When shalt thou see, emong thy shepheards all,
Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath
Envie could touch for vertuous life and skill;
Curteous, valiant, and liberall.
Behold the sacred Pales, where with haire
Untrust she sitts, in shade of yonder hilh
And her faire face, bent sadly downe, doth send
A floud of teares to bathe the earth; and there
Doth call the Heav'ns despightfull, envious,
Cruell his fate, that made so short an end
Of that same life, well worthie to have bene
Prolongd with many yeares, happie and famous.
The nymphs and oreades her round about
Do sit lamenting on the grassie grene;
And with shrill cries, beating their whitest brests,
Accuse the direfull dart that Death sent out
To give the fatall stroke. The starres they blame,
That deafe or carelesse seeme at their request.
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun;
They leave their cristall springs, where they wont
frame
Sweet bowres of myrtel twigs and lawrel faire,
To sport themselves free from the scorching Sun,
And now the hollow caves where horror darke
Doth dwell, whence banisht is the gladsome aire,
They seeke; and there in mourning spend their time
With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle and
barke,
And seem to beare a bourdon to their plaint.
LYCON. Phillisides is dead. O dolefull ryme!
Why should my toong expresse thee? who is left
Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint,
Lycon unfortunate! What spitefull fate,
What lucklesse destinie, hath thee bereft
Of thy chief comfort; of thy onely stay!
Where is become thy wonted happie state,
(Alas!) wherein through many a hill and dale,
Through pleasant woods, and many an unknowne
Along the bankes of many silver streames, [way,
Thou with him yodest: and with him didst scale
The craggie rocks of th' Alpes and Appenine!
Still with the Muses sporting, while those beames
Of vertue kindled in his noble brest,
Which after did so gloriously forth shine!
But (woe is me!) they now yquenched are
All suddeinly, and death hath them opprest.
Loe father Neptune, with sad countenance,
How he sitts mourning on the strond now bare,
Yonder, where th' Ocean with his rolling waves
The white feete washeth (wailing this mischance)
Of Dover cliffes. His sacred skirt about
The sea-gods all are set; from their moist caves
All for his comfort gathered there they be.
The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout,
The fruitfull Severne, with the rest are come
To helpe their lord to mourne, and eke to see
The dolefull sight, and sad pomp funerall,
Of the dead corps passing through his kingdome.
And all their heads, with cypres gyrlonds crown'd,
With wofull shrikes salute him great and small.
Eke wailfull Eccho, forgetting her deare
Narcissus, their last accents doth resownd.
COLIN. Phillisides is dead. O lucklesse age;
O widow world; O brookes and fountains cleere;
O hills, O dales, O woods, that oft have rong
With his sweet caroling, which could asswage
The fiercest wrath of tygre or of beare:
Ye silvans, fawnes, and satyres, that emong
These thickets oft have daunst after his pipe;
Ye nymphs and nayades with golden heare,
That oft have left your purest cristall springs
To harken to his layes, that coulden wipe
Away all griefe and sorrow from your harts:
Alas! who now is left that like him sings?
When shall you heare againe like harmonie?
So sweet a sownd who to you now imparts?
Loe where engraved by his hand yet lives
The name of Stella in yonder bay tree.
Happie name! happie tree faire may you grow,
And spred your sacred branch, which honor gives
To famous emperours, and poets crowne.
Unhappie flock that wander scattred now,
What marvell if through grief ye woxen leane,
Forsake your food, and hang your heads adowne!
For such a shepheard never shall you guide,
Whose parting hath of weale bereft you cleane.
LYCON. Phillisides is dead. O happie sprite,
That now in Heav'n with blessed soules doest bide:
Looke down a while from where thou sitst above,
And see how busie shepheards be to endite
Sad songs of grief, their sorrowes to declare,
And gratefull memory of their kynd love.
Behold my selfe with Colin, gentle swaine,
(Whose lerned Muse thou cherisht most whyleare)
Where we, thy name recording, seeke to ease
The inward torment and tormenting paine,
That thy departure to us both hath bred;
Ne can each others sorrow yet appease.
Behold the fountains now left desolate,
And withred grasse with cypres boughes be spred;
Behold these floures which on thy grave we strew;
Which, faded, shew the givers faded state,
(Though eke they shew their fervent zeale and pure)
Whose onely comfort on thy welfare grew.
Whose praiers importune shall the Heav'ns for ay,
That, to thy ashes, rest they may assure:
That learnedst shepheards honor may thy name
With yeerly praises, and the nymphs alway
Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowres';
And that for ever may endure thy fame. [steep
COLIN. The Sun (lo!) hastned hath his face to
In western waves; and th' aire with stormy showres
Warnes us to drive homewards our silly sheep:
Lycon, lett's rise, and take of them good keep.
Virtute summa: cætera fortuna.
FRIENDS PASSION, FOR HIS ASTROPHILL.
WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT, LORD GOVERNOUR OF
FLUSHING'.
As then, no winde at all there blew,
No swelling cloude accloid the aire;
The skie, like grasse [glasse] of watchet hew,
Reflected Phoebus golden haire;
This poem was written by Matthew Roydon,
as we are informed in Nash's Preface to Greene's
Arcadia, and in Engl. Parnassus. The Phoenix
Nest, set fourth by R. S. of the Inner Temple, gen-
tleman, 4to. 1593, commences also with
Elegie, or friends passion, for his Astrophill, &c.""
To the two following pieces I am unable to assign their authors: but no reader will imagine them the productions of Spenser. Todd.
As Bacchus opes dissembled harts, So love sets out our better parts.
"Stella, a nymph within this wood,
Most rare and rich of heavenly blis,
The highest in his fancie stood,
And she could well demerite this;
Tis likely they acquainted soone;
He was a sun, and she a moone.
"Our Astrophill did Stella love;
O Stella, vaunt of Astrophill,
Albeit thy graces gods may move,
Where wilt thou finde an Astrophill !
The rose and lillie have their prime,
And so hath beautie but a time.
"Although thy beautie do exceed,
In common sight of ev'ry eie,
Yet in his poesies when we reede,
It is apparant more thereby,
He, that hath love and iudgement too,
Sees more than any other doo.
"Then Astrophill hath honord thee;
For when thy bodie is extinct,
Thy graces shall eternall be,
And live by virtue of his inke;
For by his verses he doth give
The short-livde beautie aye to I've.
"Above all others this is hee,
Which erst approoved in his song,
That love and honor might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints! it is no sinne or blame,
To love a man of vertuous name.
"Did never love so sweetly breath
In any mortall brest before,
Did never Muse inspire beneath
A poets braine with finer store:
He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beautie reard above her height.
"Then Pallas afterward attyrde
Our Astrophill with her device,
Whom in his armour Heaven admyrde,
As of the nation of the skies;
He sparkled in his armes afarrs,
As he were dight with fierie starrs.
"The blaze whereof when Mars beheld, (An envious eie doth see afar)
Such maiestie,' quoth he, 'is seeld,
Such maiestie my mart may mar,
Perhaps this may a suter be,
To set Mars by his deitie.'
"In this surmize he made with speede
An iron cane, wherein he put
The thunder that in cloudes do breede;
The flame and bolt togither shut
With privie force burst out againe,
And so our Astrophill was slaine."
His word (was slaine !) straightway did move
And Natures inward life strings twitch;
The skie immediately above
Was dimd with hideous clouds of pitch,
The wrastling winds from out the ground Fild all the aire with ratling sound.
The bending trees exprest a grone,
And sigh'd the sorrow of his fall,
The forrest beasts made ruthfull mone,
The birds did tune their mourning call,
And Philomell for Astrophill
Unto her notes annext a phill.
The turtle dove with tunes of ruthe
Shewd feeling passion of his death,
Me thought she said "I tell thee truthe,
Was never he that drew in breath,
Unto his love more trustie found,
Than he for whom our griefs abound."
The swan, that was in presence heere,
Began his funerall dirge to sing,
"Good things," quoth he, " may scarce appeere,
But passe away with speedie wing.
This mortall life as death is tride,
And death gives life, and so he di'de."
The generall sorrow that was made,
Among the creatures of [each] kinde,
Fired the phoenix where she laide,
Her ashes flying with the winde,
So as I might with reason see,
That such a phoenix nere should bee.
Haply the cinders, driven about,
May breede an offpring neere that kinde,
But hardly a peere to that I doubt,
It cannot sinke into my minde,
That under branches ere can bee,
Of worth and value as the tree.
The eagle markt with pearcing sight
The mournfull habite of the place,
And parted thence with mounting flight,
To signifie to love the case,
What sorrow Nature doth sustaine,
For Astrophill by envie slaine.
And, while I followed with mine eie
The flight the egle upward tooke,
All things did vanish by and by,
And disappeared from my looke;
The trees, beasts, birds, and grove was gone,
So was the friend that made this mone.
This spectacle had firmly wrought,
A deepe compassion in my spright,
My molting hart issude, me thought,
In streames forth at mine eies aright:
And here my pen is forst to shrinke,
My teares discollor so mine inke.
THE RIGHT HON. SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT :
LORD GOVERNOR OF FLUSHING.
To praise thy life, or waile thy worthie death,
And want thy wit, thy wit high, pure, divine,
Is far beyond the powre of mortall line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.
Yet rich in zeale, though poore in learnings lore,
And friendly care obscurde in secret brest,
And love that envie in thy life supprest,
Thy deere life done, and death hath doubled more.
And I, that in thy time, and living state,
Did onely praise thy vertues in my thought,
As one that seeld the rising Sun hath sought,
With words and teares now waile thy timelesse fate.
Drawne was thy race aright from princely line, Nor lesse than such, (by gifts that Nature gave, The common mother that all creatures have) Doth vertue shew, and princely linage shine.
A king gave thee thy name; a kingly minde,
That God thee gave, who found it now too deere
For this base world, and hath resumde it neere,
To sit in skies, and sort with powres divine.
Kent thy birth daies, and Oxford held thy youth;
The Heavens made hast,and staid nor yeers,nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime,
Thy will, thy words; thy words the scales of truth.
Great gifts and wisedom rare imployd thee thence,
To treat from kings with those more great than kings;
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported hence!
Whence to sharpe wars sweet honor did thee call,
Thy countries love, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men the marks, the lives, and ends,
And her defence, for whom we labor all.
There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, Griefe, sorrow, sicknes, and base fortunes might: Thy rising day saw never wofull night,
But past with praise from off this worldly stage.
Back to the campe, by thee that day was brought, First thine owne death, and after thy long fame; Tears to the soldiers, the proud Castilians shame, Vertue exprest, and honor truly taught.
What hath he lost, that such great grace hath woon?
Yoong yeeres for endles yeeres, and hope unsure
Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure;
O! happie race with so great praises run.
England doth hold thy lims that bred the same,
Flaunders thy valure where it last was tried,
The campe thy sorrow where thy bodie died,
Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy vertues fame.
Nations thy wit, our mindes lay up thy love; Letters thy learning, thy losse, yeeres long to come; In worthy harts sorrow hath made thy tombe; Thy soule and spright enrich the Heavens above.
Thy liberall hart imbaland in gratefull teares, Yoong sighes, sweet sighes, sage sighes, bewaile thy Envie her sting, and Spite hath left her gall, [fall; Malice her selfe a mourning garment weares.
That day their Hanniball died, our Scipio fell,
Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time!
Whose vertues, wounded by my worthelesse rime,
Let angels speake, and Heaven thy praises tell.
ANOTHER OF THE SAME.
SILENCE augmenteth grief, writing encreaseth rage, Stald are my thoughts, which lov'd, and lost, the wonder of our age,
Yet quickned now with fire, though dead with frost [know not how. Enrag'de I write, I know not what: dead, quick, I Hard harted mindes relent, and Rigors teares abound, [she found; And Envie strangely rues his end, in whom no fault Knowledge her light hath lost, Valor hath slaine her knight;
[delight. Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the worlds
Place pensive wailes his fall, whose presence was her pride, [spring tide:" Time crieth out, "My ebbe is come; his life was my Fame mournes in that she lost the ground of her reports; [dry sorts. Ech living wight laments his lacke, and all in sun
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Farewell to you, my hopes, my wonted waking dreames; [beames! Farewell sometimes enioyed, ioy; eclipsed are thy Farewell selfe pleasing thoughts, which quietnes brings foorth; [minds of woorth. And farewell friendships sacred league, uniting
And farewell mery hart, the gift of guiltlesse mindes, And all sports, which, for lives restore, varietie assignes;
Let all, that sweete is, voyd; in me no mirth may dwell, [farewell! Phillip, the cause of all this woe, my lives content,
Now rime, the sonne of rage, which art no kin to skill, [not how to kill, And endles griefe, which deads my life, yet knowes Go, seeke that haples tombe; which if ye hap to finde, [good a minde. Salute the stones, that keep the lims that held so
Eftsoones the nymphes, which now had flowers their
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,
As they came floating on the cristal flood;
Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still,
Their woudring eyes to fill;
Made in honour of the double marriage of the two honourable and vertuous ladies, the lady Elizabeth, and the lady Katherine Somerset, daughters to the right honourable the earle of Worcester, and espoused to the two worthie gentlemen, M. Henry Gilford and M. William Peter, esquyers.
Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre,
Of fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme
Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre
Which through the skie draw Venus silver teeme;
For sure they did not seeme
To be begot of any earthly seede,
But rather angels, or of angels breede;
Yet were they bred of somers-heat, they say,
In sweetest season, when each flower and weede
CALME was the day, and through the trembling ayre The earth did fresh aray;
Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;
When I, (whom [whose] sullein care,
Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay
In princes court, and expectation vayne
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away,
Like empty shadowes, did afflict my brayne)
Walkt forth to ease my payne
Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;
Whose rutty bank, the which his river hemmes,
Was paynted all with variable flowers,
And all the meades adornd with dainty gemmes,
Fit to decke maydens bowres,
And crowne their paramours
Against the brydale-day, which is not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
There, in a meadow, by the rivers side,
A flocke of nymphes I chaunced to espy,
All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,
As each had bene a bryde ;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entrayled curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
The tender stalkes on hye.
Of every sort, which in that meadow grew,
They gathered some; the violet, pallid blew,
The little dazie, that at evening closes,
The virgin lillie, and the primrose trew,
With store of vermeil roses,
To deck their bridegroomes posies
Against the brydale-day, which was not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
With that I saw two swannes of goodly hewe
Come softly swimming downe along the lee;
Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew,
Did never whiter shew,
Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would be
For love of Leda, whiter did appeare;
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
So purely white they were,
That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
To wet their silken feathers, least they might
Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,
And marre their beauties bright,
That shone as Heavens light,
Against their brydale day, which was not long;
Sweete Themmes! ruane softly, till I end my song.
So fresh they seem'd as day,
Even as their brydale day, which was not long :
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
That to the sense did fragrant odours yeild,
All which upon those goodly birds they threw,
And all the waves did strew,
That like old Peneus waters they did seeme,
When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,
Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,
That they appeare, through lillies plenteous store,
Like a brydes chamber flore.
Two of those nymphes, mean while, two garlands
bound
Of freshest flowres which in that mead they found,
The which presenting all in trim array,
Their snowie foreheads therewithall they crownd,
Whilst one did sing this lay,
Prepar'd against that day,
Against their brydale day, which was not long:
Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.
"Ye gentle birdes! the worlds faire ornament,
And Heavens glorie, whom this happie hower
Doth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower,
Ioy may you have, and gentle hearts content
Of your loves couplement ;
And let faire Venus, that is queene of love,
With her heart-quelling sonne upon you smile,
Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove
All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile
For ever to assoile.
Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessed plentie wait upon your bord;
And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,
That fruitfull issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your ioyes redound
Upon your brydale day, which is not long :
Sweet Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my song."
So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said, their brydale daye should not be long:
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.
So forth those joyous birdes did passe along
Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low,
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
Yet did by signes his glad affection show,
Making his streame run slow.
And all the foule which in his flood did dwell
Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell
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