THE NIGHTINGALE WARBLING forth her own disaster; OR The rape of Philomela. Newly written in English verse, By MARTIN PARKER, LONDON, Printed by G.P. for William Cook, and are to be sold at his shop near Furnevals june gate in Holborn. 1632, TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Henry Parker, Lord Morley and Mount Eagle, Baron of Ric, etc. My Lord: YOu may (I confess) accuse me of petulancy and exceeding presumption, in that I fare unworthy and altogether unknown to your honour, should thus dare to attempt the Dedication of this my unpolisht piece to one so eminent in judgement as your excellent Self, yet when I contemplate your virtues (whereof humility is chief) I am emboldened (in hope of your Honourable pardon) to present this Embryo of my weak brain to your judicious view: desiring your Lordship to show yourself (as you hitherto have been) the Pattern and Patron of courtesy in accepting and remitting my book and my boldness: the ancient Philosophers did decipher a true Noble man by four excellent qualities which are these: First, A haughty courage in time of Martial exercise. Secondly, A heart to judge. Thirdly, A hand to ●eward: and Fourthly, Clemency to p●rdon. I knowing your noble mind to be amply replete with all these virtuous endowments, what wonder i● it that I have thus adventured the Poem, for the excellency of the history (I confess) did deserve a more skilful penman, being a Tragedy so unparaleld, that I wonder why none of our temporary Laureates have undertaken it before: but as I do rejoice to be advanced to the first place in this work, so do I more abundantly exult in that it finds so honourable a Patron My Nightingale fearing the hissing Serpents of this envious age desires your powerful wings to shelter her. And in lieu of your generous approbation of her song, my Muse (by you her noble Maecenas animated) shall endeavour hereafter with a Posy of a sweeter odour ●o kiss the hand of your Honour. In t●● interim' I remain both in heart tongue and pen, The devout adorer of your Lordship's virtues. MARTIN PARKER To the judicious Reader, health. I Am not ignorant (courteous Reader) of the old adage; He that seeks to please all men, shall never finish his task; for there is no piec so accurately done, but some (either through ignorance or envy) will espy conceited faults in it; let appelles draw his picture with never so much art and judgement the Cobbler will find a hole in his coat; let an Author writ as learnedly as Homer, were it possible, he shall be subject to the cavilling censure of Zoilus; no marvel then if I the most unperfect vassal of the Muses be scoffed for my endeavour, when the best deservings Artist is not free: but my hope is that though I be condemned by the ignorant Momus, or envious Critic, I shall be bailed by the learned and judicious, to whom I only send my Book: for the rest, as they cannot be barred from reading, so I will not hinder them from their own opinions: which when they have, their gain is little, and my loss is less. If my Nightingale's song please the honest and intellectual man, she hath her wish, for she sings not to please knaves and fools: nor can they hurt her much: unless they shoot her dead with the arrows of aspersion; but I think none is so inhuman to hurt (much less to kill) a Nightingale, therefore she is confident of her safety, and dares adventure into the world to warble forth her own disaster. In her story you shall find such woeful, wonderful and tragical discourse, that a heart of Adamant way find its invalidity, like unto Goat's blood which hath the virtue to dissolve it, when to all other means it is impenetrable. I have endeavoured (as her Secretary) to pen her song, with as much skill as my little learning can produce, wherein if I have pleased the fancy of the understanding Reader, I have hit the white, and gained the fruition of my hopes; if not, all my Poetry is quite killed in the egg. Therefore, good Reader, for the love thou bearest to the Muses, judge charitably now that I may be animated to proceed to thy future profit and pleasure. Which hoping thou wilt, do I commit thee to the tuition of thy Maker, and rest, Thine, if now, ever hereafter, MARTIN PARKER. The Author to his Book, and it to him in manner of a Dialogue. Poor harmless bird, how dar'st thou undertake To leave the desert woods and fly abroad, Mongst those that of thy song a scoff will make, And poison execrate like to a toad What ever pains thy Penman hath bestowed? One he mislikes the phrase, another will Say this word fits not well, that verse runs ill. What though one overweening fool may find Some faults produced from his fond conceit? For him I shall a thousand meet more kind That will commend my song and give complete Encomious to thee for thy travel great, For thou (though no great Clerk, yet) hast so penned it, That twenty may find fault ere one can mend it. To my friend Martin Parker on his mournful ditty, The rape of Philomela. IT's now in fashion, he who hath brought forth With's pen an issue of his brains best worth, Before toth' larger stage he venture it, Will clothed with begged or borrowed rags of wit: Thy Nightingale needs none; yet she shall have These fragrant branches, which the Muses gave Her from their bower, to shroud herself among, From hissing Serpents that would spoil her song. These will to her be a delight of choice, But give no diapazon to her voice, To please the modern fry of wit and fame: That bribe their judgements with the Author's name, And in the title-page conclude it ill, Because it sprung from thy obscurer quill. On these set easy thoughts, her voice she'll raise To sing this unjust rape; and thy just praise. William Reeve. An Encomium on the Author and his work. IS there less pains or merit in translation, Then of a Poem in his new creation? Or doth be less the Laurel branch deserve, That will the subject of another serve? No sure: the weapon by this Author used May by another easily be abused. He knew his own invention, matter, end, His proper scope, whether his Muse to tend His liberty was choice to run, his field Was large, that he each way himself might wield. But thou in narrow bounds art now included, Thy Muse being from her liberty secluded; Captive to thy Author's humour and thy quill Subject to his subject, method, and his will. Carp not then Momus at another's pains, On Naso's Poem; since he sufficient gains Hath got already, eternising his name, And memory still echoing forth his fame, For his invention of this mournful song, Sadly tuned forth by Philomela's tongue. His was the plain song of this direful ditty. The descant thine, moving each heart to pity Sweet Philomela's rape, henceforth so long As incest, murders, cruelty and wrong, Revenge, and sad Eryinnys here shall dwell, So long this story forth thy praise shall tell. I.S. To his ingenious friend M.P. Author of this Poem. I Often have admired thy fluent vein, Composing things of an inferior strain; But neither I nor any man could look, For such a piece from thee, as this thy book. Wert thou a scholar than 'twere no rare news, But being none can any Reader choose But wonder at thy smooth and haughty style? Were I not sure thou didst this work compile, I'd not believe't; tush, common sense doth show it, 'tis wit not learning, that can make a Poet. Proceed with boldness then, and let men see, The Aganippean well doth spring in thee. Da. Price. The Argument of this Poem or History. PAndion Prince of Athens (as the Roman Poet Ovid writes) had two daughters, the eldest called Progne, and the youngest Philomela; which Progne, being espoused to Tereus, the young King of Thrace; lived in great tranquillity and happiness for the space of five years; in which time Progne (more fond than wise) desired to see her sister Philomela, and with hourly importunity filled the ears of her husband Tereus, so that he gave his consent to fetch Philomela, and having gotten the forced consent of her father (partly by her own desire to see her sister) he carried her away, and in the ship began to attempt the conquest of her virginity; whom she resists, and strives to reclaim with forcible arguments: but landing, he took her to a grange house that stood in his own Country, and there perforce both ravished and cut out her tongue lest she should bewray his impiety; so goes home, and tells his Queen, that her sister Philomela was dead: she grieves; but he with assimulation pacifier her, little mistrusting any such inhuman action as he had done. But Philomela by herself (enclosed) wrought her mind in an handkerchief, which by a Gentleman that came that way by chance, she sent to the Queen her sister, who concealed her spleen, till she found fit time of vindication: which occasion soon offered in this manner: It was an annual custom in Thrace for women to go strangely disguised about the country, to celebrate the feasts of Bacchus; in this manner went Progne to the grange, and fetched out her sister Philomela, whom having brought to the Court privately, she afterwards invited her husband to a banquet, killed her young son Itis, who was about three years of age, and dressing him for meat set it before her husband Tereus; who having eaten it, and the impious deed detected, the Poet will have them (as unworthy of humane shape) to be Metamorphosed into birds. Philomela into a Nightingale, Progne to a Swallow, and Tereus to a Lapwing. Note the moral and let the fiction pass as it is. THE RAPE OF PHILOMELA. When Tellus old by Hiems late oppressed, Was pitied and rescued by Ver, And in her gorgeous mantle was new dressed Which Flora kindly had bestowed on her; I that did health before all wealth prefer Walked forth to take the benefit of th'air, Wherewith Ambrosia might not then compare. 2 And chancing to pass by a curious grove, Which Nature artificially had made, Excelling that wherein the Queen of love Her wanton toys with her coy lover played, Therein I stepped myself a while to shade From Titan's force, which then full South was got, Reflecting rays that were exceeding hot. 3 There as I lay reposed on the ground, Delighted with its odoriferous smell, The heavenly Choristers about me round, Made music which did please my senses well: Especially the lovely Philomela. Upon a hawthorn bough did warbling sit, You that will hear her song attend to it. 4 For by the figure called Prosopopeie, I'll tell her tale as though herself did speak, You'll pardon give, if not so well as she I paint her story, for my brain's too weak, For such a task, yet I the ice will break That others of more learning may endeavour Further to wade in this deep spacious river. 5 Then let your minds suppose that you do heart A virgin ravished and deprived of tongue, For so the Nightingale that sings so clear, Was once, as Ovid long ago hath sung; You maidens, wives, and men that hear her song Regard it well for it concerns you all, 'tis woeful, wonderful and tragical. 6 I was, saith she, the daughter of a Prince Who ruled the flourishing Athenian state, I had a sister that before nor since For shape and beauty hardly had a mate: Our father had no son, so't pleased fate, We his two daughters did support his age, Whom he maintained in princely equipage. 7 But see the mutability o'th' world And worldly things; how apt we are to fall From bisse to bale; we to and fro are hurled From joy to woe, from liberty to thrall; Most know their birth, but none know how they sha●● Depart from hence? or where, or when, or how, No time is ours but that which we have now. 8 My sister's beauty was by blab-tongued fame Divulged and dispersed fare and near, The youthful King of Thrace, Tereus by name, Though fare remote did of this Phoenix hear, And quickly left his realm and subjects dear, To come and see whether fame lied, or no, But seeing her, he said, 'twas certain so. 9 He wooed hard to have her for his mate, And got at last her (and our fathers) love; The nuptial rites in princely pomp and state Were solemnised, and like it was to prove A happy match: for either party strove, Each other in affection to excel; Terens loved Progne, she loved him as well. 10 In a short time after the wedding day The Thracian King (having a care on's land) With his fair Bride from Athens sailed away, And soon arrived where he did command: His duteous subjects on the shore did stand To welcome home their King, and far fetched Queen With all magnificence that ere was seen. 11 Five years these Princes (as they ought to do) Did live and love with minds reciprocal, And then fair Progne (O why did she so!) Desired a thing which caused my downfall; Yet 'twas her love then blame not her at all. She did entreat her husband to fetch me, Whom she desired ardently to see. 12 He willing to fulfil her fond desire Hoyst sails for Athens to fetch Philomela, Whom for my beauty all men did admire, Coequal with my sister's truth to tell; But young when Tereus first in liking fell With her: when he came on fair Athens shore And told his tale, my Father mourned sore. 13 Alas, alas, dear son in law, quoth he, What you propound will surely be my death, For if you take my Philomela from me, 'twill not be long ere I resign my breath, For there is nothing that is underneath The heavens, that I do value worth my Child; O let me not be of her sight beguiled! 14 The pearled drops fell from his aged eyes Like rivulets, that his pale cheeks bedewed; O Tereus mark how old Pandion cries, This sorrow did presage what woe insewd; Yet Tereus his petition still renewed; Quoth he; I will as careful of her be, As heaven I wish should have respect to me. 15 Her will I cherish like my own dear Child. And I was overwilling to go see My sister Progue, than the old man smiled, Sweet Girl, if thou desires to go (quoth he) It something mitigates my grief for thee; Farewell my joy, but till thy safe return My hourly exercise shall be to mourn. 16 Here take her Terens, and my blessing with her, Be careful of her if thou wish me life. Thus went the Wolf and silly Lamb together: I towards my sister, he towards his wife. O now alas, my senses are at strife, Whether I should relate his monstrous blame, Or hold my peace; and so save manhoods shame. 17 But sith I thus have undertook the task, I must proceed and tell the story right, Wherein such horrid deeds I will unmask As may the Auditors with woe affright: O monstrous caitiff, armed with hellish spite! No time before nor after ere could tell Of any deed that thine may parallel. 18 Lucretia that Roman Lady had Great cause of woe; yet not so great as I, For Tarquin though his fact was worse than bad In ravishing the flower of chastity; He was no kin to her: but Tereus, thy Unnatural deed, can no way be excused For thou thy wives own sister hast abused. 19 When in his ship the Fox had got the Kid, Poor innocent, I dreading no such ill, Against the laws of gods and men he did Begin to tempt me to his lawless will; But I, by virtue always tutored, still Defied him and his impious desire, And used these words to quench his lust-bred fire. 20 Ah brother Tereus, spring these words from jest To try my constitution? if they do, I pardon them: but if your foul request Be framed in earnest; then I let you know, You are not as you seem i'th' outward show; A man I thought you were by form and statute, But your interior parts shame humane nature. 21 Hast thou me ravished from my father's sight, Pretending that my sister for me sent? And seekest thou thus to rob her of her right, Whom once thou thoughtst Natures chief ornament? Dost think the gods would not thy will prevent? To wrong thy wife if thou in lust dost burn, Can none but her own sister serve thy turn? 22 For shame leave off thy brutish enterprise, And let not future times speak such a thing, Even for thine honour's sake I thee advise, Stain not the sacred title of a King: Think what a scandal it to thee would bring▪ Kings like the gods should practise actions just Methinks this thought should quench thy bestial lust 23 These arguments (and many more as good) To him (past sense) I did in vain produce, My tongue more than my face inflamed his lust, All pious thoughts with him were out of use: No tears, no prayers, no reason, no excuse Can pierce his bosom (made obdure with sin;) he's now more fierce than when he did begin. 24 Yet in the ship his will he could not have Because of those which were within the same, Whereby (poor wretch) I had good hope to save That jewel which he did unjustly claim: But more and more this hellish fire did flame Therefore another course he took in hand; Being denied at Sea, he tried on land. 25 Charging his men upon his native soil To land both him and me: O, is't not strange, That men should work so many ways to spoil Their souls, when thus from virtue's path they range? Now to be brief, he brought me to a grange That stood remote from any town or place, And there (perforce) he did my corpse embrace. 26 Which having done, I tore my amber tresses, Railing against the Panther truculent, And by my furious spleen the Tyrant ghesses, Of his foul fact what would be the event; Therefore he thought his mischief to prevent. And cause to none I should bewray my wrong, He drew his knife and quite cut out my tongue. 27 Thus rape was seconded by cruelty, One vice another always doth succeed When Satan hath man's heart in custody; By heaven's ordinance it is decreed The reprobate cannot from bonds be freed, Till the full measure of his sin runs o'er: Vice unrepented still increaseth more. 28 So this fell miscreant, shame of his kind, Having by force stolen my virginity, Was loath to leave that instrument behind Which to the world might blaze his villainy: O monstrous rape, perfidious treachery! What words shall I or any use t'express This man's (nay rather monsters) wickedness? 29 Or unto whom may I him well compare? To th'emperor Nero surely and no other, Who in this sacrilegious kind did dare Incestuously to ravish his own mother, And after killed her: thou mayst be his brother, For he that his wife's sister will deflower Would use his mother so were she in's power. 30 Now what becomes of me poor Philomela, Being left spoilt and mangled in this manner, I by myself (alone) am left to dwell, Where none me knows or hears of my dishonour. Tereus goes to his Queen, and fawns upon her, Patiently praying her his news to brook, For death her sister Philomela had taken. 31 She shrieks and cries with lachrimable means, And by no means can pacified be, Sister, saith she, alas, and art thou gone? I'll not be long before I follow thee. Dear love, set bounds unto thy grief, quoth he, Thou shalt in me find husband, father, sister: With that, as judas did his Lord, he kissed her. 32 With these his subtle words of adulation, And many feigned tears to force belief, The Queen at last left off her lamentation, Or at the least gave limits to her grief; Little mistrusting him her bosom thief: O how hypocrisy can for a while Cover men's sins, and judgements wit beguile! 33 But such foul crimes though in dark corners done When heaven doth see fit time, shall be revealed And open laid in the sight of the Sun, Even when the Author thinks its most concealed: So I having to the just gods appealed For justice and revenge at last did find A means to fit the monster in his kind. 34 I with my needle showed my curious skill, A handkerchief with letters plain I wrought, Which being finished (by joves' sacred will) Did publish what I in my bosom thought; A Gentleman by chance that way was brought, He having lost his way i'th' dead of night Found out this lodge, afar off seeing light. 35 Thither he road, and at the window called I prisoner like looked out, but could not tell With words my mind, yet how I came in thrall. And how abused, with signs I showed him well; He pitying me (wretched Philomela) The handkerchief wherein my mind was seen I threw to him to carry to the Queen. 36 He faithfully delivered his charge As did befit one whom he seemed to be; The Queen by this did understand (at large) My woe wrought by her husband's villainy; Yet what she knew she covered secretly, Until she found a time revenge to work; O mark what plots in women's minds do lurk. 37 For such revenge (at length) she wrought indeed As stains her sex (as foul as be did his.) O that I might now from my task be freed; I mourn for all the story; chiefly this; I coadjutor was in her amiss: Ah now, methinks, I hear some bashful dame Say, Philomela, fie, hold thy peace for shame. 38 To this I answer 'tTwere a deed unjust, Seeing I have so lavish been to tell Each circumstance of Terous lawless lust, And barbarous cruelty, both sprung from hell, To hide my sister's fault no Philomela, Proceed aright the second part to sing Of thy sad song without dissembling, 39 And tell thine own blame too, as well as hers So shalt thou not of falsehood be accused; Be bold for he or she that truth prefers, (And loath to be by flattery abused If thou tell true) will hold thee more excused: Come briefly to't, or else thy long digression Will lengthen out the list of thy transgression. 40 Then this it is; when Progne (as I said) Well understood where I her sister was, She studying how to have me thence conveyed; Mark what the Destinies soon brought to pass; It was a custom through the realm of Thrace For women (like mad Bedlams forth to range About the country clad in garments strange. 41 In celebration of mad Bacchus' feasts (A gesture proper to his Deity, Whose power doth metamorphose men to beasts, When w●● of them hath got the mastery) Among these Bachanalian ●ides went she, I mean, my sister; through which prete●● She came to visit me with woe perplexed. 42 She took me from that place (disconsolate) And brought me with her privately to th' Court; Tereus (mistrusting no such devilish hate, Nor that he was detected in such sort) Did entertain his Queen with Princely sport, And she for him a sumptuous feast did make: To tell what Cares she got, my heart doth ache▪ 43 Her own dear Son) by Tereus on her got) Unnaturally she killed: Oh bloody beast, Nay, worse than any beast! for they will not Suffer their young of harm to taste the least, This Banquet did excel Lycaon's feast; For here a Mother of her Son made meat, Which his own Father greedily did eat. 44 Oh flinty-hearted Progne! what although Tereus offended thee beyond compare, Can nothing serve but to requite him so? Hadst thou not in thy child the greatest share, Which in thy body thou nine months didst bear? Yet blaming thee, I must myself condemn, For I consented to the death of him. 45 The pretty Infant seeing her to sit So pensively (as one deprived of joy) He runs to her (according to his wit) And asks the cause of her so sad annoy: Mother (saith he) am I not your best boy? Come kiss me then; and I'll go call my Dad, To come and play with you, and make you glad. 46 But she (not like a Woman, but a Tiger) Did cast him from her in disdainful wise, Then did she take him (Oh unheardof rigour!) And cut his head off: this could not suffice, But of his little limbs she made mined pies, Which at the banquet was the chiefest dish: Thus cursed Tereus fed on his own flesh. 47 This barbarous action gives the world good cause To enter into consultation just, For surely none can tell, without great pause, Which fact was worst: or Tereus' beastly lust, Or Pragnes monstrous murder. Sure I must Censure her deed o'th' two to be the worst, To kill her infant whom she bore and nursed. 48 He that upon his foe would vengeance take And in most wrathful manner wreak his spleen) Let him a woman of his counsel make, Their hearts most cruel are, as may be seen By the relation of this furious Queen. Fie, Philomela, thou wilt thyself abuse, If for her sake thou all her sex accuse. 49 Tush, why should I be partial in this case, I'll tell the truth; and yet I do not say, Though this one woman did her sex disgrace, That others imitate her wicked way; And yet, alas, too many go astray In these last times; for Infants every year, Are by their mothers murdered (as I hear.) 50 Which makes me to take up a just complaint Against the female sex for cruelty, And as my own disaster I do paint, Procured by my brother's luxury ●●en so I have, (and 'tis but equity) Demonstrated, or will ere I have done, Progne's foul crime in killing her own son. 51 Tereus having well fed, calls for young Jtis, Dear Queen, where is my little boy, quoth he, In whom next thou my temporal delight is? I think he's near enough to you, quoth she, Nearer than he is now he cannot be: Much good do you Sir, for you have eat, I tell you true, no ordinary meat. 52 With that I Philomela that stood unseen, Behind a cloth of arras, with the head O'th' infant, given me by my sister Queen, Stepped forth, and hearing what before she said, Of the event I nought at all did dread, That Tereus more might see his wretched case I threw the head of Jtis in his face. 53 Look how a Lion, roused from his sleep, Runs furiously 'gainst those did him wake; So Tereus to the heart was struck so deep, That more than terror made his joints to quakes O wife, quoth he, what vengeance didst thou take? 'Twas I offended, why didst not kill me? As for young Jtis what offence did he? 54 Was he not thine own flesh aswell as mine? How hadst thou then the heart to see him bleed? My fault (I do confess) was great, but thine As far and more from nature doth exceed, No woman ever did so vile a deed: Oh how am I accursed of all that be, I have devoured what was begot by me. 55 But I his guiltless death will vindicate, On both your bodies, (monsters that you are.) This said, he did no time procrastinate, But drew his sword, and both our deaths did swear, Because in the child's death we both had share. Mine was the wrong at first, yet I confess, I must plead guilty, though my fault was less. 56 We fled his fury, he with sword in hand, Pursued us, armed with revenge and steel; But heavenly powers, that had my wrongs well scanned (Though we were worthy) would not let us feel The stroke of death: all three from head to heal Transformed were (if you'll trust Ovid's words) From humane Creatures unto senseless Birds. 57 I Philomela (turned to a Nightingale) Fled to the woods, and 'gainst a briar or thorn, I sit and warble out my mournful tale: To sleep I always have with heed forborn, But sweetly sing at evening, noon, and morn. No time yields rest unto my dulcide throat, But still I ply my lachrimable note. 58 My sister Progne metamorphosed was Into a Swallow (as the Poet says:) Both of us all the Winter time do pass Unseen of any, till Hyperious rays Increase in hot influence, and the days Are drawn in length by Nature's annual course, The Swallow is a sign of Summer's force. 59 Upon her breast her mark of guilt she bears, Her back, head, wings and train do mourn in fable, No pleasant note she sings, as any hairs, But sounds forth accents fad and untunable, Her flesh unfit to furnish any table, And if in any's hand she chance to dye, 'Tis counted ominous I know not why. 60 In sign of her unnatural cookery, Within a smoky Chimney still she builds, While I (with other Birds) abroad do fly, In pleasant woods, forests, and fragrant fields: My tune a comfort unto mankind yields. When April comes, than Country milkmaids long And strive to hear the Nightingales sweet song. 61 Yet still alone I love to sit and sing, Delighted best in melancholy shade: My Harmony doth make the woods to ring: And by some learned Clerks it hath been said, That if a snake (whereof I am afraid) Should me devour, a Scorpion's form she'll take Which to prevent, I keep myself awake. 62 Tereus was made a Lapwing, he doth cry For his son Jtis, as aloft he flies, Which words being reversed, do signify 'Tis I; who by one horrid enterprise, Did cause such floods of mischief to arise: My wife, her sister, and my own dear child, I have quite overthrone, oh monster vild! 63 Upon his head a tuft of feathers grow, A sign of Regal state, which he did wrong▪ And if you mark his nature, it doth show His sordid deeds, for he delights in dung: He hath a bill exceeding sharp and long, A figure of that knife (it seems to be) Wherewith he did cut out the tongue of me. 64 Thus all of us were rest of humane shape, A just reward for our inhuman deeds: All this was first occasioned by the rape Of Philomela: Rape further mischief breeds, The nature of these birds reads, Shall find so correspondent to my words, That no vain syllable my song affords. 65 When old Pandion heard this tragic newer, You will not marvel if I say he wept, All transitory joys he did refuse, And spent those hours wherein he should have slept, In sobs and groans, which him awake still kept; Ah miserable man, methinks I see The character of Priam now in thee. 66 Alas, saith he, you gods why are you so Unkind, to let me live against my will? Why am I kept more misery to know? More, said I: no, that cannot be; yes still, To bear the burden of ones former ill Adds every hour more horror to the heart, Nothing but death can case my careful smart. 67 I that within few years was so enriched, As no Prince could be more with daughters twain, Which at an instant both away are twitched With Son in law, and grandchild; none remain: Why then doth time procrastinate my pain? Ah Philomela, thou and the little boy; Above the rest procure my sad annoy. 68 Wretch that I was, why did I suffer thee To go with that capricious ravisher? Had I at home detained thee still with me, Thou mightest have been now safe; could I prefer The sly persuasions of a flatterer Before my care paternal over thee: The world may say the greatest fault's in me. 69 No father, i'll excuse thee: for no harm Thou meantest to me, nor wouldst have let me go, But I (as well as Tereus) did thee charm, With oily words: loved my sister so, And that fond love was cause of this my woe: Who would have thought her husband could have been So impious to attempt that horrid sin. 70 The aged Prince having with languishment A little while enforcedly drawn breath, His grey hairs were to th'earth with sorrows sent, Never went man more willing to his death; His living virtues won a Cypress wreath: And his true loving subjects with salt tears Watered his Sepulchre for many years. 71 The reason why the Poet says we three, I, and my sister, with her husband were, Transformed into birds, was cause that we Were all unworthy humane shapes to bear, As by our deeds prodigious doth appear: The moral of the story is the chief, As for the changing forms 'tis past belief. 72 Yet there's no doubt but I poor Philomela, Have nothing sung but what you may believe; Birds seldom use any untruths to tell, If you'll not take my warrant I shall grieve; Whether you do or no let me perceive That you all shun the vices mentioned in't, Then i'll rejoice because my songs in print. FINIS.