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"Hether” (quoth he) "me Archimago sent, And layd her stole aside. Her angels face, He that the stubborne Sprites can wisely tame, As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright,

He bids thee to him send for his intent 386 And made a sunshine in the shady place; 35 A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace.










It fortuned, out of the thickest wood

A ramping Lyon rushed suddeinly,
Nought is there under heav'ns wide hollownesse, Hunting full greedy after salvage blood.

That moves more deare compassion of mind, Soone as the royall virgin he did spy,
Then beautie brought t’unworthie wretchednesse With gaping mouth at her ran greedily,
Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes un- To have attonce devoured her tender corse;

But to the pray when as he drew more ny,
I, whether lately through her brightnes blynd, His bloody rage aswaged with remorse,'
Or through alleageance, and fast fealty,

And, with the sight amazd, forgat his furious forse. Which I do owe unto all womankynd,

Feele my hart perst with so great agony, When such I see, that all for pitty I could dy.

In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet,

And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong,

As he her wronged innocence did weet.? And now it is empassioned so deepe,

0, how can beautie maister the most strong, For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing,

And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! That my frayle eies these lines with teares do Whose yielded pryde and proud submission, steepe,

Still dreading death, when she had marked To thinke how she through guyleful handeling,

long, Though true as touch, though daughter of a Her hart gan melt in great compassion; 53 king,

And drizling teares did shed for pure affection. Though faire as ever living wight was fayre, Though nor in word nor deede ill meriting,

Is from her knight divorced in despayre, And her dew loves deryv'd to that vile witches “The Lyon, Lord of everie beast in field," shayre.


Quoth she, “his princely puissance doth abate,
And mightie proud to humble weake does yield,

Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late
Yet she, most faithfull Ladie, all this while

Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate: Forsaken, wofull, solitarie mayd,

But he, my Lyon, and my noble Lord, Far from all peoples preace,' as in exile,

How does he find in cruell hart to hate In wildernesse and wastfull deserts strayd,

Her that him lov'd and ever most adord To seeke her knight; who, subtily betrayd As the God of my life? why hath he me abhord ?” Through that late vision which th' Enchanter

wrought, Had her abandond. She, of nought affrayd, Through woods and wastnes wide him daily Redounding teares did choke th' end of her sought;


plaint, Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her brought. Which softly ecchoed from the neighbor wood;

And, sad to see her sorrowfull constraint,
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood:

With pittie calmd downe fell his angry mood. One day, nigh wearie of the yrksome way,

At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, From her unhastie beast she did alight;

Arose the virgin, borne of heavenly brood, And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay, And to her snowy Palfrey got agayne, In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight: To seeke her strayed Champion if she mi From her fayre head her fillet she undight,

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The Lyon would not leave her desolate,

But with her went along, as a strong gard
Of her chast person, and a faythfull mate
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:
Still,' when she slept, he kept both watch and

ward; And, when she wakt, he wayted diligent, With humble service to her will prepard: 79

From her fayre eyes he tooke commandement, And ever by her lookes conceived her intent.

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You that do search for every purling spring
Which from the ribs of old Parnassus flows,
And every flower, not sweet perhaps, which grows
Near thereabouts, into your poesie wring;
Ye that do dictionary's method bring
Into your rimes, running in rattling rows;
You that poor Petrarch's long-deceased woes
With new-born sighs and denizen'd wit do sing;
You take wrong ways; those far-fet' helps be

As do bewray a want of inward touch,
And sure, at length stol'n goods do come to light:
But if, both for your love and skill, your name
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
Stella behold, and then begin to endite.



Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of

my pain, Pleasure might cause her read, reading might

make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace ob

tain, I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe; Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would

flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun

burn'd brain. But words came halting forth, wanting Inven


Your words, my friend, right healthful caustics,

blame My young mind marred, whom Love doth wind

lass so;

tion's stay;


Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's

blows; And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my

way. Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in

my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite; “Fool," said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart,

and write."

That mine own writings, like bad servants, show
My wits quick in vain thoughts, in virtue lame;
That Plato I read for nought but-if he tame
Such coltish years; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires, lest else that friendly foe,
Great expectation, wear a train of shame:
For since mad March great promise made of me,
If now the May of my years much decline,
What can be hoped my harvest-time will be?
Sure, you say well, “Your wisdom's golden mine
Dig deep with Learning's spade.” Now tell me

this -
Hath this world aught so fair as Stella is ?




When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
In color black why wrapt she beams so bright?
Would she, in beamy black, like painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre, mixed of shades and light?
Or did she else that sober hue devise,
In object best to knit and strength our sight;
Lest, if no veil these brave gleams did disguise,
They, sunlike, should more dazzle than delight?

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the

skies !
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be that even in heav'nly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries !
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes

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Morpheus, the lively son of deadly Sleep,
Witness of life to them that living die,
A prophet oft, and oft an history,
A poet eke, as humors fly or creep;
Since thou in me so sure a power dost keep,
That never I with clos'd-up sense do lie,
But by thy work my Stella I descry,
Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weep;
Vouchsafe, of all acquaintance, this to tell,
Whence hast thou ivory, rubies, pearl, and gold,
To show her skin, lips, teeth, and head so well?
"Fool!” answers he; “no Inds such treasures

hold; But from thy heart, while my sire charmeth thee, Sweet Stella's image I do steal to me.”

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“Well, in absence this will die;
Leave to see, and leave to wonder."
Absence sure will help, if I
Can learn how myself to sunder
From what in my heart doth lie.



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Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the

Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head:
And if these things, as being thine in right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier then else-where, Stella's image see.

“What if we new beauties see? Will not they stir new affection?" I will think they pictures be, (Image-like, of saints' perfection) Poorly counterfeiting thee.

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“But your reason's purest light
Bids you leave such minds to nourish."
Dear, do reason no such spite;
Never doth thy beauty flourish
More than in my reason's sight.



Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies

"But the wrongs Love bears will make
Love at length leave undertaking."
No, the more fools it do shake,
In a ground of so firm making
Deeper still they drive the stake.


“Peace, I think that some give ear! Come no more, lest I get anger!”

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From so ungrateful fancy, From such a female franzie, From them that use men thus, Good Lord, deliver us !



Bliss, I will my bliss forbear;
Fearing, sweet, you to endanger;
But my soul shall harbor there.
“Well, be gone! be gone, I

Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you!”
O unjust is Fortune's sway,
Which can make me thus to leave you;
And from louts to run away.


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The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing,

springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making, And mournfully bewailing,

5 Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of painful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.




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Faint Amorist, what! dost thou think
To taste Love's honey, and not drink
One dram of gall? or to devour
A world of sweet, and taste no sour?
Dost thou ever think to enter

Th’ Elysian fields, that dar'st not venture
In Charon's barge ? a lover's mind
Must use to sail with every wind.
He that loves, and fears to try,
Learns his mistress to deny.
Doth she chide thee? 'tis to show it,
That thy coldness makes her do it;
Is she silent? is she mute?
Silence fully grants thy suit;
Doth she pout, and leave the room?

15 Then she goes to bid thee come; Is she sick? why then be sure She invites thee to the cure; Doth she cross thy suit with No? Tush, she loves to hear thee woo; Doth she call the faith of man In question ? nay, 'uds-foot, she loves thee than; And if ere she makes a blot, She's lost if that thou hit'st her not. He that after ten denials

25 Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.



Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread;

For Love is dead:
All Love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain:
Worth, as nought worth, rejected,

5 And Faith fair scorn doth gain.

From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzie,
From them that use men thus,

Good Lord, deliver us!
Weep, neighbors, weep; do you not hear it said

That Love is dead?
His death-bed, peacock's folly;
His winding-sheet is shame;
His will, false-seeming holy;

15 His sole exec'tor, blame.

From so ungrateful fancy,
From such a female franzie,
From them that use men thus,

Good Lord, deliver us!
Let dirge be sung, and trentals rightly read,

For Love is dead;
Sir Wrong his tomb ordaineth
My mistress' marble heart;
Which epitaph containeth,

25 “Her eyes were once his dart.”

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Apollo great, whose beams the greater world do

light, And in our little world do clear our inward


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Which ever shine, though hid from earth by earthly

shade, Whose lights do ever live, but in our darkness

fade; Thou god whose youth was decked with spoil of Python's skin

5 (So humble knowledge can throw down the snakish

sin); Latona's son, whose birth in pain and travail long Doth teach, to learn the good what travails do

belong; In travail of our life (a short but tedious space), While brickle hour-glass runs, guide thou our

panting pace: Give us foresightful minds; give us minds to

obey What foresight tells; our thoughts upon thy

knowledge stay. Let so our fruits grow up that Nature be main

tained, But so our hearts keep down, with vice they be

not stained. Let this assured hold our judgments overtake, That nothing wins the heaven but what doth earth forsake.


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JOHN LYLY (1554?-1606)




Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses ; Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves and team of sparrows:
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

OMNES. Pinch him, pinch him black and blue;

Saucy mortals must not view
What the queen of stars is doing,

Nor pry into our fairy wooing. 1 FAIRY. Pinch him blue

5 2 Fairy. And pinch him black 3 FAIRY. Let him not lack

Sharp nails to pinch him blue and red,

Till sleep has rocked his addlehead. 4 FAIRY. For the trespass he hath done,

Spots o'er all his flesh shall run.
Kiss Endymion, kiss his eyes,
Then to our midnight heydeguyes.



GEORGE PEELE (15582-15972)

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