Sulla's Metamorphosis: Interlaced with the unfortunate love of Glaucus. Whereunto is annexed the delectable discourse of the discontented Satire: with sundry other most absolute Poems and Sonnets. Containing the detestable tyranny of Disdain, and Comical triumph of Constancy: Very fit for young Courtiers to peruse, and coy Dames to remember. By Thomas Lodge of Lincoln's Inn, Gentleman. O vita! misero longa, foelici brevis. Imprinted at London by Richard Ihones, and are to be sold at his shop near Holborn bridge, at the sign of the Rose and Crown. 1589. TO HIS ESPECIAL good friend Master Ralph Crane, and the rest of his most entire wellwillers, the Gentlemen of the Inns of Court and Chancery. Thomas Lodge of Lincoln's Inn Gent. Wisheth increase of worship and continuance in virtue. Sweet Master Crane, I had not thought at this instant to have partaked my passions with the print, whose discontented thoughts so long enured to obscurity, were divorced many years since, from vain glories inordinate folly: but the base necessities of an extravagant melancholy mate, that had no other unde of quod ad victum attinet, but the forestalling of other men's inventions, made my unperfit Poems (in spite of waste paper) to hazard an apprenteship in Paul's: so that, that which in the first peeping forth was wholly predestinate to your friendship, by an underhand mart, is made the mercenary recreation of every ridiculous mate. Our wits now a days are waxed very fruitful, and our Pamphleteers more than prodigal; So that the posts which stood naked a tedious non terminus, do vaunt their double apparel as soon as ever the Exchequer openeth; and every corner is took up with some or other penniless companion that will imitate any estate for a two penny alms. I could afford you whole services of absurdities, that would disquiet the digestion of Arte usque ad nausaeam, were it not that I pity to particularise simple fellows imperfections, and am altogether loath to adventure my pains in so ungrateful a Province. For transformed Scylla how ever she happened now to be disjoined from disdainful Charybdis; think not, but if they have good shipping they will meet ere long both in one shop: and landed they had at this instant, in one and the self same bay, if Scylla (the unfortunater of the two) had not met with a needy pirate by the way. Arrived she is, though in a contrary coast, but so wracked, and weather beaten, through the unskilfulness of rough writers, that made their post haste passage by night, as Glaucus would scarce know her, if he met her: yet my hope is Gentlemen, that you will not so much imagine what she is, as what she was; insomuch as from the shop of the Painter, she is fallen into the hands of the stainer. Thus referring the supportance of my credit, & the inability of my verse to your ingenious opinions, I bid you farewell till the next Term; at which time I hope to entertain your several delights, with far better discourses, and be suppliant to my good friend Master Crane, in some or other more acceptable Poem. In the mean time let my appliable voluisse, entitle me to your courtesy: whose I am during jife in all interchangeable duty. Your friend assured Thomas Lodge. The most pithy and pleasant History of Glaucus and Silla. WAlking alone (all only full of grief) Within a thicket near to Isis' flood, Weeping my wants, and wailing scant relief, Wring mine arms (as one with sorrow wood); The piteous streams relenting at my moan Withdrew their tides, and staid to hear me groan. From forth the channel, with a sorrowing cry The Sea-god Glaucus (with his hallowed hears Wet in the tears of his sad mother's die) With piteous looks before my face appears; For whom the Nymphs a mossy coat did frame. Embroadered with his Silla's heavenly name. And as I sat under a Willow tree, The lovely honour of fair Thetis bower; Reposed his head upon my faintful knee: And when my tears had ceased their stormy shower He dried my cheeks, and then bespoke him so, As when he wailed I strait forgot my woe. Infortunate, why wandereth thy content From forth his scope as wearied of itself; Thy books have schooled thee from this fond repent, And thou canst talk by proof of wavering pelf: Unto the world such is inconstancy, As sap to tree, as apple to the eye. Mark how the morn in roseate colour shines, And strait with clouds the Sunny tract is clad; Then see how pomp through wax and wain declines, From high to low, from better to the bad: Take moist from Sea, take colour from his kind, Before the world devoid of change thou find. With secret eye look on the earth a while, Regard the changes Nature forceth there; Behold the heavens, whose course all sense beguile; Respect thyself, and thou shalt find it clear, That infantlike thou art become a youth, And youth forespent a wretched age ensu'th. In searching then the schoolmen's cunning notes, Of heaven, of earth, of flowers, of springing trees, Of herbs, of metal, and of Thetis floats, Of laws and nurture kept among the Bees: Conclude and know times change by course of fate, Then mourn no more, but moan my hapless state. Here 'gan he pause and shake his heavy head, And fold his arms, and then unfold them strait; feign would he speak, but tongue was charmed by dread, Whilst I that saw what woes did him await, Comparing his mishaps and moan with mine, 'Gan smile for joy and dry his drooping eyen. But (lo) a wonder; from the channels glide A sweet melodious noise of music rose, That made the stream to dance a pleasant tide, The weeds and sallows near the bank that grows 'Gan sing, as when the calmest winds accord To greet with balmy breath the fleeting ford. Upon the silver bosom of the stream First 'gan fair Themis shake her amber locks, Whom all the Nymphs that weight on Neptune's realm Attended from the hollow of the rocks. In brief, while these rare parragons assemble, The watery world to touch their teats do tremble. Footing it featly on the grassy ground, These Damsels circling with their brightsome fairs The lovesick God and I, about us wound Like stars that Ariadne's crown repairs: Who once hath seen or pride of morn, or day, Would deem all pomp within their cheeks did play. Nais fair Nymph with Bacchus' ivory touch, 'Gan tune a passion with such sweet reports, And every word, note, sigh, and pause was such, And every Cadence fed with such consorts, As were the Delian Harper bend to hear, Her stately strains might tempt his curious ear. Of love (God wots) the lovely Nymph complained: But so of love as forced love to love her; And even in love such furious love remained, As searching out his powerful shaft to prove her, He found his quiver emptied of the best, And felt the arrow sticking in his breast. Under a Poplar Themis did repose her, And from a brier a sweetfull branch did pluck: When midst the brier ere she could scarce suppose her A Nightingale 'gan sing: but woe the luck; The branch so near her breast, while she did quick her To turn her head, on sudden 'gan to prick her. Whilst smiling Clore midst her envious blushes, 'Gan blame her fear and prettily said thus; Worse pricks than these are found among these bushes, And yet such pricks are scarcely feared of us. Nay soft (said Chelis) pricks do make birds sing, But pricks in Lady's bosoms often sting. Thus jest they on the Nightingale's report, And on the prickle of the Eglantine On Nais song, and all the whole consort In public this sweet sentence did assign; That while some smile, some sigh through change of time; Some smart, some sport amidst their youthly prime. Such wreaths as bound the Thebans ivory brow; Such gay tricked garlands pleit these jolly Dames; The flowers themselves when as the Nymphs 'gan bow, 'Gan vail their crests in honour of their names: And smiled their sweet and wooed with so much glee, As if they said, sweet Nymph come gather me. But pensive Glaucus' passionate with paining, Amidst their revel thus began his ruth; Nymphs, fly these Groves late blasted with my plain, For cruel Silla nill regard my truth: And leave us two consorted in our groanings, To register with tears our bitter moning. The floods do fail their course to see our cross, The fields forsake their green to hear our grief, The rocks will weep whole springs to mark our loss, The hills relent to store our scant relief, The air repines, the pensive birds are heavy, The trees to see us pained no more are levy. Ay me, the Shepherds let their flocks want feeding, And flocks to see their paly face are sorry, The Nymphs to spy the flocks and shepherds needing Prepare their tears to hear our tragic story: Whilst we surprised with grief cannot disclose them, With sighing wish the world for to suppose them. He that hath seen the sweet Arcadian boy Wiping the purple from his forced wound, His pretty tears betokening his annoy, His sighs, his cries, his falling on the ground, The Echoes ringing from the rocks his fall, The trees with tears reporting of his thrall: And Venus starting at her lovemates cry, Forcing her birds to hast her chariot on; And full of grief at last with piteous eye Seen where all pale with death he lay alone, Whose beauty quailed, as wont the Lilies droop When wasteful winter winds do make them stoop: Her dainty hand addressed to daw her dear, Her rose all lip allied to his pale cheek, Her sighs, and then her looks and heavy cheer, Her bitter threats, and then her passions meek; How on his senseless corpses she lay a crying, As if the boy were then but new a dying. He that hath viewed Angelica the fair Distraught with fancy near the Caspian springs: Renting the tresses of her golden hair, How on her harp with piteous notes she sings Of Roland's ruth, of Medor's false depart, Sighing each rest from centre of her heart. How now she writes upon a beechen bow Her Medor's name, and bedlam like again Calls all the heaven to witness of his vow, And strait again gins a mournful strain, And how in thought of her true faith forsooken He fled her bowers, and how his league was broken. Ay me who marks her harp hang up again Upon the willows watered with her tears, And how she rues to read her Roland's pain, When but the shadow of his name appears; Would make more plain from his eyes to flee Than tears distill from amber weeping tree. He that hath known the passionate mishaps That near olympus fair Lucina felt When as her Latium love her fancy traps, How with suspect her inward soul doth melt: Or marked the Morn her Shafalus complaining, May then recount the course of all our paining. But tender Nymphs to you belongs no teen; Then favour me in flying from this bower Whereas but care and thought of crosses been, Leave me that lose myself through fancy's power, Through fancy's power which had I leave to lose it, No fancy than should fee me for to choose it. When you are fled the Heaven shall lower for sorrow, The day o'ercast shallbe bedtime with sable, The air from Sea such streaming showers shall borrow As earth to bear the brunt shall not be able, And ships shall safely sail whereas before The ploughman watched the reaping of his corn. Go you in peace to Neptune's watery sound, No more may Glaucus play him with so pretty; But shun resort where solace nill be found, And plain my Sulla's pride and want of pity: Alas sweet Nymphs my Godhead's all in vain, For why this breast includes immortal pain. Scylla hath eyes, but too sweet eyes hath Scylla; Scylla hath hands, fair hands but coy in touching; Scylla in wit surpasseth grave Sibilla, Scylla hath words, but words well stored with grudging; Scylla a Saint in look, no Saint in scorning: Look Saintlike Scylla, lest I die with mourning. Alas why talk I? Sea-god cease to mourn her, For in her nay my joys are ever ceasing: Cease life or love, then shall I never blame her; But neither love nor life may find decreasing. A mortal wound is my immortal being, Which passeth thought, or eyes advised seeing. Herewith his faltering tongue by sighs oppressed Forsook his office, and his blood resorted To feed the heart that wholly was distressed, Whilst pale (like Pallas flower) my knee supported His feeble head and arm, so full of anguish, That they which saw his sorrows 'gan to languish. Themis the coyest of this beauteous train On hilly tops the wondrous Moly found, Which dipped in balmy dew she 'gan to strain, And brought her present to recure his wound: Clore she gathered Amaranthus flower, And Nais Ajax blossom in that stowre. Some chafe his temples with their lovely hands, Some sprinkle water on his pale wan cheeks, Some weep, some wake, some curse affections bands; To see so young, so fair, become so weak: But not their piteous herbs, or springs have working, To ease that heart where wanton love is lurking. Naithles though loath to show his holy kindness On every one he spent a look for favour, And prayed their pardon vouching Cupid's blindness, (Oh fancies fond that nought but sorrows savour); To see a lovely God leave Sea Nymphs so: Who cannot doom upon his deadly woe? Themis that knew, that waters long restrained Break forth with greater billows than the brooks That sweetly float through meads with flowers distained, With cheerful lays did raise his heavy looks; And bade him speak and tell what him aggrieved: For griefs disclosed (said she) are soon relieved. And as she wished so all the rest did woe him; By whose incessant suits at last invited, He thus discovered that which did undo him, And orderly his hideous harms recited, When first which fingers wag he 'gan to still them, And thus with dreary terms of love did fill them. Ah Nymphs (quoth he) had I by reason learned That secret art which birds have gained by sense, By due foresight misfortune to prevent; Or could my wit control mine eyes offence: You than should smile and I should tell such stories, As woods, and waves should triumph in our glories. But Nereus' daughters, Seaborn Saints attend, Lake breeding Geese when from the Eastern clime They list unto the western waters wend To choose their place of rest by course of time, Approaching Taurus' haughty topped hill They charm their cackle by this wondrous skill. The climbing mountain neighbouring air wellnigh, Hath harboured in his rocks and desert haunts Whole airies of Eagles priest to fly That gazing on the Son their birth right vaunts, Which birds of jove with deadly feud pursue The wandering Geese, when so they press in view. These fearful flitting troops by nature taught, Passing these dangerous places of pursuit: When all the desert vales they through have sought, With pebbles stop their beaks to make them mute, And by this means their dangerous deaths prevent And gain their wished waters of frequent. But I fond God (I God complain thy folly) Let birds by sense exceed my reason far: Whilom than I who was more strong and jolly Who more contemned affections wanton war? Who less than I loved lustful Cupid's arrows? Who now with curse & plagues poor Glaucus' harrows. How have I leapt to hear the Tritons play A harsh retreat unto the swelling floods? How have I kept the Dolphins at a bay, When as I meant to charm their wanton moods? How have the angry winds grown calm for love, When as these fingers did my harp strings move? Was any Nymph, you Nymphs was ever any That tangled not her fingers in my tress? Some well I wots and of that some full many Wished or my fair, or their desire were less Even Ariadne gazing from the sky Became enamoured of poor Glaucus' eye. Amidst this pride of youth and beauty's treasure It was my chance, you floods can tell my chancing, fleeting along Sicillian bounds for pleasure, To spy a Nymph of such a radiant glancing, As when I looked, a beam of subtle firing From eye to heart incensed a deep desiring. Ah had the vail of reason clad mine eye, This foe of freedom had not burnt my heart: But birds are blest, and most accursed am I Who must report her glories to my smart, The Nymph I saw and loved her, all to cruel Scylla, fair Scylla, my fond fancy's jewel. Her hair not trust, but scattered on her brow, Surpassing Hiblas' honey for the view, Or softened golden wires; I know not how Love with a radiant beauty did pursue My too judicial eyes, in darting fire That kindled strait in me my fond desire. Within these snares first was my heart entrapped, Till through those golden shrouds mine eyes did see An ivory shadowed front, wherein was wrapped Those pretty bowers where Graces couched be: Next which her cheeks appeerd like crimson silk, Or ruddy rose vespred on whitest milk. Twixt which the nose in lovely tenor bends, (Too traitorous pretty for a lovers view:) Next which her lips like violets commends By true proportion that which doth ensue; Which when they smile, present unto the eyes The Ocean's pride and ivory paradise. Her polished neck of milk white snows doth shine, As when the Moon in Winter night beholds them: Her breast of alabaster clear and fine, Whereon two rising apples fair unfolds them Like Cinthia's face when in her full she shineth, And blushing to her Lovemates bower declineth From whence in length her arms do sweetly spread Like two rare branchy sapless in the Spring, Yielding five lovely sprigs from every head, Proportioned alike in every thing; Which featly sprout in length like springborne friends, Whose pretty tops with five sweet roses ends. But why alas should I that Marble hide That doth adorn the one and other flank, From whence a mount of quickened snow doth glide; Or else the vale that bounds this milk-white bank, Where Venus and her sisters hide the fount, Whose lovely Nectar doth all sweets surmount. Confounded with descriptions, I must leave them; Lovers must think, and Poets must report them: For silly wits may never well conceive them, Unless a special grace from heaven consort them. Aies me, these fairs attending Scylla won me: But now (sweet Nymphs) attend what hath undone me. The lovely breast where all this beauty rested, Shrouded within a world of deep disdain: For where I thought my fancy should be feasted With kind affect, alas (unto my pain) When first I wood the wanton strait was flying, And gave repulse before we talked of trying. How oft have I (too often have I done so) In silent night when every eye was sleeping, Drawn near her cave, in hope her love were won so, Forcing the neighbouring waters through my weeping To wake the winds, who did afflict her dwelling Whilst I with tears my passion was a telling. When midst the Caspian seas the wanton played, I drew whole wreaths of coral from the rocks: And in her lap my heavenly presents laid: But she unkind rewarded me with mocks, Such are the fruits that spring from Lady's coying, Who smile at tears, and are entrapped with toying. Tongue might grow weary to report my woo, And heart might burst to think of her denial: May none be blamed but heaven for all these doings, That yield no helps in midst of all my trial. Heart, tongue, thought, pen nil serve me to repent me, Disdain herself should strive for to lament me. Wretched Love let me die, end my love by my death; Dead alas still I live, fly my life, fade my love. Out alas love abides, still I joy vital breath: Death in love, love is death, woe is me that do prove. Pain and woe, care & grief every day about me hovers: Then but death what can quell all the plagues of hapless lovers? Aies me my moanings are like water drops That need an age to pierce her marble heart, I sowed true zeal, yet fruitless were my crops: I plighted faith, yet falsehood wrought my smart: I praised her looks, her looks despised Glaucus, Was ever amorous Sea-god scorned thus? A hundredth swelling tides my mother spent Upon these locks, and all her Nymphs were priest, To pleit them fair when to her bower I went: He that hath seen the wandering Phoebus' crest, Touched with the Crystal of Eurotas spring, The pride of these my bushy locks might sing. But short discourse beseems my bad success, Each office of a lover I performed: So fervently my passions did her press, So sweet my lays, my speech so well reform, That (cruel) when she saw nought would beguile me With angry looks the Nymph did thus exile me. Pack hence thou fondling to the western Seas, Within some calmy river shroud thy head: For never shall my fair thy love appease, Since fancy from this bosom late is fled: And if thou love me show it in departing: For why thy presence doth procure my smarting. This said with angry looks, away she hasted As fast as fly the floods before the winds: When I poor soul with wretched sorrows wasted, Exclaimed on love, which wit and reason blinds: And banished from her bower with woeful posting I bent myself to seek a foreign coasting. At last in wandering through the greater Seas It was my chance to pass the noted straits: And wearied sore in seeking after ease, Amidst the creeks, and watery cool receipts, I spied from far by help of sunny beams A fruitful I'll begird with Ocean streams. Westward I fleeted, and with heedful eye Beheld the chalky cliffs that tempt the air, Till at the last it was my chance to spy A pleasant entrance to the floods repair; Through which I priest, and wondering there beheld On either side a sweet and fruitful field. Isis (the Lady of that lovely stream) Made holiday in view of my resort; And all the Nymphs of that her watery realm 'Gan trip for joy, to make me much sport: But I poor soul with no such joys contented, Forsook their bowers, and secretly lamented. All solitary room I here about, Now on the shore, now in the stream I weep, Fire burns within, and ghastly fear without, No rest, no ease, no hope of any sleep: Poor banished God, here have I still remained, Since time my Scylla hath my suits disdained. And here consort I now with hapless men, Yielding them comfort, (though my wound be cureless) Songs of remorse I warble now and then, Wherein I curse fond Love and Fortune durelesse, Wan hope my weal, my trust but bad adventure, Circumference is care, my heart the centre. Whilst thus he spoke, fierce Ate charmed his tongue, His senses failed, his arms were folded strait, And now he sighs, and then his heart is stung; Again he speaks 'gainst fancies fond deceit, And tears his tresses with his fingers fair, And rends his robes, half mad with deep despair. The piteous Nymphs that viewed his heavy plight, And heard the sequel of his bad success, Did lose the springs of their remorseful sight, And wept so sore to see his scant redress: That of their tears there grew a pretty brook, Whose Crystal clears the clouds of pensive look. Alas woes me, how oft have I bewept So fair, so young, so lovely, and so kind, And whilst the God upon my bosom slept, Beheld the scars of his afflicted mind, Imprinted in his ivory brow by care, That fruitless fancy left unto his share. My wandering lines, bewitch not so my senses: But gentle Muse direct their course aright, Delays in tragic tales procure offences: Yield me such feeling words, that whilst I wright My working lines may fill mine eyes with languish, And they to note my moans may melt with anguish. The woeful Glaucus thus with woes attainted, The pensive Nymphs aggrieved to see his plight, The floods and fields with his laments acquainted, Myself amazed to see this heavy sight; On sudden Thetis with her train approached, And gravely thus her amorous son reproached. My son (said she) immortal have I made thee, Amidst my watery realms who may compare Or match thy might? Why then should care invade thee, That art so young, so lovely, fresh and fair. Alas fond God, it merits great reproving In States of worth, to dote on foolish loving. Come wend with me, and midst thy Father's bower Let us disport and frolic for a while In spite of Love: although he powte and lower, Good exercise will idle lusts beguile: Let wanton Scylla coy her where she will, Live thou my son by reasons level still. Thus said the Goddess: and although her words Gave signs of counsel, pomp and majesty: Yet nevertheless her piteous eye affords Some pretty witness to the standers by, That in her thoughts (for all her outward show) She mourned to see her Son amated so. But (welladay) her words have little force, The hapless lover worn with working woe, Upon the ground lay pale as any corpse, And were not tears which from his eyes did flow, And sighs that witness he enjoyed his breath, They might have thought him Citizen of death. Which spectacle of care made Thetis bow, And call on Glaucus, and command her Son To yield her right: and her advice allow, But (woe) the man whom fancy had undone Nill mark her rules: nor words, nor weeping tears Can fasten counsel in the lovers ears. The Queen of Sea, with all her Nymphs assured That no persuasion might relieve his care: Kneeling adown, their faltering tongues enured To tempt fair Venus by their vowed prayer: The course whereof as I could bear in mind With sorrowing sobs they uttered in this kind. Born of the Sea, thou Paphian Queen of love, Mistress of sweet conspiring harmony: Lady of Cyprus, for whose sweet behove The Séepeheards' praise the youth of Thessallie: Daughter of jove and Sister to the Son, Assist poor Glaucus' late by love undone. So mayst thou baine thee in Th'arcadian brooks, And play with Vulcan's rival when thou list, And calm his jealous anger by thy looks, And knit thy temples with a roseate twist If thou thyself and thine almighty Son, Assist poor Glaucus' late by love undone. May earth still praise thee for her kind increase: And beasts adore thee for their fruitful wombs, And fowls with notes thy praises never cease, And Bees admire thee for their honey combs: So thou thyself and thine almighty Son, Assist poor Glaucus' late by love undone. No sooner from her reverent lips were passed Those latter lines, but mounting in the East, Fair Venus in her ivory coach did haste, And toward those pensive dames, her course addressed; Her doves so plied their waving wings with flight, That strait the sacred Goddess came in sight. Upon her head she bore that gorgeous Crown, Wherein the poor Amyntas is a star; Her lovely locks, her bosom hang adown (Those nets that first ensnared the God of war:) Delicious lovely shine her pretty eyes, And one her cheeks carnatio●n clouds arise, The stately robe she ware upon her back Was lily white, wherein with cullored silk; Her Nymphs had blazed the young Adonis' wrack, And Leda's rape by Swan as white as milk, And on her lap her lovely Son was placed, Whose beauty all his mother's pomp defaced. A wreath of roses hemmed his Temples in, His tress was curled and clear as beaten gold; Haught were his looks, and lovely was his skin, Each part as pure as heavens eternal mould, And on his eyes a milk white wreath was spread, Which longest his back, with pretty pleits did shed. Two dainty wings of party coloured plumes Adorn his shoulders dallying with the wind; His left hand wéelds a Toreh, that ever fumes: And in his right, his bow that fancies bind, And on his back his Quiver hangs well stored With sundry shafts, that sundry hearts have gored. The Deities arrived in place desired; Fair Venus her to Thetis first bespoke, Princess of Sea (quoth she) as you required From Ceston which my Son, my course I take: Frolic fair Goddess, Nymphs forsake your plaining, My Son hath power and favour yet remaining. With that the reverend powers each other kissed, And Cupid smiled upon the Nymphs for pleasure: So nought but Glaucus' solace there was miss, Which to effect the Nymphs withouten measure Entreat the God, who at the last drew nigh The place, where Glaucus full of care did lie, And from his bow a furious dart he sent Into that wound which he had made before: That like Achilles' sword became the teint To cure the wound that it had carved before: And suddenly the Sea-god started up: revived, relieved, and free from Fancies cup. No more of love, no more of hate he spoke, No more he forced the sighs from out his breast: His sudden joy his pleasing smiles provoke, And all aloft he shakes his bushy crest, Greeting the Gods and Goddesses beside, And every Nymph upon that happy tide. Cupid and he together hand in hand Approach the place of this renowned train: Ladies (said he) released from amorous band, Receive my prisoner to your grace again. Glaucus gave thanks, when Thetis glad with bliss Embraced his neck, and his kind cheeks did kiss. To see the Nymphs in flocks about him play, How Nais kempt his head, and washed his brows: How Thetis checked him with his welladay, How Clore told him of his amorous vows, How Venus praised him for his faithful love, Within my heart a sudden joy did move. Whilst in this glee this holy troup delight, Along the stream a far fair Scylla floated, And coilie vaunst her crest in open sight: Whose beauties all the tides with wonder noted, Fore whom Palemon and the Tritons danced Whilst she her limbs upon the cide advanced. Whose swift approach made all the Godheads wonder: Glaucus 'gan smile to see his lovely foe, Rage almost rend poor Thetis' heart asunder: Was never happy troup confused so As were these deities and dainty dames, When they beheld the cause of Glaucus blames. Venus commends the carriage of her eye, Nais upbraids the dimple in her chin, Cupid desires to touch the wantoness thy, Clore she swears that every eye doth sin That likes a Nymph that so contemneth love, As no attempts her lawless heart may move. Thetis' impatient of her wrong sustained, With envious tears her roseate cheeks afflicted; And thus of Sulla's former pride complained; Cupid (said she) see her that hath inflicted The deadly wound that harmed my lovely son, From whom the offspring of my care begun. Oh if there dwell within thy breast my boy Or grace, or pity, or remorse (said she) Now bend thy bow, abate you wantoness joy, And let these Nymphs thy rightful justice see. The God soon won, 'gan shoot, and cleft her heart With such a shaft as caused her endless smart. The tender Nymph attainted unawares, Fares like the Libyan Lioness that flies The Hunter's Lance that wounds her in his snares; Now gins she love, and strait on Glaucus' cries; Whilst on the shore the goddesses rejoice, And all the Nymphs afflict the air with noise. To shore she flits, and swift as Africa wind Her footing glides upon the yielding grass, And wounded by affect recure to find She suddenly with sighs approached the place Where Glaucus sat, and weary with her harms 'Gan clasp the Sea-god in her amorous arms. Glaucus' my love (quoth she) look on thy lover, Smile gentle Glaucus on the Nymph that likes thee; But stark as stone sat he, and list not prove her: (Ah silly Nymph the self-same God that strikes thee With fancy's dart, and hath thy freedom slain) Wounds Glaucus with the arrow of disdain. Oh kiss no more kind Nymph he likes no kindness, Love sleeps in him, to flame within thy breast, Cleared are his eyes, where thine are clad with blindness; Fréeed be his thoughts, where thine must taste vurest: Yet nill she leave, for never love will leave her, But fruitless hopes and fatal haps deceive her. Lord how her lips do dwell upon his cheeks; And how she looks for babies in his eyes: And how she sighs, and swears she loves and leeks, And how she vows, and he her vows envies: Trust me the envious Nymphs in looking on, Were forced with tears for to assist her moan. How oft with blushes would she plead for grace, How oft with whisperings would she tempt his ears: How oft with Crystal did she wet his face: How oft she wiped them with her Amber hears: So oft me thought, I oft in heart desired To see the end whereto disdain aspired. Palemon with the Tritons roar for grief, To see the Mistress of their joys amated: But Glaucus scorns the Nymph, that waits relief: And more she loves the more the Sea-god hated, Such change, such chance, such suits, such storms believe me Poor silly wretch did heartily aggrieve me. As when the fatal bird of Augury Seeing a stormy dismal cloud arise Within the South, foretells with piteous cry The weeping tempest, that on sudden hies: So she poor soul, in view of his disdain Began to descant on her future pain. And fixing eye upon the fatal ground, Whole hoauns of floods drew dew from out her eyes; And when through inward grief the lass did sound, The softened grass like billows did arise To woo her breasts, and wed her limbs so dainty. Whom wretched love had made so weak and fainty, (Ayes me), me thinks I see her Thetis fingers Renting her locks as she were woe begon her; And now her lips upon his lipping lingers: Oh lingering pain where love nill list to moon her? Rue me that writes, for why her ruth deserves it: Hope needs must fail, where sorrow scarce preserves it. To make long tale were tedious to the woeful, Woeful that read what woeful she approved: In brief her heart with deep despair was so full, As since she might not win her sweet beloved. With hideous cries like wind borne back she fled Unto the Sea, and toward Sicilia sped. Sweet Zephyrus upon that fatal bower In hapless tide midst watery world was walking; Whose milder sighs, alas, had little power To whisper peace amongst the Godheads talking: Who all in one conclude for to pursue, The hapless Nymph, to see what would ensue. Venus herself and her fair Son 'gan high Within their ivory Coath drawn forth by doves After this hapless Nymph, their power to try: The Nymphs in hope to see their vowed loves, 'Gan cut the watery boasom of the tide, As in Cayster Phoebus' birds do glide. Thetis in pomp upon a Tritons back Did post her strait attended by her train; But Glaucus' free from love by lovers wrack, Seeing me pensive where I did remain, Upon a Dolphin horsed me (as he was) Thus on the Ocean hand in hand we pass. Our talk midway was nought but still of wonder, Of change, of chance, of sorrow, and her ending; I wept for want: he said, time brings men under, And secret want can find but small befrending. And as he said, in that before I tried it, I blamed my wit forewarned, yet never spied it. What need I talk the order of my way, Discourse was steeresman while my bark did sail, My ship conceit, and fancy was my bay: If these fail me, then faint my Muse and fail, Hast brought us where the hapless Nymph sojourned, Beating the weeping waves that for her mourned. He that hath seen the Northern blasts despoil The pomp of Prime, and with a whistling breath Blast and disperse the beauties of the soil; May think upon her pains more worse than death. Alas poor Lass the Echoes in the rocks Of Sicily, her piteous plaining mocks. Echo herself when Scylla cried out O love! With piteous voice from out her hollow den Returned these words, these words of sorrow, (no love) No love (quoth she) then fie on traitorous men, Then fie on hope: then fie on hope (quoth Echo) To every word the Nymph did answer so. For every sigh, the Rocks returns a sigh; For every tear, their fountains yields a drop; Till we at last the place approached nigh, And heard the Nymph that fed on sorrows sop Make woods, and waves, and rocks, and hills admire The wondrous force of her untamed desire. Glaucus (quoth she) is fair: whilst Echo sings Glaucus is fair: but yet he hateth Scylla The wretch reports: and then her arms she wrings Whilst Echo tells her this, he hateth Scylla, No hope (quoth she): no hope (quoth Echo) then. Then fie on men: when she said, fie on men. Fury and Rage, Wan-hope, Despair, and Woe From Ditis' den by Ate sent, drew nigh: Fury was red, with rage his eyes did gloe, Whole flakes of fire from forth his mouth did fly, His hands and arms ibathed in blood of those Whom fortune, sin, or fate made Country's foes. Rage, wan and pale upon a Tiger sat, Knawing upon the bones of mangled men; nought can he view, but he repined thereat: His locks were Snakes bred forth in Stygian den, Next whom, Despair that deep disdained elf Delightless lived, still stabbing of herself. Woe all in black, within her hands did bear The fatal torches of a Funeral, Her Cheeks were wet, dispersed was her hear, Her voice was shrill (yet loathsome therewith all): Wan-hope (poor soul) on broken Anchor sits, Wring his arms as rob of his wits. These five at once the sorrowing Nymph assail, And captive lead her bound into the rocks, Where howling still she strives for to prevail, With no avail yet strives she: for her locks Are changed with wonder into hideous sands, And hard as flint become her snowwhite hands. The waters howl with fatal tunes about her, The air doth scowl when as she turns within them, The winds and waves with puffs and billows scout her; Waves storm, air scoules, both wind & waves begin them To make the place this mournful Nymph doth weep in, A hapless haunt whereas no Nymph may keep in. The Seaman wandering by that famous Isle, Shuns all with fear despairing Sulla's bower; Nymphs, Sea-gods, Sirens when they list to smile Forsake the haunt of Scylla in that stowre: Ah Nymphs thought I, if every coy one felt The like misshappes, their slintie hearts would melt. Thetis rejoiced to see her foe depressed, Glaucus was glad, since Scylla was enthralled; The Nymphs 'gan smile, to boast their Glaucus rest: Venus and Cupid in their thrones installed, At Thetis' beck to Neptune's bower repair, Whereas they feast amidst his palace fair. Of pure immortal Nectar is their drink, And sweet Ambrosia dainties do repast them, The Tritons sing, Palemon smiles to think Upon the chance, and all the Nymphs do hast them To trick up mossy garlands where they won, For lovely Venus and her conquering Son. From forth the fountains of his mother's store, Glaucus let fly a dainty Crystal bane That washed the Nymphs with labour tired before: Cupid he trips among this lovely train, Alonely I apart did write this story With many a sigh and heart full sad and sorry. Glaucus when all the Goddesses took rest, Mounted upon a Dolphin full of glee: Conueide me friendly from this honoured feast, And by the way, such Sonnets sung to me, That all the Dolphin's neighbouring of his glide Danced with delight, his reverend course beside. At last he left me, where at first he found me, Willing me let the world and ladies know Of Sulla's pride, and then by oath he bond me To write no more, of that whence shame doth grow: Or tie my pen to Pennie-knaves delight, But live with fame, and so for fame to wright. lenvoy. LAdies he left me, trust me I missay not, But so he left me as he willed me tell you: That Nymphs must yield, when faithful lovers stray not. Lest through contempt, almighty love compel you With Scylla in the rocks to make your biding A cursed plague, for women's proud backsliding. FINIS. Glaucus' complaint written by the said Gent. THe Billows that by winds assisting breath Doth beat upon the rocks at last do pierce them: Ah then (thou gentle offspring of my death) Why fail my plaints when pensive I rehearse them To wound thine ears? when as my words exceed them, And that my sighs in stead of winds do lead them. Along the floods I wander all forlorn, Nor may the Sea-nymphs smiles enforce me play: But if I think, I think upon thy scorn, And if I wish, I wish my dismal day, Oh fruits of love, oh powerful course of pain▪ That one should like the thing that hath him slain. Look in my mother's Crystal face, fair maid, There read the story of my bitter state; My tears her silver float have alaid, Her troubled looks foreshow my wretched fate: If not for me, yet mourn her bitter weeping, And pity him whose heart is in thy keeping. Take pity Scylla, pity thou thy lover; For thou art fair, and beauty should have pity, Alas she flies, persuasions cannot move her, She is too wanton, or too foolish witty: Along the floats the scaly troops increase, Yet nill she love to maintain nature's peace. Oh stepdame Nature hast thou shut these fairs Within the rampeir of so deep disdain, To kill a God with sorrows and despairs: Would God thy power (to lessen all my pain) Were dead in her; or fancies quenchless fire Might from my breast with ceaseless course retire. But all in vain (so vain is loves pursuit) Try I her ears, and tempt her hardened heart: Cease wretched tongue, 'twere better still be mute, Than tell a tale of grief and endless smart To her that grounds her glories on disdain, And takes a pride to view my bitter pain. (Fond that I am) all these are faint supposes: Imperious Love (to show his endless power) My tender and immortal heart encloses Within the centre of her lovely lower: That all may see, loves prison is her eye, And Gods must stoop unto his deity. Yet (Love) allot prescriptions unto woe; Else will the sour exceed the sweet by far: Or level pity from thy lawless bow, That sorrow in excess, may cause a war That may consume, if not confound my life; And I may seem to die amidst the strife. The deaf nill hear: both she and Love together Have made a match to aggravate my grief: I see my hell, there rests no hope in either: From proud contempt there springeth no relief, What rests there then but since I may not gain her, In piteous terms and tears for to complain her. FINIS. The Discontented Satire written by Thomas Lodge Gent. SUch time as from her Mother's tender lap The night arose, guarded with gentle winds: And with her precious dew refreshed the sap Of bloom and bark (whilst that her mantle blinds The vail of heaven) and every bird was still Save Philomele, that did bemoan her ill. When in the West Orion lift aloft His starry crest, and smiled upon the Twins; And Cynthia seemly bright (whose eye full oft Had watched her love) with radiant light gins To pierce the vail of silence with her beams, Sporting with wanton clear on Ocean streams. When little winds in beating of their wings, Did woo the eyes to leave their wont wake, And all was hushed save Zephyrus, that sings With lovely breathings for the Sea-nymphs sake: My watchful griefs perplexed my mind so sore, That forth I walked my sorrows to deplore. The doaly season that resembled well My drooping heart, gave life to my lament: Each twinkling lamp that in the heavens did dwell 'Gan rest his course to hearken mine intent: Forth went I still devising on my fear Distinguishing each footestep with a tear. My working thought deluding of my pace, At last did bring me to a desert dale, (By envious mountains robbed of Phoebus' face) Where grows no herb to taste of dews avail, In midst thereof, upon a bed of moss A Satire did his restless body toss. Stern were his looks, afflicting all the fields That were in view; his bushy locks undressed With terror hang, his haviour horror yields, And with the sight my sorrows were suppressed; So, near I drew, when suddenly he rose, And thus in terms his purpose did disclose. Blush days eternal lamp to see thy lot, Since that thy clear with cloudy darks is scared; Lower on fair Cynthia for I like thee not; For borrowed beauties, merit no regard: Boast Discontent, nought may depress thy power, Since in thyself all grief thou dost devour. Thou art the God whom I alone adore Whose power includeth discords all in one, Confusions are thy food and fatal store, Thy name is feared where thou art most unknown; Thy grace is great, for fortunes laugh and lower Assails them not, that glory in thy power. The mind through thee divines on endless things, And forms a Heaven through others fond mislikes; Time loathes thy haunt, yet lends thee many wings: Refined wits against thy bulwark strikes; And when their curious thoughts are overpast, They scorn their books, and like thy bent at last. For who but thou can yield them any gain? Deprive the world of perfect Discontent; All glories end, true honour strait is slain, And life itself in errors course is spent, All toil doth sort but to a sorry end, For through mislikes, each learns for to commend. What made fierce philip's son to manage arms, To vail the pride of Persia by his sword, But thou my God, that he by others harms Might raise his seat: and thereby still afford A cause of discontent to them that lost, And hate in him that by their power was crossed. Let envy cease, what Prince can make it known How dear he loves his best esteemed friends: For were not some of purpose overthrown, Who may discern whereto true favour tends: Thus Princes discontent doth honour some, And others through their hates to credit come. Without thy help the Soldier shuns the field: You studeous Arts how fatal haps had you, If discontents did not some succours yield? Oh fleeting Fame who could thy grace pursue: Did not my God send emulations out To whet the wits and pens of Pallas rout, How could the Heavens have retrograde aspects Without thy help? How might the Planets find Their oppositions, and their strange effects, Unless thy power assisted every kind? The air by thee at first invented voice, Which once reverberate, strait yields a noise. The pencil man that with a careless hand Hath shadowed Venus, hates his slack regard; And all amazed doth discontented stand, And mends the same that he before had marred: Who sees not then that it was Discontent, That sight to eye, and perfect judgement lent? The schoolman that with heedless flourish writes, Refines his fault, if thou direct his eye: And then again with wonder he endites Such sweet sententious li●es, as never die: Lost in myself in praising of thy might, My speech yields up his office to delight. This said he smiled, and on his restless bed Reposed and tossed his indisposed limbs: A world of thoughts still hammered in his head, Now would he sleep, and strait his couch he trims: And then he walks, and therewith sits him down: And feigns to sing, yet endeth with a frown. I stood amazed and wondered at his words, And sought to suck the soul from out his lips, His rare discourse such wondrous joy affords: But unawares, like lightfoot Fawn he trips Along the lawns: and I with watch forespent, Drew home and vowed to honour Discontent. Thomas Lodge. FINIS. Sundry sweet Sonnets written by the said Gent. In praise of the Country life. MOst happy blest the man that midst his country bowers Without suspect of hate, or dread of envious tongue May dwell among his own: not dreading fortunes lowers, far from those public plagues that mighty men hath stung: Whose liberty and peace is never sold for gain, Whose words do never soothe a wanton princes vain. Incertain hopes, and vows, do never harm his thought, And vain desires do shun the place of his repose; He weeps no years misspent, nor want of that he sought, Nor reaps his gain by words, nor builds upon suppose: The storms of troubled Sea do never force his fears, Nor Trumpets sound doth change his sleeps, or charm his ears, Ambitions never build within his constant mind, A cunning coy deceit his soul doth not disguise, His firm and constant faith corruptions never blind, He never waits his weal from princes wondering eyes: But living well content with every kind of thing, He is his proper court, his favour, and his King. His will (restrained by wit) is never forced awry, Vain hopes, and fatal fears (the courtiers common foes) (Afraid by his foresight) do shun his piercing eye: And nought but true delight acquaints him where he goes, No high attempts to win; but humble thoughts and deeds, The very fruits and flowers that spring from virtues seeds. (O deities divine) your Godheads I adore That haunt the hills, the fields, the forests and the springs, That make my quiet thoughts contented with my store, And fix my hopes on heaven, and not on earthly things; That drive me from desires, (in view of courtly strife,) And draw me to commend the fields and country life. My thoughts are now enclosed within my proper land, And if my body sleep my mind doth take his rest, My simple zeal and love my dangers do withstand, The morning's pleasant air invites me from my nest, If wether wax too warm I seek the silent shade, If frosts afflict, I strive for warmth by hunter's trade. Although my biding home be not embossed with gold, And that with cunning skill my chambers are not dressed, (Whereas the curious eye my sundry sights behold) Yet feeds my quiet looks on thousand flowers at least, The treasures of the plain, the beauties of the spring, Made rich with Roses sweet and every pleasant thing. Amidst the palace brave puffed up with wanton shows Ambitions dwell, and there false favours find disguise, There lodge consuming cares that hatch our common woes: Amidst our painted fields the pleasant Fairy lies, And all those powers divine that with untrussed tresses, Contentment, happy love, and perfect sport professes. So living, nought remains my solace to betray; I hear the pleasant birds record their sacred strains, When at the mornings rise they bless the springing day: The murmuring fountains noise from out the marble veins, Are pleasing to mine ears: whilst with a gentle fall They fleet from high, and serve to wet the meads withal. What sport may equal this, to see two pretty doves When neb to neb they join, in fluttering of their wings, And in their roundelays with kisses seal their loves? Then wondering at the gifts which happy nature brings; What sport is it to sleep and slumber by a well, Whose fleeting falls makes show, some lovely tale to tell? Oh what content to see amidst the darksome night (When as the setting son hath left the moon in place) The Nymphs amidst the vales and groves to take delight, To dance, to leap, to skip, with sweet and pleasant grace, To give green gowns in sport, and in their tripping make By force of footing all the springing grass to quake. Their dances brought to end, I lift my looks one high To see the horned moon, and descant on her hue Clear silver shining bright, and eftsoons then think I Upon that happy chance the Latmian shepherd knew: Then do I wish myself as fair a friend as she, But watching I desire she might disport with me. Thus midst the silent night myself I do content: Then when as Phoebus' beams our Hemisphere inflames, A thousand change of sports for pleasure I invent, And feast my quiet thoughts with sundry pleasant games, Now angle I awhile, then seek I for the chase, And strait my limerods catch the Sparrows on the place. I like, and make some love: but yet in such a sort That nought but true delight my certain suit pursues; My liberty remains, and yet I reap the sport, Nor can the snares of love my heedful thoughts abuse: But when I would forego, I have the power to fly, And stand aloof and laugh, while others starve and die. My sweet and tender flocks (my faithful field compeers) You forests, hoults, and groves, you meads & mountains hie, Be you the witnesses of my contented years: And you O sacred powers vouchsafe my humble cry, And during all my days, do not these joys estrange; But let them still remain, and grant no other change. Finis. In commendation of a solitary life. NOt yet forsaken (gentle Muse) draw near, And help to weary out these worldly thoughts; Go fit thy method to my moody cheer, For why fond pleasure now prevaileth noughts: Since where content and wealthy state declines, The heart doth droop, and doleful be the lines. For thy (fond man) why rest I not at last? My wings of hope are clipte by foul disgrace: The silver down of age now flocketh fast, Like moss on oak to dwell upon my face: And what with thought & time, through want & ruth: I challenge care for joy, and age for youth. What fruits of former labours do I find? My studious pen doth traffic for a scorn: My due deserts are but repaid with wind; And what I earn, is nought but bitter mourn: In which account I reap but this advise, To cease to climb, and live contented wise. But gentle Muse, where boadeth this content? The Prince's Court is fraught with endless woes, Corruptions flock where honours do frequent, The City's swarm with plagues, with suits, with foes: High climbing wits do catch a sudden fall, With none of these Content list dwell withal. Ah beauty of the double topped hill, Thou saddest sister of the sacred nine, What fruitful pleasance followeth now my quill? What wondrous beauties bless my drooping eine? Even such as erst the shepherd in the shade Beheld, when he a Poet once was made. Me thinks I see the deserts fresh arrayed, New mantled in their liveries of green, Whose frolic pride makes smiling heaven paid▪ Wherein the Nymphs do weary out their teen, Washing their ivory in those murmuring springs, At whose kind fall, the birds with pleasure sings. See where the babes of memory are laid Under the shadow of Apollo's tree, That pleit their garlands fresh, and well paid, And breath forth lines of dainty poecie: Ah world farewell, the sight hereof doth tell, That true content doth in the desert dwell. See where a Cave presents itself to eye, By Nature's hand enforced in marble veins; Where climbing Cedars with their shades deny, The eye of day to see what there remains: A couch of moss, a brook of silver clear, And more, for food a flock of savage dear. Then here (kind Muse) vouchsafe to dwell with me, My velvet rob shallbe a weed of grey And least my heart by tongue betrayed be, For idle talk I will go fast and pray: No sooner said and thought, but that my heart His true supposed content 'gan thus impart. Sweet solitary life thou true repose, Wherein the wise contemplate heaven aright, In thee no dread of war or worldly foes, In thee no pomp seduceth mortal sight, In thee no wanton ears to win with words, Nor lurking toys, which City life affords. At peep of day when in her crimson pride, The Morn bespreds with roses all the way Where Phoebus' coach with radiant course must glide, The Hermit bends his humble knees to pray: Blessing that God, whose bounty did bestow Such beauties on the earthly things below. Whether with solace tripping on the trees He sees the citizens of Forrest sport, Or midst the withered oak beholds the Bees Intent their labour with a kind consort: Down drop his tears, to think how they agree, Where men alone with hate inflamed be. Taste he the fruits that spring from Tellus woomb; Or drink he of the crystal springs that flows: He thanks his God, and sighs their cursed doomb That fond wealth in surfeiting bestows: And with Saint Hierom saith, The Desert is A paradise of solace, joy, and bliss. Father of light, thou maker of the heaven, From whom my being well, and being springs: Bring to effect this my desired steven, That I may leave the thought of worldly things: Then in my troubles will I bless the time, My Muse vouchsafed me such a lucky rhyme. T. L. Finis. Beauty's Lullaby. Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores. GEntlemen, I had thought to have suppressed this Lullaby in silence, amongst my other papers that lie buried in oblivion: but the impudent arrogancy of some more than insolent Poets have altered my purpose in that respect, and made me set my name to my own work, lest some other vain glorious Batillus should prejudice my pains, by subscribing his name to that which is none of his own. Non mesureè. Lullaby Beauty, sweet Beauty lullaby; To such kind of Infants sing lulla would I. SWeet, sweet desire that made my pleasant wondering eyes To gaze on such a blazing star, as dims the state of skies: Whose feature while my Muse doth now devise upon; Sweet Beauty rest thee still awhile, I shall have done anon. First lulla to those locks derived from Phoebus' rays, Which fasten light in dimmest looks by virtue of their sprays: From whence her golden wires Diana borrowed then, When with Arachne at the loom she strove amidst the fen. Next lulla to the front where only shrouds the die, Which ruddy Morrow borrowed then when Thetis she did spy To hunt forbidden bed, whereas vermilion hue Is stained in sight, and every sense approves my censure true. Next lulla to those stately coverts of her eyes, In which in Alabaster white dame Nature did devise A subtle frame of settled wires, in such confused art: As those that look but on that work amazed do departed. Next lulla to those lamps, those twinkling stems of state: Whereof but one, doth dim the Sun (both) Sun & Moon do mate, On which while jove doth pry, the jealous juno chides. Thus Gods & men admire at her in whom such beauty bides. But he that doth but mark those rocks of marble white; From whence do spring those sweet perfumes the senses that delight, And sees with how great state the ruddy lips they shade, Will think the workman more divine that such a work hath made. Now see those crimson cheeks, the mounts wherein do dwell The golden fruit Aeneas fet from midst the mouth of hell, Bedecked with driven snow, and pounced with Ruby red; To which compare the ruddy rose, and it will seem but dead. Next praise those cherry lips where rose and lily meet, Enclosures of th'Egyptian gems, from whence doth Zephir sweet Breath forth a blast, and yield an noise like to Orpheus' lute, Which moved the craggy rocks to ruth, & stirred what so was mute. Yet in that dimpled chin bedecked with every grace, Where curious eye may easily see the beauty of the face. Admit but this, that Ganymede the cup for jove did choose: And if a man might drink with Gods, would I the same might use. Then blessed be those mounts where Venus sits and sings, With wanton Cupid in her lap, and from those stately springs Draws Nectar forth to feed her son: which taste him so beguiled, That only for to suck those teats, be still would be a child. But look a low (my Muse) and fix thy stately view: Behold a path like Dedal maze, wherein with azure clew A Theseus may the secret cells of beauty there behold, More stately than th' Egyptian tombs, though reared all of gold. Next which of Alabaster white a mountain there doth rise, A mountain fair of driven snow, wherein incarued lies A stately type of Venus' vale: some calls it Cupid's couch; Whereas the God devising lies which part were best to touch. There spies he earth's Elysium, where Nature sits and paints Th'impression of the sweetest forms her fancy her acquaints: In which one lulla I would rock to Beautis grace, And be a prentice during life to serve her in that place. Next lulla to those forts whereout doth fancy pry, As one amazed to see the star is fixed before her eye. A Crinite Comet crisped fair which on those arches stands Of Marble white enamelled, and closed with azure bands. But he that sees those knees, whose feature is so fair, As when they bend, all knees do bend below and midst the air; Whose cords by compass knit, and nerves by Nature set, Binds Art apprentice for some years the pattern for to get. Here rests not wonders yet: for why behold a low Two rising silver coloured clouds, which like to those do show, As compassed in fair Phoebus then, when in his midday prime He sported with Cassandra fair, amidst the summer time. Now Nature stands amazed herself to look on Beauty's feet, To see those joints combined in one, and framed of Amber sweet, So small a pile so great a weight, like Atlas to uphold The body, as the mighty man to bear the heavens is bold. But to behold those Gemini, those silver coloured arms, Whom native blood with blushing streams in azure conduits warms, Invite the sense like violets, bepurfurated fair With Flora's lilies▪ lily white these lovely branches are. But whilst I gaze a low, and see those palms of peace, Wherein the map of fortune rests and times descents increase: From whence the branching fingers spread betipt with ivory, The least impression whereof a marble mind might mollify. Makes me confess pen may not write, heart think, nor tongue unfold The least effect in Beauty, where both ivory, pearl, and gold, Where purphure, Ebony, white, and red, all colours stained be: And if thou seek for all these sweets, then seek my sweet to see. Finis. Sundry sweet Sonnets written by the same Gent. 1 A Very Phoenix, in her radiant eyes I leave mine age, and get my life again; True Hesperus, I watch her fall and rise: And with my tears extinguish all my pain, My lips for shadows shield her springing roses, Mine eyes for watchmen guard her while she sleepeth, My reasons serve to quite her faint supposes: Her fancy, mine; my faith her fancy keepeth; She flower, I branch; her sweets my sours supporteth, O happy Love, where such delights consorteth. Finis. 2 I Vow but with some grief henceforth to shun the place, Where beauty casts her scorching looks to feed me with disgrace. And since I was so fond to build on such a mould, As every wave of vain conceit the substance may unfold; I will repent with tears the errors of my mind, And leave to tie my thoughts to like of wanton womankind. Whose wayward wiles I spy how full of sleights they be, The heart delights in others choice, the hand yet fauns on me, And feign she would forsake, yet follows if I shun, And with her tongue reputes the time that ere the fact was done. And yet she will be thought as constant as the best; Yet scorns the man that beareth faith & courage in his crest. Whom if she list to know, his colour sable is; A mournful colour meet for those whose eyes have gazed amiss: His colour pale for woe, his courage all forlorn; His heart confirmed to shun the sex that holds his faith in scorn. Willing all men to learn, lest they be forced to prove, That women altar with the wind, and have no hold in love. Finis. 3 THe heavens inclined to change, are passing clear, Their showers restrained make billows of mine eyes, Their winds made calm within my breast appear, Which dims the air with sighs and heavy cries. My frozen love hath laid the frost adown, These snows restrained serve to congeal my heart, This pleasant spring my stormy sorrows frown: Go lying books, cease fools to boast your art, And mark the cause: my Mistress smiles and lowers Makes clear the heavens, & clouds my heart with showers. Finis. 4 I Will become a Hermit now, and do my penance strait For all the errors of mine eyes with foolish rashness filled; My hermitage shall placed be, where mellancholies weight, And none but love alone shall know the bower I mean to build. My daily diet shall be care, made calm by no delight: My doleful drink my dreary tears, amidst the darksome place The fire that burns my heedless heart shall stand in stead of light, And shall consume my weary life mine errors to deface. My gown shall be of spreading grey to clad my limbs withal: My late repent upon my brow shall plainly written be. My tedious grief and great remorse that doth my soul enthrall, Shall serve to plead my weary pains and pensive misery. Of faintful hope shall be my staff, and daily when I pray, My mistress picture placed by love shall witness what I say. Finis. 5 IF that I seek the shade, I suddenly do see The God of Love forsake his bow, and sit me by: If that I think to write, his Muses pliant be: If that I plain my grief, the wanton boy will cry. If I lament my cares, he doth increase my pain: If tears my cheeks attaint, his cheeks be moist with moan: If I disclose the wounds the which my heart hath slain, He takes his Fascia off, and wipes them dry anon. If that I walk the woods, the woods are his delight: If I myself torment, he baths him in my blood: He will my Soldier be if once I wend to fight: If seas delight, he steers my bark amid the flood: In brief, the cruel God doth never from me go, But makes my lasting love eternal by my woe. Finis. 6 Weary am I to weary Gods and men, Weary am I to weep so many tears without some succour: Weary am I my wretched state to ken, Weary am I to see my woeful years consume with dolour. These mounts, these fields, these rocks, these waves, these woods Resign their echoes to my woeful cries, too much disdained: These lambs, these kids, these bullocks, leave their foods, These flowers, this grass, with mourning parched lies to see me pained. nought under Sun that hath not tasted change, My bitter grief alone abideth still without departure. Accursed be Love, that wrought this wonder strange, Boding my sorrows by my wanton will that caused my smarting. O quiet life fore past, why hast thou left The woeful shepherd weary of his pain to feed on sorrow? Oh weeping eyes of wont joys bereft, Why leave you him whom luckless Love hath slain to view the morrow? My faintful flock doth languish and lament, To see their master mourning his mischance this jolly season: My bagpip's broke, my roundelays are blended, My rebecke now my solace to advance accounts it geason: Yet not alone sheep, lambs, kids weep my woe: But rocks for ruth, and birds for sorrow plain my woeful wending: Then cruel Love vouchsafe me to forego My wretched life, the cause of much pain, and make mine ending. The rocks their brooks with murmuring noise shall weep, The birds their songs with warbling notes shall sing: and full of pleasure My flocks shall feed, although their master sleep, And to my grave their falling fleeces bring, their native treasure. Solace each where shall reign when I am dead, No care, no woe, no sorrow shall prevail: but well contented Poor I shall sleep, when cursed Love is fled, That first with fury did the fields assail where I frequented. Finis. 7 THe earth late choked with showers Is now arrayed in green: Her bosom springs with flowers, The air dissolves her teen, The heavens laugh at her glory: Yet bide I sad and sorry. The woods are decked with leaves, And trees are clothed gay, And Flora crowned with sheaves With oaken boughs doth play: Where I am clad in black, The token of my wrack. The birds upon the trees Do sing with pleasant voices, And chant in their degrees Their loves and lucky choices: When I, whilst they are singing. With sighs mine arms am wring. The Thrushes seek the shade, And I my fatal grave: Their flight to heaven is made, My walk on earth I have: They free, I thrall: they jolly, I sad and pensive wholly. 8 WHen with advice I weigh my years forepast, And count the course that in my youth I kept: How my fond eyes on garish beauty placed, Dimmed by desires in vain opinion slept: For every look and thought with tears I cry, I loathe the faults and follies of mine eye. By which my heart was burnt with scorching flame, Growing to head by stealth of idle time, Whom oft my looks with blushing red did blame; But folly fixed before, it grew to prime: So for my wanton looks with tears I cry, I loathe the faults and follies of mine eye. Oh wanton looks, ye foes of sad forecast, That wept the tears of will, and not repent: Now see the end how fickle fair is past, And crimson cheeks with crooked years are spent: And blame yourselves, and help my careful cry, Who loath the faults and follies of mine eye. Finis. 9 HAnd, heart, and eye; touched, thought, and did behold A lock, a joy, a look of great delight, Looks sweet, joys rare, but locks of beaten gold, Heart's joy, eyes looks, hands touch so pleased my sight; That what I would, by eye, hand, heart I try, And what I am, is but hand, heart, and eye. Finis. 10 IF hollow eyes, if wan and wearish face, If scalding sighs my secret suits bewray: Lo (love) those looks that want their former grace, And dying thoughts which secret joys betray. And grant me this that either death may ease, Or humble suit my mistress wrath appease. Whose dire disdain more pines my fainting heart, Than Aetna's flame that fumes both night and day: Whose wisdom when it measures by desert, Dissolves my doubts and drives my woes away: Whose looks if once they yield me beams of grace, Discharge the furrows that befret my face. Twixt hope and hap my ship doth bear a sail, The Seas are sighs, the Anchor slipper joy; Would Sea and Anchor both, and tack might fail, So land of love were gained to foil annoy. I say no more, the tear that last did fall On latter line, can show and open all. Finis. 11 A Satire sitting by a river side, Foreworne with care that hardly finds recure: A straying Nymph in passion did deride His tears, his care, her smiles her scorns assure: He wept, she wished, and all their thoughts among, Fancy beheld and sung this careful song. Perhaps the furrows in thy wrinkled face Grown by thy grief, abate thy wont form: Perhaps her eye was formed to yield disgrace, And blemished that which wit may not reform. Perhaps she will if so thou list to prove, Perhaps she likes, and yet she dares not love. But if (perhaps) thy fortune be so fair, Laugh Satire than it proves a pretty prize: And if thou wilt, so live to shun despair As looking long thou keep thy proper eyes. This said she ceased: the Nymph she fled away, And good persuasion caused the Satire play. 12 Fair Phoebus' flower upon a summer morn, 'Gan proud with love to show her painted pride, And gay with glory with a curious scorn, Disdained those buds that blossomed her beside. When Rose and Lilies, Violets and Balm, (Scarce warmed to work their beauties to a flower) With envious wrath near to a water calm, Beheld my Phillis in a happy hour. Not waked nor won too much with solemn sleep, But sweetly slombring they beheld my Saint, The Rose and Lilies both together creep; The one her lip, the next her cheek did taint. And both they spread: the Violet consumed To gentle air her amber breath fulfilled: Apollo feeling all the air perfumed, With gentle beams into her eyes distilled. His flower amazed, gave Rose and Lilies place, The Sun his shine within her eyes containeth, The Rose her lips, the Lilies deck her face, The Violet within her breath remaineth. lenvoy. THen cease (fond men) henceforth to boast your flowers, Since Roses, Lilies, Violets are ours: And Phoebus' flower doth homage to their powers, And Phillis eye his glorious beams devours. FINIS.