DAIPHANTUS, OR The Passions of love. Comical to Read, But Tragical to Act: As full of Wit, as Experience. By An. Sc. Gentleman. Foelix quem faciunt aliena pericula cartum. Whereunto is added, The passionate man's Pilgrimage. LONDON Printed by T. C. for William Cotton: And are to be sold at his Shop near Ludgate. 1604. TO THE MIGHTY, LEARNED, and Ancient Potentate Quisquis; Emperor of ✚ King of Great and Little A. Prince of B. C. and D. etc. Atiquis, wisheth the much increase of true Subjects, free from Passion Spleen, and Melancholy: and endued with Virtue, Wisdom, and Magnamuntis. Or, to the Reader. AN Epistle to the Reader; why? that must have his Forehead, or first Entrance like a Courtier, Fair-spoken, and full of Expectation. His middle or Centre like your Citizen's warehouse, beautified with enticing vanities, though the true Riches consist of Bald Commodities. His Rendezvous or conclusion like The Lawyer's Case, able to pocket or any matter: But let good word, be your best Evidence. In the General, or Foundation he must be like Paules-Church, resolved to let every Knight and Gull travel upon him, yet his Particulars, or Lineaments may be Royal at the Exchange, with ascending stepe, promising New but costly devices & fashions: It must have Teeth like a Satire, Eyes like a Cryticke, and yet may your Tongue speak false Latin, like your Panders and Bawds of Poetry. Your Genius and Species should march in battle array, with our Politicians: yet your Genius ought to live with an honest soul indeed. It should be like the Never-too-well read Arcadia, where the Prose and Verce, (Matter and Words) are like his Mistress' eyes one still excelling another and without Corivall for to come home to the vulgars' Element, like Friendly Shakespeares Tragedies, where the Commedian rides, when the Tragedian stands on Tiptoe: Faith it should please all, like Prince Hamlet. But in sadness, than it were to be feared he would run made Insooth I will not be moonsick, to please: nor out of my wits though I displeased all What? ●oct, are you in Passion, or out of Love? This is as Strange as True: Well, well, if I seem mystical, or tyrannical, whether I be a Fool or a Lords-Ingle, all's one: If you be angry, you are not well advised. I will tell you, 'tis an Indian Humour, I have snuffed up from divine Tobacco: and 'tis most Gentlemanlike to puff it out at any place or person. I'll no Epistle, (it were worse than one of Hercules' Labours) But will conclude, honesty is a man's best virtue. And but for the Lord Mayor, and the two Sherisses, the Inns of Court, and many Gallants elsewhere, this last year might have been burned. As for Momus, carp and Bark who will: if the Noble Ass bray not, I am as good a Knight Poet, as Etatis suae, Master An. Dom. Son in Law. Let your Cryticke look to the Rowels of his spurs, the pad of his Saddle, and the jerk of his Wand: then let him ride me and my Rhymes as hotly an be would ride his Mistress, I care not: We shall meet and be friends again, with the breaking of a Spear or two: And who would do less, for a fair Lady. There I leave you, where you shall ever find me. Passionate Daiphantus: Your loving Subject, Gives you to understand, He is A man in Print, and 'tis enough he hath under-gone a Pressing (yet not like a Lady) though for your sakes and for Ladies, protesting for this poor Infant of his Brain, as it was the price of his Virginity borne into the world in tears; So (but for a many his dear friends that took much pains for it) it had ay, and never been laughed at: And that if Truth have wrote less than Fixion, yet 'tis better to err in Knowledge then in judgement. Also if he have caught up half a Line of any others, It was out of his Memory not of any ignorance. Why, he Dedicates it to all, and not to any Particular, as his Mistress, or So. His answer is, he is better Borne, than to creep into women's Favours, and ask their leave afterwards. Also he desireth you to help Correct such errors of the Printer; which because the Author is dead (or was out of the City) hath been committed. And 'twas his folly, or the Stationers, You had not an Epistle to the purpose. Thus like a Lover, woos he for your favour, Which if You grant then Omnia vincit Amor. The Argument. DAiphantus, a younger Brother, very honourably descended, brought up (but not borne in Venice) naturally subject to Courting, but not to Love: reputed a man, rather full of Complement then of true Courtesy: more desirous to be thought honest, then so to be wordish beyond discretion: promising more to all than friendship could challenge: Mutable in all his Actions, but his affections aiming indeed, to gain opinion, rather than good will, challenging Love from greatness, not from Merit: studious to abuse his own wit by the common sale of his infirmities: Lastly, under the colour of his natural affection (which indeed was very pleasant and delightful) coveted to disgrace every other to his own discontent: a scourge to Beauty, a trey for to Women, and an Infidel to love. This He, this creatures at length falls in love with two at one instant: yea, two of his nearest Allies, and so indifferently (yet outrageously) as what was commendable in the one, was admirable in the other: By which means as not despised, not regarded; if not deceived not pitied; they esteemed him as he was in Deed, not words: he protested, they jested: he swore he loved in sadness; they in sooth beleeu'de but seemed to give no crepences to him: thinking him so humorous as no resolution could long be good, & holding this his attestation to them of affection in that kind, more than his contesting against it before time. Thus overcome of that he seemed to conquer, he became a slave to his own fortunes: Laden with much misery, utter mischief seized upon him. He fell in love with another, A wedded Lady: Then with a fourth, named Vitullia. And so far was he imparadized in her beauty (she not recomforting him) that he fell from Love to passion, so to distraction, then to admiration, & contemplation: lastly, to madness: thus did he act the tragical Scenes, who only penned the Comical, Became, if not as brutish as Actaeon, as furious as Orlando, of whose humours, and Passions, I had rather you should read them, than I Act them. In the end, by one (or rather by all) he was recovered. A voice did mad him, and a Song did recure him: Four in one sent him out of this world, and one with four redeemed him to the world. To whose unusual streynes in Music, and emphatical Emphasis of Love, I will leave you to turn over a new Leaf: This only I will end with: Who of Love should better write, Than he that Love learns to indita? DAIPHANTUS Proem. I Sing the old World in an Infant Story, I sing the new World in an ancient Ditty: I sing this World: yea, this world's shame and glory, I sing a Medley, of rigour, and of Pity: I sing the Courts, Cities, and the Country fashions, Yet sing I but of love, and her strange passions. I sing that Anthem, lovers sigh in sadness, I sing sweet tunes of joys in wo-ven Verses: I sing those Lines I once did act in madness, I sing and weep, (tears follow Births and Hearses.) I sing a Dirge, a Fury did indight it, I sing Myself, whilst I myself do write it. I invocate (to grace my Artless labour) The faithful Goddess, men call Memory, (True Poet's treasure and their wits best favour) To deck my Muse with truest Poesy. Though Love writ well, yet Passion blinds th'affection, " Man ne'er rules right, that's in the least subjection. Sweet Memory (souls life) new life increasing, The eye of justice, tongue of eloquence; The lock of Larning, Fountain never ceasing, The Cabinet of Secrets, Cask of Sense, Which gouern'll Nature, teacheth man his awe, That art all Conscience, and yet rul'st by Law. Bless (thou) this Love song-ayre of my best wishes, (Thou art the Parent nourisheth desire) Blow gentle winds, safeland me at my Blisses, " Love still movats high though Lovers not aspire. My Poem's truth, fond Poets feign at pleasure, " A Loving Subject, is a Prince's treasure. THE PASSIONS OF LOVE. IN Venice fair; the City most admired There lived a Gallant, who Daiphantus hight, Right Nobly borne, well Lettered, Loved, Desired, Of every Courtier in their most delight: ‛ So full of pleasance, that he seemed to be, HE man begot in Venus' infancy. His face was fair, full comely was his feature, Liped like the Cherry, with a Wantoness eye: A Mars in anger, yet a Venus Creature, Made part of Cynthia, most of Mercury: A pitied soul, so made of Love and hate, Though still beloved, in Love unfortunate. Thus made by Nature, Fortune did conspire, To balance him, with weight of Cupid's Wings: Passant in Love, yet oft in great desire; Sudden in Love, not stayed in any thing: He courted all, not loved, and much did strive, To die for Love, yet never meant to wive. As Nature made him fair, so likewise witty, (She not content) his thoughts thus very fickle; Fortune that gained him, placest him in this City To wheel his head, which she had made most tickle Fortune made him beloved and so distraught him, His reins let forth, he fell, and Cupid caught him. Not far from Venice, in an Abbey fair, (Well walled about) two worthy Ladies dwelled, Who Virgins were; so sweet and debonair The ground they trod on, of their odour smelled: Two Virgin-Sisters (matchless in a Fere) Had lived Virgins, well-nigh eighteen year. Eurialae the Elder Sister's named The other was Urania, the wise: Nature for making them was surely blamed Venus herself, by them all did despise. ‛ Such beauties, with such virtue, So combined ‛ That all exceeds; yet nought exceeds their mind. Eurialae, so shows as doth the Sun, When mounted on the continent of Heaven: Yet oft she's clouded, but when her glory's come Two Suns appear to make her glory even. ‛ Her smiles sends brightness, when the Sun's not bright. ‛ Her looks give beauty, when the sun lends light. Modest and humble of Nature mild and sweet, Unmatched beauty with her virtue meeting: Proud that her lowly bezaunce doth regret With her chaste silence (" Virtue ever keeping.) ‛ This is the Sun, that sets, before it rise, ‛ This is a Star. No less are both her eyes. Her beauty peerless, peerless is her mind, Her body matchless, matchless are her thoughts Herself but one, but one like her we find, Her wealth's her virtue: (such virtue is not bought ‛ This is a heaven on earth, makes her divine; ‛ This is the Sun, obscures where it doth shine Urania next (Oh that I had that Art Can write her worth) her worth no eye may see: Or that her tongue (oh heaven) were now my heart; what silver Lines in showers should drop from me: My heart she keeps, how can I then indite? ‛ No heartless creature, can Love-passions write. As a black vail upon the wings of morn, Brings forth a day as clear as Venus' face, Or, a fair jewel by an Ethiope worn, enricheth much the eye, which it doth grace, Such is her beauty, if it well be told, Placest in a jettie Chariot set with gold. Her hair, Night's Canopy in mourning weeds Is still enthroned, when locked within is seen A Deity, drawn by a pair of Steeds Like Venus' eyes, And if the like have been Her eyes two radiant Stars, but yet divine; Her face daies-sun, (heaven all) if once they shine. Upon the left side of this heavenly feature, (In Curious work) Nature hath set a Seal, Wherein is writ: This is a matchless Creature: Where wit and beauty strives for the appeal. The judges chosde are Love & Fancy; They rise, And looking on her, with her left their eyes. Her Wit and Beauty, were at many frays, Whether the deep impressions did cause: Nature, said Beauty; Art, her Wit did praise: Love, thought her face; her tongue had Truth's applause. Whilst they contend, which was the better part; I lent an Eye, She robbed me of my heart. Sisters these two are, like the Day and Night, Their glories by their virtues they do Merit: One as the Day to see the others might, The others Night, to shadow a high Spirit: " If all were Day, how could a Lover rest? " Or if all Night, Lovers were too much blest. Both fair. As eke their bodies tall and slender, Both wise, yet Silence shows their modesty: Both grave, although they both are young & tender: Both humble hearted: Not in Policy So fair, wise, grave, and humble are esteemed, ‛ Yet what men see, the worst of them is deemed. ‛ Nature, that made them fair, doth love perfection; ‛ What youth counts wisdom, Age doth bring to trial, ‛ Grave years in youth: in Age needs no direction: ‛ An humble heart deserves, finds no denial. Fairs ring their Knells, & yet Fame never dies, " True judgement's from the heart, not from the eyes. These two, two Sisters, Cousins to this Lover; He often courts, As was his wont fashion: Who swears all's fair▪ yet hath no heart to prove her, Seems still in Love, or in a lovers passion, Now learns this Lesson, & Love-scoffers find it, " Cupid hits rightest when Lovers do least mind it. Although his guise were fashioned to his mind, And wording Love, As compliment he used, Seemed still to jest at Love, and lovers kind, Never obtained, but where he was refused: Yet now, his words with wit so are rewarded, He loves, loves two, loves all; of none regarded. Now he that laughed to hear true lovers sigh Can bite his Lips until his heart doth bleed: Who Iybed at all, loves all; each days his night, Who scorned, now weeps & howls, writes his own meed ‛ He that would bandy Love, is now the Ball, ‛ Who feared no hazard, himself hath ta'en the fall. ‛ Beauty and Virtue, who did praise the fashion, ‛ Who Love and Fancy thought a Comodie, ‛ Now is turned Poet, and writes Love in Passion, ‛ His Verses fits the bleeding Tragedy: In Willow weeds right well he acts his part, " His Scenes are tears, whose Embryon was his heart. He loves, where love, to all doth prove disaster, ‛ His eyes no sooner see, but he's strait blind; His kindred, friends, or foes, he follows faster Than his own good; he's now but too too kind: He that spent all, would feign find out loves treasure, Extremities are for extremes the measure. Thus thinks he of the words he spent in vain; And wishes now his tongue had Eloquence: he's dumb, all motion (that) a world could gain, A Centre now without circumference: Cupid with words, who fought: would teach him Art, Hath lost his tongue, and with it left his heart. ‛ He swears he loves, (the heat doth prove the fire) ‛ He weeps his Love, his tears show his affection, ‛ He writes his Love; his lines plead his desire, ‛ He sings his Love, the Ditty mourns the action, He sings, writs, weeps & swears, that he's in sadness " It is believed, not cured, Love turns to madness. ‛ Love once dissembled, Oaths are a grace most slender, ‛ Tears oft are heard Ambassadors for beauty: ‛ Words writ in gold, an iron heart may render: HE passion song shows much more hope than duty, Oaths spoke in tears; words song, prove no true Ditty, " A feigned Love, must find a feigned pity. Thus is the good Daiphantus like the Fly Who playing with the candle feels the flame, " The smiles of scorn, are lovers misery, " That soul's most vexed, is grieved with his name. Though kind Daiphantus, do most love protest, ‛ Yet is his cross, still to be thought in jest. Poor tortured Lover, like a perjured soul, Swears till he's hoarse, yet never is believed, " (Whose once a Villain, still is counted foul) " Oh woeful pity, when with wind releeu'de, ‛ Learns this by rote, Though Love unconstant be ‛ They must prove constant, will her comforts see. Now to the humble heart of his dread Saint, Eurialae, he knelt, but's not regarded: Then to Urania, sighs till he grows faint, Such is her wit, In silence he's rewarded: ‛ His humble voice, Eurialae accuseth, ‛ His sighing Passion, Urania refuseth. ‛ Then lists he up his eyes, but Heaven frowneth, ‛ Bows down his head▪ Earth is a Mass of sorrow: ‛ Runs to the seas, the sea, it storms and howleth; ‛ Hies to the woods, the Birds sad tunes do borrow: Heaven, Earth, sea, Woods & all things do conspire, ‛ He burn in Love, yet fries in his desire. The ladies jest, command him to feign still, Tell him how one day, he may be in love, That lovers reason, hath not loves free will: Smile in disdain, to think of that he proves. ‛ Oh, me Daiphantus, howart thou advised? ‛ When he's less pitied, than he is despised. They hold this but his humour, seem so wise, And many lovers stories forth do bring, Court him with Shadows, whilst he catcheth Flies, Biting his fingers till the blood forth spring, Then do they much commend his careless passion, ‛ Call him a Lover of our Courtiers Fashion. All this do they in modesty; yet free From thinking him so honest as in truth, Much less so kind, as to love two or three, Him near allied, and he himself a Youth: Till with the sweat which from his sufferings life, ‛ His face is pearled, like the lights his eyes. Then with his looke-down-cast, & trembling hand, A high Dutch colour, and a Tongue like ye, Apart with this Eurialae to stand Endeavours He; This was his last device; ‛ Yet in so humble strains this Gallant courts her, ‛ The wind being hien, his breath it never hurts her Speechless thus stands he, till she feared him dead, And rubs his temples, calls and cries for aid: Water is fetched and sponged into his head, Who then starts up: from dreaming as he said, And craving absence of all but this Saint, He 'gan to court her, but with a heart right faint. Bright star of Phoebus, Goddess of my thought, Behold thy Vassal, humbled on his knee: Behold for thee, what Gods and Art hath wrought, A man adoring, of Love, the lowest degree: I love, I honour thee: (no more) There stayed, As if forsworn: Even so was he afraid. Eurialae now spoke (yet seemed in wonder) Her lips when parting, heaven did open his treasure, Oh do not, do not love; I will not sunder A heart in two, Love hath nor height nor measure, Live still a Virgin; Then I'll be thy lover, Heaven here did close: no tongue could after move her. As if in heaven he was ravished so, Oh Love, oh Voice, oh Face, which is the glory: Oh Day, oh Night, oh Age, oh worlds of joy, Of every part true love might write a story, " Convert my sighs, oh to some angels tongue, " To die for Love is life, death is best young. She gone, Urania came; he on the flower, But sight of her reviv'd this noble sire; And as if Mars did thunder: words did shower, " (Love speaks in heat, when 'tis in most desire) She made him mad, whose sight had him revived Now speaks he plainly: storms past the air is glide. Why was I made? to bear such woe and grief? Why was I borne? But in Love to be nourished? Why then for Love; Love of all virtues chief, And I not pitied, though I be not cherished? What? did my eyes offend in virtue seeing? Oh no; true virtue is the Lovers being. " Beauty and virtue, are the twins of life, " Love is the mother which them forth doth bring: " Wit with discretion ends the lovers strife, " Patience with silence is a glorious thing. " Love crowns a man, love gives to all due merit, " Men without love, are bodies without spirit. " Love to a mortal; is both life and treasure, " Love changed to wedlock, doubleth in her glory, " Love is the gem, whose worth is without measure, " Fame dies, if not in tomb within loves story. " Man that lives, lives not, if he wants content, " Man that dies, dies not, if with loves consent. Thus spoke Daiphantus, and thus spoke he well, Which wise Urania well did understand, So well she like it, As it did excel: Now graced she him, with her white slender hand. With words most sweet, A colour fresh and fair, In heavenly speech, she 'gan his woes declare. My good Daiphantus: Love it is no toy, Cupid though blind, yet strikes the heart at last, His force you feel whose power must breed your joy, This is the meed for scoffs you on him cast. You love, who scorned: your love with scorn is quite, You love yet want, your love with want is spite. " Love plays the Wanton, where she means to kill, " Love rides the Fool, and spurs without direction: " Love weeps like you, yet laughs at your good will: " Love is of all things, but the true confection; " Love is of every thing: yet itself's but one thing: " Love is any thing; yet indeed is nothing. We Virgins know this; (though not the force of Love) For we two Sisters live as in a Cell: Nor do we scorn it, though we it not approve, By Prayer we hope, her charms for to repel. And thus adieu: But you in Progress go, To find fit place to warble forth your woe. " Who first seeks mercy, is the last for grief: Thus did she part; whose Image stayed behind, He in a trance stands mute, finds no relief, (For she was absent, whose tongue pleased his mind) But like a heartless, & a hurtless Creature, In admiration of so sweet a Feature. At length looked up; his shadow only seeing, Sighs to himself and weeps▪ yet silent stands, Knelt, rises, walks, all this without true being, Sure he was there; though fettered in Loves-bands: " His lips departed; Parted were his blisses, " Yet for pure Love, each lip the other kisses. reviv'd by this, or else Imagination, Recalls things past, the time to come laments, Records his Love, but with an acclamation, Reputes himself, and all these Accidents: Now with the wings of Love he 'gins to raise, His Love to gain, thus women he doth praise. ‛ Women than Men are purer creatures far, ‛ The soul of souls, the blessed gift of Nature, to men a heaven, To men the brightest star, ‛ The pearl that's matchless; high without all stature, ‛ So full of goodness, that bounty waiteth still ‛ Upon their trencher, feeds them with free-will. Where seek we virtue, learn true Art or glory? Where find we joy that lasteth, still is spending? But in sweet women of man's life the Story, " Alpha they are, Omega is their ending: Their virtues shine with such a sun of brightness, " Yet he's unwise that looks in them for Lightness. Oh let my Pen relate mine own decay, There are, which are not (or which should not be) Some shaped like saints, whose steps are not the way: Oh, let my Verse, not name their infamy, " These hurt not all; but even the wandering eye, " Which fond gapes for his own misery. These do not harm, the Honest or the Just, The faithful Lover, or the virtuous Dame: But those whose souls be only given to Lust, Care more for pleasure, then for worthy Fame. But peace my Muse, for now me thinks I hear, An Angel's voice come warbling in my ear. Not distant far, within a Garden fair, The sweet ●rtesia sang unto her Lute: Her voice charmed Cupid, and perfumed the Air, Made beasts stand still, and birds for to be mute. " Her voice & beauty proved so sad a ditty, Who saw was blind, who heard, soon sued for pity. (This Lady was no Virgin, like the rest, Yet near allied;) By Florence City dwelling " Nature, and Art, within her both were blest, " ‡ Music in her, and Love had his excelling: To visit her fair Cousins of she came, ‛ Perhaps more jocund, but no whit to blame. Fortune had crossed her with a churlish Mate, (Who Strymon hight) A Palmer was his Sire: Full Nobly borne, And of a wealthy state, His son a child, not borne to his desire. ‛ Thus was she crossed, which caused her thereby, ‛ Daiphantus grief to mourn by Sympathy. Daiphantus hearing such a Swan-tuned voice, Was ravished, as with angels Melody, Though in this Labyrinth blest, could not rejoice, Nor yet could see, what brought this Harmony. At length this Goddess ceased; began draw near, ‛ Who when he saw, he saw not, 'twas her sphere. Away then crept he, on his knees and hands, To hide himself, thought Venus came to plague him, Which she espying" like the Sun she stands, " As with her beams, she thought for to assuage him: " But like the Sun, which gazed on, blinds the eye, " So He by her, and so resou'ld to die. At this in wonder, softly did she place it, Yet suddenly was stayed. His Verses ceased her Which he late writ, forgot, thus was he graced, She read them over, and the writing pleased her: ‛ For Cupid framed two Mottoes in her heart, ‛ The one as Diana's, the other for his Dart. " She read & pitied, reading pity taught: " She Loved and hated, Hate to love did turn: " She smiled & wept, her weeping smiling brought: " She hoped & feared; her hopes in fear did mourn: She read, loved, smiled & hoped, but 'twas in vain; ‛ Her tears still dread; & pity, hate did gain. ‛ She could have loved him, such true verses making, ‛ She might have loved him, and yet love beguiling, ‛ She would have kissed him▪ but feared his awaking, ‛ She might have kissed him, and sleep sweetly smiling. ‛ She thus afeared, did fear what she most wished; ‛ He thus in hope, still hoped for that he miss. He looked, They two, long each on other gazed, Sweet silence pleaded, what each other thought, Thus Love and Fancy both alike amazed, As if their tongues and hearts had been distraught. artesia's voice, thus courted him at length, The more she spoke the greater was his strength. Good gentle Sir, your Fortunes I bemoan, And wish my state so happy as to ease you, But she that grieved you, She it is alone, Whose breath can cure, and whose kind words appease you, Were I that She; heaven should my star extinguish, If you but loved me, ere I would relinquish. Yet noble Sir, I can no love protest, For I am wedded, (oh word full fraught with woe) But in such manner, as good love is blest, In honest kindness, I'll not prove your foe: Mine own experience doth my counsel prove, " I know to pity, yet not care to love. A Sister, yet nature hath given me A virgin true, right fair, and sweetly kind; I● for her good, Fortune hath driven me To be a comfort: your heart shall be her mind, My woes yet tells me, she is best a maid: And here she stopped her tears, her words thus staid. Daiphantus then in number without measure Began her praises which no Pen can end, Oh Saint, oh Sun of heaven and earth the treasure: Who lives if not thy honour to defend? " Ah me, what mortal can be in love so strange, " That wedding virtue will a whoring range? She like the morning is still fresh and fair, The Elements of her, they all do borrow: The Earth, the Fire, the Waters, and the Air, There strength, heat, moisture, liveliness: no sorrow Can virtue change? beauty hath but one place, The hearts still perfect; though impald the face. Oh eyes, no eyes, but Stars still clearly shining, Oh face, no face, but shape of angels fashion: Oh lips, no lips, but bliss, by kiss refining, Oh heart, no heart, but of true love right Passion, Oh eyes, face, lips, and heart, if not too cruel, To see, feel, taste, and love, earth's rarest jewel. This said, he paused, new praises now devising, Knelt to Apollo, for his skill and Art, When came the Ladies, At which he arising, Twixt lip, and lip, he had nor lips nor heart. ‛ His eyes, their eyes, so sweetly did encumber, Although awaked, yet in a golden slumber. Most like a Lion, raised from slumbering ease, He cast his looks full grimly them among: ‛ At length, he firmly knit what might appease ‛ His Brow: looked steadfastly and long ‛ At one: till all their eyes with his eyes met alike ‛ On fair Vitullia; who his heart did strike. Vitullia fair, yet brown, So mixed together, As Art and Nature strove, which was the purest: So sweet her smile were, a grace to either, That heavens glory in that face seemed truest. " Venus excepted; when the God her wooed, " Was ne'er so fair, so tempting yet so good. ‛ Wonder not Mortals, though all Poets sane, The Muse's Graces were in this She's favour: ‛ Nor wonder, though he strove his tongue to gain, For I lose mine, in thinking of his labour. " Well may he love, I writ, & all wits praise her, " She's so all humble; Learning cannot raise her. ‛ Daiphantus oft sighed Oh; oft said fair, ‛ Then looks, and sighs: and then cries wonderful; ‛ Thus did he long: and truly 'twas not rare ‛ The object was, which made his mind so dull. Pray pardon him; for better to cry Oh, ‛ Then feel that passion which caused him sigh so. Now, all were silent, not alone this Lover: Till came Ismenio, Brother to this Saint, Whose haste made sweat, his tongue he could not prove her, For this aga'st him that his heart was saint: Thus all amazed; none knowing any cause, " Ismenio breathless, here had time to pause. At length Ismenio, who had wit and skill, Questioned the reason of this strange effect: At last related (Haste out went his will) He told them, he was sent them to direct Where hunting sports their eyes should better please, Who first went forth, Daiphantus most did ease. They gone, Daiphantus to his Standish hies, Thinks in his writs Vitullia's beauties wear, But what he wrote, his Muse not justifies, Bids him take time." Love badly writes in fear: Her worthy praise if he would truly wit, Her Kisses, Nectar, must the same indite. (Art and sweet nature, let your influence drop From me like rain; Yes, yes, in golden showers: " (Whose end is Virtue, let him never stop) But fall on her like dew on sprinkling flowers: That both together meeting, may beget An Orpheus, Two gems in a soil richly set. Thus Ravished, then distracted as was deemed, Not taught to write of Love in this extreme, In Love, in fear, yea, trembling as it seemed, If praising her, he should not keep the mean: Thus vexed he wept, his tears entreated pity, " (But Love unconstant, tunes a woeful Ditty. Now knelt to Venus, Faithfulness protested, To this, none else, this was his only Saint, Vowed ere her service, Or to be arrested To Venus' Censure; Thus he left to faint: His Love brought wit, & wit ingrendred Spirit, True love and wit, thus learned him to indite. As the mild lamb, runs forth from shepherds fold, By ravenous Wolves is caught and made a pray: So is my Sense, by which Love taketh hold, Tormented more than any tongue can say: The difference is, they tortured so do die, I feed the torment, breeds my misery. ‛ Consumed by her I live, such is her glory, ‛ Despised of her I love, I more adore her, I'll ne'er write aught, but of her virtues story, " Beauty unblasted is the eyes rich storer. If I should die; Oh who would ring loves knell? " Faint not Daiphantus, wise men love not so well. Like heavens Artist the Astronomer, Gazing on Stars oft, to the Earth doth fall, So I Daiphantus, now loves Harbinger, Am quite condemned, to loves Funeral: " Who falls by women, by them oft doth rise, " Ladies have lips to kiss as well as Eyes. But tush, thou fool, thou lov'st all thou seest, Who once thou lovest, thou shouldst change her never Constant in Love Daiphantus see thou be'st, If thou hope comfort, Love but once, and ever. Fortune, Oh, be so good to let me find A Lady living, of this constant mind. Oh, I would wear her, in my heart's heart-gore, And place her on the continent of stars: Think heaven and earth like her, had not one more, Would fight for her, till all my face were scars. ‛ But if that women be such fickle she's, " Men may be like them in infirmities. Oh no; Daiphantus, women are not so, 'tis but their shadows (Pictures merely painted: Then turn poor lover, (Oh heaven) not to my woe Then to Vitullia: with that word he fainted, Yet she that wounds, did heal, like her no heaven " Odds in a man, a woman can make even. Oh (My) Vitullia, let me write (That) down, Oh sweet Vitullia; nature made thee sweet, Oh kind Vitullia; (Truth hath the surest ground: I'll weep, or laugh, so that our hearts may meet: " Love is not always merry, nor still weeping, " A drop of each, loves joys are sweats in sleeping (Her name) in golden letters on my breast I'll grave, Around my temples in a garland wear, My art shall be, her favour for to have: My learning still, her honour high to rear, My lips shall close, but to her sacred name My tongue be silent, but to spread her Fame. In Woods, Groaves, Hills, Vitullias' name shall ring In Meadows, Orchiards, Gardens, sweetest & fair, I'll learn the birds, her name alone to sing: All Quires shall chant it in a heavenly Air, ‛ The Day shall be her Usher; Night her Page: ‛ Heaven her Palace, and this Earth her stage. ‛ Virgins pure chasteness in her eyes shall be, ‛ Women, true love from her true mind shall learn, ‛ Widows, their mourning in her face shall see, ‛ Children, their duty in her speech discern: And all of them in love with each but I, Who fear her love, will make me fear to die. ‛ My Orisons are still to please this creature, ‛ My valour sleeps, but when she is defended: ‛ My wits still jaded, but when I praise her feature, ‛ My life is hers▪ In her begun, and ended. Oh happy day, wherein I wear not willow: Thrice blessed night; wherein her breast's my pillow. ‛ I'll serve her, as the Mistress of all pleasure, ‛ I'll love her, as the Goddess of my soul: ‛ I'll keep her, as the jewel of all treasure, ‛ I'll live with her; yet out of loves control: ‛ That all may know; I will not from her part, ‛ I'll double lock her, in my lips and heart. ‛ If ere I sigh, It shall be for her pity, ‛ If ere I mourn, her Funeral draws near: ‛ If ere I sing: her virtue is the ditty, ‛ If ere I smile, her beauty is the sphere: ‛ All that I do, is that I may admire her, ‛ All that I wish, is that I still desire her. But peace Daiphantus: Music is only sweet, When without discord; A Consort makes a heaven, The ear is ravished, when true voices meet, " Odds, but in Music never makes things even. In voices difference, breeds a pleasant Ditty; In love, a difference brings a scornful pity. Whose was the tongue, Eurialae defended? Whose was the wit, Urania did praise? Whose were the lips Artesias voice commended? Whose was the heart, loved all, all crowned with bay: Sure 'twas myself; what did I? O I tremble, Yet I'll not weep, wise men may love dissemble. Fie no; fond love hath ever his reward, A Sea of tears, A world of sighs and groans: Ah me, Vitullia will have no regard To ease my grief, and cure me of my moans: If once her ear, should hearken to that voice Relates my Fortunes in loves fickle choice. But now, I will their worth with here's declare, That Truth by Error, may have her true being, " Things good, are lessened by the thing that's rare, " Beauty increaseth, by a blackness seeing. ‛ Woe so is fair and chaste, they sure are best, ‛ Such is Vitullia, such are all the rest. ‛ But she is fair, and chaste, and wise, what then? ‛ So are they all, without a difference: ‛ She's fair, chaste, wise, and kind, yes to all men, The rest are so: Number makes Excellence. ‛ She's fair, chaste, wise, kind, rich, yet humble, ‛ They three her equal:" virtue can never stumble. ‛ Vtiullia is the Sun, they stars of night, ‛ Yet nights the bosom wherein the Sun doth rest: ‛ The Moon herself borrows of the Sun's light, ‛ All by the stars take counsel to be blest, " The day's the Sun: yet Cupid can it blind, " The stars at night: sleep cures the troubled mind. ‛ She is a Rose, the fairer, so the sweeter, ‛ She is a Lute, whose belly tunes the Music, ‛ She is my Prose, yet makes me speak all Meeter, ‛ She is my life, yet sickness me with Physic: ‛ She is a Virgin, that makes her a jewel, ‛ She will not love me, therein she is cruel. " Eurialae, is like sleep when one is weary; " Urania is like a golden slumber, " Artesias voice, like dreams that makes man merry, " Vitullia, like a Bed, all these in cumber. 1 Sleep, 2 Slumber, 3 Dreams, upon a 4 Bed is best, First, Second, Third, but in the Fourth is blest. Oh, but Vitullia, what? She's wonders pretty, Oh I, and what? so is she very fair; Oh yes, and what? she's like herself most witty: And yet, what is she? She is all but Air. What can Earth be, but Earth? so we are all, ‛ Peace then my Muse; Opinion oft doth fall. ; Eurialae, I honour for humility, ‛ Urania, I reverence for her wit, ‛ Artesia, I adore for true agility, ‛ Three Graces for the Goddesses most fit: Each of these gifts are blessed in their faces, Oh, what's Vitullia, who hath all these Graces? She's but a Lady, So are all the rest, As pure, as sweet, as modest, yea as loyal; Yes, She's the shadow (shadows are the lest) Which tells the hour of virtue by her Dial: ‛ By her, men see there is on earth a heaven, ‛ By them, men know her virtues are matched even In praising all, much time he vainly spent, Yet thought none worthy but Vitullia; Then called to mind, he could not well repent The love he bore the wise Urania. Eurialae, Artesia, all, such beauties had, Which as they pleased him, made him well nigh mad. ‛ Eurialae, her beauty his eyesight harmed, ‛ Urania, her wit his tongue incensed, ‛ Artesia, her voice, his ears had charmed, ‛ Thus poor Daiphantus, was with love tormented. Vitullius' beauty as he did impart, The others virtues vanquished his heart. At length he grew, as in an ecstasy Twixt love and love, whose beauty was the truer, His thoughts thus divers as in a Lunacy, He starts and stars, to see whose was the purer: Oft treads a Maze, runs, suddenly then stays, Thus with himself, himself makes many frays. Now with his fingers, like a Barber snaps, Plays with the fire-pan, as it were a Lute, Vnties his shoestrings, than his lips he laps, Whistles awhile, and thinks it is a Flute: At length, a glass presents it to his sight, Where well he acts, fond love in passions right. His chin he strokes, swears beardless men kiss best, His lips anoints, says Ladies use such fashions, Spits on his Napkin; terms that the Bathing jest, Then on the dust, describes the Courtier's passion. Then humble calls: though they do still aspire, " Ladies than fall, when Lords rise by Desire. Then straddling goes, says Frenchmen fear no Bears Vows he will travail, to the Siege of Breast, Swears Captains, they do all against the hear: Protests Tobacco, is A smoke-dride jest, Takes up his pen, for a Tobacco-pipe; Thus all besmeared, each lip the other wipe. His breath, he thinks the smoke; his tongue a coal, Then calls for bottell-ale; to quench his thirst: Runs to his Inkepot, drinks, then stops the hole, And thus grows madder, than he was at first. Tasso, he finds, by that of Hamlet, thinks. Terms him a madman; than of his Inkhorn drinks. Calls Players fools, the fool he judgeth wisest, Will learn them Action, out of Chaucer's Pander: Proves of their Poet's bawds even in the highest, Then drinks a health; and swears it is no slander. Puts off his clothes; his shirt he only wears, Much like mad- Hamlet; thus as Passion tears. Who calls me forth from my distracted thought? Oh Serberus, if thou, I prithee speak? Revenge if thou? I was thy Rival ought, In purple gores I'll make the ghosts to reak: Vitullia, oh Vitullia, be thou still, I'll have revenge, or harrow up my will. I'll fallow up the wrinkles of the earth, Go down to Hell and knock at Pluto's gate, I'll turn the hills to valleys: make a dearth ‛ Of virtuous honour to eternal Fate. I'll beat the winds, & make the tides keep back, Reign in the sea, That Lovers have no wrack. Yes, tell the Earth, it is a Murderer, Hath slain Vitullia, oh, Vitullia's dead: I'll count blind Cupid for a Conjurer, And with wild horses will I rend his head. I with a Pickax, will pluck out his brains, Laugh at this Boy, ease Lovers of much pains. Oh then, I'll fly, I'll swim, yet stay; and then I'll ride the Moon, & make the clouds my Horse, " Make me a Ladder of the heads of men, Climb up to heaven: yes, my tongue will force To Gods and Angels; Oh, I'll never end, Till for Vituillia all my cries I spend. Then like a spirit of pure Innocence, I'll be all white, and yet behold I'll cry Revenge, Oh Lovers this my sufferance, Or else for Love, for Love, a soul must die. Eurialae, Urania, Artesia, So: Heart rend in sunder, with these words of woe. But soft, here comes: who comes? and not calls out Of Rape and Murder, Love and Villainy: " Stay wretched man, (who runs (doth never doubt It is thy Soul, thy Saint, thy Deity: Then call the Birds to ring a mourning Knell, For mad Daiphantus, who doth love so well. Oh sing a Song, parted in parcels three, I'll bear the burden still of all your grief, " Who is all woe, can tune his misery " To discontents, but not to his relief. Oh kiss her, kiss her, And yet do not do so: They bring some joy, but with short joys long wo. Upon his knees; Oh Goddesses behold, A Caitiff wretch bemoaning his mishap, If ever pity, were hired without gold, Lament Daiphantus, once in Fortunes Lap: Lament Daiphantus, whose good deeds now slumber, Lament a lover, whose woe no tongue can nummber. My woes: there did he stay, fell to the ground, Rightly divided into blood and tears, As if those words had given a mortal wound, So lay he foaming, with the weight of cares. Who this had seen, and seeing had not wept, Their hearts were sure from crosses ever kept. The Ladies all, who late from hunting came, Untimely came, to view this Map of sorrow, Surely all wept, and soothe it was no shame, For, from his grief, the world might truly borrow. As he lay speechless, grovelling, all undressed, So they stood weeping, silence was their best. Ismenio with these Ladies bore a part, And much bemoan'de him, though he knew not why, But kind compassion, struck him to the heart, To see him mad: much better see one die. Thus walks Ismenio▪ and yet oft did pause: At length, A writing made him know the cause. He read, till words like thunder pierced his heart; He sighed, till sorrow seemed itself to mourn, He wept, till tears like ysacles did part, He pitied so, that pistle hare did scorn. He read to sigh, and weep for pities sake, The less he read, the less his heart did quake. At length resolved, he up the writing takes, And to the Lady's travels as with child, The birth was Love, (such love (as discord makes; The Midwife Patience, thus in words full mild● He writ with tears, that which with blood was writ, The more he read, the more they pitied it. They look upon Daiphantus, he not seeing, And wondered at him, but his sense was parted, They loved him much; though little was his being, And sought to cure him, though he was faint hearted: Ismenio thus, with speed resolves to ease him, By a sweet song, his Sister should appease him. Ismenio was resolved, he would be eased, And was resolved, of no means, but by Music, Which is so heavenly that it hath released The danger oft, not to be cured by Physic. Her tongue and hand, thus married together Can not but please him, who so loved either. But first before his madness were allayed, They offered Incense at Diana's Shrine, And much besought her, now to be apaid: Which was soon granted to these Saints divine. Yet so: that mad Daiphantus must agree, Never to love, but live in Chastity. Thus they adjured him, by the Gods on high, Never hence forth to shoot with Cupid's Quiver, Nor love to feign; for there's no remedy, If once relapsed, then was he mad for ever: Tortured Daiphantus, now a sign did make, And kind Ismenio, this did undertake. Then 'gan Artesia play upon her Lute, Whose voice sang sweetly, now a mourning Ditty, " Love her admired, though he that loved were mute, Cupid himself feared he should sue for pity. Oh, wondrous virtue! words spoken are but wind, But sung to pricksong, they are joys divine. ‛ I heard her sing, but still methought I dreamt, ‛ I heard her play, but I me thought did sleep, ‛ The Day and Night, till now were never weaned, ‛ Venus, and Diana ravished; both did weep. ‛ They which each hated, now agreed to say, ‛ This was the Goddess both of night and day. My heart and ears, so ravished with her voice, I still forgot, what still I heard her sing The tune: Surely of Sonnets this was all the choice, Poets do keep it as a charming thing. ‛ What think you of the joys that Daiphantus had, ‛ When for such Music I would still be mad? The Birds came chirping to the windows round, And so stood still, as if they ravished wear, Beasts forth the forest came, brought with the sound, The Lion laid him down as if in fear. The Fishes in fresh Rivers swum to shore, ‛ Yea, had not Nature stayed them, had done more. This was a sight, whose eyes had ever seen? This was a voice, such music near was heard, This paradise was it, where who had been ‛ Might well have thought of hell and not afeard. Sure hell itself, was heaven in this sphere, ‛ Madmen, wild beasts, & all, here tamed wear. Like as a King his chair of state ascendeth, (Being newly made a God upon the earth: In stately amounts till step by step, be endeth, Thinks it to heaven A true ascending birth: So hies Daiphantus, on his legs and feet, As if Daiphantus, now some God should meet. He looks upon himself, not without wonder, He wonders at himself, what he might be: He laughs unto himself, thinks he's a slumber, He weeps unto himself, himself to see: And sure to hear and see what he had done, Might make him swear, but now the world begun. Fully revived, at last Artesia ceased, When Beasts and Birds, so hideous noise did make That almost all turned fury, fear was the least, Yea such a fear, as forced them cry and quake. Till that Daiphantus, more of reason had, Then they which moaned him, lately being mad. He with more joy, than words could well declare, And with more words, than his new tongue could tell, Did strive to speak, such was his love & care Thus to be thankful: But yet knew not well, ‛ Whether his tongue, not tuned unto his heart, ‛ Or modest silence, would best act his part. But speak he will; then give attentive ear To hear him tell a woeful lovers story, His hands and eyes to heaven up did he rear: Grief taught him speech; though he to speak were sorry. But whatsoever be a lovers passion, Daiphantus speaks his, in a mourning fashion. As o'er the Mountain's walks, the wandering soul Seeking for rest in his unresting spirit, So good Daiphantus (thinking to enrol Himself in grace, by telling of loves merit) Was so distracted, how he should commend it, Where he began, he wished still to end it. Eurialae, my eyes are hers in right, Urania, my tongue is as her dew▪ Artesia, my ears, to her I dight, My heart to each. And yet my heart to you: To you Vitullia, to you, and all the rest: Who once me cursed; now to make me blest. 1 Beauty & 2, wit did 1 wound & 2 pierce my heart, 3 Music and 4 Favour 3 gained and 4 kept it sure: Love lead by 3 Fancy to the 4 last I part, Love lead by Reason to the first is truer. 3 Beauty and wit first conquered, made me yield 3 Music & 4 Favour, rescued, got the field. To 1 Wit and 2 Beauty, my first love I give, Music 3 & 4 Favours, my second love have gained, All made me mad: and all did me relieve: Though one recured me, when I was sustained: Thus troth to say, to all I love did owe, Therefore to all my love I ever vow. Thus to the first 1 & 2 his right hand he did tender, His left hand to the 3 & 4 last, most lovingly, 4: His tongue kind thanks, first to the last did render, The while his looks were bend indifferently: Thus he salutes all, & to increase his Blisses, From lip, to lip, each Lady now he kisses. Ismenio (in humble wise salutes he) With gracious language he returns his heart, His words so sweetly to his tongue now suits he, As what he spoke, show'd learning with good Art. Ismenio pleased Daiphantus, Daiphantus all, " When love, gains love, for love; this love we call Urania now, bethought what was protested By young Ismenio at Diana's shrine; Conjured Daiphantus, That no more he jested, With Love or Fancy, for they were Divine: And if he did, that there they all would pray, He still might live in love, both night and day. This grieved him much, but folly 'twas to grieve, His now obedience show'd his own free-will: He swore he would not love (in show) achieve, But live a virgin, chaste and spotless still. Which said: such Music suddenly delighted, As all were ravished, and yet all affrighted. Here parted all, not without joy and sadness, Some wept, some smiled, a world it was to hear them: Both springs here met, woe here was clothed with gladness Heaven was their comfort, it alone did cheer them. Daiphantus from these springs, some fruit did gather, " Experience is an Infant, though an ancient father. Sweet Lady know" the soul looks through our eye-sights, " Content lives not in shows, or beauty seeing, " Peace not from number, nor strength in high spirits: " joy dies with virtue, yet lives in virtues being. " Beauty is masked, where virtue is not hidden, " Man still desires that fruit he's most forbidden. " jewels for Virtue, not for beauty prized, " What's seldom seen breeds wonder, we admir'de it: " King's Lines are rare▪ and therefore well aduiz'de, " Wisemen not often talk, Fools still desire it. " Women are books (kept close) they hold much treasure, " Unclasped: sweet ills: most woe lies hid in pleasure. " Who studies Arts alike, can he prove Doctor? " Who surfeits hardly lives? Drunkards recover: " Whose wills his law, that conscience needs no Proctor; " When men turn beasts look there for briutish Lovers. " Those eyes are purblind, look equally on any, " Thought be a virtue to hinder one by many. " Who gains by travel, lose lordships for their Manors, " Must Tarquin-ravish some; Hell on that glory, " Whose life's in Healths, death soon gains those Banors, " Lust still is punished, though treason write the story. " A rolling eye, A Globe, new worlds discover, " Who still wheels round, is But a damned Lover. " Doth Faith and Troth lie Bathing? Is Lust pleasure? " Can Commons be as sweet, as Land enclosed? " Than virgin sin may well be counted pleasure, " Where such Lords rule, who lives not ill disposed? " True love's a Phoenix, but One until it dies, " Lust is a Cockatrice, in all, but in her eyes. Here did he end, more blessed than his wishes. " (Fame's at the high when Love indights the Story:) " The private life brings with it heavenly blisses. " Sweet Contemplation much increaseth glory: I'll leave him to the learning of loves Spell, " Better part friends, than follow Fiends to hell. Ismenio, with Vitullia went together, Perhaps both wounded with blind Cupid's Dart, Yet dust they not relate their Love to either, " (Love if once pitied pierceth to the heart: But sure Vitullia, is so fair a Mark, Cupid would court her, though but by the dark. Artesia, she must go (the more she's grieved) To churlish Strymon, her adopted Mate, Cupid though blind, yet pitied and relieved, This modest Lady with some happy Fate: " For what but Virtue, which doth all good nourish, " Can brook her fortunes, much less love & cherish Eurialae, with good Urania stayed▪ ‛ (Where Virtue dwells they only had their being) " Beauty and wit still fear, are not dismayed, " For where they dwell, Love ever will be prying. These two, were one, All good, each could impart, One was their Fortune, and one was their heart. (" Beauty and Virtue, was true Friend to either, " Heaven is the sphere, where all men seek for glory: " Earth is the Grave, where sinners join together, " Hell keeps the book, inrowles each lustful story. " Live as we will, death makes of all conclusion, " Die then to live, or life is thy confusion. ‛ Beauty and wit in these, fed on affection, ‛ Labour and industry, were their Twins of life: ‛ Love, and true Bounty, were in their subiction, ‛ Their Bodies with their spirits had no strife. Such were these two, As grace did them defend, Such are these two, As with these two I end. FINIS. Non Amori sed Virtuti. The Passionate man's Pilgrimage, supposed to be written by one at the point of death. Give me my Scallop shell of quiet, My staff of Faith to walk upon, My Scrip of joy, Immortal diet, My bottle of salvation: My Gown of Glory, hopes true gage, And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. Blood must be my body's balmer, No other balm will there be given Whilst my soul like a white Palmer Travels to the land of heaven, Over the silver mountains, Where spring the Nectar fountains: And there I'll kiss The Bowl of bliss, And drink my eternal fill On every milken hill. My soul will be a dry before, But after it, will near thirst more. And by the happy blissful way More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see, That have shook off their gowns of clay, And go apparelled fresh like me. I'll bring them first To slake their thirst, And then to taste those Nectar suckets At the clear wells Where sweetness dwells, Drawn up by Saints in Crystal buckets. And when our bottles and all we, Are filled with immortality: Then the holy paths we'll travel Strewed with Rubies thick as gravel, Ceilings of Diamonds, sapphire floors, High walls of Coral and Pearl Bowers. From thence to heavens Bribeles' hall Where no corrupted voices brawl, No Conscience melted into gold, Nor forged accusers bought and sold, No cause deferred, nor vain spent journey, For there Christ is the King's Attorney: Who pleads for all without degrees, And he hath Angels, but no fees. When the grand twelve million jury, Of our sins and sinful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death, and then we live, Be thou my speaker taintles pleader, Unblotted Lawyer, true proceeder, Thou movest salvation even for alms▪ Not with a bribed Lawyers palms. And this is my eternal plea, To him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea, Seeing my flesh must die so soon, And want a head to dine next noon, Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread Set on my soul an everlasting head. Then am I ready like a palmer fit, To tread those blessed paths which before I writ. FINIS.