ACOLASTUS HIS AFTER-WITTE. By S. N. Semel insanivimus omnes. AT LONDON Imprinted for john bailie, and are to be sold at his shop, near the little North-door of Paul's Church. 1600. To his dear Achates, Master Richard Warburton. Marvel you may, at the bold approach of these my unblushing lines, the first borne of my barren invention, who begotten in my antic age, now steps into the world to seek some worthy Godfather: but certes if you weigh the inducing motives, whose all-iust (respect) persuading oratory, tempted my trivial muse to this presumption: I dare before hand, seal myself a pardon, and promise gracious acceptance, to this my poor Orphan in your bosom. I hope you shall find him ready to acknowledge you before the world, not for his own sake alone, but for mine also, who confess myself so much indebted to your love, as me thinks I can never declare it sufficiently, till thus the world be witness to it. Your due, Samuel Nicholson. ACOLASTUS HIS AFTER-WIT. Eubulus. Acolastus. Eub. Graze on dear Flocks, & tend your blessed feeding, While your sad Master woeful and forlorn, In his poor Lambs a pensive lesson reading, With Sin-bred sorrow hails the weeping morn; The morn, who sampling men their sins to rue, Hath washed earth's motley face in weeping dew. Fair Queen Aurora, Beauty of the East, What uncouth chance thy wont cheer hath blended? Whose blithsome uprise makes Night's prisoners blest, And greets their waking hearts with sweet content: What spite hath robbed thee of thy golden rays, The mild forerunners of our Summer days? O may it be the Heaven-threatning deeds, Of earthbred Giants, Adam's sinful brood, Thus gars thee mask in malcontented weeds, Drowning the days light in a misty mood? What makes Heavens weep, thee lower and earth to groan? 'tis men have sinned, oh let them learn to moon. O bottomless benignity of God, In schooling his poor sheep from wanton gates; Stead of Revenge, he doth but show the rod, He loves our safety while our sins he hates. See, see, (O man) thine everlasting shame, All creatures rue the rigour of thy blame. The brazen heavens conspire against our good, Wreathing their watery brows in clouds of rain: The earth denies to nurse her wicked brood, Wishing all flesh within her womb again. All creatures cry upon us for offending, And will not cease till we profess amending. The servants rating should rebuke the son, A wise man schools himself by others folly, With the dumb creatures justice hath begun; God's fire is fierce, yet with the flame we dally: Our turn is next, Wrath beateth on our shores, Death and destruction linger at our doors. Our neighbour countries burn in civil fire, And Nero-like warm us by the flame, Security that false-suggesting liar, So masks our eyes, we do not fear our game, Till we have proved with too dear a price, That to our chance, their Fortune casts the dice. We of all people once that were the pelf, Thrust in a frozen corner of the North, Almighty jove hath chosen to himself, And made us famous over all the earth; Crowning our Land with Plenty and with peace, For nothing hinders when the Lord will bless. Frostbitten snakes, the Lord took pity on us, Warming our Climate with his Sun of grace, And more to power his blessings down upon us, Makes us triumphant in our foes disgrace: That all our Neighbours in amazement stand, To see heavens rain down graces on our Land. But O friend-losing, base ingratitude, Black loathsome ditch where all desert is drowned; What doth Gods deep benignity allude, But that we should be thankful to the ground? The ground, the root, the fountain of our bliss▪ For God the founder of each blessing is. But Serpentlike, we sting his blessed name, And stain God's honour by the filth of sinning; Our wicked lives are now the very same They were when as our light was young beginning: Our lives (said I) oh 'tis my sins O God, That merit beating with thine yron-rod. In the May month of my blooming years, Living in pleasures, ease, and hearts content, Now am I forced to lament with tears, Contempt of duty and my time misspent: O thou from whom repentant humours grow, Raise in mine eyes an everlasting flow. Thou broughtest fountains forth a stony rock, Manna from Heaven, quails came with a wind: O teach me how to seek, to ask, to knock; Let frailty favour, sorrows secure find: Teach me to spend the remnant of my days In sins rebuke, and thine eternal praise. Although the April of my days be spent, In service of the world, flesh and devil; And though my antick-age was freely lent To the committing of accursed evil: Yet let, oh let an old man's sacrifice Obtain some favour in thy gracious eyes. Thou callest some at morning, some at noon, These bear the heat and burden of the day; And some thou call'st, when toiling time is done, Yet givest them all an equal parted pay: Bidding them rest contented with their lot, Since not desert, but Mercy pays the shot. Thou gav'st Repentance to the dying Thief, Pronouncing him true heir of Paradise: His tears obtained pardon through belief, Of frozen Conscience for to thaw the ice: Thou badst him laugh at death, though it did pain him, Abraham's sweet bosom strait should entertain him. Upon these precedents though not presuming, With prostrate heart, and elevated hands, The heavy burden of my heart's grief tuning, Before thy throne, where Truth and Mercy stands, I boldly come to beg my soul's release, And reconcilement to thy blessed peace. Forget (my God) the folly of my youth, How I misled, have led my doting days, How spitefully I spurned at thy truth; And scorned to set my footing in thy ways; In this thy Mercy shall appear much greater, For pardoning him that was so deep a debtor. Thou that didst once remove so many devils From Magdalen the penitent offender; Root out of me a legion of evils, And I proportionable praise will render. Work in me Lord, and hear my poor request; Then will I dare the most, and vow the best. And for (O Lord) one right-conceived thought Comes not in compass of my poor election, But that my words and works, and all are nought, Safeconduct me this day by thy direction, That for my youth-bred follies gone and passed, My Tears may make atonement now at last. Acolast. Come pining Cares betrothed to Discontent, Heart-killing griefs, sad sighs come dwell with me, Help with your tears my fountains of lament, Lest ere my sorrows cease, they dried be: If weeping dew be wanting to my woe, My heart will bleed, even to supply their flow, Affections Thrall, Afflictions Slave I am, O cursed life led captive in this sort, Dame Fancies fool, and Fortune's chiefest game, Which unto each assault yield Reasons for't. O unadvised, Treason-working eyes, You are the cause my life in passion dies. So long I warmed myself by Beauty's fire, Deeming it dead, much like a painted flame, Till secretly I burnt in hot desire, And grew to be a Cock of Venus' game: My martyred mind was cast in Cupid's jail, And none but one my prisoned thoughts can bail. Vt vidi, ut perij now I duly sing, Moaning my scant foresight with wealaday: For at mine eyes my heart did suck the sting, That works my ruin and my lives decay. No marvel men enjoy a seldom rest, Nestling such Traitor foes within their breast. O passing privilege that blind men have, In wanting sight, they want a thousand sins; And never any yet was Venus' Slave, But in his eye the venom first begins. Blind are not poisoned with the baits of Beauty, Which Syren-like, 'tice men from God and duty. Poor foolish Blinkard, Beadsman unto Christ, For restitution of long lacked sight, I marvel what they fancy so inticte, To be desirous of this loathsome light? Alas, what profit have we by our eyes, Save sins attaint in viewing Vanities? Lament O Heavens, sight robbeth thee of Saints, And mourn poor souls, sight spoileth you of grace: Yet sight deserveth not these hard complaints, Lust is the thief, Sight but his entering place. Yet must I say Sight is not free from sin, Since thief he is, that thief receiveth in. Why rage I thus against my reckless eyes? No sense but trained me to my Tragedy, And cowardly consorted to devise? My living death, past hope or remedy: Yea all my parts took part to do me wrong, And I alone must battle with my tongue. Poor helpless help, that wronged lovers have, When hearts deep wound is venged with shallow words; The Prisoner railing, yet is made a slave, Grief fights with shadows, while it feeleth swords: So pecks the Dove, whilst Ravens pierced her breast, So fares the Wren, when Children rob her nest. Finding my senses foes, I made appeal To the right-deeming censure of my heart; Hoping that Reason would become my bail, And rid me from this inward pining smart: But long ere this, the Senses insurrection Brought Reason, Heart and all in foul subjection. Where should a man go seek for silver streams, When springs are poisoned, fountains turned to mud? What brightness can arise from borrowed beams, When Phoebus fleets, the sovereign of our good? Or where's the soul's Attorney, when the heart, Being once corrupted, takes the worse part? Misguided heart, made alien from the form Of thy pure Maker's glorious Creation; Coward, why didst thou yield to Fancies storm, And stoop to Lust that foul abomination? Hadst thou with Reason's bit, checked raging will, A small foresight might have forestald this ill. O where was Prayer the Souls Ambassador, To muster heavenly troops of powerful aid, When Sin and Hell first laboured to deflower Thy body's Temple, God's unspotted Maid? Christ bids thee knock for help & thou shalt have it, Then let him helpless die that will not crave it. Thou shouldst have summoned Hope and Charity, Mount-moving Faith, hot Zeal, and perfect Love, Free-given Grace, true Courage, Constancy, With such like gifts descending from above: The smallest handful of this holy band, Had kept the devil from seizing on thy land. Look as the Chaff dispersed before the wind, Or as the dew exhaled by the Sun, Or as a dream which waking none can find, Or as a thought ended ere well begun: So fancies die, so soon we stifle evil, If we resist the motives of the devil. O heartless heart, false slave to false delight, Why didst thou tremble ere the Trumpet sounded, Yielding thyself to sin before the fight, And dastardly depart the field unwounded? When Guides misguide themselves, the simple sort By their ill-sample render up the Fort. Fie foolish man, why stormst thou at the heart? When Eyes and Sense are muffled up in blindness, He steps on Stage, and this is all his part, To welcome Beauty with a world of kindness: As is the sympathy twixt flax and fire, Such is the heart compared to hot desire. Poor Heart, I wrong thee with my wrong exclaims, Seeking to cross my foe, I kill my friend, Extremity still urgeth such extremes, And sorrow smites at him that next doth stand: Much like a Cur, who smitten with a stone, Bites the poor pebble, let's the Man alone. Much like a Cur (said I) nay not so wise; For why I know my griefs unhappy ground, I see the root from whence my passions rise, And view the lure, that did my life confound: O blab-tongue Tantalus, why dost not eat? Fondling, 'tis I must pine in sight of meat. Then let me learn at last to level right, See where Contempt sits laughing at my fall; Ye hellborn Furies help to frame a flight To kill Disdain, that holds my life in thrall: That words with woes may some fit measure keep, Help me to rage, to curse, and then to weep. O fair and kind (O filthy monstrous lie) I cry you mercy Madam for mistaking, The blind man colours hardly can descry, And my poor reason's light is now but waking: (jest; What heart once thought, now tongue bewrays in Thou foul Apostata, notorious beast. Can I report her foul impiety, When as my tongue did tremble once to name her? feign would I speak, but when I speak, I die; My joints apalled with fear, refuse to shame her. Courage my Heart, for love she left thee grief, Make change a robbery; and so call her thief. O shallow-braind invention, course discourse, In this high task I do her merits wrong, The spring is dry it seemeth by the source, When nought but New gate terms can store the tongue. I'll fetch from hell, stern words to shake the Centre, And with mine action make them fiercely rend her. O proud, presuming, foul, abominable, sins shop, friend's shame, hell's bait, and nature's mole, Worse than the offal of Augias' stable, Ill thrive the beast that brought us such a foal, And let fell crosses all her joys deprive, Through whom my faithful heart thus dies alive. O wolvish heart wrapped in a woman's hide, That spurnest at proffered duty, lendest love To Lads that seek a Lemon, not a Bride, Whom neither time hath tried, nor service proved. In men ('tis said) their wills must stand for pay, But Lust-breathd fury guides a woman's way. If love be hated, hate be blest with love, If Merit merit standing next the door, If haile-shot win when Cannons cannot move, If Truth and Promise sojourn from our shore, If weaker vessels wear the crest on high, While men's best hope, is hopeless for to die▪ Why are not Nature's works in general, Prone to like crosses and to like confusion, The greater seeking still to hurt the small, The mighty wrong the weak by fell intrusion? Why shines not Phoebus in the fulsome night, While Luna lends the day her dusky light? Why fall not Stars as thick as winter's hail? Why is not Summer cold, and Winter warm? Or why doth not the earth's foundation fail? Sinking in seas, that long have sought his harm? Why do not all things that on earth remain, To their rude-formed chaos turn again? O excrement of all exceeding ill! How couldst thou wrong my true affection so? I gave in pawn my heart, my hand, my will; Yet didst thou from thy plighted promise go; Vowing, if all were dead save I alone, Thou wouldst forsake me, and be wife to none. Were I deformed (though I am not fair) Ill-nurturd, Natured, churlish and unkind; Did any member monsterlike appear, Or did I fail in faculties of mind; Then hadst thou some pretence of reason, why Thus all askance thou hold'st me in thine eye. But these are false, then whence derives this hate, Ungrateful guerdon of my zealous love? Perchance thou seest my shallow-ebd estate, The thought whereof thy liking doth remove: 'tis so: I know it by too true a token; For why, thyself the same haste often spoken. O Virtues blemish and thy sex's blot, Base dunghill bird, near sprung of Gentle blood; Vile is thy mind, but viler be thy lot, That mak'st earths dross the sovereign of thy good; To cause men curse thee, and to pity me, Thus do I rate thy god if gold be he. Heaven-skorned mould, base skin of barren earth, Springing in Caves, where death and darkness dwell, A monstrous metal proved by thy birth, Since men dive for thee half way down to hell. O cursed engine of light hating evil, Favoured of men, but found out by the devil. O sacred thirst of gold what canst thou not, sins chiefest agent, enemy to good: Thou, thou art sought to pay fond Pleasures shot, Yet often found with loss of dearest blood. Some terms thee guilt, that every soul might reed Even in thy name, thy guilt is great indeed. Guilty thou art of Murder, Rape, and Theft, Guilty of Bribery and subornation, Guilty of Treason, Perjury, and shift, An accessary by thy sly temptation, To all sins past, and all that are to come, From Adam's downfall to the day of doom. misshapen metal, smooth-faced Hypocrite, Whose golden splendour masketh mortal eyes, Moth of the mind, false slave to false delight, A devil lurking in a strange disguise: What is thy lustre when it shines most bright, But Satan clothed in an Angel's light? The want of thee is cause I want my bliss; For whither fly the Gnats but to the Sun? The Swallow still repairs where Summer is, And women's hearts with heaps of gifts are won. So dunghill worms must catch the finest fish, Else man shall never train him to his dish. Through thee one kingdom swelleth 'gainst another, The Father butchered often by his Son; The Daughter gives a passport to the Mother, Fearing that else her days would near be done. Through thee each murdering Roscius is appointed, To act strange scenes of death on Gods anointed. For thee the Merchant leaves his country's shore, Wife, Children, Parents, and what else is dear, His heart presaging near to see them more, Such are the circumstances of his fear; The waves, the winds, the rocks, the cruel foe, Consort in one to work his overthrow. But all the dangers of his wills obtaining, Fright not this fondling from the sweets of gain, Nor weake-built hopes persuade him to abstaining, When gold's proposed the guerdon of his pain. Thus Syren-like thou trainst him to the deep; Where waves oft lull him in his latest sleep. 'tis thou false hellhound, right corrupting coin, That mak'st poor Soldiers, needy, bare, disgraced, While greedy guides their stipends do purloin, And martial discipline stands quite defaced. O manners, times, O world-declyning days! Where might is right, and men do what they please. When spendthrift john, that goodly gentleman, Hath swallowed Lordships down his dainty throat, And brought his Father's fortunes in the wane, By gadding Cities in a silken Coat; Then to some friend doth Lusty-blood complain him, His Bankrupt birthright can no more maintain him. A man he is, and Hector was no more, Then why not Captain too as Hector was: Besides, it is not as in times before, When men's deserts were viewed in virtues glass. A man may compass wonders with a gift, Then why not this? Distress will have a shift. Thus, plots he means, to get a pretty train, Pretending honour, and his Country's cause; And then he musters up each simple Swain, Himself not knowing Arms, nor Martial laws. He stalks the streets, as who say, This is he, (I mean that first will teach his men to flee.) Unto this Captain flock both young and old, He buys his servant out, and he his son, O monstrous times when men are bought and sold, Who go unransomed thinks himself undone. For what great hope or comfort can he find, That maketh one where blind do lead the blind. The rascal remnant of these silly men, Are summoned speedily by sound of drum, And Skapt-thrift wishes every one were ten, Of greater number, greater gains will come: Well on they march, and still he steals a bite, To feed his avaricious appetite. This tuch and go sets all his teeth on edge, He'll be no Tantalus amid such treasure: A thousand laws the Lion can allege, To pray upon poor Asses at his pleasure: Yet policy persuades him to forbear them, Till far from home, the Wolf may boldly tear them No sooner are their travails at an end, But fresh afflictions full as fast beginning, Yet silly Lambs they deem the Fox a friend, They shrink no dog until they see him grinning: They little think the end of his conduction, Is wealth & honour bought with their destruction. This judas set in Council with himself, Not how to foil his foe and win the field, No, no, he gapes for gain and rusting pelf, No palm he seeks, but that doth profit yield: Says, When the yron's hot is chiefest striking, Time serves my turn and bids me do my liking. What long before was plotted in his head, The Monster prosecutes to this effect, He purseth all the pay of those are dead, The devil needs no council to direct: He that could bring himself to beggar's plight, Knows how to rob another of his right. This done he monthly minceth small their pay, Sings Nunc dimittimus to half his Band, The rest must live on pillage and on pray, Such as they seize from Boors upon the land. Who best bestirs him for his Princes pay, Takes half in hand, the rest at latter day. O spiteful spectacle, who could behold thee? That frightest my senses in th' imagination: While to myself my self do thus unfold thee, How am I ravished with indignation; Those that to mount by others fall have sought, O might their heads mount higher than their thought As he that travails in an uncouth wood, Fraught with those Fortunes which his father left, Is suddenly surprised by Robin Hood, And in a thieves name there receives his shrift: So stand these silly soldiers at a bay, Robbed of their hire and basely sent away. Poor plaining Prodigals, now must they wend, Back to their country with remorse and shame, But where's the feasting Father, or a friend, To welcome home his son, forgive his blame? Alas our iron age will not afford it; What? help the poor? the Devil still abhorred it. Yet some there be that of a holy motion, To harbour strangers, lodge them in the Cage: And some because that fasting helps devotion, Deny them food their hunger to assuage: Some whip them for their sins & former swerving, More of their courtesy then the Poors deserving. Who right conceits the miseries of job, His children, servants, goods, and cattle lost, His body botched, basest rags his rob, His mind with millions of temptations tossed: Can fittest deem their griefs true quality, And sympathise poor soldiers misery. Hell-damning dross, thou art the fountain cause Of this injustice, raven, and confusion, No man would spurn at duty, God, or laws, Had not his heart to thee a false allusion. O wrack of souls, the devils adamant, Devouring numbers both by wealth and want. The Infant-childe delights to play with gold, The young man seeks it to maintain his pleasure, It is the life and Gods-good of the old, All ages deem it as their dearest treasure. Who gives a Rose to gain a worthless weed? We sell for good in show our good indeed. Witness my Mistress, now no Mistress mine, Who though no Queen hath made King Midas choice, For none must pluck the Redrose of her prime, But he that gains her with a golden voice. So young and covetous, a ten days wonder, The devil joins and I'll not put a sunder. Say shameless Betresse, have I made thee blush, Rating the saint, whom thou dost rate so dear? Or is thine impudency grown so flush, Thou weigh'st no credit, or thou wilt not hear? O if thou bearest a part of woman kind, Let some relenting pity pierce thy mind. The senseless marble moved with my plaining, Wets his pale cheeks and seems to weep with me; The showers which daily from mine eyes are raining, Draw the dumb creatures to a sympathy: Poor Philomele that sings of ravishment, Forgets her tune to listen my complaint. If in the woods I breathe abroad my woes, Each bow doth bend to steal away my tale; And still as I her injuries disclose, Great trees for sorrow seem their tops to vail. Let me but sigh and say, She is unkind, Echo replies aloud, She is unkind. The struggling flood that still for passage groans, Pausing his course, and wrapped in admiration Of my laments, hart-breaking sighs and moans, Sobs out the descant of my desolation: And runs no more, till rivers growing rank, Cause him depart or overflow the bank. The valleys, rocks, and hollow caves resound, Bearing the burden to my woeful ditty; My plaints have power to pierce the stony ground, And move the savage Brutes to manly pity. If Rocks, and Earth, and Beasts bewail my state, O look on me, and be compassionate. The heavens as grieved lock up the lightsome day, And Phoebus' fleeting fails the world of light; Stars change their course and wander all astray, The Maiden Moon forgets to shine by night, Shamed, that a Maid so shameless should be found, Fiercer than Beasts, harder than stony ground. The heaven-died flowers, sweet of spring of the prime, That gild the meadows with their summers pride, Fading as in the frosty winter's time, Pitying my passions hold their heads aside: The Siluan-Satyres in their green-wood-songs, Tell how disdain sits laughing at my wrongs. O learn of these (slint hearted) how to grieve, Dumb shows they are, yet show to thee thy duty, They weep to see thee laughing in thy sleeve, Thou laughst to see me snared in thy Beauty: Think thy affections dull, thy trespass deep, When trees, & stones must teach thee how to weep, If so my sorrows cannot pierce thy heart, Yet force a tear, and fain to make a plaster, Breath sighs, as if thou deeply feltst my smart, And kiss me to as judas kissed his Master: And when I rage, seem thou withal to tremble; It's hard when I must teach thee to dissemble. So shall myself enjoy thee in conceit, And what is Love, but a conceited pleasure; Small fishes are content to see the bait, While greater suck the sweet and gain the treasure. Love in conceit's a coney-catching play, While I feed thoughts, he steals the wench away. O woe beset, unhappiest man alive, Seeking to wreak myself, myself am wounded; Poor snared Bird, for liberty I strive, Yet in the trap, still more and more confounded, As one that wipes his wound, yet still doth bleed, So more I speak the worse alas I speed. He that with oil the wildfire seeks to quench, Or bound a river in with banks of sand; He that hath loved a stony-hearted Wench, And now with brawling thinks to quench the brand; Learn this of me, late proved to my pain, It's hard to bail imprisoned thoughts again. When I sat down to ease my griefs with plaining, I thought my chiefest remedy to rate her, Hard words seemed swords to murder love remaining. And deep love scorned, would make me deadly hate her: But while I seek to quench loves hot desire, My wind of words hath blown a greater fire. My time-bred troubles are but now beginning, I love, I loath; I hate, I wish withal, My thread is cut, and yet the Sisters spinning, I live, I die, I stand, and now I fall: I laughing weep, I hope and yet despair, I say she's foul, and strait I call her fair. Hence idle words, servants to shallow brains, Unfruitful sounds, wind-wasting arbitrators, Your endless prattle, lessens not my pains, His suit is cold, that makes you mediators. Since fates have made me bankrupt of my bliss, My dying life a very torment is. In vain I cavil at her cruelty, At gold, at eyes, at senses, and the heart, In vain I spurn against my destiny, In vain I seek to ease an endless smart; No antidote at all can do me good, But the effusion of my harmless blood. Poor heart why tremblest thou at this decree? Thyself art eased by ending of this life, For sorrow killed, thou gainest liberty, But if I live, thou livest still in strife: Tell life, I'll not a minutes respite give, Since that is lost for which I sought to live. O wretched life, what is thy benefit? Whose chiefest sport are calamity, Whose days are spent in troubles, care, and spite, Whose pleasures, sin, whose all is vanity: Whose last is short, whose strength is but a breath, Whose date unknown, whose end is sudden death. O wished death, come kill all murdering grieves, My soul survives in never dying fears, Which round engird me like as many thieves, And load my heart with pangs, mine eyes with tears. If on the earth there may be found a Hell, Within my soul, her several torments dwell. Yet die I will not till my Testament, The brief contents of discontented mind, Writ with my blood into the world be sent, Bearing true witness to my faire-unkind, That as her love might once have made me biest, Her scorn hath sheathed this dagger in my breast. My spotted soul to him do commend, In whose compare the heavens are most impure, On whose free promises my hopes depend, To share the joys that ever shall endure: My body I bequeath unto the earth, The common Mother that first brought it forth. My blessing I bequeath unto the blade, That makes the breach for grisly death to enter, She shall not ride my patience like a jade, If death-wrought resolution may prevent her. O welcome engine of my cares releasing, That killest Despair to make my hopes increasing. My sorrows, cares, hart-breaking sighs, and crosses, Woes, lamentations, pining and despairs, My tears, complaints, foul injuries and losses, Griefs, shame, misfortune, and my daily fears, I give to her that now gives me this fall, The sole efficient of my Funeral. Let her have time to rend her Amber hair, Leather have time to think on me and rave, Let her have time of favour to despair, And scorned of all to live Affections slave; Let her have time to beg and none relieve her, And every day bring crosses, more to grieve her. Let her have time to prove her friends her foes, And see her old acquaintance all forsake her, Let her have time her honest name to lose, Abhorred of men, and cursed of her Maker. And every minute let her find a time To rue my death her unrecalling crime. My Halcyon days of bliss and happiness, The mild forerunners of this fearful storm, I give to those whom better stars do bless, Which never felt the sting of woman's scorn; What ever else is mine, disbursed be To those that live and think no harm of me. Come gentle knife, why ling'rest thou so long? Come ease my sorrows with thy fatal stroke; My heart is resolute, my hand is strong, My lingering life more torment doth provoke. O King of graves, why killst thou them abhor thee. And turnst from me that now am ready for thee? Avaunt thou viper, I thy spite defy, Where life is loved thou ready art to kill, But never once thy weapons wilt apply, To the redressing of a wretches ill. Come trusty hand for thou must do the deed, Since other friends are fled in time of need. The Star that first made entrance in mine eye, And thence departing struck my senses blind, Then led my heart in base captivity, Yet to her prisoner proveth most unkind: Witness fair heavens she, she, 'tis only she, That guides this hand to give this wound to me. Eub. Stay, stay thy hand (O Natures prodigy) If blood and death must expiate thy rage, Pity thyself (foul beast) and murder me, My life for thine, myself will be thy gage. Ten thousand deaths my soul endures to see God's image wronged in thy mortality. In massak'ring thyself, whom dost thou kill, But with thy body that immortal soul, For whose redemption Christ vouchsafed to spill Those purple drops to quench the living coal Of his dear Father's deepe-deserued hate, And to the heavens promote thy poor estate. Think'st thou by dying to prevent the pain, That seems to pinch thee in this brittle life? Alas this death begets thee life again, When with thyself, thyself shall be at strife, When thou wilt think all pains consort in one, And that thyself sustainest them all alone. O Acolastus, what foul fiend of Hell, Would glut his fury with thy harmless blood? Watching thy death here in some shady cell, To pray upon thy soul, thy sovereign good: Look, study, sigh for grace, and fly from evil, Grace and resistance drives away the devil. Acolast. Art thou a God, a Man, or else a Ghost? Comest thou from heaven where bliss & solace dwell? Or from the airy could-ingendring coast? Or from the darksome dungeon-hole of hell? Or from the secret chambers of the deep? Or from the graves where breathless bodies sleep? Art thou a Hermit in this wilderness? Or else some Satire masked in ages weeds? Or (by the heavens I charge thee to confess) Art thou her shape for whom my poor heart bleeds? ay, I, 'tis so, thou art that cruel she, That wrought my death, now feign'st to pity me. What bloody scene hath cruelty to act? Death is the worst thy malice can inflict, And thou hadst seen my souls poor city sacked, But thy deep policy did contradict, Knowing by death my troubles should have end, Which to prolong thou mainly dost intend. O be content with robbing me of life, Why dost thou triumph over fortune's wrack? The death of men determinates their strife, And wars are finished with the City's sack. The Elephant and Dragon, mortal foes, Bury their hate in mutual overthrows. By life my soul was pinned in little ease, By death I seek my thraldom to release, Then let my life thy brutish heart appease, And give me leave at least to die in peace. O let it not be said in time to come, A woman's hate survives till day of doom. Eub. Fondling I am no God, nor tempting friend, Nor yet the woman that could wish thee dead; Know me for Eubulus thy ancient friend, Witness this snowwhite fleece upon my head: Mark my complexion, habit, tongue and years, How every thing in quondam sort appears. I am no flint-hart female, bloody minded; Mocking thy senses with a borrowed shape, But one that sees thy sense through passion blinded, And sighs, and seeks away for thine escape: Then charm this mad infection, that doth reign In beldame fury of thy witless brain. Be not as sottish as the simple sort, That wrack their wits upon misfortunes shelf, Nor yield thy reasons, beauty-battred for't, Crying God help, yet never help thyself: Thy crazed Shipp's not so far run on shore, But thou mayst scape and flourish as before. Acolast. Et tu Brute, wilt thou stab Caesar too? Thou art my friend and wilt not see me wronged, I pray thee leave me without more ado, For with my life my sorrows are prolonged: I know thou pleasurest not in my distress, Then rob me not of deaths true happiness. Yet since in sunshine of my better days, Thou wast a Father to my headstrong youth; Training my rash-braind thoughts in reasons ways, Whose words I ever found the glass of Truth; My cares shall take a truce with death so long, Till I have made thee privy to my wrong. Lo here at hand, a circle-braunching tree, Whose levy bosom makes a summer seat, Nature hath raised this arbour purposely To shroud our bodies from the parching heat: Here while we sit within this gloomy shade, I'll tell my Love, and how it did invade. Eub. Then yield me up this ireful instrument, The destined engine of thy tragedy: 'tis wisdoms rule, occasions to prevent, And give no ground to Satan's treachery. Well now begin, and give thy sorrows vent, I'll sit and mourn with thee till day be spent. Mcolast. To show the poison of my endless pining, The task is long and tedious to express, Bright Phoebus to the Western deep declining, And repetition never made thing less: Who rippes the rancour of old-wounded flesh, In steed of healing, makes it bleed a fresh. Yet since the heavens are so propitious, To make my friend eye-witness to my fall; listen kind Father what I shall disclose, How Love became Disdains unhappy thrall: And as I story my flint-moving wrong, Weep thou, to bear the burden to my song. Sic incipit Stultorum tragicomedia. THree months ago, when Phoebus in his pride Had scaled hot Cancers sunny-parched cell; And Ceres cast her summer's green aside; And flowers had changed their colour, form, and smell; When days were longest & nights were waxen short; And younglings met to wanton and to sport. About this time I singled out a day, With merry consorts to delight myself; I thought my ship might sometime rove astray, And yet not run herself on every shelf. What Siren played, but I durst dance her measure? Thinking to master Venus' son at pleasure. Fortune, who long had owed my hap a grudge, Summoned wild younglings to a summers drinking, To which my merry mates and I did trudge, Of such an accident full little thinking: Where revels reign, and dancing holds a day, I''s hard if Acolastus keep away. Well, there was I, and there was Fortune too, Who had prepared bait to work my bane; There did I pass a pleasant hour or two, In dancing for the gloves and other gain: There did I gaze against that glorious Sun, By which my heart was fired, my sight was done. O give me leave to sigh a little while, Before my hell of foul mishap break loose; But let not Fortune see me lest she smile, And say, his mountain thoughts end in a mouse, Oh, 'tis a burden that will break the back, To see one's foe triumphing in his wrack. Scarce had the Sun attained his noontide prick, Gracing our pastimes with a summers day, A train of Ladies trooping very thick, Directly towards us made their speedy way: For want of worse our Music drew them on, Pan's pipe plays sweet, Apollo being gone. Look how astonished in a qualmy trance, The man that meets a lothsome-visaged Bear, Struck with amazement of this sudden chance, Falls to the ground half slain with very fear, Within his heart and senses are at strife, Past fear of death, and yet past hope of life. So was I daunted at mine eyes first gazing, Sweeping they came, and seemed to brush the ground, Their tipto-tripping pace bred double mazing, Their rattling silks my senses did confound: It seemed, Diana's Nymphs had left her Queen, To sport themselves a while upon this green. Or lovesick Venus in a huntress weed, Meaning to seek Adonis in the wood, Mounted upon a snowwhite coloured Steed, From Pegasus proud race vaunting his blood, Came marching onward with a mayden-pace, A thousand Nymphs attending on her grace. My mates all ravished with admiration, Stood like the men which once Ioues golden son, By his spears wonder-working Transformation, Turned into semblance of a senseless stone, Or as Actaeon standing at a Bay, Finding Diana naked in his way. Fortune and Love chose me amongst the rest, As sweetest linguist of persuading wit, With modest motives kindly to request, These sinful Saints a little while to sit, And see how shepherds spend the holiday, In youth-bred sports, and casting Care away. Twixt hope and fear I marched on to meet them, My rustic blush forbade me to dissemble, Met face to face, when I was meant to greet them, My words were done, and every joint did tremble: Till my poor heart rebuking much my blame, Untied my tongue, and bade me speak for shame. More fair and beautiful, then were those three, That found the golden fruit on Ida's plain; Gods, Angels, Saints, or whatsoe'er you be, Accept the proffer of a simple swain; Draw near, and till the heat of day be spent Look on, and laugh at shepherds merriment. We have no thing of worth for to present, We plead for pardon ere our sport begin, Our boldness springeth from a true intent, Which makes an error oftentimes no sin: We boast of nought, save that it shall go hard, But our good wills shall purchase your regard. These words scarce past the limits of my lips, Sounding a parley to their modest ears; A wanton youngling from her fellows skips, Which like a Comet in my sight appears, Causing my silly wits and me to sunder, Infusing me with prophecies of wonder. For by this cross aspect I gathered well, (And yet not well, because I could not shun it) In her fair face my joys defaced to spell, My battle lost before her words begin it: For from her eyes, a kind look did she dart, Which through mine eyes dived down into my heart. A pretty while this pretty creature stood, Before the engine of her thoughts began, Seeming to sympathise my heavy mood, Pitying my prone looks, and my colour wan: Till blushing forth a pure vermilion die, With low-tuned voice she made me this reply. Shepheard we see you are disposed to flatter, That frump us with a false-supposed fair; men's words are Metaphors, it makes no matter, You know poor women, sir, are made to bear: But since you made so plausible a motion, This day we consecreate to your devotion. Mistress (quoth I) if any take offence, My heart makes good the trespass of my tongue; Humanity full easily can dispense, Where love and zeal are authors of the wrong. Good wine desires no bush to set it forth, And I too mean to blaze your beauty's worth. But (Lady) if a swain may be so bold, To crave admittance 'mongst your other men, Myself will bring you where you shall behold Our rustic revels at your ease, and when In Thetis lap the Sun shall drown the day, I'll set you forward in your former way. As fares the man convict of Heresy, Whose judgement dooms him death by cruel flame, The world eye-witness of his infamy, Bearing a faggot for his further shame, Full faintly wending onward to the fire, Where self opinion shall receive his hire: So marched I before this mayden-trayne, Love swore, excuses should not serve my turn, Quoth he, Thou thinkest me by Reason slain, Thou hold'st a false point, now recant and burn: I cried retire, and he injoind this smart, To bear fond fancies faggot in my heart. Who so hath seen the tender Marigold, Spreading her pride against the world's fair eye, But when the sun his glory doth enfold, This pretty Creature shuts and seems to die: So did I love to gaze upon my Sun, But when she turned away, my life was done. Thus while my sight was surfeiting on Beauty, We suddenly surprised the bashful Swains, Who showed their harts-ioy by their homely duty, Kissing these lovely Ladies for their pains; Seeking all means to farther their delight, While thus I ruminate on Fortune's spite. Inconstant minion, mother of mischance, True Virtues cross, delighting still in change, When most thou fawn'st thy favour's but a glance, Thy naughty nature loveth still to range: Great pity is it, were there remedy, That men are tied to thine extremity. Thou art a stepdame to each honest thing, Training up vices like a loving Nurse, Crowning the beggar, pulling down the king, What ever Nature made thou makest worse: Thou helpest a man a while to cast his dice, And turn'st thy wheel upon him in a trice. Thou dost usurp the worlds round circled stage, Acting thereon thy variable scenes, Where oft inspired with a bedlam rage, Thou plaguest the innocent with endless pains: And those that seem to day but lookers on, Thou mak'st thine actors ere tomorrow gone. O hateful Hag! thou hast betrayed my life, In giving weapons unto Cupid's wrath; Perceiving Love and Reason were at strife, Thou falsely train'dst me on to Errors path; Where taking vantage on my hard distress, Love forced my heart his valour to confess. For Love had laboured long to work my fall, Battering the bulwark of my naked breast; But Reason gave his force no ground at all, Bidding the blind Boy set his heart at rest: For more he sought to try this fond conclusion, The more my courage shined in his confusion. Till thou to spit the venom of thy spite, Subornedst Cupid how he soon might slay me, Abandoning his bow and arrows quite, You laid this privy complot to betray me; When Fortune first had brought me to the bay, A maidens eyes should steal my heart away. Immortal heavens, and ye great powers above, From whose fair influence all justice flows, Work your revenge on Fortune and on Love, From whom the title of my trouble grows: That men beholding it may safely say, No sin can scape unpunished past his day. While thus I prosecute my fruitless plaining, Two Shepherds summoned me to see their sport, Whose sudden sight soon moved me to abstaining, Lest they might hear my tragical report: Clearing my face from clouds of discontent, With these two loving swains away I went. Like as the soft and tender leaved flower, Whose drooping colour shows his life is done, Being lately drenched in some dismal shower, Till he attract refreshing from the sun: So I whose hopes but lately seemed to die, Was now reviv'd by beauties fresh supply. For now in Tropic of false Fortune's height, My nest was built by sweetest Beauties side, loves yoke was easy now I felt no weight, My ship was carried with a gentle tide: I sat too hot, yet still I did desire, To live a Salamander in the fire. Now did I wish the day would ne'er be done, So loath I was to leave this Paradise, Or that our revels were but new begun, But swift-winged Pleasure passeth with a trice: For Love had sworn when ere I did depart, I should perchance go home without a heart. Now while I court the Lodestar of my life, And with her pretty parley feed mine ears; O sugared words, yet sharper than a knife, Distilling Nectar-droppes on all that hears; The merry swains broke of our private pleasure, And music summoned us to dance a Measure. Taking this Lady by the lily hand, I taught her quickly tread the shepherds round: Lo now blows up the secret-smoking brand, Which did my reason and my sense confound, For Love is nine-lived kill him ne'er so much, The wanton Boy reviveth with a touch. Look as a man stung by the noisome Asp, Whose hony-poyson tickles with delight, Sucks in the venom of this mortal wasp, Wholly suspecties of the serpent's spite; So I so mad, that reason could not turn me, Bathed in the flame, which afterward did burn me. Oft did I strive to take her in mine arms, And tell my heart's grief by some silent motion, She was too young to level at my harms, Or pick a meaning from my dumb devotion. Oft would my dotage make me dance amiss, And then begin new measure with a kiss. She bade me dance true, but I loved my feigning, (Hang him that loves and has no mother-wit) I said our music erred in over-straining, No marvel then my footing could not hit; And to prevent the jars that came by this, Our lips made music where our feet did miss. Our country Round by this was almost done, When wanton weary suddenly she grew; Nay then (quoth I) would we had ne'er begun, Fair Nymph cheer up thyself and dance a new: For if thou droop, our hearts will fall as fast, As Autumn leaves before the Winter's blast. Behold the sunbeams for thy Beauty's sake, Dancing Lavoltoes on the liquid floor; The whistling winds unwonted music make, Whiles Sirens sit and sing upon the shore: Yea the fierce Wolf is come to see thee play, And for thy sake our Lambs keep holiday. See, see fair Flora decked in summer's pride, Burning in emulation of thy beauty; And Venus nestled by Adonis' side, Seeking to do his love peculiar duty: Fair heavens Queen sits dallying with her jove, Lest he should see thee, and so change his love. If then the treasure of thy supreme fair, Breed jealousy in gods, wonder in men; O do not thus thy beauty's worth impair, Quitting our kindness with unkind disdain: Gentility should bear a gentle mind, And perfect Beauty never proves unkind. This said, I trained her friendly from the rest, Into a sweet and solitary place, Where Love himself might deign to build his nest, All things consorted with so great a grace: Had Mars played double here with loves fair queen. Their double-dealing Phoebus ne'er had seen. For why such was the shadow of this grove, All thick beset with circle-branching trees, It gave no passage to the sun above, Whose piercing light our actions oversees: But here and there small day-holes did appear, To light the ground, and let in cooling air. Amidst this Thicket with a silent gliding, A Crystal brook ran in a flowery brim, Where labouring Swans trained up by natures guiding, Record a thousand sweet notes as they swim: Sweet notes they were, tuned with a sweeter voice, That charmed the trees, and made the stones rejoice. Here summer's Queen had made her flowery bed Of the white Lily, and the crimson Rose, With thousand other kinds of white and red, Whose heavenly hue her art did so dispose, As bred amazement in the dazzled sight, And cloyed the senses with a world's delight. The chirping Birds to shun the heat of june, Fled to the shelter of this shady ground, Where praising Nature in a silvery tune, The hollow caves and valleys made resound: In brief, this plot contained the perfect sum Of all the sweets in fair Elysium. While towards this Paradise we made our way, We were encountered by the glorious sun, Who purposely to force this fair Nymph stay, Some hotter now than when his course begun; That he might feed his false eye with her sight, Whose beauty dimmed the glory of his light. My Love was faint, and forced to set her down, Whose Angels face distilled pearly sweat; Love bade me give her there a grass-green gown, In spite of Phoebus, and his forced heat, But while my lingering thoughts stood to devise, I saw God Morpheus seizing on my prize. Whereat I fell into a jealous trance, Sleep eyes (quoth I) see not my Love profaned, Or if heavens power have power to help mischance, Let not the Rose of beauty thus be stained: Fie, fie (quoth Reason) where's thy wits in keepe● Disturb her not, thy Love is but a sleep. I laughed to think hart-burning jealousy Should build a stage for Puppets in my brain, Presenting visions to my fantasy, That nothing were, nor could return again: Self-biting Cur, a bold unbidden guest, Whose foul disturbance mars true lovers feast. Me thought her sleeping proved sleep divine, Me thought the winds for pity would not blow, Shut were the casements of her crystal eyen, Which waking, like two silver Moons did show; Shut were the day-bright eyes, where all might see Fair Beauty linked in love with Chastity. Sleep on (quoth I) sweet Saint of purity, Yet sleeping, smile thy beauty on the air, That every creature humbled at thy knee, May offer homage to thy supreme fair: But turn from Phoebus, lest his fond desire Cause him descend and set the world on fire. I'll charm the brazen doors of fearful dreams, And bind the stern God Morpheus in a chain, Lest he molest thy mind with idle themes, Which in the fancies of the night do reign, And guard thy person with as dear a price, As if I kept the gates of Paradise. For thy sake Acol shall perfume the winds With costly Myrrh, and curious Ambergris: I'll venture more than jason did to find The happy fortune of a golden fleece, Which I myself full safely mean to keep, And wrap thee in it, when thou g'ins to sleep. And you sweet birds, whose nimble-relisht notes, Ravish the soul of man, and cheer the day, Stay the shrill descant of your silvery throats, Till Beauty wake and bid your music play: Or if you needs will sing, some tune devise, Whose Angel-sound may charm all Argus eyes. Thus did I greet the Idol of my heart, Offering up tears before her sleeping shrine. And was beginning to bewray my smart, When lo, as if her spirit could divine, Opening the closet of her lockt-up eyes, She did prevent me in this cunning wise: Shepherd, I glory in the happy chance, That made me Mistress of so kind a man, And one so well my praises can advance; Good Lord, how long since you the whetstone wan? Your high-pitcht words are like the torch by night, That wastes itself in giving others light. Tell me whose person did you passionate? Expressing motions of internate woe, Grieving yourself to guess at others fate? You were to blame, that would not let me know, Nor seek my help to play some tragic part; For I can sigh too, yet ne'er rend my heart. Belike your Swains intent a Comedy, To be presented in some solemn place; And lovesick you these passions must descry: Which to adorn with action and with grace, You daily thus make trial of your part, With sighs and tears that never pierce the heart. Ah would to God flint-hearted wench (thought I) Thou feltst the cross which love hath laid upon me; Or that my woes gave not thy words the lie, And my poor heart had power henceforth to shun thee. Thy Mother (wanton) was not half so old, Yet knew she when a suitors tale was told. love brought me in to act this wooing scene, The argument was written in thy face. The words were such as might express my pain, The end to win thee to a liking grace: And every period had his sense made plain, With tears, which Chorus-like mine eyes did rain. Thou didst not sleep, yet hearing could not move thee, (A cold presage for him that means to woo) My wanton gesture seemed to say, I love thee, But all was labour lost that I could do: My suit was sleeveles, thy regard so cold, As if that I another's tale had told. This said my heart, but this I durst not say, So loud the regent of my heart might hear me, The place unfit my fancy to bewray, The time and other circumstance did fear me: Her scene performed, my tongue thus acts his part, Hiding the Love, that revelled in my heart. Fair Saint, if Love have forced me to offending▪ With irksome prattle, crossing thy repose; O blame the beauty on thy face depending, That gives a tongue of praises to thy foes. Then grant me leave, how ever others deem, To give thy Beauty excellent esteem. But please thee (Sweeting) finish out our walk, (The pleasure great, the labour is but small) And in yond Eden see how every stalk, Brags the sweet blossoms he is blest withal, I'll load thy lap with Flora's tender pride, And bring thee homeward in the Eventide. Thus said, I brought her to this shady rest, This green-dyed grove, this summer's Paradise, Where Love by pleading hard might make me blest, Where I was bend to cast my Fortune's dice, And in a minute ease or end the strife, Or win my Love, or else to lose my life. Now while the Damsel wondering Nature's store, Seized on the flowery treasure of the spring, And more she gathered, still desiring more, (The last is best, and new sells every thing) I madly tossed between Despair and joy, Prayed for success to the blind-seeing Boy. Great Prince of Love, to whose victorious hand My frozen heart was forced perforce to yield, And in my bosom entertain the brand, 'Gainst which weak Reason never man could shield: O be propitious to an humble Swain, And give my love success, to quite my pain. Thou art so little (else our Poets miss) That thou canst hide thee in a wanton eye, So subtle thou canst enter with a kiss, So crafty thou canst counterfeit to die, Or being dead, thy quality is such, To live again by virtue of a tuch. O lend me thy insinuating power, Words steeped in syrup of Ambrosia, To force my Danae with their golden shower, That she may bless me with a yielding nay: Each sentence be a sweet enchanting charm, Upon her heartstrings playing loves alarm. So shall thy glory be immortal still, The conquest won to set thy captives free, And cure their wounds, whom thou might'st justly kill▪ O exercise thy pity then in me; That finding her to ease my heavy bands, May bless the time I fell into thy hands. By this her bosom stored, her lap was full, And wanton weary, quickly set her down, No pretty flower there was, but she did pull; No colour set in Ariadne's crown, Or in the compass of fair Iris Bow, She did not gather to enrich her show. Now powerful Love that revelled in my heart, Controlled my silence, hating to be mute, Still rubs the soar that made my wound to smart, And strongly urged me to commence my suit: Till fancy grown too headstrong to retire, Thus in a word I told her my desire. Goddess (quoth I) for less thou canst not be, God lief thou couldst, or that my birth were better, My love, my life, both consecrate to thee, I offer as an insufficient debtor: O stand propitious to an humble Swain, That craves but love to answer love again. I call to record Venus and her Son, No means unsought, no art unwrought by me, To quench this flame when first it was begun, Foreseeing still this foul extremity; But wisdom weak, my Reason's force was small, To conquer love, which conquers wit and all. I know no bastard Hawk can soar so high, As doth the Hobby towering high by kind; Nor Aegle-like behold the world's fair eye, But with his beams their sight is stricken blind. I know 'gainst Nature actions are in vain, And high-pitcht thoughts reap nothing but disdain. Yet Phoebus shining, little Gnats may play, Small flies may perch them by the Aegle side, It lies in compass of thy yea, or nay, To be my bane, or to become my Bride: Love strikes a match betwixt mortal men and Gods, Sweet love me then, can be no greater odds. O be remembered, was not Vulcan lame? Yet was he Lord of lovely Venus' bed; Or if he were not, more his wife to blame, That ruled the reins to make him bear the head. Such Vulcan's now are ours, who doting old, Marry young Maids to keep them from cocolde. Divine Aurora full as fair as she, Whose heauen-di'de face the Graces still admire, Loved graybeard Tithon, as ill fac'te as he, And in her choice so pleased her chaste desire, That oft she said, when Beauty's dower is spent, Mine old-man's love shall yield me sweet content. I will not muffle up a mean estate, As smoth-tongued suitors daily use to do, Bragging of Birth, of Friends, of this and that, Of money, lands, yea and of Virtue too, Breathing vain boasts of many a golden shower, And things (God wot) were never in their power. A shame to boast of blood's antiquity, Wherein no honour nor true Virtue lies; Each Brute may brag hereof as well as we, One still succeeding as another dies: 'tis Virtue (Minion) doth nobilitate, And makes a Monarch of a mean estate. Let others promise Mountains if they list, entrapping fools by false insinuations, Till women's hopes do end in Had I wist, And make them say, men's words are but temptations. I hate all shifts, plain dealing still is blest, I like the mean, and here set down my rest. My dwelling is within a country Farm, My table richly furnished with Content, My robes are such as keep my body warm, My pleasure's rate sits at an easy rent, My cheer is great, my charge is very small, My fruits, my flocks; my foes are none at all. My life is nothing but a world of Love, I love my God, and next I love my King, I love my Caesar's friends that sit above, I honour Virtue above any thing: I love my country and my dearest kin, Briefly I nothing hate but miser's sin. I spend the day time on these pleasant Plains, And while my Lambs grow wanton with the spring, Upon an oaten pipe I cheer my pains, And being weary, strait I fall to sing: This done, I laugh again, and shake my crown, To see the world of late turned upside down. Our Fathers plained in their weary days, How much the world was changed from that of yore: We say of late, 'tis turned many ways, Yet will not stand as adam's did before: Each side is turned, and yet it standeth wrong; And will do still, I'll tell thee wench how long. While Kings do thirst for Countries and for Crowns, And Princes pray upon their Neighbour Lands, Might treads down right, and Treason selleth Towns, justice lies fettered in oppressions bands, So long the righteous gods will surely frown, And we shall find the world turned upside down. While Nobles vainly vaunting of their blood, Do sell themselves to sensual appetite, Neglecting time to do their Country good, To punish wrongs, aid the poor-man's right; So long the righteous gods will surely frown, And we shall find the world turned upside down. While cities swim in Lucre, Lust, and Pride, No art but craft, no gainful trade but sin, While velvet breeches is allowed to ride, And aged Wisdom walketh bare and thin; So long the righteous gods will surely frown, And we shall find the world turned upside down. While Lechery and Lucar strike a match, Making a compound of two deadly sins; And o'er th'Hesperian fruit like dragon's watch, Or as the Eden-keeping Cherubims; So long the righteous gods will surely frown, And we shall find the world turned upside down. While poor are pinched by grunting Avarice, And Gentiles forced their jointures for to sell To Father Gravity, whose biting vice Will send his soul for handsill unto hell; So long the righteous gods will surely frown, And we shall find the world turned upside down. While younglings choose their Lovers by their coin, Seeking to graft upon a golden tree, Goods make the choice, the devil he must join, But beware their souls, the Priest will have his fee; So long the righteous gods will surely frown, And we shall find the world turned upside down. Briefly while Vices mask in virtues weed, And Reason made a Bawd to each abuse; While Beasts are fatted, good men suffer need, And all things altered from their proper use; So long the righteous gods will surely frown, And we shall find the world turned upside down. Thus while the world in sin is madly tossed, Some bear the purse, but judas loves no poor, The rest in pleasures Labyrinth are lost, And would return, but Custom keeps the door; I sit aloof and laugh the world to scorn, Happy in this, to be a Shepherd borne. I am a King, my Conscience is my Crown, My Court is thoughts, enriched with Content, My mind to me is as a walled Town, My Treasure, Grace which never can be spent; The want of worldly things is very small, To him whose heart desires them not at all. I make my power the limits to my will, And count well doing sum of all my wealth, My wishes few, and easy to fulfil, My care is none but soul and body's health; In Heaven my hap, on God my hopes rely; Lo thus I live, and thus I mean to die. Say me then (Sweeting) dost thou like mine offer, My love, my life, and all at thy command? Say, canst thou stoop unto a poor man's proffer? Thou art my judge, here I hold up my hand; Now pass the speedy doom of life or death, Or cure my bane, or kill me with a breath. I had no sooner said, but strait began The clouds appear that menaced a storm, Her face fair sky being turned pale and wan, What might I hope but tempest every hour? The cursed Fates have cloud-ecclipst my Sun, Whose light once lost, of force my life is done. First darts her amiable brow coy frowns, And cruel hate inserted in disdain Inthrones herself, than scorn and wrath abounds, And where before Love-tempting looks did reign, There proud Contempt armed with disdainful ire, Scorned proffered service of my poor desire. Heart-slaine with looks, I fell upon the ground, Her meaning struck me ere her words were done, As weapons met before they make a sound, Or as the deadly bullet of a gun: Yet all my passions had no power to move her, But thus she rates me, that so much did love her? Presumptuous Swain, proud self-conceited groom, Whose climbing thoughts at last will break their neck, God lief my hate might help to build thy tomb, And I survive to triumph on thy wrack; That when the world shall see thy love disgraced. Men may beware of love too highly placed. What wanton mark of loose immodesty Couldst thou decipher in me all this while? Dar'st thou presume to touch a deity, Before she grace thee with a yielding smile? (thought, Poor fool, what stars bewitch thy wretched To fancy her, that sets thee so at nought? Thou seest my body strait as Cedar tree, That fame's the woods of rich Arabia: My brows embossed with heavens rich Heraldree, Tables containing Beauties perfect law: Mine eyes two twinkling stars, whose piercing rays, Have power to dim the brightest summer days. My face the Sunne-enlightning beauty's sky, Whose charmefull spells the proudest can control, loves Adamant to every wandering eye, That like a Siren can enchant the soul; The shop where Nature sets her art to show, Where crimson Roses sleep in beds of snow. Poor foolish fly, why playst thou with the flame? Look not on beauty for it soon will burn thee: eat, shun the thought which may procure thy shame; The fire once kindled, 'tis too late to turn thee. I am mild Venus 'mongst gentility, But fierce Medusa to thy base eye. Thy birth too base for me to bear thy name, Thy person nothing hath that may commend thee, Thy living will not let thee play such game, Thy threadbare love full little can befriend thee; Renounce thy suit, root out these fancies strait, Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight. Or else in sight of heaven, I here protest, I love thee so, to live thy foe till death, For could one kind look ever make thee blest, First would I forced be to yield my breath. The more thy love, the greater is thy pain; I will not stay to hear thee speak again. With this she left the Melancholy place, This fatal grove, the bed of mine unrest; And back unto her fellows hies a pace, Leaving me prostrate, heavily distressed: Look how a bright star shooteth in the night, So fast she fled, and vanished from my sight. Farewell (quoth I) sweet Saint of purity, Wonder of women, and the worlds admire; More was I speaking, but it would not be, Grief stopped my dumb tongue with too much desire; That I was forced to sigh instead of speaking, As if my swollen heart were already breaking. Then broke th'unchanneled issue of mine eyes, My tears gave vent unto my tired soul, Who breathed hot sighs like lightning from the sky, Such is Desire, which no man can control; And pining grief still thinks it treble wrong, When heart is barred the aidance of the tongue. Thus as a man laid speechless in a trance, Or one resembling deaths anatomy, The birds in silence wondering at my chance, Abruptly ceased their busy harmony: Till some propitious power to ease my pain Restored my sense, and thus I cried amain; O quis te nostris oculis, pulcherrima Virgo, Obiecit Deus, & visam te protinus idem Eripuit nobis, saevo ut consumerer igni? Illa meo nunquam facies de pectore abibit; Illam vos etiam mecum discetis amare Intonsi montes, vos umbriferae convalles. Sive greges inter captabo frigus & auram, Flumina seu propter salices in valle putabo, Aut agitans instabo aliud quodcunque, tibi ante Carmina pauca canam, & te pectore suspirabo, Toto unam te cord; prius (dediscet amare Gramina ovis, nemora alta ferae, vaga flumina pisces,) quam tua de nostris vellatur cura medullis, O decus, atque animi nostri pergrata voluptas! I looked about if any would reply, (Grief best is pleased with partners in his plaining) The Damsel gone, I saw no creature nigh, Save trees and stones which could not know my meaning: To whom shrill Echo in pity of my pain, Records my woes, and tells them o'er again. And now the night with darkness overspread, Had drawn her sable curtains o'er the earth, And from her coal-black melancholy bed, Sent foggy mists and filthy vapours forth; When home I went poor, hapless, and forlorn, Cursing the day that ever I was borne. O black Despair, foul lot of faithful Love, Blasting our hopes, ere they begin to bud, Whose dogged nature pity cannot move, Nor aught can pacify but human blood: A thousand times thou end'st a wretched life, Which lives again to pine in further strife. The Nymphs and Satyrs in their airy bowers, Dansed their Chorus, but it would not please me, No pastures, walks, nor wreath of sweetest flowers, No flocks, no friends, nor no delight could ease me; Her doom is past, entreaty could not stay it; I owe Despair a death, and I must pay it. This plot, this place, this melancholy grove, I singled out to lay my Cares to sleep, To end my life, and with my life my love; Pity not me (sweet friend) forbear to weep: Death changed to life I never shall repent, That life is dead, that lives in discontent. Eubulus. The weary Sun now settles in the West, And time permits not speak what I was meant, This night I purpose thou shalt be my guest, I'll tell thee things perhaps to thy content; And e'er our Lambs lie down to rest to morrow, I'll find a salve to counterpoise thy sorrow.