PANDORA, The music of the beauty of his Mistress Diana.  
❧ Composed by John Soowthern Gentleman, and dedicated to the right Honourable, Edward Dever, Earl of Oxenford. etc. 1584. june. 20.  Non careo patria, Me caret Illa magis.  printer's or publisher's device 
Imprinted at London for Thomas Hackette, and are to be sold at his shop in Lumbert street, under the Pope's head. 1584.   

To the right honourable the Earl of Oxenford. etc. Ode. 1.  

Strophe. 1.  
THis earth, is the nourishing teat,  
As well that delivers to eat:  
As else throws out all that we can  
Devise, that should be naedefull fore  
The health, of or disease or sore,  
The household companions of man.  
And this earth, hath herbs sovereign,  
To impeach sicknesses sudden,  
If they be well aptly applied.  
And this yearth, spews up many a brevage,  
Of which if we knew well the usage:  
Would force the force Acherontide.  
Brief, it lends us all that we have,  
With to live: and it is our grave.  
But with all this, yet cannot give,  
Us fair renowmes, when we be dead.  
And in deed they are only made,  
By our own virtues whiles we live.   

Antistrophe.  
¶ And Marbles (all be they so strong,)  
Cannot maintain our renowmes long:  
And neither they he but abuses,  
To think that other things have puissance,  
To make for time any resistance,  
Save only the well singing Muses.  
And the fair Muses that provide,  
For the wise, an immortal name:  
Do never garnish any head.  
With Laurel, by hearsay of Fame.  
Nor every one that can rhyme,  
Must not think to triumph on time.  
For they give not their Divine fury,  
To every doting troop that comes.  
Nor the touch of every ones thommes,  
Is not of an eternal durie.   

Epode.  
¶ No, no, the high singer is he  
Alone: that in the end must be  
Made proud, with a garland like this,  
And not every rhyming novice,  
That writes with small wit, and much pain:  
And the (Gods know) idiot in vain,  
For it's not the way to Parnasse,  
Nor it will neither come to pass,  
If it be not in some wise fiction,  
And of an ingenious invension:  
And infanted with pleasant travail,  
For it alone must win the Laurel.  
And only the Poet well borne,  
Must be he that goes to Parnassus:  
And not these companies of Asses,  
That have brought verce almost to scorn.   

Strophe. 2.  
¶ Making speak (her with a sweet brute)  
The ten divers tongues of my Lute,  
I will Fredone in thy honour,  
These renowned songs of Pindar:  
And imitate for thee Dever,  
Horace, that brave Latin Harper.  
And stand up Nymphs Aganapide,  
Stand up my wantoness Parnasside,  
Stand up wantoness and that we sing,  
A new ditty Calaborois,  
To the Iban harp Thebanois,  
That had such a murmuring string.  
For I willshewt, here with my verees,  
(Following the ancient traces)  
As high up to the air this Hymn,  
(With a strong bow and arms, presumpstous)  
As dever is both wise and virtuous,  
And as of my Harp, he is dign.   

Antistrophe.  
¶ Muses, you have had of your father,  
Only, the particular favour,  
To keep fro the réeve enfernall:  
And therefore my wantoness come sing,  
Upon your most best speaking string,  
His name that doth chéerishe you all.  
Come Nymphs while I have a desire,  
To strike on a well sounding Lyre,  
Of our virtues Dever the name.  
Dever, that had given him in part:  
The Love, the War, Honour, and Art,  
And with them an eternal Fame.  
Come Nymphs, your puissance is divine:  
And to those that you show no favour;  
Quickly they are deprived of honour,  
And slaves to the chains Cossitine.   

Epode,  
¶ Amongst our well renowned men,  
Dever merits a silver pen,  
Eternally to write his honour,  
And I in a well polished verse,  
Can set up in our Universe,  
A Fame, to endure for ever.  
And field with a Furiae extreme;  
Upon a well superbus rhyme:  
(On a rhyme, and both strong and true)  
I will (Dever) push thy lovanges,  
To the ears of people estraunges:  
And ravish them with thy vertus.  
But in truth I use but to sing,  
After the well intuned string,  
Of eyether of the great Prophêts,  
Or Thebain, or Calaborois:  
Of whether of whom yet the voice,  
Hath not been known to our Poets.   

Strophe. 3.  
¶ But what shall I begin to touch:  
O Muses what have I begun,  
But speak wantoness, what have I done:  
Take it of the charge is too much.  
No, no, if I would there were made,  
I could take an entire Iliad,  
Of only his noble antiquity.  
But his virtues would blush with shame:  
If I should not by his own name,  
Give him a laud to our posterity.  
But if I will thus like Pindar,  
In many discourses Eager,  
Before I will come to my point:  
Or, or touch his infinity  
Of virtues, in this Poiesie,  
Our song will never be conioint.   

Antistrophe.  
¶ For who marketh better than he,  
The seven turning flames of the Sky:  
Or hath read more of the antic.  
Hath greater knowledge in the tongues:  
Or understands sooner the sows,  
Of the learner to love Music.  
Or else who hath a fairer grace,  
In the Centauriane art of Thrace,  
Halfe-horse, halfe-man, and with less pain,  
Doth bring the Coorsser, indomtable,  
To yield to the reins of his bridle;  
Vaulting, on the edge of a plain.  
And it pleases me to say too,  
(With a lovange, I protest true)  
That in England we cannot sees,  
Any thing like Dever, but he.  
Only himself he must resemble,  
Virtues so much in him assemble.   

Epode.  

¶ And nought escapes out of my hand,  
In this Ode, but it's veritée:  
And here I swear Dever 'tis thee,  
That art ornament of England.  
Vaunting me again of this thing:  
Which is, that I shall never sing,  
A man so much honoured as thee,  
And both of the Muses and me.  
And when I get the spoil of Thebes,  
Having charged it on my shoulders.  
In verses exempt fro the webs,  
Of the ruinous Filandinge sisters:  
I promise to bullde thee a glory,  
That shall ever line in memory.   

¶ In mean while, take this little thing:  
But as small as it is: Devere.  
Vaunt us that never man before,  
Now in England, knew Pindars' string.    Non car●● patria, Me caret Illa magi●.  

Sonnet to the Reader.  
THou findest not here, neither the furious alarms,  
Of the pride of Spain, or subtleness of France:  
Nor of the rude English, or mutiny Almains:  
Nor neither of Naples, noble men of arms.  
No, an Infant, and that yet surmounteth Knights:  
Hath both vanquished me, and also my Muse.  
And were it not: this is a lawful excuse.  
If thou hearst not the report, of their great fights,  
Thou shalt see no death of any valiant soldier,  
And yet I sing the beauty of a fierce warrior.  
And amore alone I must strike on my Leer,  
And but Eroto I know no other Muse.  
And hark all you that are like us amorous.  
And you that are not, go read some other where.   


Sonnets. 1. To his Mistress Diana.  
'tIs first to you Diana, that I have togethers,  
Given me and my voice, making you the Idôll:  
To which I offer both the body and soul,  
Of these tears of my eyes, that fall here like rivers.  
But in some things fabelons, you must be content  
To see what it is, of us Lovers the flame,  
And read you must under a Goddesses name,  
Of your beats the delicate ornament.  
And where as these which are to apayse your cruelties:  
Shall not proscribe well, your excellent rareties.  
Excuse me Nymph, as you would have in some osite.  
Of heaven your fair semblance: for I do not mean,  
To sing you now: but Diana, when you have been,  
More gracious unto me: I will sing you better.   

Sonnet. 2.  
THe Greek Poet, to whom Bathill was the guide,  
Made her immortal, by that which he did sing:  
And (were it so I know not but) of Corîne,  
We feign the patron of the Latin ovid.  
And since them (Petrarque) a wise Florentîne,  
Hath turned his Mistress into a tree of Bay.  
And he that song the eldest daughter of Troy,  
In France hath made of her, an astre Divine.  
And like these known men, can your Soothern, writ too:  
And as long as English lasts, immortal you.  
I the pen of Soothern will my fair Diana,  
Make thee immortal: if thou wilt give him favour:  
For then he'll sing petrarch, Tîen, ovid, Ronsar:  
And make thee Cassander, Corine, Bathyll, Laura.   

Sonnet. 3.  
THat death that despises at all kind of beauty.  
And would make all love, go into Charon's passage:  
Would have hit the eyes, wherein I live in servage:  
The eyes both to fair, and too full of cruelty.  
But Cupid that still in those eyes was indompted:  
The infant knew well, where after this death sought:  
And began to cry (death) if thou end thy thought,  
We shall neither of us, be again redoubted.  
But (death) if thouwill let me live in these eyes still:  
Thou shalt see (O then) how nobelly I will.  
Hoist thy honour? for I have not half thy might▪  
And yet in these eyes, I conquer all the world:  
Death hearing this, let him line still in the sight:  
From whence he shewteth such sharp arrows of gold.   

Sonnet. 4.  
WHen nature made my Diana, that before  
All other Nymphs: showld force the heart's rebellant:  
She gave her the mass, of beauties excellent,  
That she keep since long, in her coffers in store.  
And at her framing, Paphae came fro the skies,  
with the sweetness, and graces, of Erycêene:  
And swore that it should make her so fair 〈◊〉 Queen,  
Of beauty: that the Gods should dwell in her eyes.  
But she hardly was come to us. fro above:  
Though? but my soul was inflamed with her love.  
And I serve her in spite of the troop Celêst.  
For tell me? why did not they likewise ordain:  
That in reward of my love, she showed again,  
Esteem me only, and only, love me best.   

Sonnet. 5.  
OF stars, and of forests, Dian. is the honour:  
And to the seas, to the Goddess, is the guide:  
And she hath Luna, Charon, and Eumenîde:  
To make brightness, to give death, and to cause horror.  
And my warrior, my light, shines in thy fair eyes:  
My dread is of thee, the to great excellence:  
Thy words kill me: and thus thou hast the puissance,  
Of her that rules the slodes, and lyghines the skies.  
And as silver Pheb, is the after, most clare:  
So is thy beauty, the beauty, the most rare.  
Wherefore I call thee Diana, for thy beantee,  
For thy wisdom, and for thy puissannce Celest.  
And yet thou must be but a Goddess terest:  
And only because of thy great crueltée.   

Sonnet. 6.  
OF Pyladeus, and of Oresteus, we have  
made many disputes, in the temple of death:  
And in the Church of Troy, we progue Choreb's faith,  
Who made for Cassander, his h●rn●s, his grave.  
And there is one, on the mountain Cancasein,  
With an Eagle, on his heart Philosiphâll.  
And there is a stone of a mad Cisyphâll,  
Lest always behind him, and carried in vain.  
These temples, and this rock, is in my object:  
The church is my soul, the slint is my subject.  
My verses are the labours of Sisyphêus:  
And for willing show your fair beauties, its vain.  
Of Promet, for not canning. I have the pain:  
Th'Eagle's cruel, and (Nymph) you are rigrous.   

Sonnet. 7.  
I Am not (my, cruel warrior) the Thebain,  
That my infancy, should be strangled with Serpents:  
Nor neither did my nurse give thee any torments:  
nor I sucked neither Vropae, nor Elthâin.  
I came not (my warrior) of the blood Lidain:  
Nor neither am I of the race, of Ixiôn:  
Nor jove, neither bore my mother, affection:  
Nor I am no infant Egier, nor Danain.  
Nor I am neither the nephew of Atlas,  
That made the earth drunk, with the blood of Arguss:  
But yet I know wherefore I have all my wounds.  
I am none of these which I have said (Diân)  
But I am that very miserable man,  
Who for regarding thee, was eaten of Hounds.    


Elegia. 1. To the Echon.  
O doleful voice, that dost answer,  
The weepings of my care:  
And that here in these mozie groves,  
Hast pity on my dolanc●.  
And th●● of whom she empty mouth,  
(At least) doth make a semblance,  
To seel my wounds that proceed of  
Two eyes, to green, and fair.  
O speak since thou canst not live except  
I shall give the brethe:  
And since my grievous voice, is only  
the nurse of thy esteem:  
I crying Diana, why makest thou  
Die john, answer again:  
Wouldst thou I loved no more,  
Or dost thou Prophesy my death.  
O noble Nymph tell me, or dost  
Thou now inflame again,  
With the antiqueus amor, that  
Thou lovedst so in vain.  
Or is it that remembering my  
Love, I should pity thine.  
For the like dolor that thou hadst,  
Even the like do I suffer:  
And the like amore that thou hadst,  
The like to me doth offer:  
Save that thy love was not so fair,  
Nor so cruelly as mine.   

Elegia. 2. To the Gods.  
WHen the eye of the world doth wash,  
his golden shining hair,  
In the large Ocean seas: and that  
They have covered the light:  
Amurmuring repose, and a  
Restful and sleepy night,  
Is spreded both over the earth,  
The waters and the air.  
But I change nature then? For than,  
Doth my brightest Aurôr,  
In a sweet dream present herself,  
O dream, no dream: but well,  
The Ambrozie, the Nectar, and  
The Manna, eternal.  
And to be brief, a vision that  
I like a God adore.  
Wherefore farewell, day of nights, and  
Welcome night waking day:  
And farewell waking, of my sleep,  
Welcome sleep, living joy.  
But what say I, my wealth is false,  
And my evil verita-ble:  
And I plain of them both, for I  
Have in neither delight:  
Except ye Gods will short these days,  
And eternishe this night:  
An● that God that will do it, shall  
be a God charita-ble.   

Elegia. 3. To his Diana.  
IF the secretness of my thoughts,  
Were opened to you,  
Or if else my dolorous heart,  
Had of speaking the usage:  
Or (warrior) if my constancy,  
Were painted in my visage:  
Or that if ye knew my torment,  
How it is great and true.  
Or, or if any golden words,  
In well composed verse,  
Can livelelie show the picture,  
Of an amorous rage:  
Then should I without doubt amolishe  
a Tiger's courage.  
And move to pity (warrior) if  
it were the univerce.  
But since words, neither can prescribe  
My amore, nor my pain:  
Time shall itself, witness how much  
Both are in me certain:  
And that of my passioned soul,  
The Divine great loyalties:  
Do the sacredness of all others,  
I of the Gods pass:  
And more than the silver majesties,  
of your crystal face,  
Underneath, other Phebes, do  
Excel all other Beutaes.    


Sonnet. 8.  
THough I wish to have your favour, which is such,  
That it is but for Gods, think you my Audâce,  
Like his that in your steed, did a cloud embrace:  
Or his that was a heart, by seeing so much.  
Or would you else because of my hautaine thought,  
That I might augment the Sepulchers of Thrace:  
Or that I were as the giant Briarâs:  
Or paid like the waggoner so evelie taught.  
No? liberty, Rome, thy wrath the seas (Diân)  
Grée●e, Pirates? thy merry Must save Ariôn.  
Or if thou wilt none of these aforesaid things:  
Because thou sayest that my minds are set so high,  
If thou thinkest I begin like Icâr to ●lie:  
Since th'eyes are my son, let thy love be my wings.   

Sonnets. 9  
IT is after our deaths, a thing mani-fest.  
we both go to hell, and suffer hellish pains:  
you, for your rigour, I, for my thoughts haultaines,  
That attempt to love a Goddess so Celest.  
But as for me I shall be little afflicted,  
'tis you (my warrior) that must have the torment:  
For I that but, in seeing you am content:  
you, with me, I'll bless the place so much detested.  
And my soul that is raved with your fair eyes,  
In the midst of hell, will establish, a skeyes:  
Making my bright day, in the eternal night.  
And when all the damned else are in annoy:  
I'll smile in that glory, seeing you my joy:  
And being once there, go not out of our sight.   

Sonnet. 10.  
THe heavens willing show favour among our pains.  
And to make both run, of my weeping the stream:  
And also eternal, your rigour extreme:  
turned your heart, to rock, and my eyes to fountains:  
And Cupid doth bache him in my silver rivers:  
And being come out, of the floods, of my ill:  
He flies to your rock, where as upon a hill,  
The little wanton, doth prime, and rouse his feathers.  
But when thy winter comes, and that thou art old,  
Felling thy rocke-hart, under his talons cold:  
he'll bid thee adieu with an eternal farewell.  
And then thou hast fair to say Love is a rage:  
Old folk say so, cause Cupid doth abhor age:  
But were they loved then, I doubt th'ed not be cruel.    


Elegia. 4. To the prisoners.  
CVpid hath swelled my stomach, with  
On such a sacred poison,  
And I am in Queen Venus' fetters,  
so well entertained:  
That like a captive, languishing,  
And with dolour, tormented,  
I think myself well happy, to  
Be in a Woman's prison.  
Now? As for you wretches that nothing,  
but irons can punish,  
If you list you may have a hope,  
to be at liberty:  
But as for me? I tell you, I'll  
die in captivity:  
Consuming here in the quicke-siluer-fayre-eyes  
of my Goddess,  
And well I am contented indeed,  
with her extreme rigore.  
Swearing, that I never fell in  
My soul so great a dolore,  
As when I think for her likewise,  
Some other should have passion.  
And with all this too, yet I have  
Neither lost all my judgement:  
For we say that man is happy,  
only, that is well content,  
And I tell you, (you wretches) it  
is all my contentation.   

Elegia. 5. To his thoughts.  
MY thoughts, to full of thought, to thoughtful  
thoughts give now? Repose,  
Both to my doleful soul, and to  
my hope that is in vain:  
For well though my tears drop, fro my  
eyes like a swift fountain?  
Murmuring my Alas: she hearkeneth  
not to my propose.  
My thoughts, too full of thought, and too  
far engrau'n in my heart.  
My thoughts too full of thought, that give  
me over to my dolore:  
My thoughts too thoughtful, if you propose  
yet any more langore:  
My thought full thoughts, (O Gods) do advance  
therewithal my mort.  
And Opinastres' thoughts the causers  
of my extreme pains.  
And thoughts that boil this sulfer humour  
in my drooping veins.  
Speak thoughtful thoughts, why feed you me  
With this Abist esperance.  
When possessing the joy, of which  
I have had such desires:  
And for Idolling the fair eyes,  
In which are my plasyres:  
In the end thoughts, for reward thought  
Doth breed me a repentance.   

Elegia. 6. To his Diana.  
MY hope doth fell me, that after  
This great rigour, of you:  
I shall with sacred guerdons,  
Be recom-pensed for wrong:  
Showing me that I merit it,  
Being patience so long.  
But this imagined hope, (my cruel  
warrior) is it true,  
My hope doth tell me too (Diana)  
That your Divine beauty,  
Cannot be accompanied with  
Such cruelty as thine.  
But what is't (my angry warrior)  
That yéeldes this plague of mine:  
Fortune? or the origen of  
The cause of cruelty.  
My hope doth tell me too (my warrior)  
that my doleful langore:  
Will in a passient end, amolishe  
your extreme great rigore:  
The which all if it can, when your  
Mothers gone we shall try,  
But if it cannot do it then,  
But would yet feed me still,  
With presses of time: I'll give o'er:  
And e'er after I will,  
Esteem our Fortune, too much low,  
For a hope set so high.    


Sonnet. 11.  
HE that was the first, that put these little wings,  
On the back of a more, that high God immortell:  
He might better have had employed his pencil,  
To paint hopping butterflies, or Genny wrens.  
But if in place of them, the doting fool had  
Painted his fierce how, and his rigorous draftes,  
And showed what kind of things, are his golden shafts:  
Then had he been apt to have painted a God.  
And you that paint next, you must use other colore:  
wherewith you may better show his divine rigore:  
And for his bow, give him a great harquebous.  
Or believe you not, go and look on Diân,  
And having seéne her fair eyes. I estée me than,  
you'll give him some thing more than it rigorous.   

Sonnet. 12.  
AEnêas, Orphêus, Cephall, and Demophôn:  
Of Pocris, of Eurydice, Phyllis, and Creusa:  
Have made complaints, as they have been amorous,  
Saying, their mistresses, did do them all wrong,  
Though they themselves to their loves, did all amiss.  
For one gave Phyllis, a poor mournful sequel,  
And th'other, left Procris, in the vall's of hell,  
And with tother's fault, di-ed Eurydice.  
Aenêas, the last was thought to have least fault.  
Though the presumption is yet great for all that.  
But (Diana) you know (Diana) your amorous,  
Hath not learned like any of them Protê.  
Though you are Demoph, Cephall, Orpheus, Aenê:  
And he be Eurid, Phyllis, Procris, and Creusa.   

Sonnets. 13.  
HE that will be subject to Cupidos' call,  
Is changed every day. I do not know how.  
And of this, I myself have made proves enough.  
As Metamorphosed, but wots not wherewithal,  
first? I was turned to a wandering Heart,  
And saw my stomach pierced with a doleful arrow.  
Next? Into a Swan, and with a note of sorrow.  
I foresong my death, in elegical art.  
Since that, to a Flower, and since withered away:  
Since that, to a Fountain, and since. I am dry:  
And now that Salamander, live in my flame.  
But ye Gods, if ever I have my own choice,  
I will be turned, into well singing voice:  
And there in lovange, the fair eyes of Madam.    

Ode. 2. to his Diana.  

Strophe  
AS the little Melisset flies,  
(Wanton enfantines of the Skies)  
With their thievish pretty tongettes,  
Take the best of the fairest blomes,  
Masoning it on their thyettes,  
And therewith build their honey comes.  
Euenso with a spirit vigelant,  
I rob here, the most excellant  
Blossoms: in. the garden Thebêin.  
And will that through the univerce,  
The honey destyld in my verce:  
Bear out these fair green eyes of thine.  
And I will that our England see,  
By this Nectar, that I let fall  
On thee to anoint thee with all,  
What kind of beauties are in thee.   

Antistrophe.  
All the superbus frontispisses,  
And all the threatening ediffices,  
And all the high buildings are lost,  
Of Corinthia, in pride extreme.  
But that which their Poets did boast,  
will ever triumph over tyme.  
I I gold is Eliths' Palase:  
And gold is the Church of Parnasse:  
And those that can enter therein,  
Happy are they, and ever shall  
Tread on the black roof enfernall,  
Living with the enfant Troyen,  
That fills the Nectar Olympien,  
Into the great coop of the God,  
that thundered the menacing head,  
Of the high Orgullus Phlegren.  
What, what, my too cruel Diana,  
A number have excelde in Beautae:  
And yet it is only Hellina,  
That lives: and where in save in Poisae.   

Epode.  
But thou for whom I writ so well:  
And that I will make eternal.  
And thou for whom my holy pains,  
Doth chase ignorance held so long:  
Conjoining in a vulgar song:  
The secrets, both Greeks, and Lataines.  
Thinkest thou it is nothing, to have  
The pen of Soothern for thy trumpet.  
Yes, yes, to whom Soothern is Poëte,  
The honour goes not to the grave.  
And juno, it's an other thing,  
To hear a well learned voice sing,  
Or to see works of a wise hand:  
Then it's to hear our doting rimors,  
Whose labours do bring both dishonours,  
To themselves, and to our England.   
FINIS.   

❧ Four Epytaphes, made by the Countess of Oxenford, after the death of her young Son, The Lord Bulbecke, etc.  

HAd with morning the Gods, left their wills undone,  
They had not so soon herited such a soul:  
Or if the mouth, time did not glutton up all.  
Nor I, nor the world, were deprived of my Son,  
Whose breast Venus, with a face doleful and mild,  
Doth wash with golden tears, inveighing the skies:  
And when the water of the Goddesses eyes,  
Makes almost alive, the Marble, of my Child:  
One hyds her leave still, her dolor so extreme,  
Telling her it is not, her young son Papheme,  
To which she makes answer with a voice inflamed,  
(Feeling therewith her venom, to be more bitter)  
As I was of Cupid, even so of it mother:  
" And a woman's last child, is the most beloved.   

An other.  
IN doleful ways I spend the wealth of my time:  

Gold, the best of all mettelles. Nightingale, the sweetest of all birds. And Roses the fairest of all flowers.  Feeding on my heart, that ever comes again.  
Since the ordinance, of the Destin's, hath been,  
To end of the Saissons, of my years the prime.  
With my Son, my Gold, my Nightingale, and Rose,  
Is gone: for 'twas in him and no other where:  
And well though mine eyes run down like fountains here,  
The stone will not speak yet, that doth it enclose.  
And Destinies, and Gods, you might rather have tan,  
My twenty years: then the two days of my son.  
And of this world what shall I hope, since I know,  
That in his respect, it can yield me but moss:  
Or what should I consume any more in woe,  
When Destinies, Gods, and worlds, are ll in my loss.   

An other.  
THe heavens, death, and life? have conjured my ill:  
For death hath take away the breath of my son:  
The heavens receive, and consent, that be hath done:  
And my life doth keep me here against my will.  
But if our life be caused with moisture and heat.  
I care neither for the death, the life, nor skies:  
For I'll sigh him warmth, and wet him with my eyes:  
(And thus I shall be thought a second Promët)  
And as for life, let it do me all despite:  
For if it leave me, I shall go to my child:  
And it in the heavens, there is all my delight.  
And if I live, my virtue is immortal.  
" So that the heavens, death and life, when they do all  
" Their force: by sorrowful virtue theyare beguiled.   

An other.  
I dal, for Adonis, ne'er shed so many tears:  
Nor Thet ', for Pelid: nor Phoebus, for Hyacinthus:  
Nor for Atis, the mother of Prophetesses:  
As for the death of Bulbecke, the Gods have cares.  
At the brute of it, the Aphroditan Queen,  
Caused more silver to distil fro her eyes:  
Then when the drops of her cheeks raised Daisyes:  
And to die with him, mortal, she would have been.  
The Charits, for it break their Peruqs, of gold:  
The Muses, and the Nymphs of Caves: I behold:  
All the Gods under Olympus are constraint,  
On Laches, Clothon, and Atropos to plain.  
And yet beauty, for it doth make no complaint:  
For it lived with him, and died with him again.   

¶ Others of the four last lines, of other that she made also.  

11 My Son is gone? and with it, death end my sorrow,  
12 But death makes me answer? Madame, cease these moans:  
13 My force is but on bodies of blood and bones:  
14 And that of yours, is no more now, but a shadow.   

An other.  
11 Amphiôns' wife was turned to a rock. O  
12 How well I had been, had I had such adventure,  
13 For then I might again have been the Sepulcure,  
14 Of him that I bore in me, so long ago.   
FINIS.    

Epitaph, made by the Queen's Majesty, at the death of the Princess of Espinoye.  
WHen the warrior Phoebus, goth to make his round,  
With a painful course, to too there Hemisphêre:  
A dark shadow, a great horror, and a fear,  
In I know not what clouds inveron the ground.  
And even so for Pinoy, that fair virtues Lady,  
(Although jupiter have in this Orizôn,  
Made a star of her, by the Ariadnan crown)  
Morn's, dolour, and grief, accompany our body.  
O Atropos, thou hast done a work perverst.  
And as a bird that hath lost both young, and nest:  
About the place where it was, makes many a turn.  
Even so doth Cupid, that infaunt, God, of amore,  
Fly about the tomb, where she lies all in dolore,  
Weeping for her eyes, wherein he made sojourn.  
FINIS.   

❧ Verses taken out of his Stanses, Hymns, and Elegias: all dedicated or sent to his Mistress Diana.  

Elegia.  
IN which you asked my name (confess  
yourself, if't be not so)  
And whether I before, had ever  
been in love or no.  
My name, quoth I, is Soothern, and  
Madam, let that suffice:  
That Soothern which will raise the English  
language to the Skies.  
The wanton of the Muses, and  
Whose well composed rhyme,  
Will live in despite of the heavens,  
And Triumph over tyme. etc.   

Elegia.  
But how far are the words contrary  
to the deeds of men.  
The self same night I went where I  
admired you again.  
Your silver Phebe's eyes, and your  
Well set and crisped heair:  
Your Venus port, and your countenance  
of the God of war:  
Your Iban throat, your marble brow,  
With your soft cheeks of Roses:  
And your Straberie lips, wherein  
Your teeth of pearl reposes.  
Brief, I saw you (Diana) in whom  
The Gods did all their best,  
To see what they could do, when they  
Would frame a work Celest. etc.   

Elegia.  
But how vain and short are the delights  
and plasires humane.  
And of the solace of this world:  
What else doth there remain,  
Saving but repentance: and what  
Is it that beareth breath,  
But by the having life, it is  
subjecteth unto death. etc.   

Hymn.  
The more stronger the Castle is,  
And harder to be won,  
The more eternal honour hath,  
The man that can get it.  
And virtue never will give o'er,  
Without a great conflict. etc.   

Hymn.  
To judge a Human heart 'tis a  
Labyrinth, much unwide,  
Wherein we lose us, if we have  
Not experaunce for guide. etc.   

Elegia.  
The woman near so constant, or  
the Castle near so strong:  
If th'one will hear, and th'other speak,  
They do not endure long. etc.    

¶ New kind of verces devised by him: and are a woeful kind of metre, to sing a love, or death in.  
LIke the doleful bird languishing,  
the which doth sing,  
Her fatal song in sweet accords,  
Betaking herself to her death,  
weary of breath:  
On Meander her story boards.  
And even so I, without hope that  
it helps me aught,  
Bedew thy hands, here with my tears:  
For I perceive by thy rigore,  
thatto my dolore:  
The Gods themselves have stopped their ears.  
Though speak Diana, what might thou mean,  
by this extreme.  
Cruelty, having such Divine  
Fair eyes: Dost thou think that when death,  
hath took my breath:  
That I will end these cries of mine.  
No, no, thou art deceived for then,  
my spirit again,  
Shall follow thee fro place to place,  
exclaiming on thy cruelty,  
void of pity. etc.  
FINIS.   

Ode.  
COme, come Simonid, and Anacreon,  
Come and lay your money to mine:  
And let us go and find out Corydon:  
And be once drunk with new wine.  
Boy: bring hither the greatest glass,  
And fill, though it run till to morrow.  
Here hold my Anacreon quasse,  
When we are droonke, we have no sorrow.  
But first I would thy Bathyll were  
Come with her Lute, that we might dance.  
And that our old Ronsard of France,  
With his Cassandra too were here.  
And what sayest Simoned shall we send,  
For our Wenches, now at beginning:  
Hâ, he that loves not Wine, and Women,  
Will never make a wholesome end.   

❧ Odellet.  
DIan, if it might come to pass:  
Or that I might have my desire:  
I would to the Gods that I were,  
Turned into thy looking Glass.  
Or to the pillow of this bead:  
Whereon thou layst thy dainty head.  
Or to water, that I might wash thee:  
Or to thy robe, that thou mightst wear me:  
Or that hang here on thy teatine,  
I would I were these pearls of thine.  
Or my Diana, to tell thee true,  
I would I could be but thy show.   

Odellet.  
SOme will sing the great feats of Arms  
Of Rome: some other the alarms  
of Thebes: and some other of Troy,  
And both the siege, and the efroye.  
But what have I to do with warriors:  
Meddle I then with those that fit:  
No, no, I near hurt any yet:  
Nor near men to come among soldiers.  
I care not for the Thracian God:  
I am no man that seeketh blood:  
But like the old Poet Annacron,  
It pleases me well to be Biberon.  
And thus in a Cellar to quaff,  
So that some Wench be by to laugh.  
And with Bacchus, and Citherais,  
I mean to spend all my whole days.   

Odellet.  
BOy: reach hither the bottle, that  
I may taste of thy crimson liquor:  
For when I am in any dolour,  
It only rejoices my heart.  
The devil made money I think:  
For without money, what a living,  
Have we that serve covetous women:  
And without it we can not drink.  
Learning is not now worth a penny,  
And these wives care for no fair looks,  
And what shall a man do with Books.  
Faith hang, if he can get no money.   

Odellet.  
But why since, death will not retard,  
For any gift that we her offer:  
My Dyolle, what helps it to guard,  
This gold, a rousting in a coffer.  
Is't not better that whiles we live,  
We give ourselves to learning: when  
Better then ought else we can give,  
(Dead) it makes us to revive again.  
FINIS.   

Stansse.  
DIeus que ie hay (ronsard) qui rien sneeze propoze,  
Qu'a tromper une amour d'un language allechant,  
Diana ie vos pry aiez loreille e close,  
Affin de n'ouyr point la doulceur de son chant.  
Non ie hay plus que mort sa Casandre implacable,  
An caeur ou le Burin d'une douce Pity,  
Ne seut graver benin un seull trait d'amytie,  
" Car on doit payer l'amour d'une amity semblable.   

Quadran.  
Lon ne peut inger lesant dans le visage,  
Sy l'amant est fidelle, ou volage, en amour:  
Pour le scau●ir an vray fueilletez le Courage,  
" Car la durable amity ne se'preuue en un ioure.   

Quadran.  
Non non, je ne tiens point pour guerrier valeureux,  
Vng tas de ieunes sots qui ventant leur Vaillance,  
" Au fruit on congnoist larbre: a la perseverance,  
" Lon remark anssi tost un gallant amoureus.   
FINIS.