XIV.The Butterfly.

The “Fate of the Butterfly” is one of the most charming of Spenser’s lesser poems; and as it is seldom met with on American bookshelves, it has been inserted entire, or at least with the exception of a verse or two, in the present volume.

Familiar as we are with them, we seldom bear in mind how much the more pleasing varieties of the insect race add to the beauty and interest of the earth. Setting aside the important question of their different uses, and the appropriate tasks allotted to each—forgetting for the moment what we owe to the bee, and the silkworm, and the coral insect, with others of the same class—we are very apt to underrate them even as regards the pleasure and gratification they afford us. The utter absence of insect life is one of the most striking characteristics of our Northern American winters. Let us suppose for a moment that something of the same kind wereto mark one single summer of our lives—that the hum of the bee, the drone of the beetle, the chirrup of cricket, locust, and katydid, the noiseless flight of gnat, moth, and butterfly, and the flash of the firefly, were suddenly to cease from the days and nights of June—suppose a magic sleep to fall upon them all; let their tiny but wonderful forms vanish from their usual haunts; let their ceaseless, cheery chant of day and night be hushed, should we not be oppressed with the strange stillness? Should we not look wistfully about for more than one familiar creature? The gardens and the meadows would in very sooth scarce seem themselves without this lesser world of insect life, moving in busy, gay, unobtrusive variety among the plants they love; and we may well believe that we should gladly welcome back the lowliest of the beetles, and the most humble of the moths which have so often crossed our path.

OR, THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE.

DEDICATED TO THE MOST FAIRE AND VERTUOUS LADIE, THE LADIE CAREY.

I sing of deadly dolorous debate,Stir’d up through wrathfull Nemesis despight,Betwixt two mightie ones of great estate,Drawne into armes, and proofe of mortall fight,Through prowd ambition and hart-swelling hate,Whilst neither could the others greater mightAnd sdeignfull scorne endure; that from small iarreTheir wraths at length broke into open warre.The roote whereof and tragicall effect,Vouchsafe, O thou the mournfulst Muse of nyne,That wont’st the tragick stage for to direct,In funerall complaints and wailefull tyne,Reveale to me, and all the meanes detect,Through which sad Clarion did at last declineTo lowest wretchednes: And is there thenSuch rancour in the harts of mightie men?Of all the race of silver-winged FliesWhich doo possesse the empire of the aire,Betwixt the centred earth, and azure skies,Was none more favourable, nor more faire,Whilst heaven did favour his felicities,Than Clarion, the eldest sonne and heireOf Muscaroll, and in his fathers sightOf all alive did seeme the fairest wight.With fruitfull hope his aged breast he fedOf future good, which his young toward yeares,Full of brave courage and bold hardyhedAbove th’ ensample of his equall Peares,Did largely promise, and to him fore-red,(Whilst oft his heart did melt in tender teares,)That he in time would sure prove such an one,As should be worthie of his fathers throne.The fresh young Flie, in whom the kindly fireOf lustful yongth began to kindle fast,Did much disdaine to subiect his desireTo loathsome sloth, or houres in ease to wast,But ioy’d to range abroad in fresh attire,Through the wide compas of the ayrie coast;And, with unwearied wings, each part t’ inquireOf the wide rule of his renowned sire.For he so swift and nimble was of flight,That from this lower tract he dar’d to stieUp to the clowdes, and thence with pineons lightTo mount aloft unto the cristall skie,To view the workmanship of heavens hight:Whence down descending he along would flieUpon the streaming rivers, sport to finde;And oft would dare to tempt the troublous winde.So on a summers day, when season mildeWith gentle calme the world had quieted,And high in heaven Hyperion’s fierie childeAscending did his beames dispred,Whiles all the heavens on lower creatures smilde;Young Clarion, with vauntfull lustiehed,After his guize did cast abroad to fare;And thereto gan his furnitures prepare.His breast-plate first, that was of substance pure,Before his noble heart he firmely bound,That mought his life from yron death assure,And ward his gentle corps from cruell wound:For by it arte was framed, to endureThe bit of balefull steele and bitter stownd,No lesse than that which Vulcane made to shieldAchilles life from fate of Troyan field.And then about his shoulders broad he threwAn hairie hide of some wild beast, whom heeIn salvage forrest by adventure slew,And reft the spoyle his ornament to bee;Which, spredding all his backe with dreadfull view,Made all, that him so horrible did see,Thinke him Alcides with the Lyons skin,When the Næméan conquest he did win.Upon his head his glistering burganet,The which was wrought by wonderous device,And curiously engraven, he did set:The metall was of rare and passing price;Not Bilbo steele, nor brasse from Corinth fet,Nor costly oricalche from strange Phœnice;But such as could both Phœbus arrowes ward,And th’ hayling darts of heaven beating hard.Therein two deadly weapons fixt he bore,Strongly outlaunced towards either side,Like two sharpe speares, his enemies to gore:Like as a warlike brigandine, applydeTo fight, layes forth her threatfull pikes afore,The engines which in them sad death doo hyde:So did this Flie outstretch his fearfull hornes,Yet so as him their terrour more adornes.Lastly his shinie wings as silver bright,Painted with thousand colours passing farreAll painters skill, he did about him dight:Not halfe so manie sundrie colours arreIn Iris bowe; ne heaven doth shine so bright,Distinguished with manie a twinckling starre;Nor Iunoes bird, in her ey-spotted traine,So many goodly colours doth containe.Ne (may it be withouten perill spoken)The Archer god, the sonne of Cytheree,That ioyes on wretched lovers to be wroken,And heaped spoyles of bleeding harts to see,Beares in his wings so manie a changefull token.Ah! my liege Lord, forgive it unto mee,If ought against thine honour I have tolde;Yet sure those wings were fairer manifolde.Full many a Ladie faire, in Court full oftBeholding them, him secretly envide,And wisht that two such fannes, so silken soft,And golden faire, her Love would her provide;Or that, when them the gorgeous Flie had doft,Some one, that would with grace be gratifide,From him would steal them privily away,And bring to her so precious a pray.Report is that dame Venus on a day,In spring when flowres doo clothe the fruitfull ground,Walking abroad with all her nymphes to play,Bad her faire damzels flocking her arowndTo gather flowres, her forhead to array:Emongst the rest a gentle Nymph was found,Hight Astery, excelling all the creweIn curteous usage and unstained hewe.Who beeing nimbler ioynted then the rest,And more industrious, gathered more storeOf the fields honour, than the others best;Which they in secret harts envying sore,Tolde Venus, when her as the worthiestShe praisd, that Cupide (as they heard before)Did lend her secret aide, in gatheringInto her lap the children of the Spring.Whereof the goddesse gathering iealous feare,Not yet unmindfull, how not long agoeHer sonne to Psyche secret love did beare,And long it close conceal’d, till mickle woeThereof arose, and manie a rufull teare;Reason with sudden rage did overgoe;And, giving hastie credit to th’ accuser,Was led away of them that did abuse her.Eftsoones that Damzell, by her heavenly might,She turn’d into a winged Butterflie,In the wide aire to make her wandring flight;And all those flowres, with which so plenteouslieHer lap she filled had, that bred her spight,She placed in her wings, for memorieOf her pretended crime, though crime none were:Since which that Flie them in her wings doth beare.Thus the fresh Clarion, being readie dight,Unto his iourney did himselfe addresse,And with good speed began to take his flight:Over the fields, in his franke lustinesse,And all the champaine o’re he soared light;And all the countrey wide he did possesse,Feeding upon their pleasures bounteouslie,That none gainsaid, nor none did him envie.The woods, the rivers, and the meadowes greene,With his aire-cutting wings he measured wide,Ne did he leave the mountaines bare unseene,Nor the ranke grassie fennes delights untride.But none of these, how ever sweet they beene,Mote please his fancie, nor him cause t’ abide:His choicefull sense with every change doth flit.No common things may please a wavering wit.To the gay gardins his unstaid desireHim wholly caried, to refresh his sprights:There lavish Nature, in her best attire,Powres forth sweete odors and alluring sights;And Arte, with her contending, doth aspire,T’ excell the naturall with made delights:And all, that faire or pleasant may be found,In riotous excesse doth there abound.There he arriving, round about doth flie,From bed to bed, from one to other border;And takes survey, with curious busie eye,Of every flowre and herbe there set in order;Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly,Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder,Ne with his feete their silken leaves deface;But pastures on the pleasures of each place.And evermore with most varietie,And change of sweetnesse, (for all change is sweete,)He casts his glutton sense to satisfie,Now sucking of the sap of herbe most meetOr of the deaw, which yet on them does lie,Now in the same bathing his tender feete:And then he pearcheth on some braunch thereby,To weather him, and his moyst wings to dry.And then againe he turneth to his play,To spoyle the pleasures of that Paradise;The wholesome saulge, and lavender still gray,Ranke smelling rue, and cummin good for eyes,The roses raigning in the pride of May,Sharpe isope good for greene wounds remedies,Faire marigoldes, and bees-alluring thime,Sweet marioram, and daysies decking prime:Coole violets, and orpine growing still,Embathed balme, and chearfull galingale,Fresh costmarie, and breathfull camomill,Dull poppy, and drink-quickning setuale,Veyne-healing verven, and hed-purging dill,Sound savorie, and bazil hartie-hale,Fat colworts, and comforting perseline,Cold lettuce, and refreshing rosmarine.And whatso else of vertue good or illGrewe in this Gardin, fetcht from farre away,Of everie one he takes, and tastes at will,And on their pleasures greedily doth pray.Then when he hath both plaid, and fed his fill,In the warme sunne he doth himselfe embay,And there him rests in riotous suffisaunceOf all his gladfulnes, and kingly ioyaunce.What more felicitie can fall to creatureThen to enioy delight with libertie,And to be lord of all the workes of Nature,To raigne in th’ aire from th’ earth to highest skie,To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature,To take what ever thing doth please the eie?Who rests not pleased with such happines,Well worthy he to taste of wretchednes.But what on earth can long abide in state?Or who can him assure of happy day?Sith morning faire may bring fowle evening late,And least mishap the most blisse alter may!For thousand perills lie in close awaiteAbout us daylie, to worke our decay;That none, except a God, or God him guide,May them avoyde, or remedie provide.And whatso heavens in their secret doomeOrdained have, how can frail fleshly wightForecast, but it must needs to issue come?The sea, the aire, the fire, the day, the night,And th’ armies of their creatures all and someDo serve to them, and with importune mightWarre against us the vassals of their will.Who then can save what they dispose to spill?Not thou, O Clarion, though fairest thouOf all thy kinde, unhappie happie Flie,Whose cruell fate is woven even nowOf Ioves owne hand, to worke thy miserie!Ne may thee help the manie hartie vow,Which thy old sire with sacred pietieHath powred forth for thee, and th’ altars sprent:Nought may thee save from heavens avengëment!It fortuned (as heavens had behight)That in this Gardin, where yong ClarionWas wont to solace him, a wicked wight,The foe of faire things, th’ author of confusion,The shame of Nature, the bondslave of spight,Had lately built his hatefull mansion;And, lurking closely, in awaite now lay,How he might any in his trap betray.But when he spide the ioyous ButterflieIn this faire plot dispacing to and fro,Fearles of foes and hidden ieopardie,Lord! how he gan for to bestirre him tho,And to his wicked worke each part applie!His heart did earne against his hated foe,And bowels so with rankling poyson swelde,That scarce the skin the strong contagion helde.The cause, why he this Flie so maliced,Was (as in stories it is written found)For that his mother, which him bore and bred,The most fine-fingred workwoman on ground,Arachne, by his meanes was vanquishedOf Pallas, and in her owne skill confound,When she with her for excellence contended,That wrought her shame, and sorrow never ended.For the Tritonian goddesse having hardHer blazed fame, which all the world had fild,Came downe to prove the truth, and due rewardFor her praise-worthie workmanship to yield:But the presumptuous Damzell rashly dar’dThe goddesse selfe to chalenge to the field,And to compare with her in curious skillOf workes with loome, with needle, and with quill.Minerva did the chalenge not refuse,But deign’d with her the paragon to make:So to their worke they sit, and each doth chuseWhat storie she will for her tapet take.Arachne figur’d how Iove did abuseEuropa like a Bull, and on his backeHer through the Sea did beare; so lively seene,That it true Sea, and true Bull, ye would weene.Shee seem’d still backe unto the land to looke,And her play-fellowes ayde to call, and feareThe dashing of the waves, that up she tookeHer daintie feet, and garments gathered neare:But (Lord!) how she in everie member shooke,When as the land she saw no more appeare,But a wilde wildernes of waters deepe:Then gan she greatly to lament and weepe.Before the Bull she pictur’d winged Love,With his yong brother Sport, light flutteringUpon the waves, as each had been a Dove;The one his bowe and shafts, the other SpringA burning teade about his head did move,As in their syres new love both triumphing:And manie Nymphes about them flocking round,And many Tritons which their hornes did sound.And, round about, her worke she did empaleWith a faire border wrought of sundrie flowres,Enwoven with an yvie-winding trayle:A goodly worke, full fit for kingly bowres;Such as dame Pallas, such as Envie pale,That all good things with venemous tooth devowres,Could not accuse. Then gan the goddesse brightHer selfe likewise unto her work to dight.She made the storie of the olde debate,Which she with Neptune did for Athens trie:Twelve gods doo sit around in royall state,And Iove in midst with awfull maiestie,To iudge the strife betweene them stirred late:Each of the gods, by his like visnomieEathe to be knowne; but Iove above them all,By his greate lookes and power imperiall.Before them stands the god of Seas in place,Clayming that sea-coast Citie as his right,And strikes the rockes with his three-forked mace;Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight,The signe by which he chalengeth the place;That all the gods, which saw his wondrous mightDid surely deeme the victorie his due:But seldome seene, foreiudgement proveth true.Then to herselfe she gives her Aegide shield,And steel-hed speare, and morion on her hedd,Such as she oft is seene in warlike field:Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dreddShe smote the ground, the which streight foorth did yieldA fruitfull Olyve tree, with berries spredd,That all the Gods admir’d; then all the storieShe compast with a wreathe of Olyves hoarie.Emongst these leaves she made a Butterflie,With excellent device and wondrous slight,Fluttring among the Olives wantonly,That seem’d to live, so like it was in sight:The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,The silken downe with which his backe is dight,His broad outstretched hornes, his hayrie thies,His glorious colours, and his glistering eies.Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid,And mastered with workmanship so rare,She stood astonied long, ne ought gainesaid;And with fast fixed eyes on her did stare,And by her silence, signe of one dismaid,The victorie did yeeld her as her share;Yet did she inly fret and felly burne,And all her blood to poysonous rancor turne:That shortly from the shape of womanhed,Such as she was when Pallas she attempted,She grew to hideous shape of dryrihed,Pined with griefe of folly late repented:Eftsoones her white streight legs were alteredTo crooked crawling shankes, of marrowe empted;And her faire face to foule and loathsome hewe,And her fine corpes to a bag of venim grewe.This cursed creature, mindfull of that oldeEnfested grudge, the which his mother felt,So soon as Clarion he did beholde,His heart with vengefull malice inly swelt;And weaving straight a net with manie a foldAbout the cave, in which he lurking dwelt,With fine small cords about it stretched wide,So finely sponne, that scarce they could be spide.Not anie damzell, which her vaunteth mostIn skilfull knitting of soft silken twyne:Nor anie weaver, which his worke doth boastIn diaper, in damaske, or in lyne;Nor anie skil’d in workmanship embost;Nor anie skil’d in loupes of fingring fine;Might in their divers cunning ever dareWith this so curious networke to compare.* * * * *This same he did applieFor to entrap the careles Clarion,That rang’d eachwhere without suspition.Suspition of friend, nor feare of foe,That hazarded his health, had he at all,But walkt at will, and wandred to and fro,In the pride of his freedome principall:Little wist he his fatall future woe,But was secure; the liker he to fall.He likest is to fall into mischaunce,That is regardles of his governaunce.Yet still Aragnoll (so his foe was hight)Lay lurking covertly him to surprise;And all his gins, that him entangle might,Drest in good order as he could devise.At length, the foolish Flie without foresight,As he that did all daunger quite despise,Toward those parts came flying carelesselie,Where hidden was his hatefull enemie.Who, seeing him, with secret ioy thereforeDid tickle inwardly in everie vaine;And his false hart, fraught with all treasons store,Was fill’d with hope his purpose to obtaine:Himselfe he close upgathered more and moreInto his den, that his deceitfull traineBy his there being might not be bewraid,Ne anie noyse, ne anie motion made.Like as a wily foxe, that, having spideWhere on a sunnie banke the lambes doo play,Full closely creeping by the hinder side,Lyes in ambúshment of his hoped pray,Ne stirreth limbe; till, seeing readie tide,He rusheth forth, and snatcheth quite awayOne of the litle yonglings unawares:So to his worke Aragnoll him prepares.Who now shall give unto my heavie eyesA well of teares, that all may overflow?Or where shall I find lamentable cryes,And mournfull tunes, enough my griefe to show?Helpe, O thou Tragick Muse, me to deviseNotes sad enough, t’ expresse this bitter throw:For loe, the drerie stownd is now arrived,That of all happines hath us deprived.The luckles Clarion, whether cruell FateOr wicked Fortune faultles him misled,Or some ungracious blast out of the gateOf Aeoles raine perforce him drove on hed,Was (O sad hap and howre unfortunate!)With violent swift flight forth cariedInto the cursed cobweb, which his foeHad framed for his finall overthroe.There the fond Flie, entangled, strugled long,Himselfe to free thereout; but all in vaine.For, striving more, the more in laces strongHimselfe he tide, and wrapt his wingës twaineIn lymie snares the subtill loupes among;That in the ende he breathlesse did remaine,And, all his yongthly forces idly spent,Him to the mercie of th’ avenger lent.Which when the greisly tyrant did espie,Like a grimme lyon rushing with fierce mightOut of his den, he seized greedelieOn the resistles pray; and, with fell spight,Under the left wing strooke his weapon slieInto his heart, that his deepe groning sprightIn bloodie streams forth fled into the aire,His bodie left the spectacle of care.

I sing of deadly dolorous debate,

Stir’d up through wrathfull Nemesis despight,

Betwixt two mightie ones of great estate,

Drawne into armes, and proofe of mortall fight,

Through prowd ambition and hart-swelling hate,

Whilst neither could the others greater might

And sdeignfull scorne endure; that from small iarre

Their wraths at length broke into open warre.

The roote whereof and tragicall effect,Vouchsafe, O thou the mournfulst Muse of nyne,That wont’st the tragick stage for to direct,In funerall complaints and wailefull tyne,Reveale to me, and all the meanes detect,Through which sad Clarion did at last declineTo lowest wretchednes: And is there thenSuch rancour in the harts of mightie men?

The roote whereof and tragicall effect,

Vouchsafe, O thou the mournfulst Muse of nyne,

That wont’st the tragick stage for to direct,

In funerall complaints and wailefull tyne,

Reveale to me, and all the meanes detect,

Through which sad Clarion did at last decline

To lowest wretchednes: And is there then

Such rancour in the harts of mightie men?

Of all the race of silver-winged FliesWhich doo possesse the empire of the aire,Betwixt the centred earth, and azure skies,Was none more favourable, nor more faire,Whilst heaven did favour his felicities,Than Clarion, the eldest sonne and heireOf Muscaroll, and in his fathers sightOf all alive did seeme the fairest wight.

Of all the race of silver-winged Flies

Which doo possesse the empire of the aire,

Betwixt the centred earth, and azure skies,

Was none more favourable, nor more faire,

Whilst heaven did favour his felicities,

Than Clarion, the eldest sonne and heire

Of Muscaroll, and in his fathers sight

Of all alive did seeme the fairest wight.

With fruitfull hope his aged breast he fedOf future good, which his young toward yeares,Full of brave courage and bold hardyhedAbove th’ ensample of his equall Peares,Did largely promise, and to him fore-red,(Whilst oft his heart did melt in tender teares,)That he in time would sure prove such an one,As should be worthie of his fathers throne.

With fruitfull hope his aged breast he fed

Of future good, which his young toward yeares,

Full of brave courage and bold hardyhed

Above th’ ensample of his equall Peares,

Did largely promise, and to him fore-red,

(Whilst oft his heart did melt in tender teares,)

That he in time would sure prove such an one,

As should be worthie of his fathers throne.

The fresh young Flie, in whom the kindly fireOf lustful yongth began to kindle fast,Did much disdaine to subiect his desireTo loathsome sloth, or houres in ease to wast,But ioy’d to range abroad in fresh attire,Through the wide compas of the ayrie coast;And, with unwearied wings, each part t’ inquireOf the wide rule of his renowned sire.

The fresh young Flie, in whom the kindly fire

Of lustful yongth began to kindle fast,

Did much disdaine to subiect his desire

To loathsome sloth, or houres in ease to wast,

But ioy’d to range abroad in fresh attire,

Through the wide compas of the ayrie coast;

And, with unwearied wings, each part t’ inquire

Of the wide rule of his renowned sire.

For he so swift and nimble was of flight,That from this lower tract he dar’d to stieUp to the clowdes, and thence with pineons lightTo mount aloft unto the cristall skie,To view the workmanship of heavens hight:Whence down descending he along would flieUpon the streaming rivers, sport to finde;And oft would dare to tempt the troublous winde.

For he so swift and nimble was of flight,

That from this lower tract he dar’d to stie

Up to the clowdes, and thence with pineons light

To mount aloft unto the cristall skie,

To view the workmanship of heavens hight:

Whence down descending he along would flie

Upon the streaming rivers, sport to finde;

And oft would dare to tempt the troublous winde.

So on a summers day, when season mildeWith gentle calme the world had quieted,And high in heaven Hyperion’s fierie childeAscending did his beames dispred,Whiles all the heavens on lower creatures smilde;Young Clarion, with vauntfull lustiehed,After his guize did cast abroad to fare;And thereto gan his furnitures prepare.

So on a summers day, when season milde

With gentle calme the world had quieted,

And high in heaven Hyperion’s fierie childe

Ascending did his beames dispred,

Whiles all the heavens on lower creatures smilde;

Young Clarion, with vauntfull lustiehed,

After his guize did cast abroad to fare;

And thereto gan his furnitures prepare.

His breast-plate first, that was of substance pure,Before his noble heart he firmely bound,That mought his life from yron death assure,And ward his gentle corps from cruell wound:For by it arte was framed, to endureThe bit of balefull steele and bitter stownd,No lesse than that which Vulcane made to shieldAchilles life from fate of Troyan field.

His breast-plate first, that was of substance pure,

Before his noble heart he firmely bound,

That mought his life from yron death assure,

And ward his gentle corps from cruell wound:

For by it arte was framed, to endure

The bit of balefull steele and bitter stownd,

No lesse than that which Vulcane made to shield

Achilles life from fate of Troyan field.

And then about his shoulders broad he threwAn hairie hide of some wild beast, whom heeIn salvage forrest by adventure slew,And reft the spoyle his ornament to bee;Which, spredding all his backe with dreadfull view,Made all, that him so horrible did see,Thinke him Alcides with the Lyons skin,When the Næméan conquest he did win.

And then about his shoulders broad he threw

An hairie hide of some wild beast, whom hee

In salvage forrest by adventure slew,

And reft the spoyle his ornament to bee;

Which, spredding all his backe with dreadfull view,

Made all, that him so horrible did see,

Thinke him Alcides with the Lyons skin,

When the Næméan conquest he did win.

Upon his head his glistering burganet,The which was wrought by wonderous device,And curiously engraven, he did set:The metall was of rare and passing price;Not Bilbo steele, nor brasse from Corinth fet,Nor costly oricalche from strange Phœnice;But such as could both Phœbus arrowes ward,And th’ hayling darts of heaven beating hard.

Upon his head his glistering burganet,

The which was wrought by wonderous device,

And curiously engraven, he did set:

The metall was of rare and passing price;

Not Bilbo steele, nor brasse from Corinth fet,

Nor costly oricalche from strange Phœnice;

But such as could both Phœbus arrowes ward,

And th’ hayling darts of heaven beating hard.

Therein two deadly weapons fixt he bore,Strongly outlaunced towards either side,Like two sharpe speares, his enemies to gore:Like as a warlike brigandine, applydeTo fight, layes forth her threatfull pikes afore,The engines which in them sad death doo hyde:So did this Flie outstretch his fearfull hornes,Yet so as him their terrour more adornes.

Therein two deadly weapons fixt he bore,

Strongly outlaunced towards either side,

Like two sharpe speares, his enemies to gore:

Like as a warlike brigandine, applyde

To fight, layes forth her threatfull pikes afore,

The engines which in them sad death doo hyde:

So did this Flie outstretch his fearfull hornes,

Yet so as him their terrour more adornes.

Lastly his shinie wings as silver bright,Painted with thousand colours passing farreAll painters skill, he did about him dight:Not halfe so manie sundrie colours arreIn Iris bowe; ne heaven doth shine so bright,Distinguished with manie a twinckling starre;Nor Iunoes bird, in her ey-spotted traine,So many goodly colours doth containe.

Lastly his shinie wings as silver bright,

Painted with thousand colours passing farre

All painters skill, he did about him dight:

Not halfe so manie sundrie colours arre

In Iris bowe; ne heaven doth shine so bright,

Distinguished with manie a twinckling starre;

Nor Iunoes bird, in her ey-spotted traine,

So many goodly colours doth containe.

Ne (may it be withouten perill spoken)The Archer god, the sonne of Cytheree,That ioyes on wretched lovers to be wroken,And heaped spoyles of bleeding harts to see,Beares in his wings so manie a changefull token.Ah! my liege Lord, forgive it unto mee,If ought against thine honour I have tolde;Yet sure those wings were fairer manifolde.

Ne (may it be withouten perill spoken)

The Archer god, the sonne of Cytheree,

That ioyes on wretched lovers to be wroken,

And heaped spoyles of bleeding harts to see,

Beares in his wings so manie a changefull token.

Ah! my liege Lord, forgive it unto mee,

If ought against thine honour I have tolde;

Yet sure those wings were fairer manifolde.

Full many a Ladie faire, in Court full oftBeholding them, him secretly envide,And wisht that two such fannes, so silken soft,And golden faire, her Love would her provide;Or that, when them the gorgeous Flie had doft,Some one, that would with grace be gratifide,From him would steal them privily away,And bring to her so precious a pray.

Full many a Ladie faire, in Court full oft

Beholding them, him secretly envide,

And wisht that two such fannes, so silken soft,

And golden faire, her Love would her provide;

Or that, when them the gorgeous Flie had doft,

Some one, that would with grace be gratifide,

From him would steal them privily away,

And bring to her so precious a pray.

Report is that dame Venus on a day,In spring when flowres doo clothe the fruitfull ground,Walking abroad with all her nymphes to play,Bad her faire damzels flocking her arowndTo gather flowres, her forhead to array:Emongst the rest a gentle Nymph was found,Hight Astery, excelling all the creweIn curteous usage and unstained hewe.

Report is that dame Venus on a day,

In spring when flowres doo clothe the fruitfull ground,

Walking abroad with all her nymphes to play,

Bad her faire damzels flocking her arownd

To gather flowres, her forhead to array:

Emongst the rest a gentle Nymph was found,

Hight Astery, excelling all the crewe

In curteous usage and unstained hewe.

Who beeing nimbler ioynted then the rest,And more industrious, gathered more storeOf the fields honour, than the others best;Which they in secret harts envying sore,Tolde Venus, when her as the worthiestShe praisd, that Cupide (as they heard before)Did lend her secret aide, in gatheringInto her lap the children of the Spring.

Who beeing nimbler ioynted then the rest,

And more industrious, gathered more store

Of the fields honour, than the others best;

Which they in secret harts envying sore,

Tolde Venus, when her as the worthiest

She praisd, that Cupide (as they heard before)

Did lend her secret aide, in gathering

Into her lap the children of the Spring.

Whereof the goddesse gathering iealous feare,Not yet unmindfull, how not long agoeHer sonne to Psyche secret love did beare,And long it close conceal’d, till mickle woeThereof arose, and manie a rufull teare;Reason with sudden rage did overgoe;And, giving hastie credit to th’ accuser,Was led away of them that did abuse her.

Whereof the goddesse gathering iealous feare,

Not yet unmindfull, how not long agoe

Her sonne to Psyche secret love did beare,

And long it close conceal’d, till mickle woe

Thereof arose, and manie a rufull teare;

Reason with sudden rage did overgoe;

And, giving hastie credit to th’ accuser,

Was led away of them that did abuse her.

Eftsoones that Damzell, by her heavenly might,She turn’d into a winged Butterflie,In the wide aire to make her wandring flight;And all those flowres, with which so plenteouslieHer lap she filled had, that bred her spight,She placed in her wings, for memorieOf her pretended crime, though crime none were:Since which that Flie them in her wings doth beare.

Eftsoones that Damzell, by her heavenly might,

She turn’d into a winged Butterflie,

In the wide aire to make her wandring flight;

And all those flowres, with which so plenteouslie

Her lap she filled had, that bred her spight,

She placed in her wings, for memorie

Of her pretended crime, though crime none were:

Since which that Flie them in her wings doth beare.

Thus the fresh Clarion, being readie dight,Unto his iourney did himselfe addresse,And with good speed began to take his flight:Over the fields, in his franke lustinesse,And all the champaine o’re he soared light;And all the countrey wide he did possesse,Feeding upon their pleasures bounteouslie,That none gainsaid, nor none did him envie.

Thus the fresh Clarion, being readie dight,

Unto his iourney did himselfe addresse,

And with good speed began to take his flight:

Over the fields, in his franke lustinesse,

And all the champaine o’re he soared light;

And all the countrey wide he did possesse,

Feeding upon their pleasures bounteouslie,

That none gainsaid, nor none did him envie.

The woods, the rivers, and the meadowes greene,With his aire-cutting wings he measured wide,Ne did he leave the mountaines bare unseene,Nor the ranke grassie fennes delights untride.But none of these, how ever sweet they beene,Mote please his fancie, nor him cause t’ abide:His choicefull sense with every change doth flit.No common things may please a wavering wit.

The woods, the rivers, and the meadowes greene,

With his aire-cutting wings he measured wide,

Ne did he leave the mountaines bare unseene,

Nor the ranke grassie fennes delights untride.

But none of these, how ever sweet they beene,

Mote please his fancie, nor him cause t’ abide:

His choicefull sense with every change doth flit.

No common things may please a wavering wit.

To the gay gardins his unstaid desireHim wholly caried, to refresh his sprights:There lavish Nature, in her best attire,Powres forth sweete odors and alluring sights;And Arte, with her contending, doth aspire,T’ excell the naturall with made delights:And all, that faire or pleasant may be found,In riotous excesse doth there abound.

To the gay gardins his unstaid desire

Him wholly caried, to refresh his sprights:

There lavish Nature, in her best attire,

Powres forth sweete odors and alluring sights;

And Arte, with her contending, doth aspire,

T’ excell the naturall with made delights:

And all, that faire or pleasant may be found,

In riotous excesse doth there abound.

There he arriving, round about doth flie,From bed to bed, from one to other border;And takes survey, with curious busie eye,Of every flowre and herbe there set in order;Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly,Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder,Ne with his feete their silken leaves deface;But pastures on the pleasures of each place.

There he arriving, round about doth flie,

From bed to bed, from one to other border;

And takes survey, with curious busie eye,

Of every flowre and herbe there set in order;

Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly,

Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder,

Ne with his feete their silken leaves deface;

But pastures on the pleasures of each place.

And evermore with most varietie,And change of sweetnesse, (for all change is sweete,)He casts his glutton sense to satisfie,Now sucking of the sap of herbe most meetOr of the deaw, which yet on them does lie,Now in the same bathing his tender feete:And then he pearcheth on some braunch thereby,To weather him, and his moyst wings to dry.

And evermore with most varietie,

And change of sweetnesse, (for all change is sweete,)

He casts his glutton sense to satisfie,

Now sucking of the sap of herbe most meet

Or of the deaw, which yet on them does lie,

Now in the same bathing his tender feete:

And then he pearcheth on some braunch thereby,

To weather him, and his moyst wings to dry.

And then againe he turneth to his play,To spoyle the pleasures of that Paradise;The wholesome saulge, and lavender still gray,Ranke smelling rue, and cummin good for eyes,The roses raigning in the pride of May,Sharpe isope good for greene wounds remedies,Faire marigoldes, and bees-alluring thime,Sweet marioram, and daysies decking prime:

And then againe he turneth to his play,

To spoyle the pleasures of that Paradise;

The wholesome saulge, and lavender still gray,

Ranke smelling rue, and cummin good for eyes,

The roses raigning in the pride of May,

Sharpe isope good for greene wounds remedies,

Faire marigoldes, and bees-alluring thime,

Sweet marioram, and daysies decking prime:

Coole violets, and orpine growing still,Embathed balme, and chearfull galingale,Fresh costmarie, and breathfull camomill,Dull poppy, and drink-quickning setuale,Veyne-healing verven, and hed-purging dill,Sound savorie, and bazil hartie-hale,Fat colworts, and comforting perseline,Cold lettuce, and refreshing rosmarine.

Coole violets, and orpine growing still,

Embathed balme, and chearfull galingale,

Fresh costmarie, and breathfull camomill,

Dull poppy, and drink-quickning setuale,

Veyne-healing verven, and hed-purging dill,

Sound savorie, and bazil hartie-hale,

Fat colworts, and comforting perseline,

Cold lettuce, and refreshing rosmarine.

And whatso else of vertue good or illGrewe in this Gardin, fetcht from farre away,Of everie one he takes, and tastes at will,And on their pleasures greedily doth pray.Then when he hath both plaid, and fed his fill,In the warme sunne he doth himselfe embay,And there him rests in riotous suffisaunceOf all his gladfulnes, and kingly ioyaunce.

And whatso else of vertue good or ill

Grewe in this Gardin, fetcht from farre away,

Of everie one he takes, and tastes at will,

And on their pleasures greedily doth pray.

Then when he hath both plaid, and fed his fill,

In the warme sunne he doth himselfe embay,

And there him rests in riotous suffisaunce

Of all his gladfulnes, and kingly ioyaunce.

What more felicitie can fall to creatureThen to enioy delight with libertie,And to be lord of all the workes of Nature,To raigne in th’ aire from th’ earth to highest skie,To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature,To take what ever thing doth please the eie?Who rests not pleased with such happines,Well worthy he to taste of wretchednes.

What more felicitie can fall to creature

Then to enioy delight with libertie,

And to be lord of all the workes of Nature,

To raigne in th’ aire from th’ earth to highest skie,

To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature,

To take what ever thing doth please the eie?

Who rests not pleased with such happines,

Well worthy he to taste of wretchednes.

But what on earth can long abide in state?Or who can him assure of happy day?Sith morning faire may bring fowle evening late,And least mishap the most blisse alter may!For thousand perills lie in close awaiteAbout us daylie, to worke our decay;That none, except a God, or God him guide,May them avoyde, or remedie provide.

But what on earth can long abide in state?

Or who can him assure of happy day?

Sith morning faire may bring fowle evening late,

And least mishap the most blisse alter may!

For thousand perills lie in close awaite

About us daylie, to worke our decay;

That none, except a God, or God him guide,

May them avoyde, or remedie provide.

And whatso heavens in their secret doomeOrdained have, how can frail fleshly wightForecast, but it must needs to issue come?The sea, the aire, the fire, the day, the night,And th’ armies of their creatures all and someDo serve to them, and with importune mightWarre against us the vassals of their will.Who then can save what they dispose to spill?

And whatso heavens in their secret doome

Ordained have, how can frail fleshly wight

Forecast, but it must needs to issue come?

The sea, the aire, the fire, the day, the night,

And th’ armies of their creatures all and some

Do serve to them, and with importune might

Warre against us the vassals of their will.

Who then can save what they dispose to spill?

Not thou, O Clarion, though fairest thouOf all thy kinde, unhappie happie Flie,Whose cruell fate is woven even nowOf Ioves owne hand, to worke thy miserie!Ne may thee help the manie hartie vow,Which thy old sire with sacred pietieHath powred forth for thee, and th’ altars sprent:Nought may thee save from heavens avengëment!

Not thou, O Clarion, though fairest thou

Of all thy kinde, unhappie happie Flie,

Whose cruell fate is woven even now

Of Ioves owne hand, to worke thy miserie!

Ne may thee help the manie hartie vow,

Which thy old sire with sacred pietie

Hath powred forth for thee, and th’ altars sprent:

Nought may thee save from heavens avengëment!

It fortuned (as heavens had behight)That in this Gardin, where yong ClarionWas wont to solace him, a wicked wight,The foe of faire things, th’ author of confusion,The shame of Nature, the bondslave of spight,Had lately built his hatefull mansion;And, lurking closely, in awaite now lay,How he might any in his trap betray.

It fortuned (as heavens had behight)

That in this Gardin, where yong Clarion

Was wont to solace him, a wicked wight,

The foe of faire things, th’ author of confusion,

The shame of Nature, the bondslave of spight,

Had lately built his hatefull mansion;

And, lurking closely, in awaite now lay,

How he might any in his trap betray.

But when he spide the ioyous ButterflieIn this faire plot dispacing to and fro,Fearles of foes and hidden ieopardie,Lord! how he gan for to bestirre him tho,And to his wicked worke each part applie!His heart did earne against his hated foe,And bowels so with rankling poyson swelde,That scarce the skin the strong contagion helde.

But when he spide the ioyous Butterflie

In this faire plot dispacing to and fro,

Fearles of foes and hidden ieopardie,

Lord! how he gan for to bestirre him tho,

And to his wicked worke each part applie!

His heart did earne against his hated foe,

And bowels so with rankling poyson swelde,

That scarce the skin the strong contagion helde.

The cause, why he this Flie so maliced,Was (as in stories it is written found)For that his mother, which him bore and bred,The most fine-fingred workwoman on ground,Arachne, by his meanes was vanquishedOf Pallas, and in her owne skill confound,When she with her for excellence contended,That wrought her shame, and sorrow never ended.

The cause, why he this Flie so maliced,

Was (as in stories it is written found)

For that his mother, which him bore and bred,

The most fine-fingred workwoman on ground,

Arachne, by his meanes was vanquished

Of Pallas, and in her owne skill confound,

When she with her for excellence contended,

That wrought her shame, and sorrow never ended.

For the Tritonian goddesse having hardHer blazed fame, which all the world had fild,Came downe to prove the truth, and due rewardFor her praise-worthie workmanship to yield:But the presumptuous Damzell rashly dar’dThe goddesse selfe to chalenge to the field,And to compare with her in curious skillOf workes with loome, with needle, and with quill.

For the Tritonian goddesse having hard

Her blazed fame, which all the world had fild,

Came downe to prove the truth, and due reward

For her praise-worthie workmanship to yield:

But the presumptuous Damzell rashly dar’d

The goddesse selfe to chalenge to the field,

And to compare with her in curious skill

Of workes with loome, with needle, and with quill.

Minerva did the chalenge not refuse,But deign’d with her the paragon to make:So to their worke they sit, and each doth chuseWhat storie she will for her tapet take.Arachne figur’d how Iove did abuseEuropa like a Bull, and on his backeHer through the Sea did beare; so lively seene,That it true Sea, and true Bull, ye would weene.

Minerva did the chalenge not refuse,

But deign’d with her the paragon to make:

So to their worke they sit, and each doth chuse

What storie she will for her tapet take.

Arachne figur’d how Iove did abuse

Europa like a Bull, and on his backe

Her through the Sea did beare; so lively seene,

That it true Sea, and true Bull, ye would weene.

Shee seem’d still backe unto the land to looke,And her play-fellowes ayde to call, and feareThe dashing of the waves, that up she tookeHer daintie feet, and garments gathered neare:But (Lord!) how she in everie member shooke,When as the land she saw no more appeare,But a wilde wildernes of waters deepe:Then gan she greatly to lament and weepe.

Shee seem’d still backe unto the land to looke,

And her play-fellowes ayde to call, and feare

The dashing of the waves, that up she tooke

Her daintie feet, and garments gathered neare:

But (Lord!) how she in everie member shooke,

When as the land she saw no more appeare,

But a wilde wildernes of waters deepe:

Then gan she greatly to lament and weepe.

Before the Bull she pictur’d winged Love,With his yong brother Sport, light flutteringUpon the waves, as each had been a Dove;The one his bowe and shafts, the other SpringA burning teade about his head did move,As in their syres new love both triumphing:And manie Nymphes about them flocking round,And many Tritons which their hornes did sound.

Before the Bull she pictur’d winged Love,

With his yong brother Sport, light fluttering

Upon the waves, as each had been a Dove;

The one his bowe and shafts, the other Spring

A burning teade about his head did move,

As in their syres new love both triumphing:

And manie Nymphes about them flocking round,

And many Tritons which their hornes did sound.

And, round about, her worke she did empaleWith a faire border wrought of sundrie flowres,Enwoven with an yvie-winding trayle:A goodly worke, full fit for kingly bowres;Such as dame Pallas, such as Envie pale,That all good things with venemous tooth devowres,Could not accuse. Then gan the goddesse brightHer selfe likewise unto her work to dight.

And, round about, her worke she did empale

With a faire border wrought of sundrie flowres,

Enwoven with an yvie-winding trayle:

A goodly worke, full fit for kingly bowres;

Such as dame Pallas, such as Envie pale,

That all good things with venemous tooth devowres,

Could not accuse. Then gan the goddesse bright

Her selfe likewise unto her work to dight.

She made the storie of the olde debate,Which she with Neptune did for Athens trie:Twelve gods doo sit around in royall state,And Iove in midst with awfull maiestie,To iudge the strife betweene them stirred late:Each of the gods, by his like visnomieEathe to be knowne; but Iove above them all,By his greate lookes and power imperiall.

She made the storie of the olde debate,

Which she with Neptune did for Athens trie:

Twelve gods doo sit around in royall state,

And Iove in midst with awfull maiestie,

To iudge the strife betweene them stirred late:

Each of the gods, by his like visnomie

Eathe to be knowne; but Iove above them all,

By his greate lookes and power imperiall.

Before them stands the god of Seas in place,Clayming that sea-coast Citie as his right,And strikes the rockes with his three-forked mace;Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight,The signe by which he chalengeth the place;That all the gods, which saw his wondrous mightDid surely deeme the victorie his due:But seldome seene, foreiudgement proveth true.

Before them stands the god of Seas in place,

Clayming that sea-coast Citie as his right,

And strikes the rockes with his three-forked mace;

Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight,

The signe by which he chalengeth the place;

That all the gods, which saw his wondrous might

Did surely deeme the victorie his due:

But seldome seene, foreiudgement proveth true.

Then to herselfe she gives her Aegide shield,And steel-hed speare, and morion on her hedd,Such as she oft is seene in warlike field:Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dreddShe smote the ground, the which streight foorth did yieldA fruitfull Olyve tree, with berries spredd,That all the Gods admir’d; then all the storieShe compast with a wreathe of Olyves hoarie.

Then to herselfe she gives her Aegide shield,

And steel-hed speare, and morion on her hedd,

Such as she oft is seene in warlike field:

Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dredd

She smote the ground, the which streight foorth did yield

A fruitfull Olyve tree, with berries spredd,

That all the Gods admir’d; then all the storie

She compast with a wreathe of Olyves hoarie.

Emongst these leaves she made a Butterflie,With excellent device and wondrous slight,Fluttring among the Olives wantonly,That seem’d to live, so like it was in sight:The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,The silken downe with which his backe is dight,His broad outstretched hornes, his hayrie thies,His glorious colours, and his glistering eies.

Emongst these leaves she made a Butterflie,

With excellent device and wondrous slight,

Fluttring among the Olives wantonly,

That seem’d to live, so like it was in sight:

The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,

The silken downe with which his backe is dight,

His broad outstretched hornes, his hayrie thies,

His glorious colours, and his glistering eies.

Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid,And mastered with workmanship so rare,She stood astonied long, ne ought gainesaid;And with fast fixed eyes on her did stare,And by her silence, signe of one dismaid,The victorie did yeeld her as her share;Yet did she inly fret and felly burne,And all her blood to poysonous rancor turne:

Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid,

And mastered with workmanship so rare,

She stood astonied long, ne ought gainesaid;

And with fast fixed eyes on her did stare,

And by her silence, signe of one dismaid,

The victorie did yeeld her as her share;

Yet did she inly fret and felly burne,

And all her blood to poysonous rancor turne:

That shortly from the shape of womanhed,Such as she was when Pallas she attempted,She grew to hideous shape of dryrihed,Pined with griefe of folly late repented:Eftsoones her white streight legs were alteredTo crooked crawling shankes, of marrowe empted;And her faire face to foule and loathsome hewe,And her fine corpes to a bag of venim grewe.

That shortly from the shape of womanhed,

Such as she was when Pallas she attempted,

She grew to hideous shape of dryrihed,

Pined with griefe of folly late repented:

Eftsoones her white streight legs were altered

To crooked crawling shankes, of marrowe empted;

And her faire face to foule and loathsome hewe,

And her fine corpes to a bag of venim grewe.

This cursed creature, mindfull of that oldeEnfested grudge, the which his mother felt,So soon as Clarion he did beholde,His heart with vengefull malice inly swelt;And weaving straight a net with manie a foldAbout the cave, in which he lurking dwelt,With fine small cords about it stretched wide,So finely sponne, that scarce they could be spide.

This cursed creature, mindfull of that olde

Enfested grudge, the which his mother felt,

So soon as Clarion he did beholde,

His heart with vengefull malice inly swelt;

And weaving straight a net with manie a fold

About the cave, in which he lurking dwelt,

With fine small cords about it stretched wide,

So finely sponne, that scarce they could be spide.

Not anie damzell, which her vaunteth mostIn skilfull knitting of soft silken twyne:Nor anie weaver, which his worke doth boastIn diaper, in damaske, or in lyne;Nor anie skil’d in workmanship embost;Nor anie skil’d in loupes of fingring fine;Might in their divers cunning ever dareWith this so curious networke to compare.

Not anie damzell, which her vaunteth most

In skilfull knitting of soft silken twyne:

Nor anie weaver, which his worke doth boast

In diaper, in damaske, or in lyne;

Nor anie skil’d in workmanship embost;

Nor anie skil’d in loupes of fingring fine;

Might in their divers cunning ever dare

With this so curious networke to compare.

* * * * *

This same he did applieFor to entrap the careles Clarion,That rang’d eachwhere without suspition.

This same he did applie

For to entrap the careles Clarion,

That rang’d eachwhere without suspition.

Suspition of friend, nor feare of foe,That hazarded his health, had he at all,But walkt at will, and wandred to and fro,In the pride of his freedome principall:Little wist he his fatall future woe,But was secure; the liker he to fall.He likest is to fall into mischaunce,That is regardles of his governaunce.

Suspition of friend, nor feare of foe,

That hazarded his health, had he at all,

But walkt at will, and wandred to and fro,

In the pride of his freedome principall:

Little wist he his fatall future woe,

But was secure; the liker he to fall.

He likest is to fall into mischaunce,

That is regardles of his governaunce.

Yet still Aragnoll (so his foe was hight)Lay lurking covertly him to surprise;And all his gins, that him entangle might,Drest in good order as he could devise.At length, the foolish Flie without foresight,As he that did all daunger quite despise,Toward those parts came flying carelesselie,Where hidden was his hatefull enemie.

Yet still Aragnoll (so his foe was hight)

Lay lurking covertly him to surprise;

And all his gins, that him entangle might,

Drest in good order as he could devise.

At length, the foolish Flie without foresight,

As he that did all daunger quite despise,

Toward those parts came flying carelesselie,

Where hidden was his hatefull enemie.

Who, seeing him, with secret ioy thereforeDid tickle inwardly in everie vaine;And his false hart, fraught with all treasons store,Was fill’d with hope his purpose to obtaine:Himselfe he close upgathered more and moreInto his den, that his deceitfull traineBy his there being might not be bewraid,Ne anie noyse, ne anie motion made.

Who, seeing him, with secret ioy therefore

Did tickle inwardly in everie vaine;

And his false hart, fraught with all treasons store,

Was fill’d with hope his purpose to obtaine:

Himselfe he close upgathered more and more

Into his den, that his deceitfull traine

By his there being might not be bewraid,

Ne anie noyse, ne anie motion made.

Like as a wily foxe, that, having spideWhere on a sunnie banke the lambes doo play,Full closely creeping by the hinder side,Lyes in ambúshment of his hoped pray,Ne stirreth limbe; till, seeing readie tide,He rusheth forth, and snatcheth quite awayOne of the litle yonglings unawares:So to his worke Aragnoll him prepares.

Like as a wily foxe, that, having spide

Where on a sunnie banke the lambes doo play,

Full closely creeping by the hinder side,

Lyes in ambúshment of his hoped pray,

Ne stirreth limbe; till, seeing readie tide,

He rusheth forth, and snatcheth quite away

One of the litle yonglings unawares:

So to his worke Aragnoll him prepares.

Who now shall give unto my heavie eyesA well of teares, that all may overflow?Or where shall I find lamentable cryes,And mournfull tunes, enough my griefe to show?Helpe, O thou Tragick Muse, me to deviseNotes sad enough, t’ expresse this bitter throw:For loe, the drerie stownd is now arrived,That of all happines hath us deprived.

Who now shall give unto my heavie eyes

A well of teares, that all may overflow?

Or where shall I find lamentable cryes,

And mournfull tunes, enough my griefe to show?

Helpe, O thou Tragick Muse, me to devise

Notes sad enough, t’ expresse this bitter throw:

For loe, the drerie stownd is now arrived,

That of all happines hath us deprived.

The luckles Clarion, whether cruell FateOr wicked Fortune faultles him misled,Or some ungracious blast out of the gateOf Aeoles raine perforce him drove on hed,Was (O sad hap and howre unfortunate!)With violent swift flight forth cariedInto the cursed cobweb, which his foeHad framed for his finall overthroe.

The luckles Clarion, whether cruell Fate

Or wicked Fortune faultles him misled,

Or some ungracious blast out of the gate

Of Aeoles raine perforce him drove on hed,

Was (O sad hap and howre unfortunate!)

With violent swift flight forth caried

Into the cursed cobweb, which his foe

Had framed for his finall overthroe.

There the fond Flie, entangled, strugled long,Himselfe to free thereout; but all in vaine.For, striving more, the more in laces strongHimselfe he tide, and wrapt his wingës twaineIn lymie snares the subtill loupes among;That in the ende he breathlesse did remaine,And, all his yongthly forces idly spent,Him to the mercie of th’ avenger lent.

There the fond Flie, entangled, strugled long,

Himselfe to free thereout; but all in vaine.

For, striving more, the more in laces strong

Himselfe he tide, and wrapt his wingës twaine

In lymie snares the subtill loupes among;

That in the ende he breathlesse did remaine,

And, all his yongthly forces idly spent,

Him to the mercie of th’ avenger lent.

Which when the greisly tyrant did espie,Like a grimme lyon rushing with fierce mightOut of his den, he seized greedelieOn the resistles pray; and, with fell spight,Under the left wing strooke his weapon slieInto his heart, that his deepe groning sprightIn bloodie streams forth fled into the aire,His bodie left the spectacle of care.

Which when the greisly tyrant did espie,

Like a grimme lyon rushing with fierce might

Out of his den, he seized greedelie

On the resistles pray; and, with fell spight,

Under the left wing strooke his weapon slie

Into his heart, that his deepe groning spright

In bloodie streams forth fled into the aire,

His bodie left the spectacle of care.

Glossary.—Tyne, affliction;yongth, youth;stie, mount;stownd, blow;burganet, helmet;wroken, avenged;doft, taken off;hight, called;mickle, much;eftsoones, immediately;embay, bathe;suffisaunce, excess;sprent, sprinkled;earne, yearn;spring, springal, youth;teade, torch;eathe, ease;dryrihed, drearyhead;lyne, linen;drerie stownd, dismal hour.

Edmund Spenser, 1553–1598.

FROM THE GREEK OF MNASALCUS.

Oh, never more, sweet locust,Shalt thou with shrilly wing,Along the fertile furrows sitAnd thy gladsome carols sing;Oh, never more thy nimble wingsShall cheer this heart of mine,With sweetest melody, while IBeneath the trees recline.Translation ofW. Hay.

Oh, never more, sweet locust,

Shalt thou with shrilly wing,

Along the fertile furrows sit

And thy gladsome carols sing;

Oh, never more thy nimble wings

Shall cheer this heart of mine,

With sweetest melody, while I

Beneath the trees recline.

Translation ofW. Hay.

FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGER, 100 B. C.

Oh, shrill-voiced insect, that, with dew-drops sweetInebriate, dost in desert woodlands sing;Perch’d on the spray-top with indented feet,Thy dusky body’s echoings, harp-like ring.Come, dear Cicada! chirp to all the grove,The nymphs, and Pan, a new responsive strain;That I, in noonday sleep, may steal from love,Reclined beneath this dark o’erspreading plane.Translation ofSir C. A. Elton.

Oh, shrill-voiced insect, that, with dew-drops sweetInebriate, dost in desert woodlands sing;Perch’d on the spray-top with indented feet,Thy dusky body’s echoings, harp-like ring.

Oh, shrill-voiced insect, that, with dew-drops sweet

Inebriate, dost in desert woodlands sing;

Perch’d on the spray-top with indented feet,

Thy dusky body’s echoings, harp-like ring.

Come, dear Cicada! chirp to all the grove,The nymphs, and Pan, a new responsive strain;That I, in noonday sleep, may steal from love,Reclined beneath this dark o’erspreading plane.Translation ofSir C. A. Elton.

Come, dear Cicada! chirp to all the grove,

The nymphs, and Pan, a new responsive strain;

That I, in noonday sleep, may steal from love,

Reclined beneath this dark o’erspreading plane.

Translation ofSir C. A. Elton.

FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON, 600 B. C.

Happy insect, what can beIn happiness compared to thee?Fed with nourishment divine,The dewy morning’s gentle wine!Nature waits upon thee still,And thy verdant cup does fill;’Tis fill’d wherever thou dost tread,Nature self’s thy Ganymede.Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,Happier than the happiest king!All the fields which thou dost see,All the plants belong to thee;All that summer hours produce,Fertile made with early juice.Man for thee does sow and plow;Farmer he, and landlord thou!Thou dost innocently enjoy;Nor does thy luxury destroy.The shepherd gladly heareth thee,More harmonious than he.Thee country hinds with gladness hear,Prophet of the ripen’d year!Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire;Phœbus is himself thy sire.To thee, of all things upon earth,Life is no longer than thy mirth.Happy insect! happy thou,Dost neither age nor winter know.But when thou’st drunk, and danc’d, and sungThy fill, the flowery leaves among,(Voluptuous and wise withal,Epicurean animal!)Satiated with thy summer feast,Thou retir’st to endless rest.Translation ofAbraham Cowley, 1618–1657.

Happy insect, what can be

In happiness compared to thee?

Fed with nourishment divine,

The dewy morning’s gentle wine!

Nature waits upon thee still,

And thy verdant cup does fill;

’Tis fill’d wherever thou dost tread,

Nature self’s thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,

Happier than the happiest king!

All the fields which thou dost see,

All the plants belong to thee;

All that summer hours produce,

Fertile made with early juice.

Man for thee does sow and plow;

Farmer he, and landlord thou!

Thou dost innocently enjoy;

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,

More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,

Prophet of the ripen’d year!

Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire;

Phœbus is himself thy sire.

To thee, of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know.

But when thou’st drunk, and danc’d, and sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

(Voluptuous and wise withal,

Epicurean animal!)

Satiated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir’st to endless rest.

Translation ofAbraham Cowley, 1618–1657.

INSECTS.

These tiny loiterers on the barley’s beard,And happy units of a numerous herdOf playfellows, the laughing summer brings;Mocking the sunshine on their glittering wings;How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!No kin they bear to labor’s drudgery,Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose,And where they fly for dinner no one knows;The dew-drop feeds them not; they love the shineOf noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine.All day they’re playing in their Sunday dress—When night reposes they can do no less;Then to the heath-bell’s purple hood they fly,And like to princes in their slumbers, lieSecure from rain, and dropping dews, and allOn silken beds in roomy, painted hall.So merrily they spend their summer day,Or in the corn-fields, or in new-mown hay.One almost fancies that such happy things,With colored hoods and richly burnished wings,Are fairy folk, in splendid masqueradeDisguised, as if of mortal folk afraid;Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still,Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill.John Clare.

These tiny loiterers on the barley’s beard,

And happy units of a numerous herd

Of playfellows, the laughing summer brings;

Mocking the sunshine on their glittering wings;

How merrily they creep, and run, and fly!

No kin they bear to labor’s drudgery,

Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge-rose,

And where they fly for dinner no one knows;

The dew-drop feeds them not; they love the shine

Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine.

All day they’re playing in their Sunday dress—

When night reposes they can do no less;

Then to the heath-bell’s purple hood they fly,

And like to princes in their slumbers, lie

Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all

On silken beds in roomy, painted hall.

So merrily they spend their summer day,

Or in the corn-fields, or in new-mown hay.

One almost fancies that such happy things,

With colored hoods and richly burnished wings,

Are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade

Disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid;

Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still,

Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill.

John Clare.

Flowers seem, as it were, to impart a portion of their own characteristics to all things that frequent them. This is peculiarly exemplified in the butterfly, which must be regarded,par excellence, as the insect of flowers, and a flower-like insect, gay and innocent, made after a floral pattern, and colored after floral hues. But even with families which are usually dark and repulsive—that, for instance, of cockroaches, which are for the most part black or brown—the few species which resort to flowers are gayly colored. What a contrast, also, between the dark, loathsome, in-door spiders and their prettily painted green and red, and white and yellow brethren of the fields and gardens, which seek their prey among the flowers; while more striking still is the difference between the wingless, disgusting plague of cities and the elegantly-formed, brightly-colored winged bugs, which are common frequentersof the parterre. Whether this be imputed to the effect of light, or the breathing influence of a flowery atmosphere, and the tendency of all things to produce their similitudes, there lies beneath the natural fact a moral analogy applicable to ourselves.

From“Acheta Domestica.”

FROM THE GERMAN.

Flutter, flutter gently by,Little motley dragon-fly,On thy four transparent wings!Hover, hover o’er the rill,And when weary, sit thee still,Where the water-lily springs.More than half thy little life,Free from passion, free from strife,Underneath the wave was sweet;Cool and calm, content to dwell,Shrouded by thy pliant shellIn a dark and dim retreat.Now the nymph, transformed, may roam,A sylph in her aerial home,Where’er the zephyrs shall invite;Love is now thy envious care—Love that dwells in sunny air—But thy very love is flight.Heedless of thy coming doom,O’er thy birthplace and thy tombFlutter, little mortal, still!Though beside thy gladdest hour,Fate’s destroying mandates lower—Length of life but lengthens ill.Confine thy offspring to the stream,That when new summer suns shall gleam,They, too, may quit their watery cell;Then die! I see each weary limbDeclines to fly, declines to swim:Thou lovely, short-lived sylph, farewell!Translation ofW. Taylor.Johann Gottfried v. Herder, 1744–1803.

Flutter, flutter gently by,Little motley dragon-fly,On thy four transparent wings!Hover, hover o’er the rill,And when weary, sit thee still,Where the water-lily springs.

Flutter, flutter gently by,

Little motley dragon-fly,

On thy four transparent wings!

Hover, hover o’er the rill,

And when weary, sit thee still,

Where the water-lily springs.

More than half thy little life,Free from passion, free from strife,Underneath the wave was sweet;Cool and calm, content to dwell,Shrouded by thy pliant shellIn a dark and dim retreat.

More than half thy little life,

Free from passion, free from strife,

Underneath the wave was sweet;

Cool and calm, content to dwell,

Shrouded by thy pliant shell

In a dark and dim retreat.

Now the nymph, transformed, may roam,A sylph in her aerial home,Where’er the zephyrs shall invite;Love is now thy envious care—Love that dwells in sunny air—But thy very love is flight.

Now the nymph, transformed, may roam,

A sylph in her aerial home,

Where’er the zephyrs shall invite;

Love is now thy envious care—

Love that dwells in sunny air—

But thy very love is flight.

Heedless of thy coming doom,O’er thy birthplace and thy tombFlutter, little mortal, still!Though beside thy gladdest hour,Fate’s destroying mandates lower—Length of life but lengthens ill.

Heedless of thy coming doom,

O’er thy birthplace and thy tomb

Flutter, little mortal, still!

Though beside thy gladdest hour,

Fate’s destroying mandates lower—

Length of life but lengthens ill.

Confine thy offspring to the stream,That when new summer suns shall gleam,They, too, may quit their watery cell;Then die! I see each weary limbDeclines to fly, declines to swim:Thou lovely, short-lived sylph, farewell!Translation ofW. Taylor.Johann Gottfried v. Herder, 1744–1803.

Confine thy offspring to the stream,

That when new summer suns shall gleam,

They, too, may quit their watery cell;

Then die! I see each weary limb

Declines to fly, declines to swim:

Thou lovely, short-lived sylph, farewell!

Translation ofW. Taylor.Johann Gottfried v. Herder, 1744–1803.

TO AN INSECT.

I love to hear thine earnest voice,Wherever thou art hid,Thou testy, little dogmatist,Thou pretty Katydid!Thou mindest me of gentlefolks—Old gentlefolks are they;Thou say’st an undisputed thingIn such a solemn way.Thou art a female, Katydid!I know it by the trillThat quivers through thy piercing notes,So petulant and shrill.I think there is a knot of youBeneath the hollow tree—A knot of spinster Katydids—Do Katydids drink tea?O tell me, where did Katy live,And what did Katy do?And was she very fair and young,And yet so wicked, too?Did Katy love a naughty man,Or kiss more cheeks than one?I warrant Katy did no moreThan many a Kate has done.Dear me! I’ll tell you all aboutMy fuss with little Jane,And Ann, with whom I used to walkSo often down the lane,And all that tore their locks of black.Or wet their eyes of blue—Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,What did poor Katy do?Ah, no! the living oak shall crash,That stood for ages still;The rock shall rend its rocky base,And thunder down the hill,Before the little KatydidShall add one word to tellThe mystic story of the maidWhose name she knows so well.Peace to the ever-murmuring race!And when the latest oneShall fold in death her feeble wingsBeneath the autumn sun,Then shall she raise her fainting voice,And lift her drooping lid;And then the child of future yearsShall hear what Katy did.O. W. Holmes.

I love to hear thine earnest voice,

Wherever thou art hid,

Thou testy, little dogmatist,

Thou pretty Katydid!

Thou mindest me of gentlefolks—

Old gentlefolks are they;

Thou say’st an undisputed thing

In such a solemn way.

Thou art a female, Katydid!I know it by the trillThat quivers through thy piercing notes,So petulant and shrill.I think there is a knot of youBeneath the hollow tree—A knot of spinster Katydids—Do Katydids drink tea?

Thou art a female, Katydid!

I know it by the trill

That quivers through thy piercing notes,

So petulant and shrill.

I think there is a knot of you

Beneath the hollow tree—

A knot of spinster Katydids—

Do Katydids drink tea?

O tell me, where did Katy live,And what did Katy do?And was she very fair and young,And yet so wicked, too?Did Katy love a naughty man,Or kiss more cheeks than one?I warrant Katy did no moreThan many a Kate has done.

O tell me, where did Katy live,

And what did Katy do?

And was she very fair and young,

And yet so wicked, too?

Did Katy love a naughty man,

Or kiss more cheeks than one?

I warrant Katy did no more

Than many a Kate has done.

Dear me! I’ll tell you all aboutMy fuss with little Jane,And Ann, with whom I used to walkSo often down the lane,And all that tore their locks of black.Or wet their eyes of blue—Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,What did poor Katy do?

Dear me! I’ll tell you all about

My fuss with little Jane,

And Ann, with whom I used to walk

So often down the lane,

And all that tore their locks of black.

Or wet their eyes of blue—

Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid,

What did poor Katy do?

Ah, no! the living oak shall crash,That stood for ages still;The rock shall rend its rocky base,And thunder down the hill,Before the little KatydidShall add one word to tellThe mystic story of the maidWhose name she knows so well.

Ah, no! the living oak shall crash,

That stood for ages still;

The rock shall rend its rocky base,

And thunder down the hill,

Before the little Katydid

Shall add one word to tell

The mystic story of the maid

Whose name she knows so well.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!And when the latest oneShall fold in death her feeble wingsBeneath the autumn sun,Then shall she raise her fainting voice,And lift her drooping lid;And then the child of future yearsShall hear what Katy did.O. W. Holmes.

Peace to the ever-murmuring race!

And when the latest one

Shall fold in death her feeble wings

Beneath the autumn sun,

Then shall she raise her fainting voice,

And lift her drooping lid;

And then the child of future years

Shall hear what Katy did.

O. W. Holmes.

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