw,And I shall have no power to follow you."
P.8, l. 15.—Ban.] Curse.
P.9, l. 13.—Crownets.] Coronets. The term occurs in Shakespeare.
P.9, l. 22.—Hunts-up.] Mr. Collier has printed a very curious song, from which it appears that thehunts-upwas known as early as 28 Henry VIII. The following extract will show the nature of it:—
"The hunt is up, the hunt is up, &c.The Masters of Art and Doctors of DivinityHave brought this name out of good unity,Three noblemen have this to stay,—My lord of Norfolk, Lord of Surrey,And my Lord of Shrewsbury,The Duke of Suffolk might have made England merry."
"The hunt is up, the hunt is up, &c.The Masters of Art and Doctors of DivinityHave brought this name out of good unity,Three noblemen have this to stay,—My lord of Norfolk, Lord of Surrey,And my Lord of Shrewsbury,The Duke of Suffolk might have made England merry."
P.10, l. 10.—Eughes.] Yews.
P.10, l. 15.—Ladon.] A river in Arcadia.
P.11, l. 2.—Syrinx.] An Arcadian nymph, who, flying from Pan, was turned into a reed, which was afterwards made into a pipe by the pursuer.
P.11, l. 24.—Prickets.] Bucks of the second year.
P.12, l. 10.—Spyke.] Lavender.
P.12, l. 11.—The scarlet dyde carnation bleeding yet.] The idea of a bleeding flower gives additional grace to one of the most beautiful passages in Shakespeare.—
"Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell;It fell upon a little western flower,Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound."
"Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell;It fell upon a little western flower,Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound."
P.12, l. 13.—Good for the blinde.] According to Gerard, p. 537, "eiebright stamped and laid upon the eies, or the juice thereof, mixed with white wine, and dropped into the eies, or the destilled water, taketh awaie the darknesse and dimnesse of the eies, and cleereth the sight."
P.12, l. 18.—Sops in wine.] Pinks.
P.12, l. 19.—Bootes.] The marsh marigold. According to Gerard, p. 671, this name for the plant was current only "in Cheshire and those parts."
P.13, l. 2.—Tyce.] To entice.
P.15, l. 6.—The christall fountaines.]
"Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams."
"Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams."
Midsummer Night's Dream, iii. 2.
P.16, l. 24.—Boult.] A short thick arrow.
P.16, l. 24.—Thrustle-cocke.] The male thrush.
P.16, l. 25.—Afforde.] "Afford's," orig.
P.17, l. 6.—Grype.] A griffin.
P.17, l. 13.—Oozels.] Blackbirds. See p. 24.
P.18, l. 3.—As white as whale.]
"This is the flower that smiles on every one,That show his teethas white as whales bone."
"This is the flower that smiles on every one,That show his teethas white as whales bone."
Love's Labour's Lost, v. ii.
P.20, l. 12.—My lovely faire.] Compare the Midsummer Night's Dream, i. 1.—
——"O, happy fair!Your eyes are lode-stars."
——"O, happy fair!Your eyes are lode-stars."
P.22, l. 3.—Fautors.] Abetters, supporters.
P.25, l. 1.—When huntsmen, &c.]
——"imitatus castora, qui seEunuchum ipse facit, cupiens evadere damnoTesticulorum."
——"imitatus castora, qui seEunuchum ipse facit, cupiens evadere damnoTesticulorum."
Juvenal, xii. 84.
P.27, l. 1.—White is the colour.] This stanza seems to have been imitated in "Greenes Funeralls," 4to. London, 1594. See the "First Sketches of Henry VI," Introduction, p. xxiii.
P.30, l. 4.—Knife.] So in the original, but probably a mistake for swords.
P.30, l. 8.—Glaver.] To flatter.
P.35, l. 11.—Deck.] Pack of cards.
P.40, l. 12.—Rampicke.] Partially decayed; a term generally applied to a tree which begins to decay at the top through age.
P.40, l. 21.—Melt.] "Melts" in the original.
P.42, l. 24.—Cruell, unkinde, and wilt thou leave me so.] Compare Midsummer Night's Dream, iii. 2, "why unkindly didst thou leave me so?"
P.46, l. 3.—After.] Afterwards. The poetical legend by Drayton, here alluded to, will be found in the collected works of that writer.
P.48, l. 4.—Ones.] Once. After this poem is inserted, in the original, three pages entitled, "Hellens Rape, or a light Lanthorne for light Ladies. Written in English hexameters."